By Bob Chrisman
I took a photograph of my mother’s hands before the visitors arrived at the funeral home. When she was well, she cared for her hands and nails everyday, but that stopped in the nursing home when she lost the strength in her hands and arms. Her nails grew long and dirty. That bothered her.
As she physically declined in the nursing home, she stopped caring for her nails. Instead, she would wait for me to arrive on Sundays. She would look at her hands and say, “My nails sure are long” or “I haven’t had my nails trimmed in a long time” or “My fingernail polish is chipped.” Those were clues that I should find the clippers and the nail file and go to work.
She had never directly asked for anything from me; instead she had relied on me to assume what she wanted and to do it. Many times my assumptions had fallen short of her expectations and she let me know of her disappointment in my failings.
When I could take the subtlety no longer, I would ask, “Mom, do you want me to clip your nails?”
“I wish someone would.” That was the closest to “Yes” that I ever received.
The intimacy of taking her frail hands in my big, powerful ones was almost too much for me to bear. How many times did I say to myself, “Come on, Bob. It is only her hands?”
To hold my mother’s hand connected me to her in a way that I didn’t want. Her inability to care for her most basic needs, her aging, and her impending death flowed into me through her hands.
This woman, who had ruled much of my life, who had consumed me in many ways, sat in her wheelchair and offered me her hands. So much of my life I had distanced myself from her and here I was, in the end, sucked back into her world through her hands.
The last three weeks of her life I noticed her hands every time I visited. Her fingers and hands had become skeletal as her weight had dropped to about 70 pounds. I trimmed her nails one of those weeks.
“I scratch myself,” she had said that afternoon. I held her hand and carefully trimmed the nails making sure that I didn’t pull on her skin or clip her nails too closely because my mother’s top layer of skin had become like plastic wrap and a scratch, however slight, would open her skin and she would bleed profusely..
One week her fingers were pure white and the tiny blue veins that ran down each finger stood out. The backs of her hands were a mass of age spots and bruises, a dark brown mixed with deep purple. The juxtaposition of her fingers to the backs of her hands looked as though someone had grafted the fingers of a stranger onto her hands.
The Sunday before she died her fingers and hands were a dusky, purplish-blue color. Her blood is pooling in her extremities, I thought. I knew from looking at her hands that she would not live that much longer.
She died that Thursday morning at 5:50…Thursday, February 28, 2008.
The mortician erased many of the signs of aging from her face and hands. She looked more beautiful in death than she had in life. Her nails had been trimmed and painted a pale pink. Her hands laid one on top of the other.
I wanted to remember those hands forever — even after everything else I remember about her disappears from my mind. I raised my camera to my eye, focused on her hands and took the picture.
Bob Chrisman lives in Kansas City, Missouri, where he writes. Natalie Goldberg gave him permission to call himself a writer many years ago, and he has been writing ever since. His writing friends, particularly those from a Goldberg year-long Intensive that he and 23 other students took, have made it possible for him to continue and, thankfully, only occasionally be tossed away.
About writing practice, Bob says: My practice is simple. I meditate for 30 minutes every morning and then do six 10-minute “writes.” Sometimes life interrupts the schedule, but I return to it as soon as possible.
As so many writers have suggested, including our teacher, write first thing in the morning before anything interferes with the writing. But, if you can’t write in the morning, write sometime during the day. Don’t let it slide!
After my mother’s death I couldn’t always focus for an hour, but I made a commitment to myself to write enough to catch up for the days (or writes) I missed. I did them all. That’s how important these six 10-minute writes are to my practice, to my life and to what little sanity I have left.
I’m speechless.
I don’t know where to begin. First of all, I’ve got tears in my eyes. The intimacy of this piece is tactile — I literally touched my computer monitor so I could touch the hands of Bob’s mother.
This piece works on so many levels. I learned more about the relationship Bob had with his mother with this description of her hands than I’ve learned reading entire memoirs. Take in the details: “One week her fingers were pure white and the tiny blue veins that ran down each finger stood out” or “The juxtaposition of her fingers to the backs of her hands looked as though someone had grafted the fingers of a stranger onto her hands.”
The detail notwithstanding, this piece is powerfully redemptive: “This woman, who had ruled much of my life, who had consumed me in many ways, sat in her wheelchair and offered me her hands.” Despite the difficulty of his relationship with his mother, Bob takes those hands. Of course he would — those of us who know him know that this is precisely what he would do — and does.
I was part of that year-long intensive with Bob. He is one of the gifts of our writing time together. (So is red Ravine, by the way.) Much of what he wrote and read aloud was about his mother. I know many of us looked forward to what he would reveal next. Natalie Goldberg always told us that writing everyday would bring us to a point where our words could enlighten and heal not just ourselves, but others. “Hands” is proof of that.
