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The Project Writer Work Sample: Creative Nonfiction |
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In Her Own Words by Margaret Balch-Gonzalez Essay originally published in The Newport Review no. 12, January/February 2004 As the elevator door opens, I hear the nursing-home aides kidding around with my mother. "Hey, Frances, what language you speaking?" My mother laughs. "A-bawse, za-bawse, za-BAWWWWSE," she says cheerfully. "The boss? Who's the boss?" one of the aides asks. "You, me, or George [my father]?" Everyone guffaws, including my mother. My mother has deep friendships among the staff. Some of the other residents can be challenging. One repeats "Please help me, please help me . . ." hour after hour. Another screams "Don't touch me, you dirty pig" at the aides during her personal care. My mother, on the other hand, is almost always in a good mood and responds to the staff enthusiastically with smiles and her all-purpose phrase "za-bawse." My father believes that this phrase means my mother wants everything "as it was." Certainly that's the way he would prefer everything to be - with good reason. Since my mother suffered a massive left-hemisphere stroke three years ago, she cannot speak, write, or respond in any other symbolic way such as drawing, pointing, or shaking her head. The stroke also left her paralyzed on the right side and unable to swallow - she receives all her nutrition through a feeding tube. The aides hoist her out of bed with a Hoyer lift twice a day, lower her into a wheelchair, and take her to sit in a common area with other residents. My mother spots me getting off the elevator and breaks into a big smile. "Za-BAWWWWWSE, ssssspss." she says. Her bony left hand reaches toward my head; her paralyzed right hand lies clenched in her lap. I pull up a chair beside the wheelchair, sit, and lean my head close, toward the outstretched hand. She strokes my freshly cut hair, then turns my chin, inspects, smiles, pats my cheek. "A-bawse za-bawse," she says with a satisfied tone. I translate in my head - "You have such a pretty face! Now I can see it, without all that hair in it" - what she would have said if it were thirty years ago. I narrate all the latest news about family, work, neighbors. I want to tell her about my phone conversation with my daughter Pilar, her first grandchild. "Did I tell you Pilar called?" I ask my mother. A resident with dementia who is sitting next to me on my other side says, "No, you didn't. Who's Pilar?" "A-bawse, za-bawse," my mother says in answer to my question. She pauses, looks at me expectantly, and asks, "A-bawse za-bawse?" Then she waits for an answer. I know that she will not interrupt me as long as I continue talking. My mother's end of the conversation is perfect in its cadence, prosody, and dynamics - perfect in every way, except that it has no verbal content. I point to my watch and tell my mother I have to go. "Za-bawse, ssssspss," she says, smiling and patting my hand graciously. I stand up, put on my jacket, pick up my bag, lean over, and kiss her on the forehead. "I love you," I say. Her eyes crinkle. She grips my hand and looks deep into my eyes. "A-bawse za-bawse," my mother says. |
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All material ©2003–2004 Margaret Balch-Gonzalez The Project Writer, Providence, Rhode Island |
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