Chapter 3 - MY MOTHER HAD BEEN ANSWERING FOR MY WIFEThe next morning I called Gwen’s obstetric practice.
Gwen gave permission for me to sit beside her while the nurse reviewed the chart.
There were notes I had never seen.
Patient accompanied by mother-in-law.
Patient reports fatigue.
Family member reports patient “refuses supplements intermittently.”
Family member concerned about “poor motivation.”
At the next appointment:
Family member reports excessive sleeping.
Patient quiet during visit.
Then:
Discussed importance of nutrition and adherence.
I stared at the screen.
“Family member?”
Gwen nodded.
“Your mother.”
The nurse looked uncomfortable.
“We generally try to direct questions to the patient.”
“Generally?”
She did not become defensive.
“At two visits your wife appeared to defer to Mrs. Dawson frequently. We should have separated them sooner.”
That honesty mattered.
Gwen had been telling her doctor pieces of the truth.
My mother had been rewriting them in real time.
Fatigue became laziness.
Nausea became refusing food.
Needing rest became excessive sleeping.
Then we learned something worse.
At Gwen’s last visit, her doctor recommended increasing iron supplementation.
A prescription was sent to our pharmacy.
The pharmacy records showed it had been picked up.
Gwen never saw it.
I had.
Not consciously.
I remembered a white pharmacy bag on the kitchen island.
Brenda told me it contained medication for her arthritis.
I walked past it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
When we returned home from the hospital, Brenda was gone.
So were her suitcases.
She left the guest room stripped.
No medication.
No chore lists.
No serving bowl.
But I had photographed everything before leaving for the hospital.
For once my instinct to document something had not come too late.
I changed the locks.
Then I called my mother.
She answered immediately.
“Are you done performing?”
I almost hung up.
Instead:
“Why did you take Gwen’s iron prescription?”
“I did not.”
“The pharmacy says it was picked up.”
“I pick up things for your household all the time.”
“Where is it?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“She complained it made her sick.”
“So you threw it away?”
“I was going to speak to the doctor.”
“You’re not her doctor.”
“She was not taking care of herself.”
I stopped.
There was no shame in her voice.
She genuinely believed she had authority.
“Did you restrict her food?”
“I stopped her from eating garbage.”
“Did you make her clean bathrooms at eight months pregnant?”
“Movement is healthy.”
“Did you force her under the table?”
Her voice sharpened.
“She humiliated me in front of my friends.”
I laughed once.
The absurdity hurt.
“You had my pregnant wife under a dining table.”
“She called me a parasite.”
I turned toward Gwen.
She was sitting on the couch listening.
Her face tightened.
“Did you?” I asked.
Gwen shook her head.
Then said quietly:
“I told her she couldn’t keep acting like this was her house.”
That was apparently enough.
Brenda said:
“She has been trying to turn you against me since the wedding.”
There it was.
Not pregnancy.
Not nutrition.
History.
My mother had not suddenly become cruel because a baby was coming.
The baby had simply changed the balance of power.
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And Brenda believed Gwen was taking something from her.
Me.
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