Unwanted Guest
“I don’t get angry at the bills I have to pay. I don’t get angry when my mom smokes pot, hits the bottle and goes right to da rock… Let the loving, let the loving come back to me. Love is what I got.” - Sublime
2 years before Mom died. I’m 31.
March in Houston is one of its most beautiful times. It can be downright balmy and green in spots. The rose garden down by Herman Hospital is in full bloom.
I’ve about worn out my Allanis Morrissette, Jagged Little Pill CD as it is my constant companion during the hour-long commute back and forth to my English teaching job at the largest high school in Houston, on the south east side. It's feisty and angry like I am. This weekend morning, the other patrons of the hospital parking lot get to share the album with me for a moment as I pull into a space with the volume cranked. Some athletes have a song that "pumps them up," some musicians get inspired by a muse, some soldiers pray before they go into action. This is my way of doing all of these. I let the moment linger briefly, before inhaling deeply then yanking the keys out, throwing open the door, and stepping into the day.
The hospital smells so antiseptic, but like it’s covering something up. It’s a sickly odor that just hangs there, and you have to breathe it. I have to breathe it, walk in it, move through it.
I round the corner of the tan cinderblock and whitish tiled hallway to the hall that Mom is on.
The lights are off in her room but natural light from the window half illuminates her. I sit down beside her on her bed. A cheap, white standard issue blanket covers her legs.
The lice are gone from her hair and I see someone has braided it.
“Your hair looks nice, Momma.”
“Oh, thank you, sweetie. I was waitin’ for Paul to come bring me another robe.”
“Paul, Mom?” Paul. Paul who was also homeless, shifty, constantly drunk and God knows what else, and who had also tried to strangle Mom with a wire coat hanger. That Paul. But I’m not much surprised, even though I'm livid. Mom wasn’t much into making the greatest decisions for herself at that point. That helped me feel self-righteous and shielded me from too much disappointment.
Outside I ask the nurse for an update. By now it seems like the same old story. Mom has severe Cirrhosis of the liver, acute gastric hemorraging, and many other deadly complications. It’s a matter of time if she doesn’t get help, and maybe even if she does. This time, it looks like weeks. It’s a miracle she’s still alive now and that she came through the week she did. It's completely unnerving to absorb and yet I am pretty sure I've heard this all way before now.
She may or may not die from her medical conditions at this point, but I'll be damned if she'll be hurt by this loser again.
“And, has she had a visitor?”
“Oh, yes, and we asked him to leave. We think he’s sleeping her ebecause he doesn’t have anyplace else to go more than he’s really caring for your mom.”
“Well, you would be right about that. Also, he has been very abusive to her and should not be allowed around her.”
“Oh, my! Well, we will be sure and call security if he comes back.”
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
A Dying Prayer, Part 2
She’s gone.
When I heard the words, I closed my eyes and breathed in to absorb them; to absorb the truth. I had to breath and sit still to hold onto serenity, to sanity. Because my soul was screaming and tearing and ripping that this could not be right, this could not be how her story – how our story as mother and daughter – ended. So, I had to move and think very slowly and deliberately to keep the gnashing and wailing at bay.
The ache in my chest welled up.
And then the woman from Hospice spoke again. I had forgotten I was still holding my phone to my ear. I had forgotten I was in my car, that I had a body, that I was here.
When she spoke she said, “Now, I know this is hard, but I need to tell you some things.”
“Ok.”
“Since your mother has died, we need to move her body now. Bodies start to decompose in a matter of hours. In order to move her, we need someone to pay for that. Do you have a credit card? If you do, I can take your credit card number right now so that we can have her moved to a funeral parlor.”
“Uh, yes. I do.”
“Ok, that will be about $350.00”
My brain started functioning slightly again at this jolt of reality.
“Did my mom ask you to call me? Why didn’t you call before?”
“Your mom wanted us to call.But until today the man said he didn’t have your number, the man that was here with her.’
“A man?”
“Yes. I asked him all week since she got here for your number. She did tell us she had a daughter. But she couldn’t remember your number and she didn’t have it with her. But the man did. He wouldn’t give us your number until today, though, when we knew she was going to go any minute.”
