Hypochondria

Part of being poor belonged to my Mother, Mary Madden's, chronic illness.

She frequently dialed 911: "Help me," she would shriek in a hysterical voice that demanded immediate attention.  "I can't breathe."  She would drop to the floor  and dramatically feign unconsciousness.

The paramedics (who were actually ambulance drivers in the old days with no medical traning) whisked her off on a stretcher as Mom theatrically anounced to the entire neighborhood:  "I'm havng a heart attack!  Help me!  I'm dying!"

The cost of the hospital, the doctors' bills, the medical tests and ambulance rides (as I mentioned before were frequent) in addition to the cost of Catholic School tuition was crippling to the Madden family.

My Dad, Earl Madden, was a hard-working mechanic who paid his bills.  Some of those bills created a situation that resulted in his children wearing ugly clothes and drinking kool-aid out of jelly jar glasses.