The Stuff my Nightmares are made of......

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.