60 lbs of laundry

a diary of my mother's stubborn resistance to accept help

10 December 2024:

After she had a bout of digestive trouble, I took 60 lbs of my mom’s laundry to the exact same laundromat I used when I was a kid.

At 9 years-old, laundry was my chore. I would tie all the dirty clothes into a sheet like a stork bundle, balance it on the crossbar of my purple Stingray bike, pedal the four blocks with my knees akimbo to the laundromat, where I sorted the laundry (my mother’s bras and rust stained underwear mortified me) dropped the quarters into the machines, and I waited around with a Nancy Drew Mystery.

Back then (1972ish) the laundromat housed a man everyone called « Animal » who had yellow stained eyes. Animal divided his time between the dive bar nextdoor, the beach, and the laundromat where he pushed around a broom and made me mildly nervous. It’s astonishing on so many levels. How did all the adults think it was okay to not help Animal? How did my mom think it was okay for me to spend hours at the laundromat with Animal passed out in a chair?

Now the laundromat is sleek and clean. You don’t need quarters, just a credit card. A young woman with a pierced septum smiles and asks everyone if they need help with the machines. I help an old woman shift her wet bedclothes to the dryer. « I wish my kids would help me, » she says. Her cane rests in the wheeling cart. I feel so guilty.

I am grudgingly helping my mom. I am a mere stopgap measure, sandbagging her life until she admits she needs regular help. At the laundromat, now 62, I still feel like I’m 9, like I never left.

How am I still here, watching the spin cycle. Waiting….

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