Gains and Losses

In my mother’s last weeks with cancer my sister and I once met the lady manager of our apartment building. She enquired us about our mom and then said:

‘Your mother is blessed to have both daughters beside her!’

At that moment I was mostly impressed by the American way of finding good sides to any situation (Russian compassion would be typically expressed in graver terms).   

Later, however, the direct meaning of the remark caught my attention: indeed, those of us, who in the end are surrounded by the loving family, are lucky. Even if you have it to the last day, your siblings may be far away and head-over-heels busy.

But there is more to this picture than reassuring smiles and kind words. This is from the book I am currently reading:

 ‘…She took down extra pillow and quilts from the shelves, shoved the bed up to the window, and propped Eva where she could see the doings in the yard. She went back, put one syringe in the water, finished up the pies and put them in the oven, then brought a little tepid water in a cup for Eva to drink. She did drink, which was good, and her color was up. Her eyes brighter.’

‘The Master Butcher Singing Club’, by Luise Erdrich

Eva is a German immigrant, a butcher’s wife in the Prohibition era, who is dying of cancer.  ‘She’ – is her friend and neighbor, a younger woman without a profession, a high school dropout and daughter of a small town drunkard.  The woman earns her living by helping in the butcher shop. She also nurses Eva out of love and respect.

What is important, both these women are, in modern terms, ‘uneducated’. All their skills are limited to meeting household needs and taking care of others.

Frontier woman

The female characters in the book (as well as some women of the older generation, we know) are remarkable experts in what they do, but on the modern social scale their skills are evaluated very humble.  A woman today that stays at home and has no career aspirations is often considered not very bright, or lazy. She is almost expected to explain herself, and I know a few who feel inferior even for a temporary break in corporate career.   

On the other hand, the prestige of many professions, as well as their financial worth, notably devalues just because too many women are now pursuing them. 

Another sad social paradox. 

But there is a third side to the situation that bothers me most: what we have lost by persistently disengaging women with humble family matters.

…Those bright and creative, who a century ago channeled their natural observance and smarts into making life around them comfortable and dignified…

…Those strong and daring, who kept their loved ones safe and, by their own everyday example, taught children to face life challenges and to persevere…

Now, when we need a fraction of their domestic expertise we go to specialists.

Well, to do what an uneducated neighbor in the extract above did for Eva, we would need the services of:

A certified nurse (preferably, 24-7)

A personal chef (specifically instructed to make everything from scratch)

A skillful housekeeper - to maintain things that poor Eva could not do anymore for her family of five

But even if one has money to pay for all the above, a certain ingredient would still be missing – that is, the whole-hearted care.

It just cannot be bought!

This is not so, because there are good and bad nurses, or good and bad housekeepers, but because development of ‘thick skin’ is an unavoidable stage of professional maturity. You either suffer with every client of yours, destroying your mental and physical health, or you figure out the ways of protecting yourself during your job and - of getting over it, as soon as the job is done. 

This genuine care is not even a component, but rather the binding agent that turns detached impersonal services with all their ‘9-to-5’ limitations, lack of ‘current knowledge’  and ‘honest human mistakes’ into the adjusted to a tee, living and breathing supporting system.

It makes mother a better doctor than a member of the medical academy and - a better cook than French chef.       

Quietly women did it for centuries turning wilderness into civilization and chaos – into live. But the appreciation of society was elsewhere, and in search for this appreciation many started seeking more respected roles, leaving traditional occupations behind or delegating them to machines and services.

Now we take a pill for every ailment and battle child obesity.

Besides other, more material reasons, this is also the price we pay for the deeply rooted in modern culture look down on clothes mending, floor scrubbing and lullaby singing. 

Amazing Chicken

In 1996 I won the life lottery and reached the Promise Land - I came to America.

…There was a crowd of people around US Consulate in Moldova in their finest clothes, who were not even allowed to pass through the doors shadowed by the proud star spangled banner.

Few friends, who were informed about my imminent journey, had different but strong reactions to the news. Some were happy for me. Those who knew the reason for my departure - cried. Others cried because with each person leaving they felt like the world was crumbling around them. 

I was anxious. We planned to go to the United States for quite a while. Together with my sister, both our husbands and a small group of enthusiastic friends we were pioneering new approaches in the engineering innovation. In the early 90s’ our activity had caught the eye of American entrepreneurs.

We had to choose who will go first. All agreed that the best team to promote our core knowledge would be my sister and her husband. They were great educators, authors of several books. And when the company in the US is established we would join them.

This plan actually succeeded. But in the next 5 years the new American company was overcoming many difficulties and had no means to invite us. We shifted our professional focus to local opportunities when the call came through and I was asked to come… Unfortunately - not for business.

The reason of the invitation was my mom’s sudden cancer. Our mother had been visiting with them for several months, had a great time (though put on a couple of extra pounds), when she started feeling unwell. She was diagnosed with bone cancer and the prognosis was not good. My sister and her husband were working hard, in and out of business trips. And mom needed a kindred soul by her side.

It was strange and painful to think that I was going to see my mother for the last time. Will I be able to take good care of her? The old friend of our family - an experienced hospital nurse - told me that it was not easy. I also worried that my visa application might be declined in American consulate – at that time they refused so many.

