On Honesty

My mother ingrained the following adage into my young mind as a child:

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive.

It's great advice--for kids and adults--but sometimes...well, sometimes a little weaving seems necessary. And you know what? It always gets tangled.

BFF's sweet mother has been through a lot in the past few weeks. From a simple phone call to me stating, "I'm having some chest pains" to quintuple bypass surgery in a matter of days...well, it's been trying at times.

BFF is an "only". As it happened, her mom (Mama R) called me to talk about the chest pains only because BFF was about an hour away in our big city, running errands. Therefore, of course, I was the one to hurry over and take Mama R to the spotlessly clean and oddly empty brand-spanking new emergency room that our little town now boasts.

OK, really, there is nothing funny about a 72-year-old woman's heart pains, and I wasn't looking for humor, but there were definitely moments of levity.

I dropped Mama R at the door and went to park the car a few feet away. I came in just minutes after her, but she was already in triage and answering questions. She introduced me as her "adopted daughter" so that I could be with her in the examining room. Here's where we started to "weave". I gamely went with "daughter" and when the nurse thrust paperwork into my hands, I tried not to be too conspicuous as I wondered aloud, "What was your birth year again, Mama?" or, "Now, you don't have a history of heart disease do you?" or, (worse), "Um, what was your home telephone number again?". The nurse seemed not to notice or care, but I was feeling downright not-daughterly. Shouldn't I know my own mother's year of birth? Or whether she was on certain medications? Or even, when my own "adoptive father" died? Or, frankly, what his name was?

Well, because Mama R was actually having real pains, they were not that concerned with the paperwork and we hurried to a room with a bed, monitors and doctors. Whew. That was when BFF arrived. I could hear her down the hall way, begging to be let "in". "But she's my mother" she patiently explained through oh-so-mildly gritted teeth. The admitting nurse patiently explained that the "other daughter was with her" through slightly less mildly gritted teeth. I hurried down the hall and said, "BFF, hurry, you go sit with Mama, and I'll wait in the waiting room". Like good sisters, we hugged, quicky commiserated, and went in opposite directions, but not before she whispered, "You did tell them about Mother only having the one kidney, right?". Oops, another daughterly thing that I had zero knowledge about.

I was about ten feet away on my way out of the corridor when Mama R saw BFF and said loudly to the nurse, "Oh, good, there's my REAL daughter". I doubt many adoptive parents often refer to "real daughters" in the hearing of the poor "adopted one", but I let that go. I was glad BFF was there to talk to doctors, worry about her mom and leave waiting rooms to me, not to mention tell medical professionals that her mother had, in fact, only one kidney.

However, ten minutes later when I was called in to sign really legal looking papers for Mama R's transfer to the heart facility...as her "next of kin"...well, I didn't let that go. Looking as adopted as I could manage, I explained that Mama R didn't like other people signing documents for her. And I slunk off. I'm not sure who signed that pile of papers, but I'm fairly sure it was a true relative...who knew things like deceased husband's name and social....

This whole scene was replayed 10 days later in the CICU. Because only family members could come in, I was once again the honorary daughter. BFF hurried to meet me at the elevator, joyful because Mama R was out of her medicated fog. She had not known her own daughter the first day out of surgery, which had devastated BFF for two days. We went to Mama R's bedside, and began to make small talk with the nurse who was attending her. There I was, the other "daughter", when BFF said, "And can you imagine, I'm her ONLY child, and she didn't know me from Adam?" The nurse looked at me. I sheepishly said, "I'm adopted". Poor me.

Of course, the real craziness came in when Mama R told everyone I was taking care of her baby, "MaryLu". In fact, MaryLu was her only concern going into surgery. By now, possibly people thought Mama R adopted many children? Babies too? (and at her advanced age--how perfectly altruistic of her). It all started to smack of Mother Theresa...the kindness of those who take in the unwanted. Everyone from cardiologists to RN's to LVN's asked about MaryLu--and Mama R told them all what good care I was taking of her, that her hair was the color of BFF's, and that she would show them all a photo soon.

MaryLu is, of course, her Chihuahua.

And so, we are sisters.