Relay-Version: version B 2.10 5/3/83; site utzoo.UUCP Posting-Version: version B 2.10.2 9/5/84; site aecom.UUCP Path: utzoo!decvax!mcnc!philabs!aecom!werner From: werner@aecom.UUCP (Craig Werner) Newsgroups: net.med Subject: A story I'll think you'll like... Message-ID: <1929@aecom.UUCP> Date: Wed, 2-Oct-85 02:03:11 EDT Article-I.D.: aecom.1929 Posted: Wed Oct 2 02:03:11 1985 Date-Received: Fri, 4-Oct-85 15:43:58 EDT Distribution: na Organization: Albert Einstein Coll. of Med., NY Lines: 80 [Every issue: JAMA - the Journal of the American Medical Association publishes an column of literature, usually medically related but not always, that has been submitted from its readership. This column is called 'A Piece of My Mind.' I had typed this particular one in for other reasons, but it is a very good story. Note however, that there are no claims of miraculous cures in the following, just will and circumstance.] A Piece of My Mind JAMA Sept 6, 1985 -- Vol 254, No. 9 Messages Perhaps the fact that the Great Depression hit just as she and my father were starting to raise their family had something to do with it. But no matter. Already as a small child I was aware that in the handling of money my mother was more than simply thrifty; she was downright frugal. Extravagances and luxuries did not exist. She never bought anything, for example, unless she was certain she would use it. And not only use it, but use it to the best purpose and for the longest possible time. The one exception was a new, frilly, never-worn nightgown that whe kept in the bottom drawer or her bureau. But even that had its purpose: "In case I should ever have to go into the hospital," she said. And so the nightgown lay there for years, carefully protected in its tissue wrappings. But one day, many years later, the time came. The nightgown with its now yellowed lace and limp ruffles was taken from its wrappings and my mother entered the hospital, seeking an answer to the mysterious fevers, sweats and malaise that had plagued her like a 'flu since Autumn. The time was early January, in the deepest, darkest days of a cold winter, just before her 69th birthday. We did not have long to wait for an answer. It came with the finality of a period at the end of a long sentence of strung-out clauses: Lymphoma, disseminated, progressive. Privately, her physician told me he was sorry, there was probably only a matter of two or three weeks left, certainly less than even a month. For days, I agonized over what to do with this information that only I had been told. Should I tell the family? Should I tell my mother? Did she already know? If not, did she suspect? Surely she must after so many months of malaise. Could I talk about it with her? Could I give her any hope? Could I keep up any hope she might have? Was there in fact any hope? Some relief came when I realized her birthday was approaching. The nightgown she had saved all those years she was now wearing, but it was hopelessly dated. I resloved to lift her spirits by buying her the handsomest and most expensive matching nightgown and robe I could find. If I could not hope to cure her disease, at least I could make her feel like the prettiest patient in the entire hospital. For a long time after she unwrapped her birthday present, given early so she would have longer to enjoy it, my mother said nothing. Finally, she spoke. "Would you mind," she said, pointing to the wrapping and gown spread across the bed, "returning it to the store? I don't really want it." Then she picked up the newspaper and turned to the last page. "This is what I really want, if you could get that," she said. What she pointed to was a display advertisement of expensive designer summer purses. My reaction was one of disbelief. Why would my mother, so careful about extravagances, want an expensive summer purse in January, one that she could not possibly use until June? She would not even live until Spring, let alone Summer. Almost immediately, I was ashamed and appalled at my clumsiness, ignorance, insensitivity, call it what you will. With a shock, I realized she was finally asking me what I thought about her illness. She was asking me how long she would live. She was, in fact, asking me if I thought she would live even six months. And she was telling me that if I showed I believed she would live until then, then she would do it. She would not let that expensive purse go unused. That day, I returned the gown and robe and bought the summer purse. That was many years ago. The purse is worn out and long gone, as are at least a half a dozen others. And next week my mother flies to California to celebrate her 83rd birthday. My gift to her? The most expensive designer purse I could find. She'll use it well. Jane A. McAdams Chicago, IL -- Craig Werner !philabs!aecom!werner "Why is it that half the calories is twice the price?" Brought to you by Super Global Mega Corp .com