The most important thing we can do for our own selves, and those we love, is to talk about issues that are standing in the way of our happiness. Sometimes, it is the unspoken that can be more hurtful in the long run.
My mom never, not once in her life, talked to me about her alcoholism. The subject was taboo, off limits all the years of our lives. She had been a closet, vodka drinker. There was only one time she asked me to actually buy it for her. If she hadn't already been drunk, she would never have done that. Back in those days, our county was dry; in order to buy alcohol you had to drive a 1/2 hour. I remember telling her "Okay, I'll do it." I got in the car, sat in the driveway a while, went back in the house, and she was passed out on her bed. I had known that would happen - I knew the signs.
Whether my mother knew it or not, I was her biggest defender. A couple of times Dad said to me"I can't take this anymore, I'm going to have to leave." "Daddy, don't go, please don't go." "Okay, Sis, I won't". In later years he apologized for this. Each time this happened, though, Dad and I would sit down, talk about how much we loved Mom, how she was killing herself, and taking us with her. Then, we'd make a new plan. We'd begin by searching for bottles. There would be one in the toilet tank, in the linen closet, between the mattress and box spring, in the cedar chest.
One time Mom called me at work. She said "I can't find the keys to my car. You need to come pick me up." I asked her where she needed to go, and she told me "I'll tell you when you get here." She would never have called my dad. I got to her house, and she was ready to go. After starting the car, she told me to take her to the liquor store. I said "okay", and off we went. A few minutes later she scowled and said "This isn't the right way." I said: "I know Mom, I'm taking you to the Miller clinic." She told me to stop the car, and let her out. I kept driving. She threw her arms in the air, then reached for the door handle. I swerved the car over two lanes of traffic, and stopped in the emergency lane.
Like a gift from heaven, a police officer pulled up behind me. I had one hand holding onto Mom's arm. It didn't take long for him to assess the situation. He agreed to follow me, and had his partner ride in the back seat protecting Mom from herself.
We arrived at Miller's, the policemen helped me to get Mom insde. They asked if there was anything else they could do to help. Oh, if only I had known what would happen next, I would have asked them to stay just another little while. But, no, I thanked them profusely, and they were on their way. They had just backed out of the drive, when Mom comes out of the clinic, takes off like a rabbit, plops herself down in the car.
We cannot help someone who doesn't want our help. That is a given. I lived many years resenting my mom, I did. On New Year's Eve, 1962 - my best friend, Kay, and I were at Bill's Drive-In helping my husband's Aunt Mae serve up double bacon cheeseburgers to a bunch of inebriated (cute) marines. The phone rings - Aunt Mae tells me "That was your dad. Your mom is in the hospital on the base."
I'm walking through the quiet hospital corridor - all of a sudden, as I approach the nurses station, I begin to hear what started as a low whine, then rose to a pitch so high it could make one deaf. It was so pitiful. It was so, so heartbreaking. I said to a nurse at the desk "Oh, my God, that poor person!" She shook her head, and said "Yes, it is very sad."
Well, it was my mom. The doctor told Dad and I: "She's not going to make it this time. She's in the worst delirium tremors I've ever witnessed. I'm sorry." We loved her too much to let her go. We got on our knees by her bed. We told God "Please let her live. We'll stand by her for as long as it takes." That was the only time that Dad and I prayed together on our knees, but, God heard us, and He took us at our word.
Mom eventually found release from her illness. It was such a blessing. The thing about Mom that I always found amazing; she took care of her business before she tipped the bottle. She was a wonderful mother to her handicapped child. I don't know what would have happened to Bubba if he had been born to a different mother, or, should I say an indifferent mother. Mom gave her whole heart to her son; she saw to it his every need was met for as long as he lived.
As I've written before, the last words my mother said to me were "Thank you". If I could say something to her, I would say "Thank you Mom. You did the best you could, and that's all we can ask of anyone."
The moral: Don't ever give up on those you love; there is always hope.
