Tales of my Mom: The End of the Road
It happened quickly and unexpectedly.
My sister, picking flowers in a nearby empty lot with a friend, skipping school for some reason, saw the ambulance stop at her house. She ran for it. She got there, out of breath, in time to see our mother on the gurney, staring into space, staring at her and through her for a moment before being lifted into the bus.
I was in school. It was May of 1987. I was 15 years old. I had just finished French class when Andy Freund, an acquaintance, nearly a friend, came to tell me that my mother was in the hospital. "Yeah, right," I said, figuring he was trying to tease me somehow. "No, it's true." I didn't believe him. I went on with my classes. Then suddenly, sometime after lunch, Mike was there, pulling me out of class. "What are you doing here?" He'd gotten an emergency flight down to Chicago (I guess) and a ride over here because it was true, Mom was really in the hospital. Why hadn't the principal called me out of class, and instead just sent a runner (Andy)? Why hadn't my family come to pick me up out of school? Well, Mike had, at least.
Eventually I got a ride to NIMC to see Mom. She was unconscious and hooked up to tubes and a respirator and everything. She had her own room in the ICU.
I was angry. How could she let herself get sick like this? I did not believe she would not get better. Just a couple of weeks before (if that) I had made an attempt to mend fences with Mom, giving her a mother's day card and gift. I'd gone through a lot to get her the gift, but she didn't know that. It was one of those upside-down glasses holders that you hang in the kitchen or above the bar and hang your stemware from. It had grooves for wine above it. It was nice. I had used my birthday money to buy it for her, and I had to ride the bus to pick it up from some furniture warehouse. She asked me where I had gotten it. I think she thought I stole it. She wasn't grateful at all, and so our fences remained unmended.
"What happened?" I asked. "What's wrong with her?" Frasier told us this story, which I believe is true, but my Aunt Sandy thinks is false. (She thinks he murdered her. My Aunt Sandy is a bit prone to hyperbole, superstition, and jumping to conclusions.):
Frasier and Mom were just going about their normal day, but Mom was complaining of a headache. Frasier saw that her behavior was a bit odd, maybe sluggish, and suggested they go see a doctor. Mom said no, but pretty soon, she couldn't move her head from side to side. Frasier said he was going to call an ambulance. Mom said no, too expensive. Just let her go to the bathroom and then he could take her there himself. She went into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, and then, after sitting down to pee, she lost consciousness and collapsed. Frasier knocked and called to her. He tried to get the door open. Finally, he called an ambulance. They broke down the bathroom door, stabilized her, and took her to the hospital. NIMC. Northern Illinois Medical Center.
The doctors said she had meningitis. Meningitis even back then could be cured with treatment. So, she was treated, and survived on life support.
After a week, Mom still wasn't better. We were asked to return to the hospital. We met the doctor. He told us that the diagnosis had been revised to encephalitis, and while some meningitis may have occurred, it wasn't the primary illness. Treatment had been ineffective. In previous attempts, she had not been able to breathe on her own when disconnected from life support. She was most likely brain-dead. She was getting gangrene in her extremities. I could see the green bruises myself. If her husband decided to take her off of life support, she would, in all likelihood, die. There would be very little point to keeping her on life support, so Frasier decided to end it. I'm glad I wasn't the one who had to make the decision.
We were all there when her life support was shut off for the last time. We each got to be alone with her for a little while to say our good-byes. I was numb. I was angry. I pleaded with her to live. Despite everything she had done to me, she couldn't leave, not now, not like this. But she was already gone.
Later, everyone filed in for the moment of truth. Everyone was silent, somber. The doctor turned off all of the machines. All we could hear was each other breathing. Mom did not take a breath on her own. After a few minutes..."Time of death:"
And we all shuffled out a little while later.
I went back to school during and after. I couldn't think what else to do. I cried a little bit, but not very much. Mostly I was stunned. And angry still. And afraid of what the future held. I spent a lot of time alone. Everybody left me alone for a while, at home and at school. I was the one whose Mom had just died. How did everybody know?
