Chickenpox, Canned Peaches, and Mother Mary

When I was five, my mother, my sister, and I moved in with my grandparents. My mother’s marriage had collapsed, due to my father’s schizophrenia, and she went back to college to earn a teaching certificate. She spent each week in an undergraduate dorm at the college, and came home on the weekends, while my grandparents looked after my sister and me. During that time my Grandma had serious health problems, including cancer.

One Sunday evening, I was very sick. I was coughing and feverish, and Mom needed to get back to her college for the week. I don’t think she even owned a car, and she had to catch a ride with another student. They took me to the hospital and, lo and behold, after my family left, I broke out in chickenpox.

In those days, somebody with chickenpox was treated at home, but if they were in the hospital, they were put into isolation. That meant that other people only entered the room when necessary, wearing gowns and face masks. The lights were turned down low to protect my eyes, and I wasn’t allowed to watch television or look at a book, for the same reason. I couldn’t have a doll because it would have to be destroyed after I played with it. Eventually I stopped eating.

My mother came back to me. I suppose it must have been Friday evening. She sat down and hand-fed me canned peaches. I can taste those sweet, delicious peaches to this day. She says that she cried the whole time.

I remember looking at the statue of Mary in church as a child and feeling a warm glow spread through me. It has always been easy for me to relate to Mary, because I had a good mother. I can feel upon my cheeks the warm tears that Mary must have shed so many times over her beloved Son. Being a mother means overflowing with love and feeling your heart break in the same moment.