Ice Cream, Cigarettes, Dirty Magazines

A True Story about permission

I left work at midnight to travel to the hospital in Jamaica, Queens. I had been at work overnight at ABC Network TV. It was not easy to leave, but I had to run. This was now my mother’s seventh trip to the emergency room. I hopped in a taxi from the Upper West Side and begged the driver to hurry.

I walked into the waiting room. The hospital had no rooms or cubicles available. She was sitting up on a bed in the waiting room.

“Where are my cigarettes?” she barked.

Even though she had terminal congestive heart failure, she would not stop smoking. This frail grey-haired lady did not greet me or express warmth. In her angry tone, all she said was:

“I want my cigarettes.”

And no she did not have dementia.

I apologized and tried to calm her as the nurses eventually moved her into a cubicle with a curtain. Mom never cursed but her favorite epithet substitution was

“Oh foot!”

We’ll come back to this moment, but first I want to share my mother with you.

My mother was elegant. Her dress, her values, and the love she endowed in our one-bedroom apartment and later our home in Queens were demonstrations of her commitment to beauty and elegance even on a low budget.

She only had education up to the third grade, but in those days third graders could read and learn and she did.

photo by Dimitri Bong

She took up smoking long before I was born. She copied the Hollywood stars who smoked. It was considered elegant to have a silver cigarette holder and to puff on cigarettes.

My father adored my mother and tolerated her smoking. Ours was a strict family except for her never-ending desire for L&M cigarettes.

My mother was beautiful and she was quick to remind me that I looked like my father (not nearly as beautiful.)

My mother was never really well. She had rheumatoid arthritis and lots of pain. Despite having serious lung problems and congestive heart failure, she kept up her spirits and became the Yoda of our Queens neighborhood. Neighbors would stop in to get her advice on their marriages, or kid’s behavior, and a host of other problems. She enjoyed this role which filled her time after my father died.

I did everything I could to change my mom’s behavior. I tried withholding her cigarettes. I tried to introduce vitamins into her regimen of pills.

All she wanted was ice cream and cigarettes.

I was lost. My mother knew she was dying but never spoke of it. I dragged her to a doctor for a second opinion and he looked at her and said that she didn’t have long to live.

“Do you understand what I have said?” He asked this at my request. She nodded yes.

I was devastated at the thought of losing her so I became frantic. I tracked every pill, purchased healthy foods, and unsuccessfully hid her cigarettes. She got neighbors to bring them in and hide them from me.

Everything changed for me when I read a little book by Spencer Johnson: One Minute for Myself in caring for my parents I had not focused on what I needed day to day. The book had a profound message that changed my world. It suggested that

I could not see what my mother needed until I was taking care of myself.

If I were struggling to take care of her, all I would see was her struggle and not see her needs accurately. I immediately began addressing my own needs: exercise, friendships, and whatever free time I could muster between work and caring for Mom.

One afternoon as I was leaving my apartment to go to her, I found a bunch of porn magazines that were being tossed out by a neighbor. I figured my Mom who mostly stayed in her home would not have run across anything like this. I took a risk and carried a bunch of the magazines to my Mom.

At first, she was horrified, but then as we turned the pages she was glued to the images and giggling a little. As I was leaving she said,

“These will go in the trash.”

I had finally given my mom and myself permission to have some fun. I could understand her desire for ice cream and laughter rather than my crazy effort to change her eating and smoking habits.

Permission to live each day as she wanted made a big difference. We even got along better and I could hear her and her desires over what I thought was important.

She was always a little plump but towards the end, she lost a lot of weight. She was enjoying that fact and was thrilled when I put my wild turquoise all-in-one pants outfit on her. I saw her light up with a huge smile.

I am so grateful to the author Spencer Johnson. I would never have had these moments of pure joy with my mother had it not been for his book.

Mom died that night, the seventh run to the hospital. I will always miss her and be grateful for the lessons I received.

PS. When I was clearing out the house, I found those porn magazines neatly stacked in a drawer near her bed.

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