The cold spot

Mom never put much faith in medicine or doctors. The only doctors she liked were the ones on TV that she didn't have to see in person like Marcus Welby or Trapper John.

When Mom was sick, she always had faith she would be healed by some miracle. This has me convinced that in a former life Mom was healed of some dreaded disease by Jesus himself, hence her lack of faith in any medical practice.

"I'll be OK, really," was her famous line during any medical episode, no matter how serious or minor. "I'm fine. Let's see what it's like tomorrow. I'm sure I'll be fine."

A cold? No doctor. Horrible flu and 105-degree fever? No doctor. Gunshot wounds to the arm and torso? No doctor. You get the picture.

She wouldn't even take Pepto Bismol when she had the runs. She would just mutter she'd be OK in a couple of days, laying on the bathroom floor shivering with her pants around her ankles. Another time, I'm positive Mom had pnuemonia. She should have been hooked up to a ventilator. Her breathing sounded like a jacuzzi. But instead of calling 911, she decided she would just drink and extra glass of orange juice or two and go to bed a couple of hours earlier.

Even if Mom had both of her arms torn off in some bizarre dishwasher mishap, she would opt to treat herself at home. She'd probably just lie down on the couch for a while, making sure to elevate what was left of her arms.

"It's OK, they're just my arms, they'll probably grow back," she'd whisper, acting as if they were a pair of salamander tails. "If not, they'll just scab over and heal up. I'll just make due with these stubs."

Even for a simple headache, Mom would not take aspirin. Instead, she would just wander around the house like an anvil had been recently dropped on her head. She has the pain threshold of a Terminator.

How far would Mom take her boycott against medicine? I joked around with her a lot, but then she shocked me a few years back on a trip to the dentist. She needed three cavities filled and chose not to take the novocain shots. The dentist pleaded with her but Mom was on the no pain, no gain plan.

This made me wonder what would happen if she ever needed a leg amputated. Maybe she would insist on the Old West way: Take a shot of whiskey, bite into an apple and give the doctor a hacksaw.

I don't know where Mom developed this attitude because the rest of the family is fine with mass amounts of drugs during medical treatment. Our medicine cabinet would make Tom Cruise fall off of Oprah's couch. Mom's medicine cabinet is as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

When I was too young to make my own medical decisions, Mom would sometimes insist on trying her home remedies. Her most famous prescription was for injured limbs, bruises, etc.

"Put it on a cold spot in your bed when you go to sleep," she'd say. "That always works."

In the 100 or so times Mom suggested this treatment, it only worked once. For some reason when I was 8, my sprained ankle was able to locate the mythical cold spot Mom always spoke of. I have never been able to find it since.

When I was 15 I wiped out on my bike and hit my nuts on the crossbar. After laying on the street twitching for a couple of hours and vomiting, I was able to stagger home. Mom's remedy for the swollen family jewels? You guessed it - the cold spot.

I was desperate for relief from the pain, but the search for the cold spot was in vain. I must have tried more positions in bed that day than Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. But I could not find the cold spot. We were out of ice, so that wasn't an option. I considered emptying out the refrigerator and sleeping there, but settled for something inside of it instead.

From that day on, a couple of beers became my cold spot.