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storytimewithjoeLast night, I slept alone. My husband Paul got the call that his mother was being sent home from the hospital. The prognosis – perhaps a couple of hours, but no more than 72 hours. When he got back from work, he was visibly shaken, and in a rush to pack his bags and get out the door. I felt awful. I just wanted to make him feel better, but there was absolutely nothing that I could do other than to wish him a speedy but safe trip south.
I really cannot say that I am close to Paul’s mom. “Extremely conservative,” really doesn’t begin to describe her. She is, after all, a product of her time. Being a very conservative, southern, Christian, military, depression-era family, the parents raised their kids based on what they knew – discipline and prayer. To this day, she writes letters to encourage the U.S. to withdraw from the United Nations, and she still mourns the passing of Ronald Reagan. ARGH!
Sometimes, I find myself aggravated as can be at Paul’s parents for raising their kids as they did. Sometimes, my husband comes across very emotionless – almost expressionless. I don’t believe this to be how he IS as much as it is how he was raised. Needless to say, this is VERY different than growing up in the Cook family, where expression of emotion was never in short supply. As children, the Giles kids were taught about the evils of vanity. They didn’t get a lot of toys or fun items that were considered to be vanity items. And what did this constant education about the evils of stuff teach them? Well, in Paul’s case, it taught him the value of growing up and buying the biggest house on the block, and filling it with 2, 3, or 10 of EVERYTHING. (Yes, he is getting better about this, but I think you see my point).
I recall my first exposure to the world of Paul’s formative years. His mother had returned from running errands. By this point, she was using a walker. As she turned, her walker got away from her. Reaching for it, she fell over landing on her arm. She didn’t so much “break” her arm as she did shatter it in nine places. Mrs. Giles is one of those unfortunate people who have met aging with a severe imbalance. Her body is, and has been, falling apart for decades, while her mind is still absolutely sharp as a tack. While Mrs. Giles was in the hospital, the decision was made for Paul’s sister and her kids to move back into the family home to take care of mom. This called for some stuff-moving, and painting. Thus, for a weekend, we found ourselves taking over a home that looked like it had been designed by Mike Brady, and doing some much-needed maintenance.
Our first meeting was unexpectedly interrupted. Arriving in San Diego to check on her after her return from the hospital, we pulled up in the driveway. I waited in the truck while Paul ran in to the house to make sure his mom was ready to receive company. Paul came back out of the house and told me that we would be leaving and not staying there. Um…. Ok. Um… why? While she meant nothing personal by it, she would not allow me under her roof. After all, the bible has a thang about homosexuality.
What-what-WHAT?!
I was stunned. Not really angry, per se. After all, it isn’t like I turned Paul gay. Hell, he’s the one who has the flamingo fetish and chose to paint his Edwardian home pink! I was just stunned that anyone could have such backward thinking (Paul’s mom, not Paul). Being gay is just a reality of nature. Some people have blue eyes, and some brown. One isn’t better or worse than the other – it just…is. And to judge someone for their birth-attributes is just… ignorant. We went off to a hotel for the weekend. I just shook my head in ironic disgust. I was good enough to help paint the house just weeks earlier, but when it came to darkening the doorstep, I was deemed unacceptable. Oh, the irony.
In no time at all, Paul’s siblings all stepped in to give momma a piece of their mind. Each of them stood up for me and Paul, and blasted her for acting like such an idiot. She then decided, begrudgingly, to change her policy – I could come into the house, but could NOT spend the night, as we were not married. That was the same rule she applied to the rest of her kids, and that was just as it would be. What-EV-er.
When the day came that Paul’s church allowed us to have a union ceremony (the first in his church), we pulled out all the stops – engraved invitations, tuxes, huge guest list, and enough champagne to satisfy an Episcopalian. Paul’s mom informed him that she would not be attending the ceremony. After all… it is a sin. That was when I had had it. I sat down and composed a letter to her. It did not express anger on my behalf, but instead stressed to her the simple fact that her action would hurt her son. I was already to mail it, until my buddy Columella advised me not to. Taking her good advice, I shed a tear, ripped it up, and decided to move on. Our ceremony would be fabulous without her – and it was!
