My Hysterical Mom

Last week I took my mom out for lunch twice. I knew I wouldn't be up to seeing her after surgery and I figured this would make up for her time alone. Instead, she pestered me about why I wouldn't be able to see her. So I did what I have promised myself not to do so many, many times in my life: I told her crucial information about my life. As always, this was a bad idea.

I said it as simply and evasively as possible: "I'm having surgery on Friday, so I won't be able to see you for a while. I'm not sure how long." What a huge mistake! I should have lied, told her I had so much work, that I'd be working nights and weekends too. But, no, I had to tell her the truth! I've never been comfortable with lies. This would have been an excellent time to perfect that skill.

These few words set off days of hysteria. I exaggerate not. Hysteria. Like a heroin addict who needs his fix. Like a psychopath on a murder spree. Hysteria.

My mother began calling 10, 12 times a day, always whining. Always saying something crazy like, "Call me back! I need to talk to you!" Or: "I'm waiting, I'm waiting for your call!" Other even more insistent, more incomprehensible stuff. Always at a frenetic pitch. She called my land line, my cell phone. She called Aaron multiple times at work. Worst of all, she called 10 times in the middle of the night before my surgery. Calls at 1:30 a.m., 1:35 a.m., 2 a.m., on and on like that, all night long. We didn't answer any of them, knowing who was making them.

And just hours before this barrage, I had talked to her, told her in no uncertain terms that I was so incredibly sorry I had said anything to her, that this had been such a stupid mistake on my part.

I could never stand her theatrics, but in the state I was in, with all that is going on and then to have a hysterical, needy, self-absorbed mother on top of it, I said, "Mom, if you were really concerned about me, you would be calm and supportive, not hysterical. Instead of aiding my health, you are working to destroy my health. Besides, you are not concerned about me. You're concerned about yourself. If I die, you wonder who will take care of you. It's about you, Mom."

And after being so clear about how she is stressing me out, what does she do? She calls 10 times in the middle of the night to make sure that I don't sleep a wink before my 5:45 a.m. surgery.