Thank you, Bob. I lift my open palms upward and out to you in gratitude and in continued endless bless you’s to you and the soul of your mother, surely saluting you on another dawn.
LikeLike
Bob, this writing piece is stunning. Without sentimentality, but with great beauty, you describe the difficult relationship with your mother. I wonder, can you see your mother in looking at, or caring for, your own hands?
You wrote:
“She looked more beautiful in death than she had in life.”
I wondered if maybe this was because at long last, finally, she could no longer show her disappointment. She greeted you with the same expession as everyone else, in the end.
Your writing practice has paid off in so many ways: honesty; attention to detail; not getting tossed away (mostly); continuing under all circumstances; making positive effort for the good…yes, especially that last one.
You have really honored your mother and your difficult relationship with her here. Stunning tribute. If you ever miss your mother, remember that she is not far away. She is a part of you, also. Just hold one hand with the other.
Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate, bodhi svaha.
LikeLike
Bob,
Thanks for sharing this piece with us, and for being honest about the challenge of caring for aging parents who need us. Parents who have often let us down in big and small ways. It isn’t easy to be generous towards people we have had to overcome. I hope I’m not putting words in your mouth.
When I read these lines, my stomach did a flip. I recognize them from my relationship with my dad:
“She had never asked anything directly from me; instead she had relied on me to assume what she wanted and to do it.”
“To hold my mother’s hand connected me to her in a way I didn’t want.”
When I first saw your mom’s hands, they looked like the hands of an aristocrat. Long, graceful fingers. Poised. Elite.
LikeLike
Bob, I love the visual imagery you create with your words. This line especially jumps out for me.
“…because my mother’s top layer of skin had become like plastic wrap and a scratch, however slight, would open her skin and she would bleed profusely.”
You also successfully illustrate the tension and the tenderness.
LikeLike
Thanks, Sharonimo. One of the problems I have as a writer is knowing whether or not these intimate pieces touch the reader and make a connection. Your post indicates that this one did just that. That makes my heart happy. OH.
LikeLike
breathepeace, thank you for your comments. Your question about seeing my mother in looking at or caring for my own hands stopped me cold. I think that question would make a good subject for a 10-minute write.
I will tell you that the first things I notice about a person are their shoes and their nails. Shoes because my father always polished his shoes and taught me to do my own. And the nail fascination comes from my mother who always kept her nails and my nails trimmed.
The Prajna Paramita Mantra has become my walking meditation mantra for a number of reasons.
LikeLike
Teri, you have stated my concerns well. My relationship with my mother was not always smooth. I don’t want to leave anyone with the impression that she was a bad or mean woman (although she did have her moments). She was simply who she was and I wanted to show the reader a part of who that was. I’ll need a book to show all of the aspects of her. Thanks for your kind words.
LikeLike
huckster, how many times have writing teachers said, “Don’t show. Tell.” That’s difficult for me because I so enjoy preaching to anyone. Writing provides me with the opportunity to get out of the way of myself. Thanks for your comments.
LikeLike
Bob, thanks for writing with us on red Ravine. You took a risk publishing this piece, with both the image and the words. They describe an ability to be able to hold the finality of death, side by side with the deep connection we have with our parents.
breathepeace referenced the Heart Sutra and I’ve thought of it many times since reading this piece. How we chanted it together in the Intensive last year. [For those who aren’t familiar, here’s the version we chanted in Taos — The Last Time I Was in Taos – The Great Mantra (LINK)]
I’m reminded of something Rob Wilder said in his interview with red Ravine – how he wants to someday write about the death of some of his students and the impact it has had on him as a teacher. But it’s a risky subject.
I wanted to ask you if you had any hesitation in submitting or publishing this piece. Did it seem like a risk to you? And if so, how did you move through that.
LikeLike
QM — I love your question and would love to hear Bob’s response.
LikeLike
Bob,
This piece is so powerful! It reveals strength and yet, such tenderness. I wept, along with others. I also felt like I knew both you and your mother and so much about your relationship, all provided in such exquisite detail…you are, indeed, a gifted and inspirational writer!
You also helped me gain insight into the relationship that my family had with a mother who was the dominating force in all matters. She was a very proud woman, and her fierce Southern pride would not allow her, (in her own words,) to “be beholden to anyone!” She was, like your Mother, very reluctant to ask a family member for a favor, but not because she might owe a favor in return, but rather, it would not allow her to speak to us in a manner that revealed her disappointment and/or disapproval in our words or actions.
