Catching Cold
Deborah Pan
On one particularly cold day about fifteen years ago, my mom laid out five shirts on my bed: a camisole, a short sleeve shirt, a turtleneck, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweater. After a few minutes of wrestling the clothes over my four-year-old body, she said, “There, now you won’t get frostbitten,” and with a satisfied smile patted my marshmallow-like exterior off to kindergarten. Thirty minutes later, as I silently sweated my way through making a Santa Claus out of red construction paper and white cotton balls, my teacher exclaimed,
“It’s cold in here! How many of you feel cold right now?” Small hands shot up around the room and Miss Johnson agreed, “It certainly is! Now I wish I had worn more layers. When it is very cold outside, you can stay warm by adding extra layers of clothing. Today I am only wearing two layers,” she told us, pulling the edge of her white blouse out from under her red cardigan sweater. “Is anyone wearing three layers today?” A brief moment of contemplation and counting followed. A few of my classmates raised their hands, beaming as Miss Johnson smiled at them each in turn, saying, “That is very smart of you. You must be very warm right now!”
I was wearing more than three layers. I quietly re-counted my shirts under the table. All of a sudden, Thomas, an annoying bully of a boy who seemed to pay more attention to my affairs than his own, shot up from his seat. “Deborah’s wearing five layers, Miss Johnson,” he crowed, “I saw her counting them.” I looked down at the ground, trying to avoid the laughter and teasing of my classmates.
I once thought that my growing older would ease my mom’s paranoia. I was very wrong. Before I left for college, she handed me a list of type-written instructions entitled “How To Prevent Catching Cold at College.” Some highlights include: Do not forget to wash your hands before every meal. Do not share drinks or eat off the same fork as anyone else. (This spreads germs.) Take multivitamins every day. Remember to use your umbrella when it rains. Bring a change of socks if you think it might rain so you do not have to wear wet socks all day. Never, ever go out of the dorm with wet hair. Blow-dry your hair until completely dry or risk catching a cold! I broke every one of these rules my first week at college.
Every so often, a frantic phone call from my mother serves as my morning alarm clock. These calls are (quite literally) as predictable as the weather:
Deb: Hello?
Mom: Do you know that it’s pouring rain over here! The weather is so nasty outside!
D: Mom, just because it’s raining in New Jersey doesn’t mean it’s raining here. You can’t call me every time it rains!
M: Is it raining over there?
D: Well, yes. But…
M: I told you so! The weatherman said that there is a flood warning. Are you going to be okay going to class? Maybe you should stay inside today.
D: Mom, I live two minutes away from the main building. All of MIT is indoors, remember?
M: Well, bring your umbrella and wear your green rain jacket. Do you still have those boots?
D: Yes. (I think I donated those to the Salvation Army last spring.)
M: And remember to dry your hair or else you will--
D: Catch cold. I know, Ma.
When all else fails, my nose is my mom’s one resounding battle cry. It all stems back to one unfortunate inheritance from my father. The infamous Pan Bump, as it is charmingly called, makes for a very interesting profile but difficult respiration. The narrow bridge on top of the bump is a constricted passageway for air flow, resulting in the abundance of heavy breathers, incessant snorers, and nose-whistlers on the paternal side of my family tree. I have been a nose-whistler and heavy breather since birth. And my nose is my mom’s one resounding battle cry when all else fails.
“Listen to your nose! Stuffy nose! You must have a cold.”
“I feel perfectly fine. My nose always sounds like that. You know that, mom,” I say patiently, as I have many times before.
“It sounds terrible. Like a 60 year old man. Like your father.”
My dad and I exchange silly glances and grin. She’s absolutely right.
I’ve now mastered the art of passing of sniffles as allergies. I’m a pro at blaming a hoarse voice on an extra-long choir rehearsal. I never hesitate to “bend the truth” when it comes to hiding sickness from my mom. And while this may seem dishonest, I know it is better than the alternative—having her worry herself sick over my health, especially now that I am far away from home. It’s a hard thing for my mother to let go: to understand that her youngest daughter is almost full grown; that she will see the evil and corruption in this world; that she will face opponents far crueler than germs. And so I make it easy for her. “Great!” I say when she calls about my health, when I am bed-ridden in my dorm room with a fever. “Everything’s under control,” I say reassuringly, as I try to calm my tears of stress and anxiety. “You know those choir rehearsals,” I say with a raspy voice, as I make a mental note to buy lozenges for my irritated throat.
At the age of five, I thought all my classmates’ moms bundled them up in thick layers and packed chewable vitamin C tablets in their lunchboxes. At twelve, I learned to stow extra layers of clothing in my locker so I wouldn’t sweat profusely during the day. At sixteen, my mom was my prime source of embarrassment, especially after she called out, “Make sure you wash your hands before you eat dinner!” before I left for the senior prom. But now that I am twenty, I am learning that her concern stems directly from love—a love bottomless and unconditional, a love I will not understand fully until I too, bear children.
Last December, on the day before Christmas, I woke up early to find my mother staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. I crept behind her and looked at our reflections side-by-side with each other.
“Tomiko’s mom died of breast cancer,” she murmured, not shifting her gaze from our reflections in the mirror.
“Mom,” I locked eyes with her in the mirror. “When’s the last time you got a mammogram?”
She looked down at her chest. “Not for three or four years. I am scared,” she said quietly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I am scared.”
Suddenly, I felt strong, despite my mourning, despite the terrifying feeling of seeing my mother so vulnerable. I looked at her face to face, feeling that for the moment, we had switched roles. And my instinctive flash of worry and concern didn’t even take me by surprise; after all, I was standing beside the woman who had passed this trait, along with her small frame and fine black hair, down to me. “Mom, please go,” I said. “Just in case.”
A few weeks later I received a morning wake-up call. “Results normal. Everything fine. Are you wearing your thick winter coat?”
“Yes, Mom,” I said, laughing with such great relief. “And my gloves and scarf, too.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re finally growing up,” she said.