Tissues

Tissues (From my book, Fine Tuning My Life)

In the previous chapter I mentioned that my mother is like an egg-laying chicken--only with Kleenex.  If there is ever a shortage of tissues in this country we will have to blame it on Mom.  She hoards them like her life depends upon it.  She is addicted to them.  They are her security blanket.  She does not leave a room without six or eight  folded in her pockets.  Years ago, whenever Mom left the house she always had several tissues in her handbag.  As I think back to my childhood it was her habit to carry a handkerchief.  My mother always had a pretty little floral hankie in her bag.  Gifts of embroidered hankies were given for birthdays, mother's day, as a hostess gift, and for all other occasions when one couldn't think of another gift to give.  When Kleenex took over the market, those lovely little cloths were replaced and my mother began stuffing the tissues into her purse edging out the dainty embroidered handkerchiefs. As the years went by, Mom developed a runny nose, particularly when eating.  I don't know what condition caused this but she needed to regularly wipe at her nose. Such is the situation that brings me to describe the current condition in our home.

Every morning when my mother  comes down for breakfast she uses several tissues while eating.  She bites and blows, bites and blows.  It is a regular occurrence for us to remind her to place her Kleenex in her lap because when she blows her nose, she neatly folds the tissue several times like an origami project and then places it on the table.  We quickly tell her to remove it because it is dirty, germ-laden, and disgusting!  We suggest that she throws her tissue away after using it but instead, she stashes it away for use later.  Her fondness for using and reusing the tissues is legendary!  We watch as she uses a Kleenex and then wraps it around her index finger somewhat like a bandage.  She wears it and forgets that it is there.  Then she reaches for another tissue.  A quick blow and swipe, and that tissue is also folded into a thin band then wrapped around her other index finger.  With both fingers adorned with what looks like mini tourniquets, she must then turn to folding and stuffing her stash of used tissues up her sleeves.  Often she will pack five or six of these folded little germ havens in her sleeves. I see these as paper Petri dishes and curl my lip in disgust. I think of the cultures she is growing in her clothes as a result of this practice.  The tissues have a habit of wandering up her arms and out of reach.  It isn't until bedtime that they begin to drop out.  I have become an expert tissue spotter.  I look for a small bunching on the arm or at the wrist to extract the offending tissue. However, I have been known to miss several and when that happens, I will find them on the floor, under her pillow, in the blankets, on the nightstand, on the stairs, atop her walker, in her shoe, on the back of a chair, stuffed in the sofa cushions, squirreled away in a scarf or shawl, shredded in her lap, stacked in her walker pocket, lining her palms, and of course the obvious--plunged into her pockets.  On laundry day, I check pockets carefully but always miss two or three of the offending tissues that end up dissolving into little pieces, adorning all of the clean laundry.  I then spend a half hour picking off tiny pieces of Kleenex lint from pants, shirts, socks, and sweaters.  These bits of tissue are insidious.  They appear everywhere and we begin to wear them on our clothing like we wear dog fur from our Husky who sheds it all over everything.  It used to be a standard practice that before walking into a meeting or any event, we would brush ourselves off with a lint roller (one of those sticky things that grabs lint and dog fur).  Still, when we would look down, there would be dog fur stuck to us that even the lint roller missed.  We would make excuses telling people, "Sorry.  We have a white Husky."  People would nod sympathetically.  Now we roll the tissue lint off of our clothing and apologize with the excuse, "Sorry, we have a senile mother!"