The Pill

My mother once told me that when she was pregnant with me she often felt lonely. A large part of this was because my father worked nights. Because of this she had no choice but to spend the nights alone in the apartment. “Imagine,” she said to me. “Once you were born I didn’t feel lonely or unsafe anymore. How silly is that? You couldn’t talk to me, you couldn’t fend off a wild animal. And yet I no longer felt lonely.” I knew she loved me. This was her way of telling me that she was scared and vulnerable in this world, and that my arrival was a balm. But of course I didn’t know how to respond. The value she ascribed to me then, as her son, was too big.

One of my earliest memories is of being in that small one bedroom apartment. I may have been four or five. I remember my younger sister Laura is there and she is a toddler. In the memory when I tilt my head down I can almost see the bureau and some of the items on them as well as their reflections in the mirror. I am sitting on the bed, my mother in a chair. And I remember her sorrowful, wet eyes. She has been crying. And she looks at me with so much pain and weariness that I know instantly that I would do anything to make her feel better.

She holds a pill in her hand between us. She says, “Do you want to throw up?”

No, of course I do not want to throw up. I never want to do that again. But seeing my mother’s misery I know that I will do it. I will throw up to make her feel better. I will do anything for her.

“Yes,” I say.

And I take the pill.

I’ve spent a lot of time since learning anything I could about the inconsistencies of memory and how it relates to consciousness. When we remember our past we remember it in slices, vignettes. What I  mean is that many of our memories begin in the middle of an occurrence. For example I remember walking across a tiny bridge over a stream that led to one of my aunts’ houses, but I don’t remember the moments before or the moments after. I remember walking up the side of a hill in the woods where steps had been carved to make passage easier. I remember that these steps were covered in dried pine needles. I specifically remember feeling them roll under my feet and being scared that they could roll out from under my feet and that I would fall all the way down the hill. I don’t remember why I was there or what happened after. 

We know how memories are created, but we don’t know how they figure into the overall development of a person’s personality or temperament. What an interesting shortcoming. Afterall, we also know how imperfect memory is. We definitely know how memory can be fluid, and how easily memories can blend and distort. We know that people form feelings and opinions based on such flaws. And we know that peoples’ feelings and opinions can and often have very tangible effects on this world.

I have since realized something about my memory about my mother and the pill. I see it. I recognize myself as clearly as I am sitting in this chair. I feel for her what I felt for her then. And I remember that I was completely willing to make myself sick simply because she asked me to. 

And one day I realized I remember taking the pill, but I don’t remember what happened after. Did I throw up? Did I pass out? Furthermore, what happened before all of this? And then it occurred to me, this memory is truncated. I am remembering it without context. 

So I thought about it. I think I figured out the context. 

I believe now that I was sick. I believe that at least a small portion of how sorry I felt for my mother when I looked into her wet eyes was due to me feeling crummy. I think that in this memory I had already thrown up. I think that my own misery was what my mother was responding to. She always felt everything too strongly. I learned empathy from watching her. I believe she was worried about me.

I think she had tried several times to get me to take that pill, cold medicine, knowing that it could make me feel better. I had probably refused, ignorant fool boy that I was, further adding to her misery since my suffering hurt her more than it did me.

This is when I believe the memory begins. When she faces me and holds out the pill and says, “Do you want to throw up?” This is when memory consolidation turned on. Which is why I remember thinkingis this what she wants? but don’t remember that I was sick and had likely refused the pill at least once already. The process of memory consolidation switched on for a few minutes and then turned off again.

I’ve been a parent twice now. I know the anguish of not being able to make your child feel better. I know the distress of wondering if they are cold at night when they are not within reach. I know the heartache of their misunderstanding and blaming you for . . . anything. 

Memory is a funny thing. I remember a story taught in Sunday school about the little boy who was asked if he would be willing to donate blood to his older sister who was in need of a transfusion. He was scared, but he loved her, so he said yes. So they laid him down in a bed next to her and put an IV needle in him. After some time he said to the doctor, “when will it happen?” “When will what happen?” asked the doctor. “When will I die?” His misunderstanding had been as big as his love for his sister.

My misunderstanding was that I was willing to be sick simply because my mother had asked. The reality was that she was trying to help me feel better when I was being difficult, loving me as only my mother could ever, with her own pain. I can’t define what love is. But I can think of no better description. 

8.28.2022 – 11.25.2025