Not long ago, on a whim, I typed the address of my childhood home into Google – 358 South Tate, Glendora, California. To my surprise, listings instantly showed up on Redfin, Zillow, and Realtor.com, each with photos.
Despite the passage of five-and-a-half decades, the interior was exactly as I remembered, right down to the red-striped wallpaper in the middle bedroom – what my brothers and I called the “sewing room.” In addition to my mom’s electric Singer Style-o-Matic, an ironing board and portable clothing rack could always be found there, along with a full-sized bed.
Facing south, and shaded by a large tree, the “sewing room” was the darkest in the house. I did my best to avoid it at night, averting my eyes and walking by as quickly as I could on my way to the bedroom I shared with my brothers. It was different during the day. I’d play on the bed as my mom pressed and hung my dad’s dress shirts. When my younger brother – still a baby – went down for his afternoon nap, she’d turn out the lights and lay next to me. Rarely tired myself, I’d drive my matchbox cars over the contours of her body as she slept, careful to keep my engine and braking sounds to a minimum. “My matchbox boy,” she sometimes called me.
Napping in the afternoon continued long after I started school, and even when we moved to a new house on the other side of town. I knew not to call out when I arrived home. If the bedroom door was closed, I went about my business – usually eating a snack while watching an episode of Highway Patrol and then doing my homework.
I didn’t know it at the time – and wouldn’t until many years later – that she’d talked to many physicians about her overwhelming fatigue and frequent “sick headaches.” Our family doctor, her ob-gyn, my baby brother’s pediatrician, any specialists she encountered. The explanations offered fit her circumstances. Young, 1960’s housewife, with three small, busy children, living a long way from home and family, her own aspirations set aside for the foreseeable future. The expressionless, slack faced women in our family photos – only taken, as they were in those days, at the happiest of times (holidays, birthdays, vacations) – document her suffering.
Clearly, she was depressed.
I can still remember how upset she was on learning her ob-gyn was retiring. Doctor visits were a frequent topic between my parents and around the dinner table. By this time, a host of medications had been prescribed: mama’s little helper, antidepressants, anxiolytics, tranquilizers, and opioids. She’d also seen a counselor a couple of times and even attended a group – the former, a nice person, but unhelpful, the latter, made up of other depressed women, deeply frightening.
“I don’t want to see someone new, start over from the beginning,” I overheard her telling my dad.
He drove her to the appointment the next day.
Seated across from her in the examination room, Dr. Z listened as my mom described how she felt going back at least eight years.
“Well, you know you have a rather large growth on your thyroid, right?” he asked, at some point. Palpating the area just above her sternum, “I assumed you knew given its size. Probably been growing there for years.”
She didn’t know, of course, and was floored the cause of her suffering had been visible to Dr. Z from across the room.
Difficult times followed. Surgeries. Radiation. Frequent adjustments of the medications prescribed to replace her thyroid. Along the way, her vocal cords were damaged, leaving her with a permanently raspy voice and frequent choking spells. About a decade later, a routine mammogram revealed a fast-growing breast cancer. Five years after that, a second, this time on the other side. As a study participant, she learned these, along with the original tumor were likely related to growing up downwind from the testing of nuclear bombs and the full facial fluoroscopy she received for pimples as an adolescent.
In other words, not depression.
“Know what you see, don’t see what you know,” my first clinical advisor, Dr. Addie Fuhriman often said, adding “A convincing explanation is not necessarily true, and even if it is, may not apply.” It was one of many observations I’ve found helpful in my work, especially when confronted with people who, despite my efforts, I’m not helping.
Ten years after the second breast cancer, my parents came for a visit. We were staying at a summer cottage we’d just purchased, although I’m certain they were mostly interested in spending time with their latest grandchild. On the last day, my mom noticed a lump on her back. It had literally popped up while she was sleeping. Turns out, despite regular scans, the metastasis had somehow eluded detection. Cancer was now in her lungs and bones. She died within a week of the date the oncologist predicted. If her life’s ambitions included modeling strength and fortitude, she certainly succeeded.
Your mother's courage & wisdom is palpable when she said she didn't want to see someone new again. And your father's hope & persistence took her to see someone who diagnosed a physical cause for her symptoms. Look first to the body. One big thing I learnt from attending a workshop with John Ardern was him saying something like "Look for physical causes first. Many psychological symptoms will be alleviated if we attend to that, in addition to checking on our clients' water & food intake plus sleep patterns."
You are fortunate to have such an excellent clinical supervisor, and such a strong mother. Thank you for sharing these moments from your life with us.