There was a funeral. It was weird to see Mom dead in the open casket. Family came from all around. Some of them wailed like she was their sister when she wasn't. Most of them just cried a few tears. I hated being there. It all seemed so phony to me, everyone talking about how great she was. Were they fucking blind?
Mom's best friend owned the bar down the street. Mom had always told me that when she died, she wanted an Irish wake, and I mentioned that to her, and she was happy to throw one for her. Bars aren't my scene, but about an hour after the wake started I wandered down there anyway. I saw her picture on the side table with a couple of candles in front of it. I knew what was missing. Mom had also told me to make sure there was a Old Style there by her picture for her after she died. So I walked up to the bar, to Mom's best friend. Everyone got quiet and stared at me. I asked for a glass of Old Style. She nodded, gave it to me. I think everyone expected me to drink it, but I put it next to Mom's picture. Stepped back. Looked at it for a minute. And then I left. A murmur (of approval?) followed me out the door.
(To this day Sandy says she put a glass of beer there before I arrived but someone drank it. She only started saying that after I told this story to her. It pisses me off, and I don't believe it. I hate it when she tries to insinuate herself into my important memories, when I know she either wasn't there or didn't participate in it. I know why she does it, though, so I forgive her.)
After the wake, I was lost. I didn't know what to do. Mike went back up with Aunt Kathy for a while, before she kicked him out, too, and he went to live with Dad. Theresa went to live Dad at Grandma Mitchell's house. Dad had just graduated and didn't have a job yet. I didn't want to go to yet another new school, uproot myself yet again. And I really didn't want to live with Dad after all the things Mom had told us about him over the years. Boy, was I a fool.
The Lakemoor house was being foreclosed on, so Grandma, David, Sandy and I had to move. (Schmoe had moved out some time before.) We ended up at Ski's other house, the one in Wonder Lake. Instead of going to live with Dad, I opted to stay with Grandma and Sandy. I don't know why Dad let me do this. Well, I stayed, despite having to walk half a mile to a city bus stop every day, and get to it by 5:30 a.m. in order to make it to school on time. This was because no McHenry school bus went all the way out to Wonder Lake. I stayed through the summer, and I planned to stay living with Grandma and Sandy until I graduated.
When it got near Christmas of 1987, the first semester of my sophomore year was nearly over. I asked Grandma Simon to take me and a friend to the mall. She said she would, but we'd have to be prompt at our pick-up time because if she didn't get enough sleep she would fall asleep at her graveyard shift factory job. We promised we would. And we were on time...but we were at the wrong place. It took us over half an hour to find her. Well, that was it, as far as Grandma was concerned. She kicked me out. I begged Aunt Mary to let me stay on her couch for a couple of weeks while I at least finished out the semester, before going to live with Dad. She agreed, and I did that, although it was no fun at all, let me tell you.
Finally the semester ended and Dad picked me up. We had a volatile relationship, and that was all my doing. I hated him, for no reason other than that my mom hated him. He did things like washed all my clothes, including my jean jacket (which got ruined in the process) so that they stopped reeking of cigarette smoke. He found out that by this time I only had one pair of underwear, and he got everyone in the family to buy me underwear for Christmas (how mortifying for a teenager). He made us go to the dentist. He made us bring our clothes with him to the laundromat every week and clean them. He made us brush our teeth and take showers. He made us follow the rules, tell him where we were going, give him the phone numbers of the people we were with, and be on time coming home. These were all very difficult restrictions for a kid who previously had none. He fed us as much as we could eat and made us take vitamins. He taught us how to clean and gave us chores to do.
In short, he improved our lives. And I was not grateful for it for a very long time. However.
The dog days were over.
Boys at school started to like me, although I refused to believe it. People were happy to make friends with me. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't dirty. I had a social life.
Happiness hit me like a train on a track.
Which is to say, it hurt. To this day, good things happening to me, nice things said to me, thoughtful gifts given to me...hurt. I'm not used to them. I'm much more used to insults, criticisms, and misfortune.
It's taken a long time for me to be content with saying what I've known all this time to be true: my mother dying was the best thing that ever happened to me.
