Listen to the Squawking Chicken: When Mother Knows Best, What's a Daughter To Do? A Memoir (Sort Of) (23 page)

During the lowest point of her illness while she was hospitalized for nine months, when Dad would go home at the end of visiting hours, Ma would call me because she was too uncomfortable to sleep. By this time, she had lost a quarter of her body weight. There was no fat on her body to cushion the sharpness of her bones. I knew she was in pain. And I knew that she had to endure it all by herself for hours in that hospital bed, surrounded by strangers, until Dad came back the next afternoon. I lived in Vancouver then, which is three hours behind Toronto, so we talked for hours, until the
exhaustion set in. She wanted to know about my day, about my business; even though she barely understood the information I was giving, she still wanted to hear that Jacek and I were working hard and making plans. These plans excited her. They motivated her to get better because she wanted to be able to enjoy seeing us achieve our goals. Our conversations ended up being repetitive. Day after day, I was giving her the same information. But she had no one else to talk to. Ours were the only lives she could share in.

One night, the sadness of her situation was too much. I wept into the phone. She asked me why I was crying and I told her that I felt sorry for her—that she was so sick, that she was so alone, that she had no friends.

“You only need one true friend,” she said. “
You
are my one true friend.”

I am the Squawking Chicken’s only daughter and her only true friend. It can be a burden, sure. But, mostly, it is my life’s honor.

There is no cure for POEMS. Ma has regained the weight but the symptoms come and go. She’s able to move her legs now but she will never be able to walk again without leg braces. So she and Dad have made several lifestyle adjustments to accommodate her disability. Everything just takes longer now. And they don’t go out as much. We installed a kick-ass satellite system in her apartment so she can watch all the Chinese TV she wants. And the Squawking Chicken has recently learned how to text. It has added a new dimension to our communication, making
boe doe
-ing a lot easier, and more annoying. She frequently texts me after she watches me on television to provide feedback—often about my face. She also uses texts to force her way into my house. Ma’s specialty is Chinese medicinal soup. Which she harasses me about constantly via text. Every soup has a purpose. One kind of soup is “good for the lung.” Another is “good for the
skin.” There’s a soup for every body part. And the soup delivery schedule is frequently decided over text message, along with a few other random insights.

The Squawking Chicken texts exclusively in ALL CAPS. Here are some of her messages:

Sep 19/1:09PM
WHERE R U

Sep 19/1:12PM
I BRING SOUP

Sep 19/1:15PM
YOUR BAD SKIN NEED SOUP

Sep 19/8:34PM
DID U DRINK SOUP

Sep 19/8:50PM
DRINK SOUP TONIGHT IF U FINISH I MAKE GINSING SOUP TOMORROW GOOD FOR LIVER LET ME KNOW

Sep 20/2:20PM
NICE SHOW GOOD SKIN EVERY ONE LOOK PRETTY AND SKINY

Sep 24/2:06PM
STOP MAKE UGLY FACE WHEN YOU TALKS

Sep 25/2:11PM
NO MORE UGLY FACE BETTER

Oct 8/9:22PM
WHY JACEK NO DRINK SOUP

Oct 8/9:28PM
JACEK DRINK SOUP

Oct 8/10:30PM
DRINK SOUP FOR JACEK GOOD FOR SPLEEN

Oct 15/10:31AM
EAT PAPAYA SO YOU NO FAT

Oct 28/2:20PM
U LOOKS SKINNY HA HA HA R U WANT ORANGE [No idea what this means]

Oct 29/2:45PM
YOU LOOKS NICE TODAY AND TALKING GOOD

Oct 29/2:49PM
GOOD SHOW GOOD GIRL

To Deirdre Molina, because you waited six years, and then had to hold my hand for eight months. Thanks for the nights at the Beacher Café, and for enjoying my meat loaf.

To the wise and brilliant Amy Einhorn for all the exclamation points—they didn’t come easy so when I got them from you, I knew it was all going to be okay. I will never delete that email. There’s a little Squawking Chicken in you too!

To Amy Moore-Benson, because without you, none of it would be possible. That we came back together after all that time is one of my favorite stories.

To Gab—for the seemingly interminable torture sessions and your work (pro bono) and all the dinners and especially for letting my dad pee on your street. I’m not really sorry about that and I don’t think you’d want me to be either.

To Fiona—it started that weekend in Portland, so let’s start planning more trips, more breakfasts, more us. Thank you for being my best friend.

To Duana—because you understood, having been there before, when I hated everything, and you were never worried. So when will it be your turn?

To Nanci—for bringing me here, and making almost every day like cupcakes. You fight for and support your people. It’s a privilege to be one of them.

To Crespi—for Paris, London, New York and L.A. And everything that happened in between.

To our “child” Emily—for the long days and looking after home base. Thank you for being loyal, trustworthy and so dedicated.

To Dex—for that great day at my house when you got her to smile.

To Lucky—for that great day at my house when she let you do her makeup, and approved!

To Jordan Schwartz—for giving me that first chance. I will remember it forever.

To Morley Nirenberg and the
etalk
family—for every exclusive experience, for Oscars and Junos and TIFFs, but mostly for letting me be part of a winning team.

To everyone at
The Social
—for having my back, letting me sing through the office, rant about my poo, and for putting up with “Complainey.” Now please pass the microphone.

To Michelle Clausius and Covenant House Vancouver—for embracing me before it all began, for encouraging me when it started and for sending me off but always welcoming me back.

To everyone at CTV Communications, Random House of Canada and Penguin—for rallying, cheering and protecting when necessary.

To Darren Roberts—for listening to me bitch about that first chapter, and telling me to get to work.

To Oliver, Noah and Veronica—because you’re the only ones I’ll get to squawk at. Are you ready?

For Ewa and Stan—for loving your Chinese daughter.

For Dad—for driving me everywhere, for picking me up at whatever time of night, for not saying much, but you never had to. I always knew.

For Jacek, the most patient, the most generous, the most kind, and the most long-winded. Thank you for putting up with my shit. Every word in the “Paris” card, and so much more.

And for the readers of LaineyGossip.com—it would never have happened without your visits, without your emails, without you coming back. Thank you, love you, owe you. I will always be Yours in gossip, Lainey.