Somebody Said

by Jennifer Sauers

Dadand I sat side-by-side on straight-backed chairs in the kitchen while Mom rinsed dishes in the sink. I stared at my 8th grade algebra textbook, the symbols and letters floating like the tears escaping my eyes. I worried about tomorrow’s test. “I’ll never understand algebra! I’m gonna flunk!”

“No, you won’t,” said Dad. He tapped the pencil against the worksheet with a steady beat of impatience. “Now pay attention and let’s try it again.” Our grim moods escalated like the ascending line he drew on a Y-axis.

Hearing the fuss, Mom swooped in front of us. As if she was on stage and had trained with the Royal Shakespeare Company, she bellowed, “Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,” and then paused, lifting the crook of her index finger to stress the next words. “But I with a chuckle replied…” She continued her recitation of Edgar Guest’s 24-line poem about overcoming obstacles while I rolled my eyes, crossed my arms, and slumped, “Stoppp,” I moaned. “You’re not helping.”

Mom was an elementary school teacher and had memorized an assortment of epigrams and poems to help her pupils surmount defeat and discouragement. Her other favorites were “Good Better Best, Never Let It Rest / Until Your Good is Better / and Your Better is Best!” and the phrase “Carpe Diem!” (Seize the Day!) Mom delivered those lines like an old country doctor dispensed tonics and tinctures. She repeated them before tests, recitals, and athletic games. Eventually, the mere words “Somebody said” or “Good, Better, Best” paired with her confident gaze was enough to elicit eye rolls from her recipients. We knew what those few words implied.

In May 1984, I graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Nursing and prepared to take a two-day licensing exam. All summer I slogged through prep courses and crammed my brain with every disease, body system, and procedure I’d learned, yet the practice tests warned I teetered on failing. Would I pass and become a Registered Nurse?

The day before the exam, I drove two hours to the testing site. Mom came along for support, and I studied in the hotel room until bedtime. As I switched off the lamp on the nightstand between us, I wondered how I’d be able to fall asleep.

“Are you ready for your test?” Mom uttered from the next bed.

“I’ll never feel ready. Watch me fail.” I let out a sigh and imagined myself telling my supervisor I flunked.

The room grew quiet with a pregnant pause. And then Mom stage-whispered: “Jen, just remember that…” she began, the inflection of her voice rising, “Somebody said.”

I was relieved the room was dark, so I could conceal the smile crossing my face, despite my dour mood.

Her voice grew fervent. “She started to sing! As she tackled the thing! That couldn’t be done, and she did it!”

Yes, I passed the exam and proudly ordered a new nametag with the designation “RN” behind my name. And through the decades when I interviewed for jobs, made presentations, or ran 5K’s, I heard those words in my head, “Somebody said.” I still groaned at the quiet injunctions. But sometimes those words were uplifting.

Now, Mom struggles with Primary Progressive Aphasia, a dementia that snatched her word recall skills in its initial assault. It commandeered swaths of her speaking, language, and memory. She feels defeated and listeners look befuddled when her short sentences come out conflated and choppy. One day in her kitchen, as I struggled to engage her in conversation, I asked, “What’s that poem you used to recite when we got stuck?”

She stared quizzically, not remembering the phrases she used to say.

“Somebody said…,” I prompted, cueing the first two words.

A flicker of recognition sparked in her eyes as she grappled with disconnected thoughts. “Somebody… who?… somebody said… it…. Wait, it will come back.”

Long moments passed as her mouth formed a few silent words. The refrigerator hummed in the background. She fumbled with her hands. She stared at the ceiling. I tamped my growing impatience and glued a smile on my face.

Then her voice, a clarion call, retrieved from the depths of her brain proclaimed: “Somebody said that it couldn’t be done / But he with a chuckle replied / That ‘maybe it couldn’t’ but he would be one / Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.”

A few seconds passed as we stared at each other, unblinking. And then both of us grinned.