The Klog Mutar

Larry King: Master of Disaster

“Don’t call between nine and ten,” my mother intones on our answering machine. “I’m watching Larry King. He’s got that ghastly story about: [kidnapping] [school bus accident] or [celebrity cancer victim.]”

My grandma Lena, who spoke only Yiddish, had a word for people like this. She called them Klog Mutars, which roughly translates to ‘Disaster Mother.’ Klog Mutars trade calamitous tales like sick currency, thriving on the high drama brought on by other people’s bad decisions, desperate behavior or run-of-the-mill misfortune.

I want to tell my mom that our son lost a tooth and that he is student of the week. But I am preempted.

“Did you hear about Pat McAllister’s husband? It’s just so depressing.”

“I don’t know Pat McAllister, mom.”

“Well the husband has pancreatic cancer!” she says emphatically. Score another one for the Klog Mutar.

“Are you watching Larry King?” she asks.

“I hate Larry King,” I reply.

“Well you might want to turn him on,” she continues.

For my mother, Larry King is the ultimate in bad news delivery. The little man in suspenders seems to have an in with the grim reaper himself.

Why are we so titillated by other people’s tragedies? Do they help us to ignore our own vulnerability? Is there relief in knowing the plane we will take next week is now statistically less likely to crash into a mountainside? I despise the Klog Mutar because she makes me aware of all that we can’t predict, control or fix.

If I can’t do anything to help — cook a meal, wipe a brow, solve the crime and jail the killer, why do I need to know about the misery at hand?

“Please don’t tell me about the plane crash Mom,” I implore.

“Well you can’t run away from the real world!” she replies heatedly.

I think of my father, the doctor, so different from the Klog Mutar. He soothes the husband grieving for his wife. He comforts the parents of the 16-year-old who has driven off a cliff. He puts the neighbors’ kids to bed and cleans up the kitchen when she is too inebriated to get off the couch.

He speaks of his patients with compassion and admires their ability to carry on, despite the wreckage of their lives. He gets no joy from the gruesome accidents and heartbreak he witnesses every day.

“How do you bear all of the sadness?” I frequently ask him.

“You get down on your knees with gratitude,” he replies, “for all that goes right.”

I know that I can’t stop a jet from hurtling out of the sky. I understand that doctors can’t detect every lurking disease and that I will not be able to track my teenage child at any given hour of the night.

But I am not powerless before the Klog Mutar. I look her squarely in the eyes and count my blessings.