A pair of fuzzy fleece slippers triggers a long-buried memory and leads to a daughter's understanding of her mother.

My mother was agoraphobic. I announce this in a rather clinical way, emphatic, without emotion. For I’ve known this for as long as I can remember.

As a child, of course, I had many fears of my own. Abandonment. Spiders. The flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. But my child’s mind couldn’t process a fear of wide open spaces, and as I grew older, my patience with my mother’s ridiculous condition began to fray.

I can recall many hurts and disappointments. There were missed parent/teacher conferences, and weekend outings that ended abruptly when my mother became ill. Shopping trips, vacations, theme parks. All were brief and resulted in a long, silent ride home.

I suppose I took such frustrations in stride, but I didn’t realize then that her sickness was like an alien creature with many tentacles. For in addition to her fear of crowds and open spaces, she suffered from anorexia (at the time not named), depression and alcoholism. And no one understood.

I believe that my father did his best to comprehend the situation, and he sought treatment for her at various intervals, mostly before I was born. I marvel when I realize that my mother had three children and was pregnant with my younger brother by the time she was my age.

Further, her medical records, which I’d secured from the hospital after her death several years ago, noted that she’d suffered five miscarriages. The impact of those hastily scrawled notations on her chart was staggering. And recently I learned from my older brother that there were at least two other lost pregnancies for which my mother never sought medical attention. I cannot imagine the physical and emotional toll this must have had on her.

Occasionally I am overcome by a fear that perhaps I will suffer the same fate. No, I’m not referring to the pregnancies. For it seems it wasn’t in God’s plan for this old tree to bear fruit. After all, just because I have a uterus, that doesn’t mean I have to use it. Years of medical problems, stemming from a severe case of endometriosis, eventually resulted in my undergoing a hysterectomy just a few years ago, at the relatively young age of thirty-eight. My reproductive organs were, according to the gynecologist who performed my surgery, “backwards, tilted, upside-down with the consistency of thawed chicken.” Thanks, Doc. You’re a charmer.

Instead, I’m referring to the fear that I too might inherit my mother’s illnesses and be relegated to my little brick house until the end of time. I know that my sister has similar thoughts. We’ve discussed it on various occasions, and both of us panic a bit when we are cooped up for more than a few consecutive days.

Along with the memories that wash over me like a tsunami of intense sadness, however, I recall some joyous times, as well. I can remember opening lots of presents during the holidays when my little brother and I were small. And I often return to one very specific event that took place when I was in the fourth grade.

I was invited to my first big girl slumber party. And I was very excited. I’d had many sleepovers with my best friend who lived two doors down. And we’d camped out in the tent in the back yard often during the hot, muggy summers. Of course the thought of two little girls sleeping alone outside in a canvas tent boggles my mind now. But it was a different, safer, more innocent time.

But back to the slumber party. My mother had never learned to drive a car. However, I can specifically remember her leaving our home and slowly walking to my friend’s house a few doors down. Then she and Mrs. Anderson went shopping for pajamas for Laurie and me.

A short while later, my mother returned with a pair of beautiful fuzzy, flannel PJs in winter white and muted shades of blue. I remember in detail the soft fleece slipper socks and the new robe she bought me for my big night. And I was proud of her--proud that she’d gone out and shopped in those wide open spaces for my slumber party outfit. And I smile even now when I think on it.

With age comes clarity, if we’re lucky. I had to grow up a little faster than many of my peers, but on that day, I understood.