I’ll Have the Eggs Benedict, with a Side of Passive Aggression

My mother is basically a very nice person, but she has certain, shall we say, neurotic tendencies. Most of the time, we get along pretty well, although her neuroses tend to drive me completely nuts (and I can even relate, because I am hardly neurosis-free). But lately, the wedding seems to have driven her over the edge. (Some background: my grandfather died last year, after a brief illness. Since then, my grandmother has been living with my mother. My grandmother has extreme short-term memory loss. It’s not Alzheimer’s, but it might as well be. The strain of living with my grandmother has certainly contributed to my mother’s anxiety, but the basis for this was there long before.)

Here is a typical conversation with my mother.

Mom: I really wish you were getting married in November.
Me: (heavy sigh) Yes, I know, Mom, but remember, there were a bunch of reasons that wouldn’t work.
Mom: Yes. I just wish it were sooner rather than later, because I’m afraid I’ll die before the wedding.

My mother is not sick. She has some annoying but far from life-threatening chronic health issues, but she does not have any major illnesses. She is a hypochondriac. She visits her internist at least once a month for various complaints. Any mysterious ache or pain that the average person would assume is just a muscle ache or something minor is a heart attack, a blood clot, or the first stages of cancer to my mother. Last week, she visited her doctor for mysterious pains in her legs. She’s had these pains for a couple of years now, and she periodically decides that the pains mean that she has a blood clots in her leg. I have pointed out to her that she’s had these pains forever, and a blood clot is a fast-moving sort of thing, not something that takes a year or two to develop, but she is not interested in hearing that. She convinced the physician’s assistant at her doctor’s office that she should have a full-body scan. Shockingly, the results were totally negative.

On Sunday, I had brunch with her, and I pretty much lost it. She hassled me about not losing too much weight. I’ve lost 4 pounds; this isn’t exactly anorexia we’re dealing with here. I tried to explain to her that my recent fitness kick is more about healthy living than about weight. I am a somewhat higher risk of cancer and osteoporosis than average (because of family history), and I am trying to do as much as I can to counter those risks. Her response: “Well, I don’t think you need to worry about osteoporosis so much. You’re not delicately boned like my side of the family. Your father’s family is much sturdier.” Ouch.

After brunch, I went to her house so I could see the outfit she is thinking about wearing to the wedding. (She has spent way more time obsessing over her outfit than I did over my dress, and I’m the bride, for pete’s sake.)

Mom: Do you think these jeans look ok?
Me: Yes, they look good.
Mom: Oh good. Because these are relaxed fit. I also have regular fit, but I don’t think they fit as well since I gained two pounds. [Note: She weighs approximately 103 pounds.]
Me: Two pounds? Cry me a river, Mom.
Mom: Well, I didn’t mind it really, because it’s pretty unusual for dying people to gain weight.
Me: OH MY GOD! YOU ARE NOT DYING!

I honestly don’t know what to do with her. How do you deal with someone who is basically a character from a Woody Allen film?