TRIBUTE TO FAMILY April jft 20G8
6
I'm Not Upset With You...
Elinor Dale
Contributing Writer
At first glance, many
people jump to the conclu
sion that my relationship
with my father is perfect.
We talk on the phone fre
quently he supports my
decisions and, every once
in a while, he takes me
shopping. Many would
see a t3^ical "daddy's
girl," but looks can be
deceiving. Being on the
inside of the relationship
is much more strain
ing that it appears to be.
Because he was brought
up in a small, southern
town in Termessee, his
ideas about success are
different from my own.
In January 1953
everyone in Columbia,
Tennessee, knew that
James W. Dale had been
bom. News traveled fast
and continued to do so
in that same community
when I was bom many
years later in a different
part of the country. When
I was young, many would
say that my father did
have a "daddy's girl." We
played outside together
in the snow, climbed trees
and played in the sand
box. But when the time
came to work, we were
to sit dovm and get the
job done. He would typi
cally go to his office across
the street and, when he
had to, he would bring
me along with a coloring
book and some crayons.
That was how life was.
But after my first day of
kindergarten, everything
changed.
The dinner table was
the first place where
things changed. He no
longer asked, "What did
your dolls do today?" but
asked, "What did you
learn in school today?"
Early on, the answer was
simple: "Today, we played
dress-up, had snacks,
went outside and Ms.
Sanner read us a book
about birds," I would say.
A few months later, the
questions got more dif
ficult: 'TVhat kind of birds
did you talk about? What
do they eat? Where do
they go in the winter?"
Naturally, I answered
every question with much
enthusiasm, even if the
answer was wrong. The
next year report cards
started coming home, and
if my situation was hard
before, it was about to get
worse.
When I was in the third
grade, the second report
card of the year came
home in a sealed brown
manila envelope. Next
to the science section was
a note written in red ink:
"You are doing well in sci
ence, but you may need
to do some more work at
home." I was done for.
The ultimate worst. The
end. At the age of eight,
I sat at the kitchen table
and listened to my father
talk about how important
grades were in school and
how hard I had to work
to get a good grade. The
little talk ended with "I'm
not upset, I just know you
can do better and do not
want to see something like
this again." Luckily, Mrs.
Whaley had still given me
an A. There is no telling
what the "talk" would
have been otherwise.
For the rest of third
grade and the next seven
years, there was never
need for another "talk."
But then junior year of
high school came around,
and so did the advanced
placement, or AP, classes.
The third marking period
had ended and yet again
those report cards came
out. Instead of in manila
envelopes, the home
room teacher passed the
pieces of paper with our
fates written on them.
Scanning down the list, I
felt my stomach rise to my
throat. I saw what I knew
would send me right back
to the kitchen table, but
this time Daddy would
be worse. No more third
grade. No more mere
suggestions to study more.
I thought the apocalypse
was coming, and there
was nothing to do about
the catastrophe but face it
head on.
As I was slowly driv
ing home, the endless list
of possible excuses for
a "B" in AP US History
started flowing; "We did
not know what was going
to be on the test." "It
was a pop test." "There
was more than one right
answer." "The teacher
tried to fail everyone!"
But I knew my excuses
were lame. My father
would have a response
to each excuse that was
equally as good as the
excuse itself.
At five thirty the
garage door opened, and
I made sure everything
looked like I was seriously
studying instead of check
ing out the latest video
on MTV. He knew it was
report card day, and with
in a minute of walking
in the door, he found my
report sitting on the island
in the kitchen in the form
of an 8x10 piece of printer
paper. His face dropped
as he saw it. Pretending
not to notice he had it, I
kept on reading and defin
ing terms as they came up
in the text. Slowly head
ing towards the table in
disbelief, he kept looking
at the paper in hopes of
making it change or hop
ing it was incorrect. He
slowly pulled the chair
across the table back, and
there he sat. "Is this cor
rect?" he said. The nerves
hit even harder than
before, and all that came
out of me was a nod of the
head.
EXiring that time he
talked about the impor
tance of studying every
night and keeping on top
of school work. He reiter
ated that college profes
sors do not check up to
make sure homework is
completed, and if daily
study were not routine, I
Better cont. on pg. 7
My Life in a Hospice Family
Molly Aiken
Contributing Writer
My mother looks like
any other. She has a
petite build, and her hair
is somewhere between
salt and pepper and just
salt. She has two daugh
ters whom she raises by
herself. She can do all
sorts of motherly things:
cook a dangerously good
lasagna, sew matching
Easter dresses for her
girls, and sense when one
of them is not really as
sick as she claims to be.
She has all sorts of "no
arguing about it" rules:
unless you're vomiting
or have a temperature.
you will not be picked
up from school early, and
no, you are not getting
a toy at every checkout
line that we go through.
Although none of this is
uncommon among moth
ers, there is something
about my mother that is
rather uncommon: she
was a home hospice
nurse.
My mother's being a
hospice nurse was not
just a part of her life that
was neatly put away
when she came home
each day; it was a way
of life for her, for my sis
ter, Heather and for me.
WT\en my mom reflects
on these hospice-days.
she tends to express
regret for putting us
around death and disease
so much. She jokes that
she hopes that she didn't
"screw us up" too badly
or that it did not affect
us too much throughout
those years. When these
conversations arise, I
assure her that hospice
did in fact affect me in
a very large way, and
that is not to say that it
"screwed me up."
One cannot be around
a hospice nurse for very
long and not be affected.
These unique nurses are
much like the new shirt
in the laundry that leech
es dye all over the other
clothes, only instead of
dye, they spread this
strange idea that death is
okay and sometimes not
only okay but the best
possible ending to an ill
ness. I grew up unaware
that I was contracting
these strange opinions
and thoughts about
death. Until I was much
older, I had no idea that
you are not supposed
to talk about death and
certainly not in a positive
manner.
When my mother's
pager went off with
those three shrill beeps
that were not entirely
detached one from
another, my sister and
I would listen as Mom
called the answering
service and then the
patient's family. While
my mom spoke with
the family. Heather and
I would listen intently
and try to discem what
we had ahead of us. If
the call was about reset
ting a pain pump, we
were in the clear because
that could be done over
the phone, but if it was
a call that a patient had
died, we knew that we
were about to spend time
in the navy blue Ford
Windstar. It was in this
minivan that I picked up
these atypical views on
Hospice cont. on pg. 7