So let me say this right up front. Mary Frances has a lung
condition. She has some coughing and some mucus. She is followed at Duke and
was diagnosed a few years ago after her local yahoos told her she had lung
cancer. Her condition is inconvenient, not
considered contagious, and a sight better than lung cancer. However, it requires a healthy amount of
tissues.
This post is about my aversion. To tissues.
When I was little I had the life-scarring experience of
having my dirty face washed with wet tissues! Repeatedly. I am having
flashbacks as I type this of being in our green tiled “guest” bathroom with
Mama’s hand under my chin (to hold me still) and COLD, wet tissue being scrubbed
across my checks to wash off any presumed smudges. Are you cringing yet? Even the
memory makes me gasp!
So what is the common denominator of being with Mom wherever
we are – Seaboard or Durham, home or out and about? TISSUES!!! USED TISSUES!
UNUSED TISSUES! EVERYWHERE!!!
Before our recent return to my hometown, I had noticed that
Mom’s mid-sized Vera Bradley was growing fatter and fatter. I nearly fell out
when I looked inside and found out it was FULL OF TISSUES and there was no way
to determine which were dirty and which were clean, so I , uh had to take them
all out and to Mama’s chagrin insisted
on throwing all of them away. I found 2 nice purse packs of Kleenex and put
those in instead, and am praying that they will not run amok while I’m not
looking.
So like the children in Hansel and Gretel leaving
breadcrumbs, Mom leaves a trail of tissues, in the car, in the couch, in her
lounger, in her bed. I never know where one will turn up and whether it is
clean or not. In her mind, clean is whether it is still, er, usable. And she
also will squirrel away “clean” paper towel remnants for later use. I try to go
behind her and throw them away, but I must be EVER VIGILANT.
And then there are the pockets. As you might imagine I am
afraid to slip my hand into the pocket of Mom’s skirts prior to washing them,
because there might be tissues WADDED up inside. My subconscious tries to
protect me by helping me forget to check, but then I have a washer full of WET tissues
which is the only thing worse than tissues of questionable cleanliness. And if
I miss them in the washer, then my dryer (and its filter) gets filled with
tufts of very cleaned, washed tissues.
My husband knows of horror of used tissues, so in the 30
years we’ve been married he’s coined what he thinks is a cute term for used
tissues: fairies! This seemingly innocuous name still represents loathsome
tissues filled with…well…yuck!!! He even animates them, making them pirouette
to the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies. This is the stuff of my worst
nightmares. But wait – don’t answer – when he gets a bad cold he claims a
trashcan for used tissues he calls it a FAIRY CASTLE. I run screaming from the
room.
Well, now that I’ve shared how vulnerable I am, I think I’ll
go have a nice cry. But you can bet your sweet patootie, I won’t be using a
tissue to wipe my nose. That’s what shirt sleeves are for.
