(Istockphoto)
Elissa Ely
ONCE A month, a humble and self-loathing woman travels by subway and bus to the clinic. She often brings little gifts that would be rude — an effacement to her worth — to refuse: several cooked shrimp, a poem, a jar of curry sauce, a box of moon cakes for the Chinese New Year. Since her own child was removed from her custody because of her mental illness, she also brings advice on how to raise mine. She takes it very seriously.
She imagines my child, child of a doctor, as a golden being, and worries about her. The world is harsh, no one knows that better than she; girls especially must be strong; survival is without guarantee. Is my daughter studying hard enough? Has she done well in school, but not so well that boys will feel she is smarter than they? Does she take care of her teeth?
One day my visitor arrived in an unusually festive mood. Someone had given her some money. She brought in a restaurant menu and said she would like to take my daughter and me to lunch. I thanked her for the kindness, explained that professional rules prohibit this, and asked her to buy something nice for herself. She likes lipstick, but never treats herself.
A sad expression came over her face. She had been looking forward to a meal together, two mothers and a daughter. In the absence of giving this, all she could give was more advice. Do not spoil your daughter, she said, wistfully. Teach her to wash a window. She must know how to wash a window.
I thanked her again and thought of how far from washing windows most teenagers are. Simple table clearing can be an adolescent imposition; my daughter is startled (though good-humoredly complies) each time she is asked. Her life is full of love and comfort, which, though she appears to take them for granted, she recognizes and treasures. But she does not know how to wash a window.
We will work on this.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist. 
© Copyright 2011 Globe Newspaper Company.
