I'm thinking today more of the later years. The latter part of my mother's life. That time when the child-parent dynamic shifts and you---the child---wind up as the governing body of their---the parent---life. It happens to all of us as illness and age always arrives unfortunately too soon.
After she retired from work, it fell to me as an only child to be the one who imposed a monthly budget on my mother. Over the years, I had learned that there wasn't a dollar bill that my mom couldn't spend. She was always Lucy Ricardo looking to buy that new hat and hide it from Ricky. I've written before of those times where my mother secretly made deals with loan companies to help her get through some shortfalls. We're not talking Federal deficit spending levels, but Mom could always do her best to continually stimulate the economy of Mount Vernon's shopping district.
Once she was on a fixed income, I knew that I had to step in with a vengeance before Mom ran up another tab to Bromley's Dress Shop on Fourth Avenue. It was time to present her with a business option.
With her Social Security and a small pension, she would pay her rent and the rest of her money would be hers to play with for the month. I would pay the utilities, the cable bill, and any medical-related costs. From my calculations, she'd have more than enough to get her food, eat at the diner with my building cronies, and, of course, keep some cigarette company solvent for another decade.
This worked. For a little bit. And, then, one month...
"I'm a little short."
Yeah, about 5-4. That was my snarky answer.
After getting through the requisite hemming and hawing, I would eventually discover that Mom's money hadn't stretched properly for the month because she was busy extending it all over her apartment complex. It seems some of her friends were also short as well and my mother was their most requested and willing philantrophist. Trickle down economics that was leaving a large puddle in my wallet.
Mom was particularly taken in by the across-the-hall couple, Marge and Missy. They were, as my mother would always whisper to me, "lesbians." Frankly, I didn't give him a shit about their sexual preferences, as long as I wasn't the one financing their Double A batteries. I had to shut down that particular branch of the First National Bank of Mom.
Several months later...
"I'm a little short."
You have grown any since the last time? Another snappy retort from yours truly.
After I ran down the list of building occupants and ensured that they were not being regularly funded by my mother, I was stumped. She should have plenty of money to live comfortably. Except...
I looked over at her credenza. On top, in plain sight, there were four or five piles of Lotto tickets. Forget supporting the apartment complex. My mother was now subsidizing the State of New York.
"But if I hit the big one, I'll give you all the money."
And, at this rate, that will only be 1/100th of the current deficit being amassed in this studio apartment.
New rule in place. She was allowed to buy only three Lotto tickets a week. That was it. If she was short again, I never got the question.
In retrospect, I should have been happy that these monetary squabbles were as insignificant as they were. Indeed, forced retirement had goaded some other issues to bubble up for my mother. She didn't like to be inactive and had a very tough time adjusting to a non-working lifestyle. As far back as when I was in high school, Mom had taken a job in a Manhattan accounting firm and loved commuting via Metro North to the city. When that stopped for her, the long buried arthritic pains began. And they frequently prevented her from getting out of bed in the morning.
From a distance, I realized she was using the aches and pains as an excuse to not leave her apartment. When I saw it becoming more acute, I called a psychiatrist and made an appointment for her.
"I'm not nuts."
You're also not bedridden, either. I pledged to cut off her monthly financing if she didn't at least see the guy once.
"Can I buy five Lotto tickets a week?"
A negotiation.
I must confess that my mother was not a person who shared her life's history. Ever. She had a sister and both had been orphaned in their early teens. Their parents, my maternal grandparents, apparently died at the same time. Likely from one of those killer influenza outbreaks. I knew their names, but never saw a picture or heard any stories. The motto in my house was like the military.
Don't ask. Don't tell.
So, the thought that my mother was going to open up to some stranger seemed to be a dicey prospect. And a huge waste of money if she simply went in there to discuss the weather or last night's edition of Jeopardy.
My mom's shrink was Dr. Frenkel and his big claim to fame were some studies he had developed with regard to lights and colors. His whole business model was constructed around the notion that everybody had a key positive color and a key negative color. The pro-color would trigger good sensations. The con-color would spike your pain. Naturally, you wanted to be awash in your good color and the way you do that is with tinted glasses. Dr. Frenkel obviously had cut a side deal with Lenscrafters.
After his testing, Dr. Frenkel declared that my mother's positive color was purple. And, of course, he had the direct connection to a pair of them for $119.50, thank you very much. Even more importantly, he also concluded that there was a two-way tie for her bad colors. The ones that gave her intense pain.
Green and brown.
Holy shit.
The furniture in her apartment? Brown.
The wall-to-wall carpeting in her apartment? Green.
If Dr. Frenkel was correct, my mother was spending her days in several shades of Hell.
Of course, Mom needed more than just a new pair of sunglasses. Dr. Frenkel wanted to get to the bottom of her pain triggering colors. And that would be done via a one-hour appointment every Saturday afternoon.
A new routine began. I'd pick her up and drive up to the doctor's Scarsdale house. After dropping her off, I would venture to a White Plains mall for a time-killing lunch and then go pick her up when she was done. One Saturday, Dr. Frenkel was off his schedule and, when I came by to retrieve Mom, she was still inside his office.
I sat patiently and quietly in the waiting room which was certainly not insulated for sound. I could hear every word of Dr. Frenkel's session with my mother. I thought quickly about covering my ears. Maybe I'd hear something I didn't want to know. But, my attention was piqued.
Dr. Frenkel had closed in on why Mom hated the color brown.
She was talking about a brown teddy bear. She loved it so. And, when she was five years old, it was taken away from her by...
I walked quickly outside. I didn't want to know. Her pain and anguish needed to be private.
And I never did find out. I decided that splurging on Lotto tickets was probably the least of what my mother had dealt with in her life.
Dinner last night: Grilled sausage and peppers at Citi Field.
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