About two years ago, after Paul’s sister had moved out, he sensed that momma needed some attention. She was feeling very trapped by her own body, very alone, and very depressed. Being that Thanksgiving was coming up, he ran the idea past me of bringing Thanksgiving to her. While not the most convenient plan, it had some merit. I shopped. I packed the food. And JUST to be on the safe side, I packed my kitchen equipment. And I am sooooooo glad that I did! Let’s just say that cooking a Thanksgiving dinner in an “efficient kitchen of the 50’s” is something akin to what Dante wrote about in the Inferno. Despite the hellish cooking conditions, the dinner came out pretty darned good. I knew that if nothing else, my cooking would win over Mrs. Giles.
Sitting down to dinner, I saw a different side of her. She talked about her time as a mom of four, back in the day. She bragged about raising her kids, and the efficiency with which she did so. As I listened to her speak, I noticed some similarities in how we do things. She is a list-maker and a planner. Back in the day, she was also a home economics teacher. It is she who taught Paul how to sew – “Do it right, or do it over” was her adage. Recognizing that there were many subjects that we just had best not discuss (religion, politics, sex), we were able to keep ourselves entertained by discussing domestics and the value and importance of being able to do things from scratch. Paul had very little input on the conversation – this was our moment. And by the time I brought out desert, I had won her over.
As the years have rolled on, Mrs. Giles has continued to deteriorate. She is in her late 80’s, but in all seriousness, looks like she has hit triple digits. With all the stubbornness of a southern matriarch, she has resisted some decisions, while placing other decisions on Paul as the “Patriarch” of the family – a title that she chooses to apply when convenient. Part of me is annoyed at how much of a control-freak she is. Yet, part of me respects the fact that she is tenacious enough to do it.
Currently, she rests at home. She wanted very much to avoid going off to assisted-living, a battle that she won. She is resting comfortably, and her children surround her in shifts. Surrounded by memories, and the familiarity of a home that she has called hers for decades, I cannot imagine a more ideal place for her to be.
Mrs. Giles, we certainly don’t see eye to eye. Your oppressive/suppressive value system offends me to the core. Yet, I know that what you have done in your life, and the choices that you have made, have been guided by your internal belief that it is simply the Right Thing to Do.
This is going to be hard on my husband, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. This sucks.
I really cannot say that I am close to Paul’s mom. “Extremely conservative,” really doesn’t begin to describe her. She is, after all, a product of her time. Being a very conservative, southern, Christian, military, depression-era family, the parents raised their kids based on what they knew – discipline and prayer. To this day, she writes letters to encourage the U.S. to withdraw from the United Nations, and she still mourns the passing of Ronald Reagan. ARGH!
Sometimes, I find myself aggravated as can be at Paul’s parents for raising their kids as they did. Sometimes, my husband comes across very emotionless – almost expressionless. I don’t believe this to be how he IS as much as it is how he was raised. Needless to say, this is VERY different than growing up in the Cook family, where expression of emotion was never in short supply. As children, the Giles kids were taught about the evils of vanity. They didn’t get a lot of toys or fun items that were considered to be vanity items. And what did this constant education about the evils of stuff teach them? Well, in Paul’s case, it taught him the value of growing up and buying the biggest house on the block, and filling it with 2, 3, or 10 of EVERYTHING. (Yes, he is getting better about this, but I think you see my point).
I recall my first exposure to the world of Paul’s formative years. His mother had returned from running errands. By this point, she was using a walker. As she turned, her walker got away from her. Reaching for it, she fell over landing on her arm. She didn’t so much “break” her arm as she did shatter it in nine places. Mrs. Giles is one of those unfortunate people who have met aging with a severe imbalance. Her body is, and has been, falling apart for decades, while her mind is still absolutely sharp as a tack. While Mrs. Giles was in the hospital, the decision was made for Paul’s sister and her kids to move back into the family home to take care of mom. This called for some stuff-moving, and painting. Thus, for a weekend, we found ourselves taking over a home that looked like it had been designed by Mike Brady, and doing some much-needed maintenance.
Our first meeting was unexpectedly interrupted. Arriving in San Diego to check on her after her return from the hospital, we pulled up in the driveway. I waited in the truck while Paul ran in to the house to make sure his mom was ready to receive company. Paul came back out of the house and told me that we would be leaving and not staying there. Um…. Ok. Um… why? While she meant nothing personal by it, she would not allow me under her roof. After all, the bible has a thang about homosexuality.