I winced, confused.
She noticed the pause. “We had told him someone wold have to pay for her removal. That’s when he finally gave us your number, at the end.”
A tornado whirled inside my head. So, this coward had kept me from my mom, kept me form knowing she was in Hospice, and then handed me the bill upon her death. I realized who it had to have been.
And yet, my hugest fear had been that I woud not know. She had disappeared for months at a time more than once. I lived with dread that she would die and I would not know. That she would have no I.D., no belongings, and no one to let me know. I would finally have to visit hospitals, jails, morgues, and ID her myself. I prayed fervently that this would not be the case.
That prayer was answered with a resounding “yes.”
When I heard the words, I closed my eyes and breathed in to absorb them; to absorb the truth. I had to breath and sit still to hold onto serenity, to sanity. Because my soul was screaming and tearing and ripping that this could not be right, this could not be how her story – how our story as mother and daughter – ended. So, I had to move and think very slowly and deliberately to keep the gnashing and wailing at bay.
The ache in my chest welled up.
And then the woman from Hospice spoke again. I had forgotten I was still holding my phone to my ear. I had forgotten I was in my car, that I had a body, that I was here.
When she spoke she said, “Now, I know this is hard, but I need to tell you some things.”
“Ok.”
“Since your mother has died, we need to move her body now. Bodies start to decompose in a matter of hours. In order to move her, we need someone to pay for that. Do you have a credit card? If you do, I can take your credit card number right now so that we can have her moved to a funeral parlor.”
“Uh, yes. I do.”
“Ok, that will be about $350.00”
My brain started functioning slightly again at this jolt of reality.
“Did my mom ask you to call me? Why didn’t you call before?”
“Your mom wanted us to call.But until today the man said he didn’t have your number, the man that was here with her.’
“A man?”
“Yes. I asked him all week since she got here for your number. She did tell us she had a daughter. But she couldn’t remember your number and she didn’t have it with her. But the man did. He wouldn’t give us your number until today, though, when we knew she was going to go any minute.”
I winced, confused.
She noticed the pause. “We had told him someone wold have to pay for her removal. That’s when he finally gave us your number, at the end.”
A tornado whirled inside my head. So, this coward had kept me from my mom, kept me form knowing she was in Hospice, and then handed me the bill upon her death. I realized who it had to have been.
And yet, my hugest fear had been that I woud not know. She had disappeared for months at a time more than once. I lived with dread that she would die and I would not know. That she would have no I.D., no belongings, and no one to let me know. I would finally have to visit hospitals, jails, morgues, and ID her myself. I prayed fervently that this would not be the case.
That prayer was answered with a resounding “yes.”
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Miracle Bus to Hospice
May, 2003, me: age 33; mom: age 53
I can picture her. I’m sure it was sunny. I can see her looking down to know just where to place her feet to step up onto the bus just as her arm was reaching up to grasp onto the rail. I can picture her looking up into the bus driver’s face, certainly looking drawn, beyond weary, somehow pale and yellow at the same time, with difficulty breathing. The bus driver’s face would be bent with worried lines and questions, waiting for my mom to speak.
And she would say, “take me to Hospice.”
They said that’s what she did. The social worker that I spoke with at Hospice said that somehow she’d had the strength and the wherewithal to get on the city bus and request to be taken to Hospice. Which the bus driver did.
I don’t know if it was the correct bus or route; I highly doubt that it was. My mom was mostly incohernet even in her sober states at this point, so to be three days from death and have the Houston bus schedule straight as well as to wait on the correct bus, physically, seems even more of a miracle than I can fathom. But I can fathom the good heart of a bus driver who must’ve known the situation was dire.
I can picture her. I’m sure it was sunny. I can see her looking down to know just where to place her feet to step up onto the bus just as her arm was reaching up to grasp onto the rail. I can picture her looking up into the bus driver’s face, certainly looking drawn, beyond weary, somehow pale and yellow at the same time, with difficulty breathing. The bus driver’s face would be bent with worried lines and questions, waiting for my mom to speak.
And she would say, “take me to Hospice.”
