Maureen

Maureen
Memoir


“Shut the door, hurry, sit down!”
I don’t even have to look at her face. Like muscle memory, her voice hits the first line of defense, my stomach. As the acid begins to churn, I can feel the familiar tension registering quickly as it makes it way to my temples. Breathe, count to ten. Calmer, I look up; her crippled hands grip the arms of her wheelchair, her face stubborn, twisted and intense. Each word she hisses causes her body to jerk.

I shift into my calculated, calm, reasonable adult stance and state my mantra, “Maureen, I am not the enemy. I’ll be back.”  Automatically, I turn and head to the car. With hands shaking, I put the key in the ignition; I realize she got me again. Why does this pattern continue to replay itself? Temples pounding, stomach churning, I flashback to when we were eight years old.

At the time we lived in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. A foreign land at best. We had just returned from Germany, and our life changed dramatically. I was forced to leave the fantasy world where I thrived to attend a private school where I felt inadequate. Maureen had officially been diagnosed with cerebral palsy and enrolled in a boarding school for the handicapped. The focus of our family life became Friday, the day Maureen returned home and Sunday, the day Maureen returned to school.

Perhaps the moment I “awakened” was when our family toured the school. The vast, imposing building turned out to be an old mansion. I vividly remember the quiet and grandeur of the lobby. The heavy mahogany trim and grand staircase immediately appealed to my sense of drama. My initial response was a childlike delight to the hushed lobby, the overstuffed furniture invited sitting and relaxing. Maureen would live like a princess. She would be fine during the week without us. Naturally, my child brain was smitten. It had sunk in; Maureen was really going to live in this place of kings and queens. In retrospect, I am truly amazed at the power of the mind to manipulate reality. I hadn’t truly grasped how the other children would live.

We began the walk up the stairs and entered what was called a ward for the youngest children. I was totally unprepared for what I would see. Being inquisitive, I stepped into the room. I felt like I had been socked in the stomach. What greeted me was a room filled with wall-to-wall cribs. Inside each crib was a small crippled child lying in a fetal like position. That scene broke my heart. I may have walked away, but I have never forgotten those babies. The realization of life not always being fair was born that day.

Our world was organized around Maureen’s coming and going. Celebrational on Fridays and painful on Sundays, we were all hoping for a miracle. We had tried tears, prayers, and holy water at Lourdes, may be, and just may be, this place would be the answer.

I remember dreading Sunday afternoons when we began the long drive back to Maureen’s school. Maureen cried uncontrollably, it was hardest on my parents. Her primordial reaction permeated the air, our hearts, and our souls. My brother and I sat frozen like statues in the backseat armed crossed, shoulders hunched. My parents remained strong. I remember Maureen asking in her innocent sweet voice, “Why did God make me this way?”  And I remember my parents saying,  “Because you are special and deeply loved.” She grinned and relaxed. With her yet untarnished, outlook, she replied, “I guess God knows what he’s doing.”

As birthdays passed Maureen would continue to meet painful challenges with a down to earth acceptance. She endured painful surgeries and recoveries with the belief that it was normal.  Pain became ordinary. I try to remember when this positive, innocent person began to change. Her trusting nature began to morph into a survivor with a hard edge forming. I attribute this to institutional living. When we turned eighteen, my parents could no longer physically care for her. Their only recourse was state, institutional care. This was a pivotal moment in our lives and perhaps the most painful. It was time for me to go away to school and time for my mother not be housebound. The emotional toll was tremendous.

Now at age fifty-seven, she is masterful at getting her way, she is off all narcotics to “calm” her down, she is mentally clear and she understands how to be her best advocate. On good days, I love our conversations, I love watching the wheels turn as she gets her ideas out and I know how very much I love her. On a bad day, I spin back into the abyss. Every cell memory is jarred and reacts organ to organ. Again, I want to shout at her and dump all my rejection back to her.  Having been raised to be civil-the good girl syndrome, I simply state my mantra, “Maureen, I am not the enemy, I’ll be back.” Deep, deep inside, a small voice hisses, “Yeah, right!”