When the young and tall consul asked me about the purpose of my visit all of a sudden I could not speak. The words “my mother is dying” just stuck in my throat. Swallowing unexpected tears I concentrated entirely on keeping a civil smile on my face and silently passed him the hospital letter. It was folded in a three-portion American way.

The man just looked through the letter, then - into my eyes and granted me visa.

Days later, still in total emotional disarray I was on the way to the country of people’s dreams.

Speaking plainly I was on board of the plane heading to New York in my finest (actually - only) pink suit and laced high boots. Looking back, I think, my attire was totally ridiculous.

I was reviewing pictures of my mom made in America several months before. She was smiling there in her new outfits apparently bought by my sister. On some pictures she was surrounded by her old friends emigrated from Moldova in the 80s’. I mentioned before that she had put on some weight. Well, frankly, on those pictures, she looked three times bigger than I ever known her.

My mother was born in 1924. As a young girl she had survived famine in Ukraine, Second World War and post-war shortages. As long as I can remember, her relations with food were simple and quite spontaneous: she would have traditional three meals a day and a snack anytime she felt hungry. She never cared much about dieting and from her I have inherited my sweet tooth. But she never was really overweight.


…Looking at her American pictures I was wondering what had happened to my mother there, and whether her sudden weight gain had anything to do with rapidity of her decline.

Later I realized that my assumptions had some grounds. Welcoming my mother in the US my sister tried to introduce her to nice experiences like eating out, or an endless variety of ice creams. Several old friends of my mother invited her to their homes and lavishly entertained according to undying Russian traditions. Within a year my mother ballooned above 200 lb. And around the same time she started complaining about joint pain. The rest you know.

My fears of being not up to the challenge were proven wrong. With all the help and conveniences of American medicine taking care of my mother turned out to be quite easy. All these disposable needles and syringes, patches and diapers made the technical side of it totally manageable.

It was the emotional side that was hard for me. The chores I was doing around my mom deceivingly resembled the ones I had with my baby daughter. Ones a mother is always a mother. You can never forget the chronic fatigue and sleep deprivation of nursing a baby but also - the deep sense of accomplishment coming with it. You knew that your efforts promoted growth and wellbeing.

But with mom it was different. Each time I was able to feed her, I was caught in the familiar feeling of satisfaction. But the very next moment it struck me hard that she was not going to be better, no matter what I did.

Now - about the chicken:

The easiness of caregiving routine left me spare time. I could not drive, so I was confined to my sister’s apartment. When mom was asleep I read, or watched TV in the adjacent room. I also cooked. Well, that is what Russian women do – we cook.

Once I decided to meet my sister and her husband from their business trip with a dinner. I had been instructed that there was a chicken in the freezer, so I made a plan to roast it with an improvised salad from the items I could find in the produce compartment. With this in mind I opened the freezer and looked inside. There was a bag with something huge in it. “That is not it - I thought closing the door – there is no chicken, I have to create plan B with whatever creature there is.” I stood abashed for a moment and then opened the freezer again. I took the brick-heavy plastic bag out to the light.

“Chicken” was written on its colorful label.

It was very confusing. Being a 45 years old woman I thought I new what a chicken was! According to my previous experiences and the Russian-English dictionary chicken was a small, young hen. Its skin was supposed to be thin, pale and in most delicate places - slightly bluish. The thing in the bag was football-size. Thick patches of dark yellow fat were showing through its porous skin.

“This can not be chicken” – jumped in my anxious mind. – “This is some monstrous… sick bird!”

In spite of all my care the meal I had prepared that evening tasted funny to me. I shared my concerns with my sister. She looked slightly annoyed.

So, what was it, me or chicken?

Within a month of enjoying individual car transportation calluses on my feet that I had since my teen’s hiking trips - disappeared. But also invisibly my leg muscles started shrinking.

The variety of food in the supermarket regularly took my breath away (still does), though both familiar staples and exotic delicacies could’ve been laden with mysterious additives.

Eating out was easy and fun and actually inexpensive, but with every dinner out I would gain 2 – 3 pounds.

And in many areas simple walking was a luxury, not the way of life. Before I thought it was a life-time activity inevitable as breathing: going to work, from work, shopping; moving with a crowd of people, yet feeling totally on your own… Well, now to do all that I had to drive to special places, at specially scheduled times, and in corresponding attire (walking shoes, jersey suit, etc.)

People around me seemed totally disinterested in my concerns. So I thought that perhaps abruptness of the change I was going through made me hypersensitive to the fact that the benefits of developed economy came with its side effects.

* * *

I do not have scientific evidence proving that my mother was killed by abundant and rich food she was consuming during her first and last visit to America. But deviations in her looks and wellbeing coincided in a truly remarkable way. If nothing more, food and lifestyle played powerful triggers to her underlying condition.

As sad as this story is I like to share it to explain when, how and in what mind set I have arrived in America. Still, as most of the immigrants, I was very much exited, confidant in my ability to overcome challenges coming my way, and open to new positive experiences.

Next time I will write about some of them.