They said that’s what she did. The social worker that I spoke with at Hospice said that somehow she’d had the strength and the wherewithal to get on the city bus and request to be taken to Hospice. Which the bus driver did.
I don’t know if it was the correct bus or route; I highly doubt that it was. My mom was mostly incohernet even in her sober states at this point, so to be three days from death and have the Houston bus schedule straight as well as to wait on the correct bus, physically, seems even more of a miracle than I can fathom. But I can fathom the good heart of a bus driver who must’ve known the situation was dire.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Dreaming
The Dream of the Sea of Heads - sometime in 2010, age 39
Last night I had a dream. I was in the ocean. The waves curled in front of me, forming a wake. In the crests of the wake I make out the forms of peoples’ heads bobbing. They all look the same. In the water, it is difficult for me to make out who they are. Is it Mom? Is it Jesus? Both have long dark hair. I choose to swim toward one of them. When I make the choice I am swept away into a story: the story of my life; the story of our lives.
My mother and I are together. We are both adults. My son is young. We are angry, fighting. She is herself as she was at that age: drinking, angry, belligerent. I am myself as I was at that age: sober, self-righteous, belligerent.
In this version of our life story, she raised me and my brother, divorced, and continues on her path, I on mine. She eventually dies of her own choices in front of my eyes, much the same way she did in reality. I am able to hold judgment. There was nothing I could do about it in the dream.
Suddenly I am back in the ocean with the heads again. I understand that I am to choose again. Excited at this possibility of another chance, I choose a different head to swim toward. I am swept away into another story.
There is my mom. We are us, yet we are different. My mom has had a lifelong partner, very sweet – instead of bitterly divorcing my father. She has given to me, to my brother, to her partner. She is 80 some odd years old now. She has always wanted to be a lawyer. She has a personal library that she wishes to get together into a room of shelves so that she can finally go to law school as she wished her whole life, according to this dream. But I can see that her body is so twisted with arthritis and age and pain that this will not be possible. Her tragically hopeful desire breaks my heart. She points toward the library of books and says, “Guess I’ll get busy now!” And stumbles into my arms, breaking in front of my eyes. I understand that she has a disease and a mortality that she could not control and is not at fault over, and that she gave what life she did have to her family and loved ones. I weep with regret for her as I hold her lifeless body.
I am in the ocean again, swimming with the heads. I understand that I am to choose again. Yet this time I also understand that no matter what choice I make, the story itself may be different but the outcome would be the same. My mom will die in front of my eyes. It is out of my hands.
And I have a new awareness. My mom’s truth is the same in both stories, just the circumstances differ. I am so blaming in the story that is similar to reality. I have so much of what she should have been like figured out. I know choices she should have made, and I have anger that she did not make them. And in the second story I have so much respect for my mother’s choices. She did so much for others and – strikingly in the second story I am the same as I am now: a much more compassionate, less judgmental person with a full heart of love due in large part to the love my mom had for me. In all versions, including reality, I am the same person. I had always felt that if my mother had made different choices, I would be a better person. I no longer am sure of this at all.
I am struck, too, with the realization that the real story of my mom is also that she had a disease and a mortality that she could not control and is not at fault over, and that she gave what life she did have to her family and loved ones. I weep with regret for my former short-sightedness.
Last night I had a dream. I was in the ocean. The waves curled in front of me, forming a wake. In the crests of the wake I make out the forms of peoples’ heads bobbing. They all look the same. In the water, it is difficult for me to make out who they are. Is it Mom? Is it Jesus? Both have long dark hair. I choose to swim toward one of them. When I make the choice I am swept away into a story: the story of my life; the story of our lives.
My mother and I are together. We are both adults. My son is young. We are angry, fighting. She is herself as she was at that age: drinking, angry, belligerent. I am myself as I was at that age: sober, self-righteous, belligerent.
In this version of our life story, she raised me and my brother, divorced, and continues on her path, I on mine. She eventually dies of her own choices in front of my eyes, much the same way she did in reality. I am able to hold judgment. There was nothing I could do about it in the dream.
Suddenly I am back in the ocean with the heads again. I understand that I am to choose again. Excited at this possibility of another chance, I choose a different head to swim toward. I am swept away into another story.
