“Enumeration”
I was 4 years old when I learned the word “enumeration.” I didn’t know its dictionary definition. But I discovered what it meant to me.
My mother went out one evening, leaving me at home alone with my alcoholic, diabetic father who frequently passed out and did so on that occasion.
This was before my mother’s mobility was reduced due to a physical disability. This was before my father’s death, which happened when I was 9 years old. This was before my 5th birthday.
I remember shaking my father’s shoulders and lightly patting his cheeks, trying to wake him up as he lay on the bed, but it didn’t work. And he didn’t hear me call his name.
To my younger self, it felt like he was dead. And I felt like I was alone in the world.
I had to figure out what to do to counter my loneliness and the fear that threatened to overwhelm me. It felt like both my parents had deserted me and I felt the utter desolation that was abandonment.
I remembered Lady, the landlady’s sheltie dog who lay on a dog bed in the corner of the hallway. She was just outside the front door of our apartment, which was on the first floor of a house.
I had to make a big decision. I was afraid to open the front door but I was more afraid of being alone. So I opened the door.
I knelt and called her name. I was rewarded when Lady slowly walked toward me. She delicately sniffed my hand with her soft nose then returned to her bed.
Having her nearby in the dark hallway didn’t soothe me.
I had to find a way to make her stay with me. Feeding her seemed like the best way to do that.
I wasn’t sure what dogs ate. I looked in the fridge and hoped she would like the cheese slices we had on hand.
I unwrapped the cheese and held out my hand at the opened front door. Lady came over to me and ate the whole slice of cheese in one bite and returned to her bed.
I realized that I had to make that cheese last to keep her with me until my mother returned. I grabbed more slices and this time I fed her the cheese in very small pieces.
I sat on the floor as we faced each other on either side of the doorway, both of us too frightened the cross that threshold.
I couldn’t coax her to come into our apartment but she stayed near me as long as I fed her the cheese.
In retrospect, I like to think that we eased each other’s loneliness that evening. A lonely, frightened child comforted by a sweet, gentle dog who got to eat some cheese.
I knew the moment my mother returned because Lady went back to her bed once she heard someone unlock the front door of the house.
My mother wasn’t happy that I was sitting on the floor with the front door open.
“Where’s your father?” She was disappointed, dispirited that he’d failed to stay awake for a few hours while she was gone.
I wasn’t happy with her and I let her know it. I insisted on knowing where she’d been.
I had to know what was more important to my mother than I was.
Finally, exasperated with my unrelenting questions she said, “I was out doing enumeration.”
My 4-year-old self locked that multi-syllable word in her memory. Years later, in older childhood I looked up its dictionary definition.
It was anti-climactic to discover the meaning of something that was so mundane, yet had caused me such injury.
In my experience, “enumeration” meant loneliness, fear, and abandonment.
© 2022 Elizabeth Healy
You can find my collected blogs: Elizabeth Healy — Medium
