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I was in the first grade with the purple-faced Mrs. Reagan when
my mother had the first operation on her face to remove a tumor.
This wasn't the one that took the facial nerve; that came later.
Still, it was difficult for a little boy to see his mother's fine
face all sunken in and scarred. It was not the same face, possibly
not even the same person. Surgery fifty years ago was mean and rough-
no refinement. I can't remember how much explanation I got about
all this- probably not much. My oldest sister, Ann, knew that Ma
was facing possible death. I remember she mentioned this but it
didn't sink in, at least not on the conscious level. During that
operation, during the ones that followed, and even during the mastectomies
that happened during my twenties I never let myself think that my
mother might die. And she didn't , not until a long time later.
We just didn't go there-consciously.
But I was conscious of that messed-up face. At that time I was in
the first-grade play. I was grandfather rabbit on the big proscenium
stage of that old gothic elementary school- Prospect Hill. And there
was a certain importance and prestige connected with this. I didn't
want my mother with that ugly, sunken, messed-up, half a face to
go to the play to see me in my magnificence. She would be an embarrassment
and a source of shame. These were not feelings I could express because
I loved my mother more than anything in the world. So I just started
crying and kept on crying. Somehow she got it out of me by asking
me questions- warmer, warmer, that's it. I still remember the relief
I felt to get this off my chest without, apparently, hurting her.
This was the first time I saw my mother's real strength- those clear
gray eyes looking reality square on straight, unflinching. If it
hurt her she never let me know. She went to the play but with a
babushka around her face and it was ok.
From that time on I never let my mother see in my eyes that I saw
her disfigurement. It was like a spiritual practice for me. I just
looked to who she was as a person. And her face got worse. The facial
nerve was taken. Plastic surgery was tried and failed due to a massive
staff infection. That ate up the pound of flesh they took from her
leg to put in her cheek. How long did it take for that thigh excavation
to fill in? A long long time. We saw all that. My mother was not
a modest person and was half dressed or completely naked in front
of her children a lot of times. And the breasts, later, first one
and then the other. We called her the"patchwork girl"
from one of the Oz books. There were unpleasant things about her
face. An eye would water since she couldn't blink. Her mouth would
not stay shut all the time when she was eating- things like that.
If I saw those things I never let her see that I was seeing them.
I never slipped up, never.
One day when I was twenty or twenty-one and my mother was driving
me to yet another doctor to find out why I seemed to have lost my
life force, we stopped at the gas station to fill up. I got out
quickly to go to the bathroom and was inside when my mother approached
from outside to pay.. She knew the people at the station for years.
I was standing behind one of the attendants, a man of about sixty,
an Irish, working class guy. And he was standing in front of the
glass door, inside with me, as my mother approached to enter the
station. For the first time in my life I saw my mother's face the
way other people saw it and at exactly that moment he said"
What in the hell is that?!" In other words, "Who's that
freak?" All the blood drained out of my face and the pain and
anger were so intense I thought I would faint. My mother must have
changed her mind because she didn't come in, but went back to the
car and when he turned around and saw me he realized immediately
what he had done. He moved away from me and said something lame
like "I've known Mrs. Winsor for years." I was looking
right through him and I hate to think what my face looked like.
It's never been that way again. Then he said, "Hit me if it
will make you feel better." I though about it, but turned and
left. Back at the car my mother could see that something had happened.
I didn't say much and she didn't press it.
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