“Get me a towel!” commanded Keisha’s mother.
“I will, Mom, but I have to get you out of the tub and on your stool first,” Keisha responded as she prayed for patience, for empathy, and for strength while she gingerly guided her mother’s fragile frame from the tub to the stool placed over a non-skid bath mat.
“I’m dripping all over, goddammit!” she screamed. “The floor is getting all wet!”
God forbid that a linoleum floor get water on it. Isn’t that why people use it in kitchens and bathrooms?
She dutifully and silently wrapped her mother in a towel, fresh from the dryer, hoping its warmth would permeate this cold woman’s soul.
Her mother just scowled.
She was familiar with that face; she had seen it all her life. Furrowed brow, eyes shooting out mean, sharp daggers, lips formed into a tight, thin line.
This same bathroom, some 40 years ago, was quite a different scene: Keisha and her sisters, all under the age of 7, taking a bath, giggling as they splashed in cooling water, screeching in delight when the middle sister made a beard out of the bubbles.
“What in the hell is going on in here?” the three girls froze as their mother burst into the room, an ball of anger wound too tight to let her children have any fun, even in the bathtub.
“The floor is soaked! Get out of the tub….NOW!” she roared.
“Sorry, mommy!” the girls cried in unison.
But, it was too late. She was already pissed.
She frantically mopped up the floor with a towel as the girls stood naked, teeth chattering, partially from shivering in the cold air, partially from fear.
Then, she stood and turned to them. The wet towel whipped through the air and cracked on the girls’ bodies. She swung hard and fast, hitting whomever she could as she continued her verbal rant. The girls knew better than to run away. They simply sat on the cold floor and curled into protective balls, hiding their faces in their knees.
“Mommy, stop! We’re sorry!” They took turns pleading with her, to no avail.
When she ran out of steam, she looked at them in disgust and spat out commands to get their pajamas on, comb their hair, brush their teeth, and go to bed.
“Keisha!” The piercing voice cut through the memory. “Why the hell are you just standing there like a moron?”
Keisha just blinked blankly at her mother and finished getting her ready. As she gently eased her into bed, she thought about how nice it would have been to be tucked into bed as a child, maybe even get a kiss on the forehead.
“See you tomorrow, Mom,” Keisha said in a flat tone.
“Hopefully, you can get it right next time,” responded her mother.
As she drove home, tears streamed down Keisha’s face. The thought of taking care of this woman for God knows how long was too much to bear. She needed someway to release the frustration she felt but couldn’t talk to anyone she knew about it. After all, in her world, this was the duty of the eldest daughter. You took care of your mother. Period.
Thankfully, her husband was working late, and her teenage kids were both working, so Keisha didn’t have to explain why her eyes were swollen and her nose was runny. She made a beeline to the office and grabbed some stationery and a pen.
Dear Mother,
I understand that it is my obligation to care for you as you age and become helpless. And, although I had every intention of living up to that expectation, I simply can’t do it anymore. For my own health and sanity, I have to give your care over to someone else.
You are a hateful and mean-spirited woman, and I have spent my whole life making a conscience effort not to be like you. I work every day to be kind, patient, and empathetic, and I fear that being around your verbal abuse daily will turn me into the very thing I diligently avoid.
The pen couldn’t move fast enough as Keisha’s thoughts poured onto the page.
Remember when we were little and you beat us with a wet towel for getting the bathroom floor wet? I’m sure you don’t because somehow your delusional brain has turned every terrible, abusive incident into a funny story. But, I remember it. I can still feel the sting of the towel; I can still hear the insults you spewed at us. We were just little girls, all under the age of 7. How could you have been so cruel? How can you have so much hatred in your heart for your own children?
I hope whoever takes care of you is as cruel and rough as you were with us. I hope your caregiver jerks you out of the tub and leaves you there, naked and cold as you shiver, too scared to ask for a towel.
I hope you finally realize what it’s like to walk on eggshells in your own home and to be at the mercy of someone who resents having to take care of you.
Because one thing is for certain: that person will not be me.
Very Sincerely,
Keisha
Keisha could barely read the letter through the tears that relentlessly welled up. She reached for an envelope, neatly folded the letter, placed it carefully inside, and sealed it shut. She meticulously penned her mother’s address, then put a stamp that read “Celebration!” in the right hand corner.
As she walked toward the mailbox, she had second thoughts. What good would this letter do? Would it change her mother’s awful demeanor?
Keisha knew in her heart the answer was “no.”
With a deep sigh, she made her way back into the house. As she lifted her jewelry box to slip the letter underneath, Keisha spotted the business card she grabbed at the car wash for elderly home care services.
She would not send the letter, but she would make the call.
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