Sutterwriters

Lilliana is currently leading a Wednesday morning Sutterwriters group, working on a novel and a collection of her poetry.

"My primary motivation in putting these pieces out here is to give people a feeling of what it is like to participate in the writing groups. The prose piece is basically unedited material, that was written in group, then read. Much of the healing I've experienced through writing in group is the act of being heard, being witnessed-- listened to fully by others, and having my work affirmed. This has given me great inspiration to do more with my work, such as going on to work with some pieces to develop them into poems, and creating stories out of others".

"If you'd like to get an idea of what it's like to hear the pieces read, click on the MP3 next to the title of the piece, and you'll see what part of this experience is like".
                                                                                ~ Lilliana Méndez-Soto

Vick's Vapo Rub MP3 Audio

I open the jar and inhale. The menthol smell permeates my allergy-ridden sinuses and takes me back to my childhood. Whenever I was sick my mother would rub the soothing ointment on my chest and neck and wrap my neck in one of the thin, fragile scarves she used to use on her head to keep her hair from getting messed up by the wind. There was a magic healing that occurred with the menthol, the way the coolness gave way to heat that warmed my throat and let me sleep.

When I had a fever, I remember her rubbing me down with a solution of rubbing alcohol and water that she'd have in a basin next to my crib. I don't remember her violating me with any Tylenol suppositories or foul tasting medicine like I've recommended to young mothers at the pharmacy. Just the rubbing down of my limbs with the cooling liquid. In Spanish the verb is frotar-it even sounds like "friction". I remember as I got older I told her when she rubbed me that it sounded like macaroni-like when you're stirring the milk into the pan that has the butter and pasta and the milk is getting the powdered cheese to disperse into a delicious sauce.

My mother worked in a hospital. She was a pharmacy apprentice as they used to call technicians back then. As I grew older I certainly remember various syrups and sprays added to the regimen of healing whenever I was sick. But, every time I stayed home from school I almost wished I had a fever, so that I'd be able to have that sponge bath with the rubbing alcohol, and the scarf around my neck to hold the soothing Vick's Vapo Rub around my throat. Lord knows I wouldn't have worn that silly scarf to school.

I think her touch is what I miss most about my mother. Now, when I'm sick, there is no one that will do what she did for me. Dote on me, baby me. When I used to lose my voice she'd give me a bell so I could call her. For a while we had this blue etched crystal bell with a glass knocker in the middle. It made me feel like the princess she thought I was. The princess that during my childhood I was for her.

The only time I've had a bell to ring since was when I had my heart surgery. After I came home I was so weak I could barely use the toilet by myself. I couldn't bathe myself. I needed so much help. It was like I was going back to the beginning and wishing I could be cradled in my mother's arms. Not needing to ask my husband for this or that; if it was mom she'd just know what it is I needed. So many requests would not have been necessary.

My husband did his best. He is a very sensitive man, but not nurturing by nature. I needed to ask a lot, and I felt so guilty for the asking. But, he did the best he could. He loved me through all my neediness, and didn't leave me when things were difficult.

Even if my mother had been alive for my surgery, her mind had long since left her, and her body was so crippled by arthritis that she would not have understood. Even as my father had heart surgery before she died, she didn't understand when he told her he'd had chest pain that weekend. She told him not to bother me. "Don't bother her, she's tired from her trip," she'd said. Till the third time it happened. Then he finally called me. In time, before another major heart attack.

I like to think back to when I was doted on by my mother. I don't have kids to dote on, so now I dote on my pets. While she was still alive, though, I did dote on her. I'd go to the assisted living facility and cut her nails and file them, paint them, pluck the long gray and white hairs that would sprout from her chin and try to gift her with that little bit of dignity. The dignity she felt at never leaving the house without being 'made up' and dressed well. The dignity of looking like a lady. A dignity that I didn't understand but always respected. And a habit that I myself rebelled against, but was happy to help my mother continue as long as she was willing to participate. Oh, how I miss my mom, the woman who when I was a young child could heal me with her touch.