There is my mom. We are us, yet we are different. My mom has had a lifelong partner, very sweet – instead of bitterly divorcing my father. She has given to me, to my brother, to her partner. She is 80 some odd years old now. She has always wanted to be a lawyer. She has a personal library that she wishes to get together into a room of shelves so that she can finally go to law school as she wished her whole life, according to this dream. But I can see that her body is so twisted with arthritis and age and pain that this will not be possible. Her tragically hopeful desire breaks my heart. She points toward the library of books and says, “Guess I’ll get busy now!” And stumbles into my arms, breaking in front of my eyes. I understand that she has a disease and a mortality that she could not control and is not at fault over, and that she gave what life she did have to her family and loved ones. I weep with regret for her as I hold her lifeless body.
I am in the ocean again, swimming with the heads. I understand that I am to choose again. Yet this time I also understand that no matter what choice I make, the story itself may be different but the outcome would be the same. My mom will die in front of my eyes. It is out of my hands.
And I have a new awareness. My mom’s truth is the same in both stories, just the circumstances differ. I am so blaming in the story that is similar to reality. I have so much of what she should have been like figured out. I know choices she should have made, and I have anger that she did not make them. And in the second story I have so much respect for my mother’s choices. She did so much for others and – strikingly in the second story I am the same as I am now: a much more compassionate, less judgmental person with a full heart of love due in large part to the love my mom had for me. In all versions, including reality, I am the same person. I had always felt that if my mother had made different choices, I would be a better person. I no longer am sure of this at all.
I am struck, too, with the realization that the real story of my mom is also that she had a disease and a mortality that she could not control and is not at fault over, and that she gave what life she did have to her family and loved ones. I weep with regret for my former short-sightedness.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The Restaurant Door
1999, age 29 for me
That evening I want her to experience something nice; something any mom, any woman would get to do. I picked her up from the mission where she lived; the little apartment – complex – looking residential center off of the Kirby freeway that the disability insurance had gotten her.
I liked the tall trees surrounding the complex, and that area of town was ok. Decently safe, and pretty with the trees. Also, it was far from downtown and the people she had hung around. The facility had staff onsite to help with medications, clothing, food, counseling, recovery meetings, therapy, etc. I was pleased.
She was in a heavy purple dress, too warm for the summer day. It hit me that my mom was one of those people that you donate clothes to. She was a woman at a shelter. Not only that, but this was a step up.
Still, she looked nice. Her hair was brushed. Even her nails were badly painted. But she didn’t stand out. You wouldn’t have known she was homeless, or maybe even from a mission.
This was hard to adjust to, as she always had stood out before in a much different way. I can not remember a time that I was not aware of people turning to watch my mother move through a room. She glided and was a true beauty, always stylish even with limited resources. Classy, beautiful makeup, always wearing trendy yet classic and seasonable styles and accessories. Those days were over.
In any case, I just wanted to take her to a restaurant dinner. Just a normal night out like people do; they take their moms out to dinner sometimes.
I really thought this was the beginning of my chance to get my mom back. I figured it would be a long road but that this was finally our chance to be a normal mother and daughter – now that she was sober.
The restaurant across the freeway was called The Mason Jar. It looked pleasant, fun, and family oriented.
What happened after dinner was so significant to me as to have wiped the dinner itself completely from my memory. Mom and I headed to the ladies’ room just before it was time to leave. Afterward, I was following mom. She was headed more or less toward the restaurant front door when she veered to the left. Was there something in the aisle? Must be. I turned with her, and kept following her. She paused for a moment, then veered again. This time, I wondered what she was doing, but kept following. A few more steps and she turned toward me. I asked her what she was doing. In a controlled, even tone with a hint of nercvousness she answered, “Well, I’m just trying to find the door.”
Stone, cold sober. I now knew mom was gone for good. There is a syndrome known in slang terms as “wet brain” in which an alcoholic who has drank so much for so long has literally pickled their brains. Even when they are no longer intoxicated their brain is damaged permanently.