I left my own family to be with my mother for the last two months of her life, and did what I could to ease the pain and fear that gripped her. Perhaps because we lived a thousand miles apart, for all my adult life, it was easier for me to spend that critical time with her. Time and distance do give a different perspective. I had long ago forgiven any slights, intended or unintentional. After all, I had come from the tradition of “Honor thy Mother & Father…”
Thank you so much for a narrative that touched my heart and soul deeply! As Sharonimo stated in her comment, your words “heal and enlighten.”
LikeLike
Bob – I am so deeply touched by this piece, I can hardly write about it. The unconditional love you had for your mother, your ability to move beyond your role as her child, her wounded child, is testament to how present you have learned to be.
I know. I saw you doing it, being it. I heard those pieces you wrote about your mother in the intensive, what you allowed all of us to witness, what you intimated beyond what you said. You are a very fine writer – but even more than that, a very fine man. Your mother,whether she realized it or not, was very lucky to have you for a son.
I remember vividly my own mother’s hands as they were in her final years. Covered in thin skin, bruises, age spots, the fingers of her right hand curled inward and, if not trimmed, digging into her palm. How thick her nails became in the years after her stroke, when she was no longer using her hands for anything more than punching buttons on her TV remote. Her toenails, too, grew thick and hard to cut. The last night of my mother’s life, I trimmed her toenails for her and painted them with silver glitter nail polish. The next morning, when the hospital called to tell me she had died, I was more relieved than sad. She had been disabled by her stroke, living a marginal life, for 5 years. I was glad to have given her silver glitter toenails on that last night. I wish I had thought to take a picture of them.
LikeLike
QuoinMonkey, you know how long it took me to submit a piece of my writing. I felt some risk sending this one, but the risk did not involve the subject. It centered on whether the writing would be good enough to see the light of day. This fear of rejection kept me from sending something long ago.
I wanted to see what would happen if your site published it. How would it look? How satisfied would I be with it? How would your readers react? Would the piece connect with them and would they connect with the piece. It is all about connection.
I sent the piece after reading a conversation between you, ybonesy, and Teri that spoke of the connections among writers. I realized that the only way to connect is to have people read my stuff so I sent this piece. It was a step into the abyss like the Fool in the Tarot deck standing on the edge of the cliff ready to take another step into nothingness. I took the risk and sent the piece.
Does that answer your question? If not, please let me know.
LikeLike
I’m just logging on from California. I made a few comments to you while preparing the piece, in particular that you captured a moment in time. And, as others mention, you also capture a relationship and the complexity (and yet, not) of that relationship as it nears its physical end.
There is something about your mother’s generation that is so completely encapsulated in the exchange you described having, where she’d speak about her nails without ever coming out and asking if you would take care of them for her. Something about not being direct, not asking for help, assuming others — her son, especially — knew what she wanted, and the importance of things like lipstick, tended-for nails, nailpolish. This whole scene so clearly for me said so much. This is, I think, the heart of this narrative.
You have written so much about your mother, and I’m curious as to what the future holds for all that writing. It seemed to be a way to get through a long, painful period (while she was in the nursing home) yet it is also incredibly powerful writing. Any thoughts or plans yet on what you’ll do with all that?
LikeLike
As you know and stated in your post, I have written about the experience in the nursing home and even before that…since the fall down the basement stairs that led to her leaving her house, going to an apartment for senior citizens, and then to the nursing home. In part I wrote to maintain my sanity. I couldn’t allow myself to become overwhelmed with the emotions because I had to take care of her. I hoped that I could go back and, from my writings, remember what I felt. That’s next. That’s the plan anyway.
I will write a book about the last 5 years of her/my life because so many of us face similar situations with our aging parents or will in the near future. Maybe people can learn from my experience.
In the end I want my writing to connect people. These connections enrich all of our lives. Thanks for asking.
LikeLike
“There is something about your mother’s generation that is so completely encapsulated in the exchange you described having, where she’d speak about her nails without ever coming out and asking if you would take care of them for her. Something about not being direct, not asking for help, assuming others — her son, especially — knew what she wanted…”
Bob and yb, I had the same thought about this behavior being a generational thing, especially after Terri commented on it and knowing that my own mother does this, too.
With my mom, I have witnessed it as passive/aggressive behavior. She gets very agitated if her needs are not met, yet she won’t come right out and ask for what she needs. I’ve often wondered if this behavior sprung out of trying to live up to some image of a “perfect” life, like that portrayed on TV shows such as “Father Knows Best.”
LikeLike
Bob, thanks for talking about the risk in putting the writing out there (Comment 13) and how the need for connection among writers starts to outweigh the fear and we start wanting to get our stuff out there. Connecting through reading others’ writing is powerful. (As well as the conversations that happen after reading.)
