Excerpt from

A Daughter Divorces Her Mother: A Memoir

The Toaster Fire

Age 4, 1970

St. Louis Park, Minnesota

I stood motionless in the kitchen as the black smoke rose from the toaster. Three giant firemen wearing tall yellow hats, black jackets, pants and boots walked into the living room through the patio door. My mother walked out that same door a few minutes before, leaving me home alone. I had somehow climbed up to the counter and put a cookie in the toaster. Perhaps I had watched her put bread in the toaster so many times, why not a cookie? She came back shortly after the fire was out.

I was uninjured, but we had to move because of the damage to the apartment. “How could you have put a cookie in the toaster? You’re so stupid! It’s your fault we have to move!” Mother reminded me repeatedly for many years after we moved to a third-floor apartment in New Hope. I didn’t know what to say. My body became rigid, trying to fend off her attacks, protecting my heart.

It was a warm summer afternoon. Mother and I walked to the neighborhood park. I had been complaining about my legs and feet hurting. She shouted, “Stop whining!”

 “Mommy, can I go down the slide?” Then I found myself stuck on the top.  I tried to grasp onto the hard metal bars with my tiny hands.  She called up to me, “Just bend your legs and sit down!”  “I can’t!” I cried helplessly. My legs were too stiff and sore.  I cried as I carefully went back down the ladder.

She took me to the pediatrician a few days later, and I was given an exam and blood test. 

A man in a white coat with dark hair sat behind the desk with papers in front of him. I slouched in the chair trying to be invisible. My mother sat in the other chair frowning while he was speaking. I felt like I had done something wrong and was being punished. I didn’t understand what was happening… I was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis and started taking orange flavored baby aspirin. I don’t remember her reaction after we left the doctor’s office. She was a single parent. She lost custody of my two half-sisters before I was born.

Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis (JIA) formerly known as Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, is an autoimmune disease where the body's immune system attacks its own cells and tissues. The cause is unknown, heredity can be a factor, though there are research studies showing a link between environmental stress and autoimmune disease. Symptoms include joint pain, inflammation, stiffness, red, swollen, tender or warm joints, and fatigue. It can affect one or several joints, and cause stiff, bent joints with loss of movement. Often the disease continues into adulthood, as in my case.

My Bike

About Age 8

New Hope, Minnesota

I do remember her rage. “Mommy, when will you attach the training wheels, so I can ride my bike?” The bright blue bike she bought for me a couple of years ago from Kmart was collecting dust imprisoned by her shopping bags and papers leaning against the entryway wall. “When will I have time to do this when I cook your meals, do your laundry, and change your bed? I quit my job and went on welfare because I have to take care of you!” I wanted to run and hide, but there wasn’t anywhere to go.

Mother’s Looming Pile of Lists

About Age 9

New Hope, Minnesota

They were in piles, paper-clipped together. Some were for me to copy over for her and others were things she wanted to talk about. She wrote lists of everything—outfits for me and her to wear, shopping lists, dinner menu ideas, to do lists. She brought them with her everywhere. People seemed to stare at her, then at me. I wanted to hide.

Some of her handwriting was illegible, so this did not get done completely. Then I was scared at what her reaction would be. I hated this chore. I felt like her secretary, since my 4th grade teacher wrote on my report card that my handwriting was a masterpiece. She constantly reminded me to copy the lists. “Get the lists done! Get something done!” I would rather play with my Spirograph set or paper dolls, but they were buried under her piles of newspapers, mail, and sewing projects on the dining room table that I was forbidden to access. “Get the lists done. Get something done Mommy!” I mocked back. She hollered, “I’m going to crack your head open!”  Then I heard her footsteps quickly coming towards me. I felt unstable in my Kmart plastic wedge shoes, trying not to trip over the white plastic folding chair by the front door that she made me sit on, since she said my clothes were too dirty from school to sit in the dining room.  I screamed as loud as I could, so God or someone, anyone, would hear me and help me. All feeling left my body as I crouched alongside the closet door, her strong hands pulling on my top. I felt the pain from her fist hitting my upper arm. No one came. It took a week for the bruises to fade.

Happy Days

About Age 9

New Hope, Minnesota

I sat in the dining room on the padded white vinyl chair without a back. It had broken off. Happy Days was on the small black and white TV. The theme song felt out of place. What was happy now? I was supposed to be waking mother up so she could make dinner. Why do I have to wake her up? She just left me a hard-boiled egg, graham crackers, and apple juice for a snack. She had gone to bed after I arrived home from school. She was up all night again. I tiptoed on the green carpet into the bedroom, wearing my plastic wedge shoes, not knowing how she would react. Would she start yelling again? It was quiet except for her breathing. My voice caught in my throat. I was supposed to be loud. I couldn’t. I didn’t want her to wake up, but I was hungry and needed to get ready for bed, so I could get up in the morning for school.

“Mommy, wake up!” She asked what time it was and fell back asleep again. She finally got up around 8 or 9:00 after calling her to wake up many times. She used the bathroom and put the hamburger meat in the frying pan on the stove burner for me to chop up. There was little she would let me help with, saying I could damage my joints. My doctor disagreed. We ate cheeseburger Hamburger Helper at around 9:00-10:00. One of my favorite meals. My sleepy head nodded up and down during dinner. For once she didn’t yell about not getting her lists done. By the time I was in bed it was after 10:00… I just wanted to be loved.