I Hate the Person I’ve Become

Just when I  was trying hard to keep the morning on schedule, the worst possible thing happened: Mrs. Leslie Steiner walked in. Well-known to the group practice, she came in often to complain about everything in her life. Each of us groaned inwardly when we glimpsed her in the hallway if we were on walk-in duty. Mrs. Steiner's primary physician, Dr. Stan Macky, saw her weekly for fifteen minutes to reassure her. Her atrial fibrillation, degenerative joint disease, and mild hypertension were well controlled. One  visit was not enough for Leslie, who stopped by three times a week with vague complaints.

"Hi, Mrs.  Steiner," I said. "I just saw you with your doctor two days ago. What brings you  back in so soon?"

"Oh honey, I don't know what to do with all this pain I have. It hurts to walk, sit, or stand. I feel better in my bed with my heating pad on; it's my best friend. I hope you never have to get old." She sighed from the bottom of her lungs.

Repetitive sighing was Mrs. Steiner's trademark. As she aged, she gave up on her  appearance. Now she had a haggard "woe is me" look, was on the short side, and forty pounds overweight. Her arms were flabby and wiggled when she gestured. Her round visage displayed deep lines and her complexion was chalky. I was amused by  the woman's unkempt hair, which gave her the appearance of Bozo the Clown.

"Well, thebad news is I will get old, but the good news is that it will be gradual," I said with a smile.

Mrs. Steiner continued to pout. "Easy for you to joke, you're younger. Just wait till you're  in your seventies like me, then you'll suffer."

"Mrs. Steiner, I can't seem to locate your funny bone."

She didn't reply. I sensed an inner sadness. Mrs. Steiner was hurting.

"You seem so unhappy," I said. "Tell me why."

Mrs. Steiner looked at me then down at her hands. She turned her wedding band around and  around on her finger. In a small voice she answered, "You don't need to look at  my joints; they're no different than two days ago. I just want to talk to  somebody who will listen to me."

"Okay."

"I am lonely and unhappy. I hate the person I've become. My son, who is fifty years old this  year, calls me just twice a year—Mother's Day and on my birthday. He makes excuses why he can't travel to visit with me. I haven't seen my grandchildren in five years."

"Why is that?"

"He hates me.  We had a big fight a long time ago over something trivial. Then it was a big  deal; now I even forget the details. Anyway, tempers were running hot on both sides and I felt he had to bow to my will. He never did, and I didn't budge an inch toward his. That stubbornness was our undoing. I wouldn't call him and he wouldn't call me. At first his wife called to check on me and put my grandkids on to talk, but that soon stopped, too. This went on for a few years. Eventually  I swallowed my pride and called one night to apologize. I'm getting older and  more frail, and I'm afraid I'll never see my son and his kids again before I  die."

"Did that  solve the problem?"

"No. He's cool and standoffish towards me. I beg him to visit me with the kids. I complain to him about my health so that he gets the hint that I'm not doing well. I can hear  the whining in my own voice. I think that pushes him away even more."

"Are you trying to make him feel guilty?"

"Yes, I  suppose I am. When I was your age, I never dreamed for a minute that I would be a bitter, manipulative, old woman. You wouldn't have known it, but I was something to look at back in the old days." Mrs. Steiner smiled as she  reflected.

"What was the  young Leslie Steiner like? I haven't a clue."

"First of all, my maiden name was Leslie Goshen. I was a pretty girl. I had shiny, naturally  curly, black hair and didn't need to wear make-up. I wore a size six. I used to  have a choice of which boy would walk me home after class and had lots of  girlfriends at school and in my neighborhood. At the age of eighteen, I wanted  to get a job in the garment district.

My father was  a tailor and I had an eye for designing clothes for women. I hoped to set the world on fire, but my father was—I guess you could call him the fireman in my  life. He was set on marrying me to a nice Jewish boy with a future in business. He told me the purpose of my life was to have babies, be a loyal wife, and a good mother. I had no skills, no training, and no job. I lived with my parents  and I didn’t have options like women do today. I loved my parents and never  would have disobeyed them. Sure I was disappointed, but I did what my parents  told me to do."

"So what happened next?"

"My father introduced me to my husband of forty-five years. I was a mere nineteen years old. My husband passed away from a heart attack when I was sixty-four years old. God bless him. He was a good man and a good husband. We had a son and I miscarried three times after that and was told I shouldn't keep trying to have babies. The doctors thought something was wrong with my womb. We had Joseph and  considered ourselves blessed to have him. I was the happiest in my life being a mother. My only regret was that Joseph grew up too fast; I wished I had more  children."

"When Joe went away to college, I had the 'empty nest' problem real bad. I looked at my husband one day over our morning coffee and realized I didn't have a thing in common  with this man. I loved him, but didn't know what made him tick. My husband was a  jeweler by trade and did a nice business in the diamond district—you should have seen my engagement ring—but all in all, not a terribly interesting man. I think  that was when I started complaining. I wanted some attention from my husband.  Joe use to shower me with it, but not a drop from my husband."

I reflexively  looked at my watch. I knew other patients were not far behind.

"I'm so sorry  for taking up all your valuable time talking about my past," she said. "I guess my point was that I wasn't always like this and Joe knows it. I miss my husband  these days, too. I didn't realize how lucky I was when he was with me. I would do things differently now. If you do find a nice young man and settle down, make sure you never forget the person you fell in love with and why. By the way, are  you Jewish?"

"No, why?"

"Too bad, I  know this nice Jewish boy about your age in my apartment building. All he needs is the right Jewish girl and his life would be complete."

I took the woman's hand in mine and said, "You need to call your son and tell him what you  just told me today. Don't complain about your symptoms, he already knows them. Don't cry; he's heard you do that, too. Tell him from your heart what you're  really afraid of and that you're aware of how you must sound to him. Tell him you love him and need his love. For now, work on re-establishing a link with him. Give him some time to think about what you've told him. Maybe it will seem like a breath of fresh air to him and he will be more willing to talk with you. And Mrs. Steiner, call tonight."

Mrs. Steiner looked at me with red-rimmed, watery eyes about to overflow. "Thank you, I will. I'd better be going. You've got sicker people than me to care for." She gave my hand a big squeeze. "You're a good listener."

I offered her  a tissue, which she took on her way out. Expecting to find another chart, I looked outside my office. To my relief, there was none. Thinking back on Mrs.  Steiner, I realized that patients who were physically ill often took less time than people who just came to talk did.

About a month  later, I remembered Leslie Steiner and realized I hadn't seen her in a long time. I asked the other clinic staff about her over lunch, but no one else had seen her either. Dr. Macky said that Mrs. Steiner had canceled two weeks of  appointments. He was totally surprised. I decided to call and make sure that she  was okay.

The voice of the person who answered the phone was unfamiliar to me, and for a moment, I  thought I might was misdialed the number.

"Hello, I'm  looking for Leslie Steiner. Is she in?"

"No, my mother is out with my wife and kids at the Brooklyn aquarium. Can I take a message for  her?"

I smiled. "No, that's all right, thank you."

Good for you, Leslie Goshen Steiner. Good for you.

Elizabeth  D. Tate

Neurology

Second Place, Prose