Great thread about generational differences, too, the things that ybonesy and breathepeace mention. Whenever I ask my mom about differences like that, she often says “We didn’t think about it. We just did what needed to be done.”
And I’m often struck by how I can’t go back with all the knowledge and therapy and tools I have now and place those values on the lives of family who lived in a different time. I’ve had to look at that quite a bit. And it comes up especially in memoir, when you go back to another time, sift through memories.
It seems like people did what was necessary to survive sometimes and didn’t have a lot of extra time for contemplation. And I think they were taught to stand up and do things alone, too, to be self-reliant and not ask for help. Just some thoughts.
LikeLike
I think the behavior came from accepting what life had to offer because you couldn’t do anything about it anyway. When she was growing up, her family didn’t have much at all and asking for things never got you what you wanted if it got you anything at all. You lived with what you had. It didn’t stop the wanting. It stopped the expectation that you would get what you wanted. So you never asked directly, you hinted and if it didn’t happen you weren’t as sad. What memories breathepeace’s post has stirred in me.
We could all trade stories about our parents and not asking directly for what they want.
LikeLike
How did you mothers react when they got what they had hinted about? My mother didn’t know what to do. In the late 1970’s my mother still sewed on a treadle machine. For Xmas my sister and I bought her an electric sewing machine like her younger sister owned, only newer. She took one look at the box and exclaimed, “You shouldn’t have bought this. It is way too expensive.” What followed was a lecture on how we should handle our money better. About 15 minutes later we heard her on the phone with her youngest sister, “Anna Lee, the kids bought me a brand new, electric sewing machine. Yes, I know. I told them that they shouldn’t have, but they wanted to.” She was very happy. And that’s just one of a whole bunch of stories I could use to illustrate this point.
LikeLike
This was honest and beautiful and really touched my heart!
At first, I had no idea it was a Mother and son..and when I realized that, tears filled my eyes!
I am witnessing this now with my Father and my Grandmother. My Father will be 78 this year and my Grandmother will be 101 in June. He cares for her so lovingly..including manicures and cutting her hair. He also takes her for rides. She has always loved to go, and still does though she no longer remembers where they have been.
He patiently listens to her repeated stories over and over. Commenting or laughing as if he has never heard them before.
Their roles are reversed now..she is the child. I stand aside watching them, and I wonder if that is the role I will play with my Father some day. You never know what life brings, but if it is to be, I know I will follow his example. It is the way of life.
Interesting about hands. I painted a portrait of my Grandmother a few years ago, and I am still not satisfied with her hands! I loved my Grandfather’s hands too…they were so strong and felt safe to me. Now I see that in my husbands hands…I think that is one reason I was attracted to him. 🙂
You wrote a short piece, but it revealed so much! I felt as if I was standing aside in the room watching the two of you.
I will certainly read your book!! Thank you for sharing this with us.
LikeLike
BRAVO BOB !!!!
What a lovely piece and tender photo too……. I ditto the praises from the others ! And yes, while reading it, I too got the feeling in my throat that I just might cry – but I waited until I read your words (in #13) about being scared to take the leap naked like a new born baby, diving into the writing world. But you did it! Now, I will wait for as long as it takes, I will wait and look forward to the day when I can read the longer story of you, your mother’s son.
LikeLike
Thank you so much, Bob, for sharing such an intimate experience with all of us. While my own mother, 75, is still able to care for herself, she has already voiced her fear about being left in a ‘home’ where her personal grooming (so much a part of who she is) will no longer be something she’ll be able to tend to herself.
She doesn’t know this, but I have already vowed in my heart that – if that time ever comes – I will tend to her as often and as best that I can. That includes her nails, as well as her hair and her makeup.
And while I haven’t share this experience exactly, I have tended to my mother when she was in the hospital, recovering from a couple of different surgeries. The simple act of gently washing her face, brushing her hair, and applying lotion to her hands was a sacred experience for me.
Thanks again, Bob.
LikeLike
Bob, I had wanted to comment on this post long ago. I thought it was beautiful & I was so touched when I read it, I also shed many tears. Your writing of these events is such an honest & brave thing for you to have done. I wonder if perhaps you will write more of them for redRavine? Maybe a pre-quil? What were your feelings when she had the fall down the basement stairs & the decision to take her to a nursing home? I know that is a tough decision for family members to make.
gypsy-heart (comment#20) captured it all with her words “Their roles are reversed now…she is the child”. So much truth in that.
Thank-you, Bob, for being brave enough to post your story. So touching & I think it hits home for all of us! Lovely story. You truly are a great writer!
