CONTINUATIONS
Better cont. from pg. 5
surely would fail within
a week or two. At one
point there was discus
sion about the meaning
of success. I made a fatal
mistake of defining what
success was. He quickly
assured me that my defi
nition would not get me
very far in life, and I
should be at the top of the
class and that "B's" would
not get me there, even if I
tried my hardest. He was
held to a very high stan
dard by his parents, so
he would not embarrass
them in front of the rest
of the small community.
Later he held himself to a
very high standard in col
lege and during his post
graduate work at Yale. I
was to be held to the same
standard, if not an even
higher one. He repeated
the same line I had heard
in third grade: "I'm not
upset; I just know you can
do better and do not want
to see something like this
again." Except this time,
the end went on a little
longer: "Now you know
the standards to which
your mother and I hold
you."
The scene was over. I
had survived my looming
death. When my mother
came home, she felt the
tension in the house,
saw the report card, and
understood. After signing
it, double checking to see I
was okay and starting din
ner, she headed upstairs
to calm down my father. I
can still hear bits of their
conversation: "She should
do better than that! She
was not raised to be a "B"
student! She will never
make it with grades like
that." Dinner that night
was quiet. There was no
mention of school or hear
ing the newly-leamed
facts of the day. We sim
ply sat, ate and left the
table.
Our relationship
changed forever after that
point. The damage had
been done, and nothing
could change it, not even
the straight A's that fol
lowed. When we talk on
the phone now, the topic
is still about school, but he
does not mention grades.
In his recent endeavors to
leam Spanish, our conver
sations have become about
the language and how
to say certain words and
phrases, but school talk
is brief. To this day, I still
don’t know why his atti
tude changed so abruptly.
My mother's "talk" with
him is probably a large
part of the change. The
one thing I can attribute
to Daddy is a more critical
eye in everything I do. But
even now, if a low grade
of mine came across his
desk, there would surely
be an ensuing call to
end with his famous last
words: "I'm not upset, I
just know you can do bet
ter."
Hospice cont. from pg. 5
death.
Sometimes we mind
ed these visits more
than others. There were
entire hospice visits that I
would not realize I went
on because my mom
would scoop up Heather
and me from our beds,
put us in the minivan,
buckle us in and conduct
the visit. When the visit
was over, she would
reverse the process and
we would be none the
wiser to our late night
trip. There were other
times that my sister and
I would be fully, frustrat-
ingly awake. We would
pass the time by playing
travel board games like
"I spy," or if the house
was located near a busy
road, we played "Cars,"
in which we would select
a color and all the cars
that passed that were
that color were "ours."
After this game ended,
we would compare our
good fortunes and laugh
at all of the clunkers
that we had accrued.
However, what we were
most invested in doing
was watching the house.
We would keep look out
in different directions
and yell out, "Funeral
home is here!" or "The
Hearse has arrived!"
and most excitedly, "The
body bag is coming out!"
which meant that Mom
was soon to follow.
One particular visit
stands out starkly in my
mind. The large, white,
stucco house stood tall
in a ritzy neighborhood.
It was the night before
Thanksgiving, and we
were en route to my
grandparents' house. All
three of us were anxious
to be at our destination,
and we were not particu
larly thrilled to have to
conduct not just any hos
pice visit but a death visit
on the way. To make
matters worse, we had
forgotten our toothbrush
es. I remember that the
funeral home was par
ticularly slow in coming
to the house that night,
so much so that my
mom came out to the car
once or twice to update
us on how things were
going and allow us to
ask, "Moooooooooom!!
Can we go yet?" During
one of these visits to the
minivan, I informed my
mother that I had to go
to the bathroom immedi
ately. Her response was
"Molly, there's nothing
I can do about it right
now; just hold it for a
little longer and you can
pee when we stop to get
toothbrushes." Being
the impatient soul that
I am, I decided that this
solution simply was not
going to do. My mother
returned to the house,
and much to the con
sternation of my older
sister, I decided that the
only logical solution to
my little problem would
be to pee in the Kleenex
box that Mom kept in
the van. I recall vividly
my sister forcing me to
step out of the van to do
my business amongst
the Kleenex, crouching
on the curb in the dark,
and hoping for once that
the funeral home did not
arrive just yet.
Through the circum
stances that were nothing
spectacular in our eyes at
the time, I learned many
profound truths that
normally do not come
so early. I learned that
death was nothing of the
sort that my cartoons
said it was. It was not
ghoulish, creepy, or scary,
and, most importantly, it
was not taboo. Instead
of learning these labels
for death, I learned dif
ferent ones: natural, okay,
relief. I cannot help but
imagine how difficult it
must have been for my
mother to leave us sitting
in the van on the curb
or to wake us from our
peaceful slumber to rest
fitfully in the van while
she worked. Looking
back on these experi
ences, I have learned
that everything does not
go according to plan; I
doubt that my mother
ever thought that she
would be hauling her
children to patients'
homes. Although the
situation was not ideal,
we all worked with the
situation, and our time as
a hospice family turned
out to be one of my bet
ter childhood memories.
This situation demon
strated clearly to me that
sometimes you just have
to make do. I learned
that life (and death) does
not always go according
to plan, and that I would
be wise to roll with the
punches and leam some
thing from it.
Society cont. from pg. 1
lot of stereotypes about
women in her essay, and
they are not all just about
what the woman's role is
but also how she should
act in that role. One thing
that really did not sit
well with me was when
she says in her essay, "I
want a wife who will
not bother me with ram
bling complaints about
a wife's duties." If we
have to listen to the men
come home and com
plain about their jobs and
other things, then women
should be able to com
plain about their daily
job(s) and have their
spouses listen. In today's
world, women are speak
ing up more and more.
Brady also writes, "I
want a wife who will
take care of the details of
my social life." I believe
this request goes for both
men and women, but
if you are able to hold
down a career or carry
a heavy load, then you
should be able to plan
and keep up with your
own social life. It is called
personal responsibility,
and people need to leam
how to take care of them
selves instead of depend
ing on other people to do
it for them. You would
be amazed at how many
people capable of taking
care of themselves do
not. Then, when some
thing goes wrong, they
blame somebody else
instead of seeing clearly
that it is their fault for
not taking care of the
task on their own.
Though Brady's
essay makes a lot of
good points about all
the things women carry
around on their shoul
ders, she also gives
men something to think
about. If a man were
to read Brady's essay,
he might get an idea
that this Brady's ver-
Society cont. on pg. 10