“Mother is dying of cancer the doctors say, and I am in a state of remission.
I am driving her home from my place in Wisconsin in my father’s l965 Oldsmobile
four-door sedan with 35,00 miles on it , original tires, spotless interior and two coats of Simonize he hand-rubbed the day before we lefty. The chrome bumpers glisten. The engine, valve covers, and air cleaner shine. The spare tire, wrapped in plastic, has never touched the ground. My father believes if you take good care of things they will last forever.”

…

“The Olds is filled with the scent of Este’e Lauder, her favorite perfume. “Such an old fashioned car,” she says, sitting beside me on the wide front seat, fumbling with the radio and cigarette lighter. “Look at this ashtray. Did you ever see an ashtray like this? Brand new. He has a fit if I dirty it. I have to carry my own ash ray in my purse when he drives. Did you ever hear of such a thing? He keeps pennies in there for parking meters. What the hell are you saving it for? I tell him. I tell you, that father of yours.”

…

“He never plays the radio when he drives,” my mother says, biting into another apple, humming to the music….Everything bothers him. Who wants to listen to all that noise? he moans. What a treat to be able to sit back, light a cigarette, listen to the radio, and watch all these beautiful farms go by.. He never wants to go anywhere, If it wasn’t for me, he’d die in that house.”

…

“I could never get your father to do anything,” she says, kicking off her white shoes. Oh these damn feet keep swelling up. Dr. Sedlack says it’s all water, it’s nothing to worry about. He gave me some pills. I’ve got more damn pills. Who the hell knows?” She’s rummaging through her straw purse for some hard candy and a tube of lipstick. “You father’s always been a stick-in-the-mud. Don’t forget I want to stop for some smoked fish and cheese to take home. You want some candy? They’re good. They’re hot. Let’s stop in one of these small towns for breakfast. I always took my vacations alone. You’re better off.”

…

“She pulls the sun visor down to arrange her platinum blonde wig in the mirror and put on fresh lipstick. She retains an attractiveness that has demanded attention all her life. Beneath the layers of makeup is an old peasant face, my grandmother’s, that I have rarely glimpsed and only noticed emerge for the first time in the hospital the past year. She is wearing a bright floral dress, pink, white, violet and blue. Her wrinkled fingers are thick with costume jewelry. She is wearing an extravagant gold-looking necklace and bracelet I gave her after her recent operation, fixing it around her neck and upon her wrist while she was dressed in a hospital gown, being fed intravenously. ‘I hope he remembers to take the pork loin out of the freezer,’ she says.

“She should not be eating pork, according to my wife, Sheryl. “All her life she’s eaten poisons. Nothing but nitrates. All that homemade sausage from the butcher, tripe soup, lamb, chicken paprika…bakery, booze, and cigarettes. Then she wonders why she’s got cancer. She thinks it’s going to go away just like that. Your father doesn’t even mention the word in front of her…She doesn’t have to eat for two months, with all that fat on her. Tell your father not to buy that stuff. She should be eating raw vegetables.”

“She gets trough with supper,” says my father, “and after coffee, bakery, and cigarettes, she makes herself an ice cream sundae. She doesn’t want people to think she looks sick. What am I going to do with her? Starve her? She won’t listen to me. The doctors say all that vitamin business is the bunk. What am I supposed to tell Dr. Sedlack? They want to try radiation, so they try it.. Then they cut her open again and say they can’t do anymore surgery, and now chemotherapy is what she should have. The odds are one in five. I don’t even tell your mother this. They must know what they’re doing. They’re doctors. If they cut it all out, why isn’t it gone?

…

“To listen to Sheryl I should take my mother to some place out east where they cleanse the body of toxins and prescribe a diet of wheat grass. The body’s metabolism must be turned around to cure its own disease. Or I should get her off chemotherapy immediately and fly her to Mexico for treatment in some clinic on the Pacific.

“Get out of here,” says my mother. “Me on a plane? I’d sooner crawl. So what’s supposed to happen to me anyway? Will you tell me? My fingernails are supposed to fall off, my hair’s supposed to fall out. Will you please tell me what this stuff is doing to me every week? I’ve gained fifteen pounds since the last operation. So what am I supposed to turn green or something? Nothing phases me. Not this horse of a body of mine.”
…

(Excerpted from the short story, “This Horse of a Body of Mine” from the book
THE GHOST OF SANDBURG’S PHIZZOG and Other Stories by Norbert Blei, Ellis Press, 1986-In Memoriam, Mother’s Day, May 8, 2005)