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.