A Mother

There she was, lying on the sofa again. Her eyes closed, looking so peaceful, yet every time I saw her this way fear would rush through me. I would wonder if she was asleep or if this time she was actually dead. I ran over to her as I do every time I see her this way and shake her body, shouting "wake up, wake up" over and over until she finally stirs. Her eyes are bloodshot and I'm not even sure if they are focusing on me, but I'm just relieved that she is still alive. Pieces of burnt tin foil litter the floor and I know she has used again today. She no longer says sorry for me finding her like this, she no longer pleads forgiveness from me or claims she will change. 1

This woman I am talking about is my mother. My mother, the drug addict.2

That was the fourth time that week I came home to find her on the couch. I knew that one day she would OD or bring the wrong guy home and I wouldn't find her high she would really be dead. She fell over, asleep again; this time I could see her chest rise and fall, slowly painfully as is there were mountains of books stacked on her chest. I checked over to see if her pulse was steady. It jumped erratically and my breath whooshed from my body in a half sob.3

I looked down and saw a new DVD, another one of her pornographic films. I could feel my face redden and I flung the movie across the room. I yelled at her and all she did was sleep.4

"Why?" I screamed over and over.5

My mother had never done this before dad left. I could remember her as she was smiling and laughing always playing. Her skin wasn't this pocked, yellow leather that stretched over her face now. It was warm and olive, unblemished, perfect. Her nose wasn't disintegrating little by little. It looked like a pixie's small and neat, perfectly straight. Her figure was full, where now it was wasted and thin. Then dad left.6

It first started with mom bringing home strange men, tall men with jet-black hair and blue eyes, kind of like my dad. Then they started to be pierced, tattooed and you could look and know they were troubled. I tried not to judge her for her choices of men she dated until she stopped dating and started sleeping with random strangers. Finally, there was Jed, the bane of my existence who started my mom on cocaine and pornography. Jed was the only man she slept with more than once now, and every time they did, it was video taped and sold on the corner with the drugs. 7

I didn't hate my mom, I couldn't she was my mom after all. I just couldn't stop myself from condemning her. I knew, as a Christian, I should forgive her because in God's eyes I had done many things just as bad; every lie I had ever told was like my mother taking a hit or sleeping with a guy. Yet, I didn't know how to forgive her. I knew she loved my dad and she was trying to replace his love, but wasn't I enough? Didn't I matter enough for her to stay clean?8

My mother coughed, harsh like a forty-year smoker, deep in her chest. I expected her to sit up as she did when she coughed, I thought she would wake up like always but she didn't. The coughing continued hard and long and I stared in horror, just watching, frozen. I heard her begin to gurgle, chocking. I leaned down and lifted her head supporting her back with my body. She leaned forward and blood spewed out of her mouth, shiny and red on her yellow skin.9

I grabbed at my pocket clutching my phone inside and dialed 911, I knew the bill was paid because I used my paycheck from my two part time jobs to pay it. The phone rang and rang and I waited desperate. Finally after the 22nd ring, someone answered.10

"911, what is your emergency?"11

"My mom is coughing up blood and she's not stopping. I live on 24th street, in apartment 3, please hurry."12

"How much blood is she coughing up?"13

"It is pouring out of her mouth, send an ambulance, she was using drugs and now she's coughing blood!" I yelled, getting annoyed.14

"Calm down ma'am, an ambulance is on the way," the woman's voice said, without emotion.15

"They will be there in ten minutes, I will stay on the line with you. What drugs did she take?"16

"Coke"17

"Has she done drugs before?"18

"Yes"19

"Why didn't you go to the police?"20

"I did, they put her in rehab, she started using again"21

No longer calm I tapped my foot as the operator talked to me. She questioned me about the dealer, how long she did drugs. All she asked were generic questions to keep me occupied, not at all what I thought a 911 operator would ask.22

After fifteen minutes I heard the sirens, and saw the lights. Five minutes later, the paramedics came in and questioned me again. I couldn't think through the haze of fear that enveloped my mind. 23

One of the paramedics shined his light in my eyes and said something to his partner. I didn't care; I could only think that my mom was dying. She was going to die because of drugs, because I didn’t step up to help her. I could see the things I could have done. I could have tried to talk to her, not judged. Instead of working to forgive, I should have gotten her to rehab, and tried to get her to keep up with it. I should have loved her, and shown her my love instead of judging her even as she was dating.24

That night my mom died in the hospital, I never got to tell her I loved her. I heard nothing after the doctor said there was nothing he could do. I knew God had used this experience to show me how I needed to forgive and forget. He wanted me to see how much I judged others. 25

The next day I met the love of my life, George, from my geometry class. He knew what was going on with me because his dad had died from drugs. I saw him in the hospital waiting room, checking on his grandmother with pneumonia.26

A week later, when I went back to school, no one talked to me except George. They all turned their back and whispered. Later I found out they thought that I gave my mom the drugs, that I killed her for being a whore. I was seventeen years old. Three weeks later I was eighteen. George and I married two years after that.27

Today I am 33, and I am a police officer in the drug trafficking division. George runs a rehabilitation program. We are still in love. I have finally forgiven my mom completely for turning away from me, for making me grow up at 15, for exposing me to the world of drugs and prostitution. She turned my life upside down. But God simply came in and used this to show me that life isn’t a fantasy book, that romance and love is real but imperfect and we have to work hard to get it.28

Who knew my life would end up like this? People must always have had their own ideas and preconceptions of how my life would turn out. Some must have looked at me and thought I would hate my mother so much for what she put me through that I would have done everything and anything in my power to ensure I did not turn out like her. Others probably had me labeled a junkie just like her from the day I was born. Have I proved any of them wrong? Should I even care what anyone else thinks? Deep down, no matter what anyone thinks or says about her, I love her. She is my mother. She's the only one I will ever have. 29

I only hope she is proud of me.30