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Reaching out and worrying someone"Now honey, don't be worried, but..." Oh, how I hate it when my mother prefaces a sentence with this phrase. Just by virtue of suggesting there would be a potential for worry causes me to go into a tailspin of possibilities--all in a matter of seconds. Is she sick? Is Dad sick? Is someone dead? Did the dog die? Did the house blow up in a freak gas line explosion? For the love of Pete, what am I not supposed to worry about?!? Before you call me paranoid or an unfeeling robot, understand that Mom's trained me to be this way. Her "don't be worried, but..." phrase accompanied the announcement that my first show heifer's calf--a calf I'd eagerly anticipated in seven-year-old fashion--was stillborn. It was there when she told me our cow dog had to be put to sleep after being hit by a truck. It was even how she and my father broke the news to me that they'd be moving to Montana. At no time in my life has her little phrase ever accompanied news that would cause me to break out in song and dance. More like a heralding of upcoming doom and gloom. It's not so much that Mom's lousy at breaking bad news, but her news announcements are like those teasers at the beginning of the 10 o'clock news. "Tonight, on News Channel One, we discover which food in your kitchen right now could kill you the minute you ingest it. But first, this latest story on Brittany Spears." Really, you can't just come out and tell me what the bad food is? You have to update me on the life of some moronic pop star first? Some people have the gift of breaking bad news, my mother isn't one of them. I can't blame Mom entirely for her quirk, though. My grandmother was the same way. For example, when my father was rushed to the emergency room after seriously injuring his hand blowing up a split-rim tire in our farm shop, Grandma was in charge of breaking the news to Mom over the phone. She hemmed and hawed around the subject until Mom practically wanted to scream. "Now, Deanie, don't be worried," she said over the telephone. "I mean, the doctor says Larry's going to be just fine. It's just that we're in the emergency room and they need his medical history so they can get him into surgery right away." Notice how there's no mention right off about WHY he's in the emergency room, or HOW he got there, or WHAT body part needs surgery. It's completely frustrating, and utterly genetic. Maybe it's the journalist in me that wants just the facts in the lead sentence and then the emotion in the body copy. Because, if you start with just the emotional "...It's okay, honey..." your brain has way too much time to fill in the blanks on its own. And, believe me, with a creative brain like mine, I can imagine all sorts of horrors in a split second. This is also why I hate phone calls from my family early in the morning or late at night. Once I hear the tone of their greeting I quickly shift into hyper-worry-wort mode. They could be calling to tell me they won the lottery at 10 p.m., and the first words out of my mouth would be, "What happened? Who's hurt? When's the funeral?" I don't think I'm cold and unfeeling in wanting the bad news first. After all, I'd much rather process the information in a logical fashion--who or what has been affected, how I need to help, and then how that makes me feel. That's how I get through grief, by taking care of others before myself. My mother, on the other hand, wants to naturally make things easier on me, and her little warning phrase is designed to do that. If only I could make her realize it has just the opposite affect. Because, really, when it comes to bad news, just tell me already. Jennifer M. Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com. 10/15/07 Date: 10/8/07
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