Mama's Hurts
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A mom's lament.
_____________________________________________________________________
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. – Percy Bysshe Shelley
Mama makes a small hurt into a big one. The other day she stubbed her toe carrying the laundry basket to the clothesline and you would have thought she broke her leg. She limped around for two whole days and made grunting and whimpering noises whenever she was near Daddy and me. I didn’t say much after she first told me, because I didn’t want to encourage her. Daddy just ignored her like he usually does.
“All she wants is attention, for God almighty’s sake,” he mumbled. “Darned if I’ll give it to her anymore, Jenny. She just tries to make everyone feel sorry for her.”
Guess he’s right. She really does make a big deal out of something, ’specially if you go along with her. And it seems the more attention you give her, the more she wants. After all these years, I know enough to say nothing much about her hurts. I mean, I’m sympathetic at first, but when she keeps moaning and groaning, I try to ignore her like Daddy does.
I guess I was 8 years old the first time I heard Daddy tell Mama she was making a mountain out of molehill. I asked him what a molehill was and he just said it’s something your Mama does every time she wants people to pay attention to her. I still wasn’t totally sure what he meant, but after a while I caught on. Because every time Mama got all worked up about small things that happened to her, Daddy repeated the phrase.
“Iona, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
* * *
There were times when Mama seemed cured of her complaining, but then she’d start in again. And like before, everything became a huge crisis. If she got a paper cut, she’d act like she was going to bleed to death. One day she was helping me with my homework and caught her finger on my math sheet. At first I thought she was having some kind of terrible attack. Then I saw a tiny drop of blood on my assignment sheet and knew she got one of those weird scratches that feel like a razor on your skin.
“Oh, Jenny, look what happened to me! Mama really hurt herself.”
She rushed to the bathroom and ran her wounded finger under water for the longest time. When she came out she showed me the cut, and I could hardly see it. She complained about it for days until nobody paid any mind to her.
Mama had a lot of little accidents and hurts that became big dramas as I got older. Once she was all worried about some lump in the back of her ear. She fussed about it for what seemed forever.
“I think it’s a tumor,” she kept saying over and over, until my Daddy took her to the doctor. Turned out it was some kind of oil deposit that was harmless.
“A mountain out of a molehill!” scowled Daddy.
Another time she was certain she was having a stroke because her fingertips were numb.
“I can’t even tell if the dish water is hot. I know something is really wrong,” she fretted night and day.
At first she refused to go to the doctor. I think it was because she knew it wasn’t anything bad. But she kept talking about it, so my Daddy ordered her to have it checked out. When she finally did, she learned it was a just pinched nerve in her neck that was causing it. Nothing fatal. It went away a few days later.
“Another damn molehill, Iona!”
* * *
Mama’s complaining seemed to get worse when I was in high school. I’d come home and be greeted with a dark report about her newest pain or mishap instead of a cheerful hello. It got so I wouldn’t even respond to her gripes, and Daddy sure didn’t. But that didn’t stop Mama from trying to get us to show concern. Her complaint was a trap for sure, and we knew it. One word from either one of us in response to her latest misery, and we’d pay for it. She’d go on and on about how she was suffering because of this or that until we wanted to scream at her.
It got so she really drove us crazy, and Daddy wanted her to get therapy for what he called a “mental deficiency”.
“Iona, you got to stop bellyaching about nothing all the time. You should go see a shrink. Because this just isn’t normal behavior for a grown person.”
Mama would have no part of therapy, however, and for a time after Daddy’s suggestion that she get professional help, she stopped complaining a little. Then it started up again, and it was soon worse than ever. She was always saying that her stomach hurt her . . . that she was having what she claimed were “gruesome pains” in her abdomen.
“Now she’s bellyaching about bellyaches,” muttered Daddy warily.
However, this time Daddy did not force her to see the doctor. He was certain that it was just another of her imagined ills. Besides, Mama did not want any part of a doctor’s visit, because of the criticism that always resulted when it turned out that she had nothing horrible. A mountain out of a molehill, like Daddy said.
* * *
For several months Mama went around clutching her stomach and mumbling that she had something terrible and that nobody cared. Finally, it got too much for us to bear, so against her will we drove her to the hospital emergency room. We couldn’t get ahold of her doctor, even though we kept calling him. Maybe he knows that Iona Billings is up to her old tricks and doesn’t want to deal with her, I mused.
The hospital kept Mama overnight for tests, and then we got the worst news you could ever imagine. Mama had terminal stomach cancer. We couldn’t believe it. It just didn’t seem possible, because she never had anything severe before when she complained. Maybe we should have brought her to the doctor’s sooner, I told my Daddy, and he said that was silly, that we couldn’t have known she was really sick.
All during the weeks that followed, Mama didn’t complain once, although she was in a heap of pain. In fact, she acted like everything was just fine even though it was far from it. Daddy and me did everything we could to make her comfortable. And for a while I almost forgot that Mama was really sick. On the other hand, Daddy was a wreck and kept acting like he was the one about to go over the cliff.
“Oh, I just can’t believe your poor Mama is going to die. What are we going to do without her? I’m just not sure how we’ll go on when she’s gone. This house will go to seed fast. Neither one of us knows how to cook or do all the other things your Mama does around here. This is such a terrible disaster,” whined Daddy.
Mama suddenly appeared in the kitchen where we were sitting and shuffled past us toward the sink. Halfway there, she turned and spoke in her weakened voice.
“Oh, for the love of God, Henry, stop making a mountain out of a molehill!”