The gravity of that moment, that realization was so heavy and so poignant that I could only absorb it in pieces. Part of me wanted to fall to my knees in the middle of the restaurant and weep. Part of me wanted to curse God and demand that Hechange this situation. Part of me wanted to grab my mom and hug her tight. Part of me wanted to run out that door and never look back. Internally, I did all of these things. Outwardly, I guided mom to the door, and my face clouded over.
The long process of acceptance, grieving, and healing from this truth began. I learned to let my mom go even more, to be honest about all of my feelings and to identify the, to feel them, move through them, not act on them except to cry or yell with a good friend about it. I learned that the God that I believe in can take it when I am angry with Him, and that he understand my temper tantrums, just as a loving parent does for a child.
It has been an even longer process to stop being angry about it; to not be angry with God. It began with knowing that He was taking care of me and so many others. Of that, I had no doubt. So, reconciling the horrible truth and the wonderful truth has been one of my greatest challenges.
That evening I want her to experience something nice; something any mom, any woman would get to do. I picked her up from the mission where she lived; the little apartment – complex – looking residential center off of the Kirby freeway that the disability insurance had gotten her.
I liked the tall trees surrounding the complex, and that area of town was ok. Decently safe, and pretty with the trees. Also, it was far from downtown and the people she had hung around. The facility had staff onsite to help with medications, clothing, food, counseling, recovery meetings, therapy, etc. I was pleased.
She was in a heavy purple dress, too warm for the summer day. It hit me that my mom was one of those people that you donate clothes to. She was a woman at a shelter. Not only that, but this was a step up.
Still, she looked nice. Her hair was brushed. Even her nails were badly painted. But she didn’t stand out. You wouldn’t have known she was homeless, or maybe even from a mission.
This was hard to adjust to, as she always had stood out before in a much different way. I can not remember a time that I was not aware of people turning to watch my mother move through a room. She glided and was a true beauty, always stylish even with limited resources. Classy, beautiful makeup, always wearing trendy yet classic and seasonable styles and accessories. Those days were over.
In any case, I just wanted to take her to a restaurant dinner. Just a normal night out like people do; they take their moms out to dinner sometimes.
I really thought this was the beginning of my chance to get my mom back. I figured it would be a long road but that this was finally our chance to be a normal mother and daughter – now that she was sober.
The restaurant across the freeway was called The Mason Jar. It looked pleasant, fun, and family oriented.
What happened after dinner was so significant to me as to have wiped the dinner itself completely from my memory. Mom and I headed to the ladies’ room just before it was time to leave. Afterward, I was following mom. She was headed more or less toward the restaurant front door when she veered to the left. Was there something in the aisle? Must be. I turned with her, and kept following her. She paused for a moment, then veered again. This time, I wondered what she was doing, but kept following. A few more steps and she turned toward me. I asked her what she was doing. In a controlled, even tone with a hint of nercvousness she answered, “Well, I’m just trying to find the door.”
Stone, cold sober. I now knew mom was gone for good. There is a syndrome known in slang terms as “wet brain” in which an alcoholic who has drank so much for so long has literally pickled their brains. Even when they are no longer intoxicated their brain is damaged permanently.
The gravity of that moment, that realization was so heavy and so poignant that I could only absorb it in pieces. Part of me wanted to fall to my knees in the middle of the restaurant and weep. Part of me wanted to curse God and demand that Hechange this situation. Part of me wanted to grab my mom and hug her tight. Part of me wanted to run out that door and never look back. Internally, I did all of these things. Outwardly, I guided mom to the door, and my face clouded over.
The long process of acceptance, grieving, and healing from this truth began. I learned to let my mom go even more, to be honest about all of my feelings and to identify the, to feel them, move through them, not act on them except to cry or yell with a good friend about it. I learned that the God that I believe in can take it when I am angry with Him, and that he understand my temper tantrums, just as a loving parent does for a child.
It has been an even longer process to stop being angry about it; to not be angry with God. It began with knowing that He was taking care of me and so many others. Of that, I had no doubt. So, reconciling the horrible truth and the wonderful truth has been one of my greatest challenges.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Down By the Riverside
My age: 32
“Gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside…”
The sun shone golden on Bull Creek’s water dancing over its shallow, limestone floor. Green leaves and white tree trunks lining the creek bed were picturesque.
