The Invisible Among Us

Something very curious has been happening during Mass, lately.  For two weeks in a row, whenever the priest gives a sermon, he indirectly references my mother.

For many years now, my mother has endured one medical setback after another.  Just when we think a physical ailment has been cured, another one pops up out of nowhere. Despite these difficulties, she's always made an effort to attend weekly Mass even when the Boston Archdiocese reopened churches with new social distancing measures.  Many sermons from around this time in 2020 tended to focus on the value of suffering with one priest in particular saying that it was a gift from God.  After Mass, my mother jokingly said to him, “Father, tell God that I don't need any more gifts.”  He got a laugh out of it then blessed her saying that her suffering had meaning.  My mother expressed the hope that her aches and pains here on earth might help souls get out of purgatory.

Most worshipers in my parish are very elderly even though the area has a high concentration of young people.  During a recent sermon, our priest lamented this fact and asked why.  He then looked around the room and noted how some parishioners have managed to attend Mass every week despite the fact that a few of them suffer from great physical difficulties.  He then glanced at my mother with a smile and nodded with approval.  We both knew who he was talking about.

After Mass, my mother again talked to our priest and he indeed admitted that during his sermon, he was specifically referring to her adding that her example was an inspiration to everyone.  As they chatted, I thought about all the sacrifices I had to make to get her to Mass.  My mother does not drive so she wouldn't be able to go to church if it wasn't for me.  When she walks with her cane, she also grabs onto my arm for stability.  (God forbid the elevator is out of order at our parish because then it means a long slow climb up and down several stairs.)  Our priest enjoyed his little chat with my mother while completely ignoring me and as he continued to heap praise on her I felt like saying, “What am I?  Chopped liver?”
 
Often, it's the caregivers who are invisible.  We put in a huge effort to help our loved-ones maintain some quality of life but most people tend to see only the sweet old lady courageously sitting in the pew.  The trouble with the narrative my priest shared during his sermon was that it left out all that I have lost but this isn't the first time a man of the cloth has ignored the whole truth for the sake of a good story.
 
When I attended St. Mary Star of the Sea parish in Beverly, one of our pastor's favorite words during a sermon was “edify.”  If there was a large crowd at Mass, it edified him.  If he saw an elderly couple who had been married for 50 years sitting in the pews, it edified him.  If he saw lots of children and families at Mass, it edified him.  But in those same pews were the lonely, the depressed, and the people whose faith was threadbare.  Adding us to his narrative would cast too much of a dark cloud on his rosy vision of our parish so we became invisible.  This only increased our sense of alienation.
 
The next week, my priest again talked about the suffering some people endured with another knowing glance toward my mother.  Afterwards, he thanked her for her sacrifice but this time, I spoke up saying that I too had to sacrifice to get her to Mass.  He was so focused on my mother, he didn't seem to understand what I was saying.  I added, “Sacrificing is fine but people also have to live their own lives.”  My words seemed to fall on deaf ears.  Guess that narrative was too much of a dark cloud.

Caregiving for me means that I live at home with my mother which makes my value on the dating scene quite low.  I have a menial job just to be close to home and when I'm not working, my life is a blur of countless doctor's appointments for her.  As I sit in waiting room after waiting room, there never seems to be any women my age around, just the miserable sight of elderly and / or obese patients I call the walking wounded.
 
There are the big things that take an emotional toll like seeing my mother fall and not being able to lift her back up, trips to the emergency room in the dead of night, realizing that her time on this earth is winding down with each passing year, seeing her cry because she is so frustrated by all of her physical ailments.  Then there are the small things I have to endure like not being able to go away on long road trips, having to turn my headphones down really low just so I can hear her calling me, emptying her commode, accidentally seeing her partially clothed when she changes into a hospital gown, worrying if I will find her in distress when I come home from work.  This way of life certainly doesn't give me that many moments of joy to call my own.
 
My mother's difficulty walking made it necessary for me to accompany her to a recent eye doctor appointment.  Instead of hanging out in the waiting room or in these socially distant times, waiting in my car, I sat in a small chair across from the examination chair.  For the first time, I saw her much-talked-about but never seen doctor who turned out to be an attractive Asian woman in her 40s.  Not once during this appointment did she look at me or even acknowledge my presence.  It wasn't until she was on her way out the door that my mother said, “This is my son.”  She briefly glanced over and said hi as she left.  Invisible indeed.
 
While on my way out to the car, I asked about the doctor and my mother said, “She's married with kids.”  I added, “Of course.  Any beautiful, successful woman would be.  Guys like me don't stand a chance.”  For the rest of the day, my mother had trouble seeing things and when she dropped her glasses on the carpet, the frustration to even perform small tasks got to her.  With tears in her eyes she asked, “How much more of this can a person take?”  It's a question I find myself asking God a lot.