Inheritance
Many years ago, my father was operated upon for colon cancer. Back then, in the ‘70s, this was serious stuff and people were known to succumb on the operating table. After the procedure, the attending surgeon approached my mother who was in the waiting room surrounded by friends and told her the operation had been a complete success. The surgery had excised all traces of cancer, and my father would make a full recovery. My mother exploded in tears. “But it could still spread,” she wailed. “What about metastasis!”
That was Maman, my mother, a born catastrophizer who could see the blacker side of any rosy scenario. Clouds did not have silver linings; any iota of hope was overshadowed by despair. A common cold was precursor to fatal pneumonia; any plane she boarded would crash.
Maman was spectacularly talented. She was an insomniac who entertained brilliantly and compulsively. She wrote, and contributed to the creation of the Babar series, played the piano and the accordion, painted (her works were displayed in galleries in Paris and in Washington), and was a gifted seamstress who hoped to rival Coco Chanel and her little black dress. Her various careers were cursed by her belief that only great and total success mattered, and that if this was beyond her grasp, then she had failed. Small successes were failures. There were no greys in her life, only blacks and whites.
The demands of motherhood and the rigors of creativity did not coexist well. When my mother was painting, she brooked no distractions. I was her model once or twice, a small boy standing perfectly still for hours, a demanding task for a seven-year-old. To better deal with the challenges, Maman abused drugs before it was called abuse. I believe she had discovered the benefits of various substances during the war, when she was a Free French stationed in Algeria. She smoked, though she claimed not to inhale, and drank, though in all honesty I can’t remember her ever being drunk. But she was familiar with hashish and the various stimulants American officers distributed freely to their pilots, so they’d stay alert during long reconnaissance flights. After the war, she discovered the downers and uppers that in later decades would become so popular. That she managed to lead a normal life is still a wonder to me.
I have inherited from her a watered-down version of her fatalism. I am almost certain any endeavor I undertake will end in calamity. If I walk into a room and forget why I did so, it’s Alzheimer’s. When I drive to someplace new, I will get lost before reaching my destination if, that is, my car doesn’t break down.
Added to this across-the-board pessimism is the knowledge that (1) every picayune mistake I make during the day rewards me with a small voice uttering, “Stupid. Idiot. Moron.” Or worse. And (2) whatever I attempt will first go wrong and then, with luck, succeed but probably only partially. In other words, I am supposed to expect failure, before success decides to raise it tiny head.
Conversations with friends lead me to believe I am not the only one so afflicted. We all inherit traits both good and bad from our parents, and these often guide our lives.
I got her drug and alcohol dependencies, and, I like to think, some of her creativity. I inherited her discontent with small successes, and her predilection for depression. I started stealing her Pall Mall cigarettes when I was twelve and quit just short of my 50s. I stopped drugs and alcohol 31 years ago and have never regretted it, though there are times when I wonder if being in the thrall of dependence might not have served my own imagination and creativity. Probably not.
Oddly enough, Maman died on my first sober anniversary. I had flown to Paris at my sister’s behest when she told me Maman was fading fast. I got there hours after her passing, and, seeing her on her deathbed, it was difficult to imagine this tiny woman had held such sway over my life.
I own several of her paintings, a single copy of the book she wrote, and a draft of another book she never finished writing. I’ve read it, and it is as good as anything I’ve written. I never had the opportunity to tell her this, which I regret. Perhaps she would have seen this as a success.
That was Maman, my mother, a born catastrophizer who could see the blacker side of any rosy scenario. Clouds did not have silver linings; any iota of hope was overshadowed by despair. A common cold was precursor to fatal pneumonia; any plane she boarded would crash.
Maman was spectacularly talented. She was an insomniac who entertained brilliantly and compulsively. She wrote, and contributed to the creation of the Babar series, played the piano and the accordion, painted (her works were displayed in galleries in Paris and in Washington), and was a gifted seamstress who hoped to rival Coco Chanel and her little black dress. Her various careers were cursed by her belief that only great and total success mattered, and that if this was beyond her grasp, then she had failed. Small successes were failures. There were no greys in her life, only blacks and whites.
The demands of motherhood and the rigors of creativity did not coexist well. When my mother was painting, she brooked no distractions. I was her model once or twice, a small boy standing perfectly still for hours, a demanding task for a seven-year-old. To better deal with the challenges, Maman abused drugs before it was called abuse. I believe she had discovered the benefits of various substances during the war, when she was a Free French stationed in Algeria. She smoked, though she claimed not to inhale, and drank, though in all honesty I can’t remember her ever being drunk. But she was familiar with hashish and the various stimulants American officers distributed freely to their pilots, so they’d stay alert during long reconnaissance flights. After the war, she discovered the downers and uppers that in later decades would become so popular. That she managed to lead a normal life is still a wonder to me.
I have inherited from her a watered-down version of her fatalism. I am almost certain any endeavor I undertake will end in calamity. If I walk into a room and forget why I did so, it’s Alzheimer’s. When I drive to someplace new, I will get lost before reaching my destination if, that is, my car doesn’t break down.
Added to this across-the-board pessimism is the knowledge that (1) every picayune mistake I make during the day rewards me with a small voice uttering, “Stupid. Idiot. Moron.” Or worse. And (2) whatever I attempt will first go wrong and then, with luck, succeed but probably only partially. In other words, I am supposed to expect failure, before success decides to raise it tiny head.
Conversations with friends lead me to believe I am not the only one so afflicted. We all inherit traits both good and bad from our parents, and these often guide our lives.
I got her drug and alcohol dependencies, and, I like to think, some of her creativity. I inherited her discontent with small successes, and her predilection for depression. I started stealing her Pall Mall cigarettes when I was twelve and quit just short of my 50s. I stopped drugs and alcohol 31 years ago and have never regretted it, though there are times when I wonder if being in the thrall of dependence might not have served my own imagination and creativity. Probably not.
Oddly enough, Maman died on my first sober anniversary. I had flown to Paris at my sister’s behest when she told me Maman was fading fast. I got there hours after her passing, and, seeing her on her deathbed, it was difficult to imagine this tiny woman had held such sway over my life.
I own several of her paintings, a single copy of the book she wrote, and a draft of another book she never finished writing. I’ve read it, and it is as good as anything I’ve written. I never had the opportunity to tell her this, which I regret. Perhaps she would have seen this as a success.
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