The drive down Austin’s Highway 360 was beautiful that day. I was leaving work a little early that afternoon. A case worker had called from Hospice in Houston. It was the first time I’d heard anything in months about mom. In case you don’t know, when Hospice is involved it means the story is over.
The truth of that call seared through the beauty of that afternoon. I told my co-workers, my friends, what was going on and that I was leaving.
I went straight to a support group meeting. I ran into an old friend there who hugged me before I ever even got inside. I don’t remember what the meeting topic was or who said what, but I know that people loved on me and supported me.
Five minutes later on the highway, just before the beautiful little turnout for Bull Creek, the phone rang again. The warm voice of the case worker asked me if I were driving. Yes. Ok, pull over.
In my heart, I already knew. But I held off the truth for a moment in a sort of space where time did not exist. Just one more moment before I know for sure, just let me have this moment.
I told the case worker that I could pull down under the bridge into a most tranquil little spot. There, beside the creek, the words fell down.
She’s gone.
“Gonna lay down my burden, down by the riverside…”
The sun shone golden on Bull Creek’s water dancing over its shallow, limestone floor. Green leaves and white tree trunks lining the creek bed were picturesque.
The drive down Austin’s Highway 360 was beautiful that day. I was leaving work a little early that afternoon. A case worker had called from Hospice in Houston. It was the first time I’d heard anything in months about mom. In case you don’t know, when Hospice is involved it means the story is over.
The truth of that call seared through the beauty of that afternoon. I told my co-workers, my friends, what was going on and that I was leaving.
I went straight to a support group meeting. I ran into an old friend there who hugged me before I ever even got inside. I don’t remember what the meeting topic was or who said what, but I know that people loved on me and supported me.
Five minutes later on the highway, just before the beautiful little turnout for Bull Creek, the phone rang again. The warm voice of the case worker asked me if I were driving. Yes. Ok, pull over.
In my heart, I already knew. But I held off the truth for a moment in a sort of space where time did not exist. Just one more moment before I know for sure, just let me have this moment.
I told the case worker that I could pull down under the bridge into a most tranquil little spot. There, beside the creek, the words fell down.
She’s gone.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Powerless
They wanted to release her. Release her? Where? This trip to the hospital – this time because she had been assaulted – had also resulted in the only home she had - her car - being impounded for having no registration.
She was just a little bit better off than dead. Release her?
I demanded for them to keep her. They told me I could take it up with the social workers on staff.
The concrete walls were painted yellow, and the offices behind the indoor window were dark. Clearly, hardly anyone was there. Someone tentatively stepped out, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to speak to a social worker. The hospital wants to release my mother but she has nowhere to go. She’s homeless and extremeley ill, on the verge of death. She’s also an addict and in a state of detox, and not safe to keep with me.”
“Well, the social workers aren’t here, but you can fill out this paperwork to try to get her some disability insurance from Social Security. That usually takes a long time, though, and lots of folks die before the paperwork ever goes through.”
She delivers this cold fact like I have on a suit of armor that the terrible news cannot penetrate.
I sit and do the only things I can: hold the old, brown clipboard on my lap and fill out the paperwork, and pray. This is the definition of powerlessness.
She was just a little bit better off than dead. Release her?
I demanded for them to keep her. They told me I could take it up with the social workers on staff.
The concrete walls were painted yellow, and the offices behind the indoor window were dark. Clearly, hardly anyone was there. Someone tentatively stepped out, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to speak to a social worker. The hospital wants to release my mother but she has nowhere to go. She’s homeless and extremeley ill, on the verge of death. She’s also an addict and in a state of detox, and not safe to keep with me.”
“Well, the social workers aren’t here, but you can fill out this paperwork to try to get her some disability insurance from Social Security. That usually takes a long time, though, and lots of folks die before the paperwork ever goes through.”
She delivers this cold fact like I have on a suit of armor that the terrible news cannot penetrate.
I sit and do the only things I can: hold the old, brown clipboard on my lap and fill out the paperwork, and pray. This is the definition of powerlessness.
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