Swearwords: None.
Description: A mom's lament.
_____________________________________________________________________
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. – Percy Bysshe Shelley
Mama makes a small hurt into a big one. The other day she stubbed her toe carrying the laundry basket to the clothesline and you would have thought she broke her leg. She limped around for two whole days and made grunting and whimpering noises whenever she was near Daddy and me. I didn’t say much after she first told me, because I didn’t want to encourage her. Daddy just ignored her like he usually does.
“All she wants is attention, for God almighty’s sake,” he mumbled. “Darned if I’ll give it to her anymore, Jenny. She just tries to make everyone feel sorry for her.”
Guess he’s right. She really does make a big deal out of something, ’specially if you go along with her. And it seems the more attention you give her, the more she wants. After all these years, I know enough to say nothing much about her hurts. I mean, I’m sympathetic at first, but when she keeps moaning and groaning, I try to ignore her like Daddy does.
I guess I was 8 years old the first time I heard Daddy tell Mama she was making a mountain out of molehill. I asked him what a molehill was and he just said it’s something your Mama does every time she wants people to pay attention to her. I still wasn’t totally sure what he meant, but after a while I caught on. Because every time Mama got all worked up about small things that happened to her, Daddy repeated the phrase.
“Iona, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
* * *
There were times when Mama seemed cured of her complaining, but then she’d start in again. And like before, everything became a huge crisis. If she got a paper cut, she’d act like she was going to bleed to death. One day she was helping me with my homework and caught her finger on my math sheet. At first I thought she was having some kind of terrible attack. Then I saw a tiny drop of blood on my assignment sheet and knew she got one of those weird scratches that feel like a razor on your skin.
“Oh, Jenny, look what happened to me! Mama really hurt herself.”
She rushed to the bathroom and ran her wounded finger under water for the longest time. When she came out she showed me the cut, and I could hardly see it. She complained about it for days until nobody paid any mind to her.
Mama had a lot of little accidents and hurts that became big dramas as I got older. Once she was all worried about some lump in the back of her ear. She fussed about it for what seemed forever.
“I think it’s a tumor,” she kept saying over and over, until my Daddy took her to the doctor. Turned out it was some kind of oil deposit that was harmless.
“A mountain out of a molehill!” scowled Daddy.
Another time she was certain she was having a stroke because her fingertips were numb.
“I can’t even tell if the dish water is hot. I know something is really wrong,” she fretted night and day.
At first she refused to go to the doctor. I think it was because she knew it wasn’t anything bad. But she kept talking about it, so my Daddy ordered her to have it checked out. When she finally did, she learned it was a just pinched nerve in her neck that was causing it. Nothing fatal. It went away a few days later.
“Another damn molehill, Iona!”
* * *
Mama’s complaining seemed to get worse when I was in high school. I’d come home and be greeted with a dark report about her newest pain or mishap instead of a cheerful hello. It got so I wouldn’t even respond to her gripes, and Daddy sure didn’t. But that didn’t stop Mama from trying to get us to show concern. Her complaint was a trap for sure, and we knew it. One word from either one of us in response to her latest misery, and we’d pay for it. She’d go on and on about how she was suffering because of this or that until we wanted to scream at her.
It got so she really drove us crazy, and Daddy wanted her to get therapy for what he called a “mental deficiency”.
“Iona, you got to stop bellyaching about nothing all the time. You should go see a shrink. Because this just isn’t normal behavior for a grown person.”
Mama would have no part of therapy, however, and for a time after Daddy’s suggestion that she get professional help, she stopped complaining a little. Then it started up again, and it was soon worse than ever. She was always saying that her stomach hurt her . . . that she was having what she claimed were “gruesome pains” in her abdomen.
“Now she’s bellyaching about bellyaches,” muttered Daddy warily.
However, this time Daddy did not force her to see the doctor. He was certain that it was just another of her imagined ills. Besides, Mama did not want any part of a doctor’s visit, because of the criticism that always resulted when it turned out that she had nothing horrible. A mountain out of a molehill, like Daddy said.
* * *
For several months Mama went around clutching her stomach and mumbling that she had something terrible and that nobody cared. Finally, it got too much for us to bear, so against her will we drove her to the hospital emergency room. We couldn’t get ahold of her doctor, even though we kept calling him. Maybe he knows that Iona Billings is up to her old tricks and doesn’t want to deal with her, I mused.
The hospital kept Mama overnight for tests, and then we got the worst news you could ever imagine. Mama had terminal stomach cancer. We couldn’t believe it. It just didn’t seem possible, because she never had anything severe before when she complained. Maybe we should have brought her to the doctor’s sooner, I told my Daddy, and he said that was silly, that we couldn’t have known she was really sick.
All during the weeks that followed, Mama didn’t complain once, although she was in a heap of pain. In fact, she acted like everything was just fine even though it was far from it. Daddy and me did everything we could to make her comfortable. And for a while I almost forgot that Mama was really sick. On the other hand, Daddy was a wreck and kept acting like he was the one about to go over the cliff.
“Oh, I just can’t believe your poor Mama is going to die. What are we going to do without her? I’m just not sure how we’ll go on when she’s gone. This house will go to seed fast. Neither one of us knows how to cook or do all the other things your Mama does around here. This is such a terrible disaster,” whined Daddy.
Mama suddenly appeared in the kitchen where we were sitting and shuffled past us toward the sink. Halfway there, she turned and spoke in her weakened voice.
“Oh, for the love of God, Henry, stop making a mountain out of a molehill!”
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com