What-what-WHAT?!
I was stunned. Not really angry, per se. After all, it isn’t like I turned Paul gay. Hell, he’s the one who has the flamingo fetish and chose to paint his Edwardian home pink! I was just stunned that anyone could have such backward thinking (Paul’s mom, not Paul). Being gay is just a reality of nature. Some people have blue eyes, and some brown. One isn’t better or worse than the other – it just…is. And to judge someone for their birth-attributes is just… ignorant. We went off to a hotel for the weekend. I just shook my head in ironic disgust. I was good enough to help paint the house just weeks earlier, but when it came to darkening the doorstep, I was deemed unacceptable. Oh, the irony.
In no time at all, Paul’s siblings all stepped in to give momma a piece of their mind. Each of them stood up for me and Paul, and blasted her for acting like such an idiot. She then decided, begrudgingly, to change her policy – I could come into the house, but could NOT spend the night, as we were not married. That was the same rule she applied to the rest of her kids, and that was just as it would be. What-EV-er.
When the day came that Paul’s church allowed us to have a union ceremony (the first in his church), we pulled out all the stops – engraved invitations, tuxes, huge guest list, and enough champagne to satisfy an Episcopalian. Paul’s mom informed him that she would not be attending the ceremony. After all… it is a sin. That was when I had had it. I sat down and composed a letter to her. It did not express anger on my behalf, but instead stressed to her the simple fact that her action would hurt her son. I was already to mail it, until my buddy Columella advised me not to. Taking her good advice, I shed a tear, ripped it up, and decided to move on. Our ceremony would be fabulous without her – and it was!
About two years ago, after Paul’s sister had moved out, he sensed that momma needed some attention. She was feeling very trapped by her own body, very alone, and very depressed. Being that Thanksgiving was coming up, he ran the idea past me of bringing Thanksgiving to her. While not the most convenient plan, it had some merit. I shopped. I packed the food. And JUST to be on the safe side, I packed my kitchen equipment. And I am sooooooo glad that I did! Let’s just say that cooking a Thanksgiving dinner in an “efficient kitchen of the 50’s” is something akin to what Dante wrote about in the Inferno. Despite the hellish cooking conditions, the dinner came out pretty darned good. I knew that if nothing else, my cooking would win over Mrs. Giles.
Sitting down to dinner, I saw a different side of her. She talked about her time as a mom of four, back in the day. She bragged about raising her kids, and the efficiency with which she did so. As I listened to her speak, I noticed some similarities in how we do things. She is a list-maker and a planner. Back in the day, she was also a home economics teacher. It is she who taught Paul how to sew – “Do it right, or do it over” was her adage. Recognizing that there were many subjects that we just had best not discuss (religion, politics, sex), we were able to keep ourselves entertained by discussing domestics and the value and importance of being able to do things from scratch. Paul had very little input on the conversation – this was our moment. And by the time I brought out desert, I had won her over.
As the years have rolled on, Mrs. Giles has continued to deteriorate. She is in her late 80’s, but in all seriousness, looks like she has hit triple digits. With all the stubbornness of a southern matriarch, she has resisted some decisions, while placing other decisions on Paul as the “Patriarch” of the family – a title that she chooses to apply when convenient. Part of me is annoyed at how much of a control-freak she is. Yet, part of me respects the fact that she is tenacious enough to do it.
Currently, she rests at home. She wanted very much to avoid going off to assisted-living, a battle that she won. She is resting comfortably, and her children surround her in shifts. Surrounded by memories, and the familiarity of a home that she has called hers for decades, I cannot imagine a more ideal place for her to be.
Mrs. Giles, we certainly don’t see eye to eye. Your oppressive/suppressive value system offends me to the core. Yet, I know that what you have done in your life, and the choices that you have made, have been guided by your internal belief that it is simply the Right Thing to Do.
This is going to be hard on my husband, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. This sucks.
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no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 08:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 08:56 pm (UTC)It's time to be there and let Paul know he is loved. Give him a hug and our condolences.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:06 pm (UTC)When it happens, it isn't the week of the furneral when he'll need a lot of support, but the weeks following the week of the funeral.
Good luck.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:10 pm (UTC)I'm sure your hubby will benefit from your understanding in the hard days ahead.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 11:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 01:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 01:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 06:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 11:20 pm (UTC)