My Purpose

Almost ten years ago my father died, and after that I phoned my mother, James Wenonah Paul Gunning, or "Jim," every two or three days to check on her until her death two months ago.

Our conversations usually lasted more than an hour.

We would start by talking about her health. Jim was always having trouble with her "stomach." It wasn't that she was a hypochondriac. She suffered from diarrhea and constipation, and even when I was a child she would lie for hours curled up on the sofa with abdominal cramps. Jim had tests done from time to time, tests for infection, tests for malnutrition, xrays, colonoscopies, all of which were negative. Her symptoms were consistent with what is usually called "irritable bowel syndrome," for lack of a better term. It makes patients miserable and there's no effective treatment. Since I'm a doctor Jim would ask me for advice, and I tried to recommend things that might help: simple things like a high fiber diet, multiple small meals, avoiding spicy or salty food. I tried to go over her medication to make sure she was taking it right.

Jim had to have a reason for everything. That's the way her mind worked. When I got sick as a child she always grilled me about what I had done before the symptoms started. I had eaten something I shouldn't, or I had gone out without a coat, or I had overexerted myself. I never told her, but I eventually labeled this line of reasoning as the "It's your own damn fault" theory. She applied the same theory to her own symptoms. She blamed each episode of diarrhea or cramps on the last thing she had eaten.

After reviewing Jim's most recent symptoms, we would spend most of our time talking about her memories. She didn't talk about the past because she was losing her short term memory. Far from it. Jim never ceased to amaze me with her knowledge of current events, but I did my best to steer the conversation away from them because I didn't want to get her started on politics.

Over the hours, weeks and months of our conversations Jim told me hundreds of stories. She remembered everything she witnessed, where she was, what people said, their gestures, their expressions, and she remembered the stories that people told her. She told me about her ancestors. She told me about her parents, their childhoods, their early married life, their tragedies. She told me about her childhood, about climbing trees and riding horses. She told me about her hopes and dreams, her struggles to decide what to do with her life.

My mother came from a long line of talkers and story tellers. I still think the best speach I ever heard was given by my Uncle Haskell, but my older cousin Tom insists that Uncle Homer was a better speaker. I used to be spellbound by my uncle Tom's stories, but my cousin Christeen swears that Grandmother was the best story teller she ever heard. Still Jim claimed that no one could hold a candle to Aunt Kaliteyo. I never heard Aunt Oteka tell a story but her letters are some of the most beautiful prose I've read.

I don't think my mother ever gave a speech, but I've listened to her talk all my life, and I'd put her up against any of her family members. Jim was eloquent, effortlessly. She had a lexicon of old southern expressions that gave her speech a quaint touch, and she always arranged her words to give them the optimum effect. For the last couple of years I recorded our phone conversations, and when trying to write down one of her stories, I could always find a better way to say something by listening to her on the tape.

Through Jim's stories she expressed her pride and her love for each member of her family. In recording them I hope to communicate these feelings, as a tribute to our family, but even more so as a tribute to Jim.