My mother is hard of hearing.  Add the audiologist to her list of doctors.  These are the men in her life; mostly middle-aged with the limited patience of baby boomers with their own aging parents.

Sometimes I go with her to her various appointment and they all speak to her in the a patronizing sing-song manner, “That’s right, Mrs. Reggio.  Just take your medication, Mrs. Reggio.  Do as I say, Mrs. Reggio.”  I hear their sub-text as, “You’re an old lady, Mrs. Reggio.  I’m a doctor and you’re an old lady, Mrs. Reggio.  Don’t give me grief; do as you’re told, Mrs. Reggio.”

My mother hides her self-consciousness by playing the coquette.  It’s really a survival tactic because most of the time she’s terrified of what they have to say to her.  She smiles sweetly and in a syrupy voice asks, “Is my sugar too high?  Is my blood pressure normal?  Do I really need a mammogram?” (or as she refers to it, a “mammyogram.”)

Once when my mother tried to wheedle out of having a particularly embarrassing test, her internist remarked that with her verbal side-stepping skills, she missed her calling in politics.

She laughs at these remarks (when she hears them).  I guess she finds it somewhat amusing to have these men, young enough to be her sons, instruct her like a child.  For her, they are the closest relationship she has had with a man since my father died twenty years ago.  On her calendar she schedules her various “dates.”  Sometimes, she and a neighbor “double-date.”  First they go to her appointment and then she accompanies her friend to hers.  “I feel like one of daddy’s old cars; something’s always breaking down.”

When my mother and I were both much younger, I was her little companion whenever she had to run errands like shop or pay bills.

“Hey, Red,” the garbage men would yell from their trucks.

Holding a little girl’s hand did not get in the way of my mother looking sexy.  With her dyed red hair, gold anklet and bouncy walk, being a mommy did not take away an ounce of her sex appeal.  Their remarks always stunned as well as made me feel proud of her.  Those same breasts that men found seductive, served as cushions when I cuddled with her on the couch at night while we watched television.

Now I’m the one in control in the handholding department and the anklet has been replace by a medic alert bracelet.  Replacing the catcalls are loud greetings from the tailor and the Russian Laundromat lady for whom my mother buys coffee every day.

I want my mother to hear.

I want her to hear Bob Barker yell, “Come on down!” on “The Price Is Right.”

I want her to hear the funny remarks four-year old Cynthia from down the hall makes when she visits my mother’s stuffed animal collection.

Perhaps, my mother’s resistance to getting a hearing aid is her way of maintaining control.  She can tune into her memories of compliments and whistles rather than the stream of diagnoses she is forced to hear.

As for me, while my hearing is in tact, I should concentrate more on my listening and not worry so much.  Whether or not she hears me say it, she knows I love her.

---