A NICKEL FOR COURAGE

Back in the days when little girls were pink and pretty and "sugar and spice and everything nice," my mother birthed me. Back when young women were not called upon to scratch their way through life, to stand up and be counted, my mother birthed me. She herself was one of seven siblings, six surviving into adulthood, and came from hearty Scottish stock. Her mother held this family together with grit and charm. There were no pinks and prettys in her house.

As it was with my mother, so was it to be with her only daughter. She would stand up tall and would absorb the hearty characteristics that had been passed down from generation to generation, from the farmlands of Canada to the timberlands of upper Michigan to the brick and cement of the city. Sugar and spice had little place in her plan. Her daughter would be honest, and productive, and kind. And she would have courage. I am not aware of the process of inculcating honesty, productivity and kindness but I do remember courage. It paid well.

Every time I needed to step from behind my mother’s protective skirts, there was a nickel in it for me. When I was brave enough to ask the policeman for directions. Plop. Five cents. When I needed to find out where the bathroom was. Five cents. When I needed to question my teacher about a grade. When I telephoned for information. When I went out after the dog in the dark. A nickel, a nickel, a nickel. A kid could get rich on this scheme. What the kid got was courageous. My mother died content that she had done her job well.

Saturday my daughter was hospitalized, put under a suicide watch. My inclination is to turn away; pretend it isn’t happening; trusting the problem will be gone when I unblink my eyes. But mental health doesn’t operate under my terms. Confused as I am, the reality is that my daughter is in pain and needs me to be there, encouraging her, supporting her, loving her. I would need to gird my emotions and go to her. I am warned not to delay, that she is very fragile and the important people of her life need to be visible. That I would prefer to hold off until I am ready is inconsequential. It doesn’t matter how I feel about the situation. Be there. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I have the strength. I know I don’t have the courage.

It is a Saturday night when the call comes. Not until one o’clock Sunday would she be allowed visitors. I go to mass and plead with God for the courage I am not feeling to face this damaged young woman. My car is parked at the side of the church and I slowly walk to it after mass, dreading the task before me, stiffening my muscles for the encounter, afraid that I will not be strong enough to meet the needs of my daughter. I pull the car keys out of my pocket and look down from the door handle. On the asphalt street lies a silver coin – a nickel, a battered, scraped, scrubby nickel. I am so rigid with fear I can barely stoop to pick it up. But I know it is from my mother – a message from one mother to another – stand tall, have courage.

I quickly enter the car clutching the coin and sit sobbing in gratitude with my head against the steering wheel. Sobbing until there are no tears left, until the fear and the insecurity and the confusion wash away. I straighten up, strong, and drive to lend my courage to my daughter for the fight she is about to undertake.

October 17, 2005