My sister, picking flowers in a nearby empty lot with a friend, skipping school for some reason, saw the ambulance stop at her house. She ran for it. She got there, out of breath, in time to see our mother on the gurney, staring into space, staring at her and through her for a moment before being lifted into the bus.
I was in school. It was May of 1987. I was 15 years old. I had just finished French class when Andy Freund, an acquaintance, nearly a friend, came to tell me that my mother was in the hospital. "Yeah, right," I said, figuring he was trying to tease me somehow. "No, it's true." I didn't believe him. I went on with my classes. Then suddenly, sometime after lunch, Mike was there, pulling me out of class. "What are you doing here?" He'd gotten an emergency flight down to Chicago (I guess) and a ride over here because it was true, Mom was really in the hospital. Why hadn't the principal called me out of class, and instead just sent a runner (Andy)? Why hadn't my family come to pick me up out of school? Well, Mike had, at least.
Eventually I got a ride to NIMC to see Mom. She was unconscious and hooked up to tubes and a respirator and everything. She had her own room in the ICU.
I was angry. How could she let herself get sick like this? I did not believe she would not get better. Just a couple of weeks before (if that) I had made an attempt to mend fences with Mom, giving her a mother's day card and gift. I'd gone through a lot to get her the gift, but she didn't know that. It was one of those upside-down glasses holders that you hang in the kitchen or above the bar and hang your stemware from. It had grooves for wine above it. It was nice. I had used my birthday money to buy it for her, and I had to ride the bus to pick it up from some furniture warehouse. She asked me where I had gotten it. I think she thought I stole it. She wasn't grateful at all, and so our fences remained unmended.
"What happened?" I asked. "What's wrong with her?" Frasier told us this story, which I believe is true, but my Aunt Sandy thinks is false. (She thinks he murdered her. My Aunt Sandy is a bit prone to hyperbole, superstition, and jumping to conclusions.):
Frasier and Mom were just going about their normal day, but Mom was complaining of a headache. Frasier saw that her behavior was a bit odd, maybe sluggish, and suggested they go see a doctor. Mom said no, but pretty soon, she couldn't move her head from side to side. Frasier said he was going to call an ambulance. Mom said no, too expensive. Just let her go to the bathroom and then he could take her there himself. She went into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, and then, after sitting down to pee, she lost consciousness and collapsed. Frasier knocked and called to her. He tried to get the door open. Finally, he called an ambulance. They broke down the bathroom door, stabilized her, and took her to the hospital. NIMC. Northern Illinois Medical Center.
The doctors said she had meningitis. Meningitis even back then could be cured with treatment. So, she was treated, and survived on life support.
After a week, Mom still wasn't better. We were asked to return to the hospital. We met the doctor. He told us that the diagnosis had been revised to encephalitis, and while some meningitis may have occurred, it wasn't the primary illness. Treatment had been ineffective. In previous attempts, she had not been able to breathe on her own when disconnected from life support. She was most likely brain-dead. She was getting gangrene in her extremities. I could see the green bruises myself. If her husband decided to take her off of life support, she would, in all likelihood, die. There would be very little point to keeping her on life support, so Frasier decided to end it. I'm glad I wasn't the one who had to make the decision.
We were all there when her life support was shut off for the last time. We each got to be alone with her for a little while to say our good-byes. I was numb. I was angry. I pleaded with her to live. Despite everything she had done to me, she couldn't leave, not now, not like this. But she was already gone.
Later, everyone filed in for the moment of truth. Everyone was silent, somber. The doctor turned off all of the machines. All we could hear was each other breathing. Mom did not take a breath on her own. After a few minutes..."Time of death:"
And we all shuffled out a little while later.
I went back to school during and after. I couldn't think what else to do. I cried a little bit, but not very much. Mostly I was stunned. And angry still. And afraid of what the future held. I spent a lot of time alone. Everybody left me alone for a while, at home and at school. I was the one whose Mom had just died. How did everybody know?
