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Retail Therapy
By
Cathy Corcoran |
 Hingham
- Last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother.
She died in February, just two years ago this week. I miss
her every day, but especially now, when the anniversary of
her death is here.
I was driving my car on Route 3A on a gray Saturday
afternoon, remembering the brusque hospital doctor who told
me my mother wasn’t going to make it. He hadn’t even seen
her in person, only read her chart.
“Her oxygen numbers aren’t good,” he said.
“Her oxygen numbers?” I said. “She’s sitting up in bed,
talking with the nurses. Take a look at her.”
I took the doctor’s hand and lead him to my mother’s
bedside. “This is Doctor X,” I yelled. Mom was deaf as a
haddock.
“I’m worried about you,” the doctor said.
“Don’t scare her,” I hissed, and pinched his arm as hard as
I could. He jumped, startled.
“What?” my mother yelled.
“Ah, how are you?” Doctor X yelled back, finally getting the
point.
“I’m feeling a little better,” my mom said.
“That’s nice,” the doctor said.
I never saw Doctor X after that day. Turns out he was right
after all. My mother’s oxygen numbers went from bad to
worse. She went steadily downhill. By the time Doctor X came
back from his three days off, my mom had passed away.
That’s what I was thinking as I drove along Route 3A last
week. These thoughts don’t do much to cheer one up on a gray
Saturday afternoon. I drove aimlessly, until I found myself
at the Christmas Tree Shop in Marshfield.
My mom loved the Christmas Tree Shop. She’d push one of
their shopping carts around the store for an hour or more,
her oxygen tank in the cart next to her pocketbook, picking
up one little gewgaw after another. I’d shuffle along next
to her, shaking my head at all that stuff.
“Do you like that?” she asked me, holding up a milk pitcher
in the shape of a cow.
“It’s nice,” I yelled.
She put it in her cart. “I’ll get it for you,” she said.
“Don’t get it for me,” I yelled. She put the cow back.
“How about this?” she asked. Another little made-in-China
knick knack, this one, a little penguin.
“Don’t get it for me,” I said.
“What?” she said, fiddling with the button on her hearing
aid.
“Don’t get it for me,” I bellowed. “I have too much stuff!”
This is not the kind of thing to be yelling in the ceramics
aisle at the Christmas Tree Shop. An older woman looked at
me out of the corner of her eye.
“Go home and rest, dear,” she said. Mom and I both burst out
laughing.
I do have too much stuff. And I know stuff can’t make me
feel better. Stuff can’t stop me from missing my mom.
Nevertheless, I decided to do a little retail therapy at the
Christmas Tree Shop that Saturday afternoon. I hadn’t been
there since the last time I took my mom.
The minute I stepped through the door, I picked up a flower
pot in a cheerful shade of yellow. I had a plant at home,
just dying to be repotted and this pot was perfect. Only
$3.99. I went back for a shopping cart and put the pot in. I
added a slightly larger matching pot for only $5.99. I knew
I’d find a place for it at home.
That reminded me of how my mom used to plant flowers in the
window boxes on her porch in Hanover. The other residents in
the senior housing complex always said that her porch looked
so pretty. She and I would go to the Christmas Tree Shop
every year for pots and garden tools. I smiled, thinking of
her as she planned the color schemes for her pansies and
geraniums.
I pushed my cart a little further and saw place mats on
sale. I picked through the pile until I had eight matching
mats in a lovely shade of burgundy. My mom liked to set the
table for herself and have a hot cup of tea and cookies in
the afternoon. Sometimes I’d drop in if I wasn’t busy and
we’d both have tea. I stopped at the tea aisle that
afternoon and picked up some Irish breakfast tea and a
package of those thin almond cookies my mom and I used to
love.
By the time I’d finished shopping, I had three bags full of
stuff, and I’d only spent $34.00. Along with the flower pots
and the place mats and the cookies and the Irish breakfast
tea, I’d spent an hour thinking of my mother - not as she
was at the end, sick in bed with her oxygen levels dropping,
but as she was in life, planting her flowers, enjoying her
tea and cookies, laughing with me.
When you’re grieving the loss of a loved one, sometimes the
sadness can take you away. For a long time, I couldn’t talk
about my mother without dissolving into tears. But the
passage of time does help, and as I found out that gray
Saturday afternoon, it helps to remember the happy times
too.
We’ve all lost loved ones. We all need to remember. Remember
the sadness because there’s no getting away from it, but
remember the good times too.
When I got home that afternoon, I set the table with one of
my new place mats, made a cup of Irish breakfast tea and ate
an almond cookie. I hoisted a cup to the memory of my mother
and smiled again. I could swear I could feel her sitting
there right next to me.
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About The Author
Cathy Corcoran has been a columnist and feature writer
for The Patriot Ledger, a radio host for 95.9 FM WATD, and a
communications consultant for the Massachusetts Department
of Public Health and many other clients. She helps preserve
family stories through books, slide shows, videos and how-to
workshops. Her web site is www.HowtoTellYourFamilyStory.com..
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