Page 7 of Delayed Intention
At this point, I understand this truth about myself—I don’t want to be with anyone. More than anything, I wish I didn’t have these weekly reminders that I’m not cut out for a happily ever after. Unfortunately, my mother’s fixation with finding me a husband seems to be well-matched by a bottomless supply of single Jewish men, so this is my life, every Sunday night. An arranged date with the ‘perfect boy for you.’ At thirty-four years old, they are hardly boys anymore. But still, Mother insists.
I sigh, preparing myself for how badly my mom will react to this latest date failure. There’s so much she doesn’t understand about me. Primarily, she’s convinced that what will make me an improved version of myself is getting me married to a nice Jewish man. I think about how many times I’ve tried to tell her that I’m not interested. She simply cannot believe that I don’t want to date or, God forbid, get married. I like being on my own, but my mother will not hear my side of things. Of course, this is just one of many things she can’t accept about me.
Leaving the restaurant to avoid any further awkwardness with Richard, I decided to stop in a corner bar to order another drink before I headed home. The place is dark, nearly deserted since it’s Sunday. The bartender takes my order, and as I wait for my cocktail, I set up a ride share to pick me up in twenty minutes and take me back home.
When he returns with my drink, I start to think about my mother and our rather toxic relationship. My fears irritate her, and I didn’t grow out of them the way she expected. She hates that I became a physician assistant instead of a physician. I count that as a huge victory for Team Lily. My discomfort with physical contact continues to anger her. Of course, she doesn’t even know everything I do that would piss her off. I see a psychiatrist and a therapist, which she does not know about. At first, when I was diagnosed with anxiety and panic disorder, I was so relieved because it explained so much to me. I tried to tell her about it, and that did not go well. She considers psychiatrists the quacks of Western medicine.
She doesn’t even know my biggest betrayal. For years now, I’ve been in contact with her mother, Nona Rose. After the last time we went to Nebraska, almost nineteen years ago, Mom had a big fight with her family and hasn’t spoken to any of them since. I miss going out there so much. But I have written to and spoken with Nona so many times since then. Having a relationship with her, along with my work, are the things that help me feel like I’m living a worthwhile life.
To be honest, I don't completely enjoy my job. The work is excessively stressful, and we are consistently understaffed. The hospital and unit I work in can be a frustrating place to try to accomplish anything. On the plus side, I do love the actual practice of medicine. I know I’m a total nerd, but I still believe the ability I have to help people is a privilege. Also, I have some friends there—people I look forward to working with and seeing, especially Abbie—my best friend. On the other hand, my entire family is on the medical staff, except for my retired parents. Overall, my life isn’t completely terrible. It’s admittedly pathetic, but it has its good bits.
One thing I’ve been trying out lately, for myself, is going to a synagogue on the weekends when I’m not working. My mother thinks religion is for the weak-minded, but I’ve found the prayers help me with my anxiety. My immediate family members, for the most part, while culturally Jewish, are not observant or traditional. My grandmother and her other daughters are Conservative and observe all the holidays. One of my sisters is very observant and became Orthodox. For some reason, my mother is fine with it when it’s Roselyn, but with me, it’s a ‘waste of time.’I’ve had to be careful not to cross my mother, as it can unleash a terrifying level of rage that leaves me feeling shaken for days afterward. The easiest path I can take is to avoid triggering her. I can’t make her happy, but I can try not to get in her crosshairs.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I remember where I am, alone, nursing a drink at the corner bar. Reluctantly, I pull it out and see a ton of new notifications—among other things, my rideshare is not only out front but has started rage-texting me. As I pay my tab, I can hear from the bar that the driver is honking loudly, trying to get my attention. After jumping in the backseat, I try for honesty as an apology.
“I’m sorry, I’m Lily—I was just lost in my head, you know, how that can happen?” The driver says nothing, but in the review mirror, she gives me the glare of someone who is going to give me the worst rider review ever. “I guess not,” I mutter to myself.
My mother has chosen this moment to start blowing up my phone, no doubt having heard about Richard and the very short date we had. The Jewish mother’s network in suburban Washington, D.C., spreads information faster than syrup disseminates through pancakes. I decline the call, knowing I need more time to prepare.
Then a rebellious thought occurs to me… Maybe I don’t need to do this anymore, this fake dating thing. Do I have the strength to change the trajectory of my life? Maybe, with Monica, the world’s most fantastic therapist, in my corner… I started seeing her some time ago but only began to spill my guts to her over the summer. I had fallen apart after services to a Rabbi who kindly indicated I might need help from a mental health professional to navigate the dynamics between my mother and me. I remember laughing through tears because I already had a therapist whom I wasn’t being honest with. And now, little by little, we have discussed things aloud that I never thought I would admit to anyone.
So here I am… Could I be on the edge of real change? I mean, why do I have to make my mother feel better about something I don’t want to do in the first place? I keep telling her I don’t want to go on dates with these men she sets me up with. Why should I be the one who feels bad when it doesn’t work out? Every Sunday, it’s the same thing, over and over, repeatedly. I should just start saying no. I try to imagine saying no to my mother and grimace.
I feel my phone vibrating in my hand. Now my sister Tamar is calling. Why can’t they all just text like normal people?I hate answering the phone.With a text, you know what you’re getting into. But a phone call could be anything. Besides, I can’t stand talking on the phone because not being able to read another person’s social cues freaks me out. I have a hard enough time reading people who are right in front of me. I’m helpless over the phone.
Another vibration, this time,thank God,I got a text from Daniella, my other sister.
Daniella
Lily, WTF. Mom is freaking out trying to reach you. Call her. She’s ruining my night.
I scoff. Daniella is another sister who has no time for what she refers to as ‘Lily’s bullshit.’ One of her hobbies seems to be listing the ways I disappoint our mother and what I could do differently. I roll my eyes, looking at her text again—she lives a charmed life with a doting husband. I’m sure her night has been just fine.
Another vibration. This time, my sister Roselyn—my one ally in the family—
Roslyn
Lily - Honey call me when u get this.
Don’t talk to the others before u return this message. Trust me
Yikes. It must be serious. Walking into my place after the driver drops me off, I keep the lights low for a sense of calm and call Roselyn.
“Hey Ros, everything okay?”
She sighs. “I’m just going to rip the bandage off and tell you.”
“Okay, but be quick, Mom has called me two more times since you texted me.”
“Ed is getting married, God willing. He asked Felicia to marry him.”
Edmond Mendes.My little brother. He’s getting married. And I’ve never had a boyfriend.
Roselyn, an emergency medicine physician, is the one sibling I’m on good terms with. She told me in her years in the ER, she’s seen people come in with anxiety and panic disorders as well as a variety of neurodivergent patients, and she now sees that I do have actual differences—that I don’t mean to be obtuse or difficult. She’s even apologized for being a part of our mother’s gaslighting committee. Recently, her daughter has seemed to take after me, which is unfortunate but has brought Roselyn and me closer together.
Of course, Roselyn doesn’t even know half of what I’ve been through. Maybe, one day, I could tell her because she’s the one person who kind of gets me. But not now. Now, she’s probably convinced that I’m going to spiral because I’m the last of our siblings to be single. Of course, she has no way of knowing I couldn’t care less. Since none of us talk about anything real, how would she know? I mean, it isn’t a good look for me, but I’m not surprised. I think about all of this as I choose my words.
“Ros, it’s fine. I mean, it doesn’t matter because what difference does it make? I’m fine.”
