There's Definitely More
by Mike Rogers
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| Photo by Lars and Birgitta Eckermark |
Lights up slowly on Mike standing next to a nightstand on which a large photo of Terry and Wanda is standing. Mike looks at the photo then addresses the audience.
This is my favorite picture of my mom, Terry. She's the one in fuchsia. It was taken at Cedar Lake by my vacationing friends, Lars and Birgitta. We were, kind of…stoned. Mom's friend Wanda here was nice enough to get us kids some dope. She got it from her boyfriend, the one who paid for her stomach stapling. We laughed that entire day and well into the evening. We munched on the snack bar's famous homemade waffle ice cream sandwiches, as we watched Mom and Wanda dance to Peggy Lee's “Is That All There Is?” with the sun setting behind them. That was the summer of '79. But now it's winter of '96, and things have changed.
It's February 28th at 2:16 in the afternoon. Moments ago the hospice workers pulled the sheet over Mom's head. Right after that, everyone in the room turned their attention towards me. Shit, that's right! I'm the one who's gotta' get rid of the body! So I ran here—to the back bedroom—for privacy. I called the donation place in Milwaukee. Mom is gifting herself to science. She always said that she'd be a great specimen because she'd had four kids and lots of operations. I told them all the papers have been signed and she's ready to go. Then they asked me her height. Five two? Maybe five one—she said she's been shrinking. Oh, uh…two hundred and twenty-ish. Ya see, most of her life she was around two fifty, but the last few months she hadn't been eating much, and then she lost her sweet tooth after the radiation... They put me on hold. It was such an eerie silence. I couldn't imagine what they were doing over there. When they finally came back on the line, the woman said, "She's out of proportion. We can't take her." Can you believe that? Even in her death, they're teasing her for being fat.
I didn't know what to do. Mom's in the next room, under that sheet, possibly turning cold and blue. When I was little, my neighbor Joe Wegrzyn told me that back in the old days—when people had wakes in their living rooms—sometimes the body would just sit straight up all of a sudden. I don't think my family would appreciate that. Thank god I had a Plan B. Ya' see, years ago, Mom registered at a place near UIC. So I called, and they said they'd take her. But I have to provide the transportation. Luckily, a few days ago, I'd talked to a funeral director. He said they could give her a lift for around $300. But just now when I called, he said $1,300. Because it's “Downtown Chicago and we need cold storage and miles.” I feel so ripped off. They've got me by the balls, and they know it. What can I do? Part of me wants to put her in the back of my Mazda pick-up. But it doesn't have a cover, and it must be illegal.
I feel nauseous. I'm thinking about this morning. When I woke up on Mom's couch, it was a beautiful, sunny—but bitterly cold—day. I heard Mom's labored breathing and her morphine snores. My eyes followed the worn rust carpeting and landed on her in her rented hospital bed. My mind drifted. All I could think about was that doctor—the one that recommended radiation, knowing that it would only hasten the end. I pictured him in his new sporty convertible, paid for with Mom's Blue Cross Blue Shield. I saw my boyfriend Tim helping me lift her off the porta-potty to wipe her. I thought about the Christian right and their “family values.”
I remember difficult conversations: “Mom, I think if you're going to smoke while on morphine, it's probably a good idea to have someone watch you.”
“Whadaya mean by that?”
“(Sigh.) Well, I noticed…I noticed the burn marks on the rug. I think it's kinda dangerous.”
“So?”
“So if you burn down the mobile home, where's Carl gonna live?”
“I don't give shit. I'll be dead!”
A few days after that, I lit a cigarette. Mom started sniffing around.
“What's that? Something's burning.”
“It's just me. I lit a cigarette.”
“Well put it out. It stinks.”
And as I put it out, I was thinking, Who is this imposter? It's certainly not my mother. My mother was the one who always said, “I'll die with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.” She was wrong.
Then the hospice workers showed up and got me out of my head. They confirmed what I already knew. That today's the day and that I should call everyone and get them up here as quickly as possible. Those hospice workers can be so condescending—in fact, insulting. I saw the writing on the wall long before they ever got involved. They think they have something to teach me about love and compassion? My grandmother took care of her mother, and I will take care of mine. I wanted to mess with them so bad—look 'em straight in the eye, and say, “Do you think she'll live?” To their credit, they never did say the two magic words that would have had me kicking them out for good: “Group Hug.”
So my family arrives one by one. Nutty aunt Theresa blows in—I don't know who invited her to this party. Of course she's got her beaten up, five-cent plastic Aldi bag with her. She whips out a rotisserie chicken and orders me to put it in the fridge because “People will be hungry later.” Doubtful. Mom wakes up. She's weak and in pain but listens carefully to my beautiful five year old niece Dawn who says, “Grandma, can I ride my big wheel?” Mom says, “Sure honey, but Uncle Mike's gotta' watch you.” And I do.
When we get back from our little ride, Mom's breathing is worse. And Aunt Theresa's hovering over her, now, open Bible in one hand, crucifix in the other, urgently reading prayers for the dying and occasionally setting the cross down on Mom's tummy, in order to dip her fingers in a jelly jar then douse Mom with Vatican holy water. I just want to scream, but Mom beats me to it. She perks up, looks at Aunt Theresa, and says, “Okay I've had enough!” Aunt Theresa is startled; she quickly gathers her paraphernalia and backs off. We all got a kick out of that one. You tell 'er Mom.
Then I hear her lungs starting to fill with fluid. She's going to drown. And there's nothing I can do about it. Then it occurs to me, wait! Wait! You can't die yet. Gram's not here. She's with Tim; they're stuck in traffic. Hang on just a little bit more. Then she starts twitching and having seizures. Her eyes are rolling to the back of her head. She's in and out of consciousness. She can't see or hear.
And then…my grandmother walks in, Tim holding the door. We take her walker, set it aside, and help her to Mom's bedside. She sits quietly in the chair that's been waiting for her. She gently picks up Mom's swollen hand and places it in her own thin, veiny, ones. And looks at her so lovingly. Then, I hear her daughter say, “Mama…Mama.”
Lights slowly fade out.
Mike Rogers is a writer, producer, actor, and singer with over 25 years experience in theater, film, TV, and radio. Mike performs regularly in the NewTown Writers Solo Homo and Working Stiffs series and has performed stand-up comedy in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and Orlando. He was recently featured in the staged reading of Don Bapst's danger@liaisons.com. Mike will appear in Ron Pajak's forthcoming documentary film Picked Last, which deals with the issues of growing up gay in a culture of athletics. Mike serves as treasurer of NewTown Writers and can be reached at Mike2761@aol.com.
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| Photo by Robert Klein-Engler |