There was a funeral. It was weird to see Mom dead in the open casket. Family came from all around. Some of them wailed like she was their sister when she wasn't. Most of them just cried a few tears. I hated being there. It all seemed so phony to me, everyone talking about how great she was. Were they fucking blind?
Mom's best friend owned the bar down the street. Mom had always told me that when she died, she wanted an Irish wake, and I mentioned that to her, and she was happy to throw one for her. Bars aren't my scene, but about an hour after the wake started I wandered down there anyway. I saw her picture on the side table with a couple of candles in front of it. I knew what was missing. Mom had also told me to make sure there was a Old Style there by her picture for her after she died. So I walked up to the bar, to Mom's best friend. Everyone got quiet and stared at me. I asked for a glass of Old Style. She nodded, gave it to me. I think everyone expected me to drink it, but I put it next to Mom's picture. Stepped back. Looked at it for a minute. And then I left. A murmur (of approval?) followed me out the door.
(To this day Sandy says she put a glass of beer there before I arrived but someone drank it. She only started saying that after I told this story to her. It pisses me off, and I don't believe it. I hate it when she tries to insinuate herself into my important memories, when I know she either wasn't there or didn't participate in it. I know why she does it, though, so I forgive her.)
After the wake, I was lost. I didn't know what to do. Mike went back up with Aunt Kathy for a while, before she kicked him out, too, and he went to live with Dad. Theresa went to live Dad at Grandma Mitchell's house. Dad had just graduated and didn't have a job yet. I didn't want to go to yet another new school, uproot myself yet again. And I really didn't want to live with Dad after all the things Mom had told us about him over the years. Boy, was I a fool.
The Lakemoor house was being foreclosed on, so Grandma, David, Sandy and I had to move. (Schmoe had moved out some time before.) We ended up at Ski's other house, the one in Wonder Lake. Instead of going to live with Dad, I opted to stay with Grandma and Sandy. I don't know why Dad let me do this. Well, I stayed, despite having to walk half a mile to a city bus stop every day, and get to it by 5:30 a.m. in order to make it to school on time. This was because no McHenry school bus went all the way out to Wonder Lake. I stayed through the summer, and I planned to stay living with Grandma and Sandy until I graduated.
When it got near Christmas of 1987, the first semester of my sophomore year was nearly over. I asked Grandma Simon to take me and a friend to the mall. She said she would, but we'd have to be prompt at our pick-up time because if she didn't get enough sleep she would fall asleep at her graveyard shift factory job. We promised we would. And we were on time...but we were at the wrong place. It took us over half an hour to find her. Well, that was it, as far as Grandma was concerned. She kicked me out. I begged Aunt Mary to let me stay on her couch for a couple of weeks while I at least finished out the semester, before going to live with Dad. She agreed, and I did that, although it was no fun at all, let me tell you.
Finally the semester ended and Dad picked me up. We had a volatile relationship, and that was all my doing. I hated him, for no reason other than that my mom hated him. He did things like washed all my clothes, including my jean jacket (which got ruined in the process) so that they stopped reeking of cigarette smoke. He found out that by this time I only had one pair of underwear, and he got everyone in the family to buy me underwear for Christmas (how mortifying for a teenager). He made us go to the dentist. He made us bring our clothes with him to the laundromat every week and clean them. He made us brush our teeth and take showers. He made us follow the rules, tell him where we were going, give him the phone numbers of the people we were with, and be on time coming home. These were all very difficult restrictions for a kid who previously had none. He fed us as much as we could eat and made us take vitamins. He taught us how to clean and gave us chores to do.
In short, he improved our lives. And I was not grateful for it for a very long time. However.
The dog days were over.
Boys at school started to like me, although I refused to believe it. People were happy to make friends with me. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't dirty. I had a social life.
Happiness hit me like a train on a track.
Which is to say, it hurt. To this day, good things happening to me, nice things said to me, thoughtful gifts given to me...hurt. I'm not used to them. I'm much more used to insults, criticisms, and misfortune.
It's taken a long time for me to be content with saying what I've known all this time to be true: my mother dying was the best thing that ever happened to me.