D
LikeLike
Grace,
Thank you for your comments. I don’t know what to tell you about the nursing home experience for my mother. The people were very good to her for the most part, but it was never her home. To change Gertrude Stein’s words, “A nursing home is a nursing home is a nursing home.” They are what they are.
I wish that your mother doesn’t have to experience nursing home care and that she is able to die in the surrounding of her choice.
And, Grace, please don’t beat yourself up if you can’t do everything for her. Just do your best.
Bob
LikeLike
alittleditty,
One of the ways that I dealt with my mother’s fall down the stairs and her life after the fall was to write and write and write. I have notebooks filled with stories. I will ask ybonesy and quionmonkey about a “pre-quil” and if they say okay I will write another piece.
Maybe I should write the book about the last 5 years and be done with it.
Thank you for your kind comments.
Bob
LikeLike
Bob,
I loved what you said about always noticing shoes and nails, thanks to the influence of your mom and dad. I have been trying to observe if I notice something about people, too. No obvious patterns yet. I want to have a great new pair of shoes and newly manicured nails the next time I see you. Just to see what you’ll do.
LikeLike
What can I add to what has already been said? I have always felt so honored to be able to hear and read your writing. This piece is amazing and clear and riveting. Your writing is getting as sharp as a knife, and clear as the most beautifully clear water. To be nervous to share, you must have no idea how powerful your words are. So double thanks to you for your bravery and willingness to jump into new territory! You go, guy . . .
LikeLike
[…] Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer whose piece Hands, about his mother’s hands, appeared last month on red Ravine. Growing Older is based on a […]
LikeLike
Bob,
I really liked it, it brought tears to my eyes. I could see them in my mind and remembered them well. You are talented and well keep reading your writings.
LikeLike
[…] from Hell, the trip to Goat Ranch. Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer whose pieces Hands and Growing Older have appeared in red Ravine. Possibly related posts: (automatically […]
LikeLike
[…] a Jacob fan? You can only pick one. Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer whose pieces Hands, Growing Older, and Goat Ranch have all appeared in red […]
LikeLike
[…] not a hard one—hanging open. Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer whose pieces Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, and Stephenie Bit Me, Too have all appeared in red Ravine. […]
LikeLike
[…] writes memoir about his mother and his childhood. The first piece he published on red Ravine, Hands, talked about his mother’s final days and her […]
LikeLike
[…] Hands by Bob Chrisman […]
LikeLike
[…] mother, her three sisters, and their influence on his life. His other red Ravine posts include Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, The Law Of Threes, and In […]
LikeLike
[…] of a series of three. Bob’s other red Ravine posts include Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters, Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, The Law Of Threes, and In […]
LikeLike
Dear Bob,
Thank you for your writings about your Mother. I was touched by the words of your connectivity to her frailty……her impending death.
I too feel deeply as I care for my mother.
Your peice has broken open my closed wounds. I realize how they fester into today.
I want to write myself clean. But writing makes me feel vulerable to others.
I hide from myself inside the closed circle. No one in, no one out.
Perhaps not writing keeps me from becoming?
Thank you again. I appreciate this site and I will begin to write myself out of hiding. I found this site today as I was looking for information on the lost art of letter writing.
Sincerely,
Cheryl Blankenship
LikeLike
Cheryl, write it all down, everything. Then read it to yourself out loud. Then destroy it if it feels too scary that someone else might read it. The writing becomes more powerful if you share it with trusty friends. Please read the comments on my other piece, My Life with Dad, for some excellent comments on this process.
I spent a tremendous amount of energy being the brave son who watched his mother fade away to her death. I didn’t think or feel how much her dying process bothered me. But writing about it gets it out of me and on paper. Some things no one will read until I die (if I don’t burn them first).
Let me know how the writing goes for you.
One last thing, it may be painful at first, but keep writing.
Good luck and good writing.
LikeLike
Dear Bob,
Thank you for your words of encouragement.
I haven’t begun writing yet but I will.
Sincerely,
Cheryl
LikeLike
[…] Oysters and The Law Of Threes. He published two pieces about the life and death of his mother — Hands and In […]
LikeLike
Bobby (Sorry, but you’ll always be Bobby to me), You’re writings are beautiful and take me right back there to that time and place. And yes, your mother was very much like many of our mothers in that era…..so many good qualities and yet so many painful ones as well. I hope to read more of your writing and to have more of those memory flashbacks. Having been there during those times and knowing exactly what those scenerios were like reminds me of all my own stories. Amazing how such naive times can have both wonderful memories and painful ones, both. You have inspired me to want to write.
LikeLike