It Must’ve Been the Arthur-itis

 

It Must’ve Been the Arthur-itis

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I never had a mom but there was a woman who birthed me and with whom I had a strained and tenuous relationship, that mom.

I was four when my Mom was committed to the State Hospital in Madison, Indiana. She never left the institution until the late 60s or early 70s when those institutions were pretty much shut down and residents parceled out into group homes, each with a shopping bag of medicines. Yeah, I’m biased.

I remember almost nothing of my early childhood except the “last straw” in which there were threats and violence. I know that my Mom had to leave home because me and my baby sister were endangered.

When I was seven, our teacher, Miss Naomi, introduced us to letter writing. I began my correspondences to my mother and her sister, my Aunt JoAnne, which correspondences I continued until the deaths of each woman.

Aunt Jo’s letters always delighted me and we became close. I dreaded finding each missive from my Mom in the mailbox because I never knew if the letter would be intelligible. She always told me she loved me. Some part of me believed her and I continued writing.

I lived in Missoula in the mid-80s when Aunt JoAnne called me that my Mom was back in Madison and that she was dying. I had a working vehicle, no memory of how I financed the trip because I had no money, and I drove non-stop through Denver, Kansas City, St. Louis, through Illinois into Indiana and on to Madison, stopping only for fuel and cat-naps at rest stops.

I was so ga-ga from driving that I had to go to the police station to get help to find the motel where I stayed with my Aunt JoAnne.

Every morning for a week I went to the hospital and spent hours with my Mom, mostly in silence, but we communicated love in depth. In the afternoons Aunt JoAnne and I walked the banks of the Ohio River and talked and ate hot dogs and ice cream cones. I had that last week with my Mom and I am forever grateful.

One morning I overheard a woman in the room across the hall, another visitor, saying these words, “It must’ve been the arthuritis.” The woman’s accent was pure hill-country and the word “arthuritis” had more syllables than I can imitate. Her words and the lilt of her soft voice have never left me.

I smiled and in my mind her phrase became my code for the unexplainable and the inexplicable. I also use the phrase as a prayer, to cover a sadness, and to make me smile.

Hurricanes, floods, fires, quakes, bridges down, airplanes crash: Must’ve been the arthuritis. Confusion, anger, messes of all kinds around the world: Must be the arthuritis. Climate change: Definitely arthuritis. When I hear the siren of the ambulance passing through on the highway: Must’ve been the arthuritis.

My three papaya trees get curly leaf and die: Must be the arthuritis. Ant invasion in my kitchen: Must be the arthuritis. When the bread doesn’t rise like I know it should: Yep, the arthuritis.

When every joint aches and walking is painful, I know it is the arthuritis. Personally, I think everyone should have a handy-dandy all-purpose catch phrase to use in those moments of frustration or anxiety or feeling hopeless. For me, I lay blame on the arthuritis and then move on to the next step, even when that step is still invisible.

Even when the leaves get chomped to smithereens on your best papaya tree and suddenly you find seven pupa of the beautiful giant pine hawk moth, yep, must’ve been . . .

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

October 2, 2025

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