Addicted to Death

Yesterday was surreal. I woke up to a text from Nana at 7:30 am saying “Call me.” I knew immediately it was about my mom. She was in critical condition in Winter Haven hospital and Nana would give me more information after she went to visit. My one request was for a photo. I didn’t care how bad she looked. I needed to see her.

I’ve seen her strung out and skinny hobbling around on one leg, and the last time I saw her, about 4 years ago, she was unrecognizably bloated with water weight and pitifully confined to a wheelchair. Her insistence on hopping around on crutches with no prosthetic limb all those years finally caught up to her one remaining leg.

Before that last time I tried to reconnect, it had been another 6 or so years since I’d had any contact with her. I remember calling her on a holiday after first moving to San Francisco and being so proud of myself for finally graduating college and moving across the country to a “big city” with infinite possibilities ahead, and her totally turning the conversation around on her self-induced woes, and then following up with her typical request for money. Fuck this shit, I thought, and I just stopped calling.

I then had a renewed interest in communicating with her after Xavier was born. I wanted her to see me as a mother and wanted her to meet her grandson. Maybe this life event would save her and our relationship. It didn’t. It was weird. And a couple weeks after seeing her, we had another phone call where she wasn’t listening and seemed disinterested. Maybe she was high. Again, fuck this shit, I thought.

I knew the next time I heard from or about her would be just like this. A call that she was in the hospital, or dead, or had been dead for many years. My uncle sent a couple of pictures and she didn’t look as bad as I expected, considering the many masks I’ve seen her wear over the years. Within the hour of knowing she was in critical condition, my sister and I had to make a decision about whether to put her on life support or just let nature take its course. She entered the hospital 5 days prior with a UTI, pneumonia, Hepatitis C, and in the end stage of Cirrhosis of the liver (the same disease her father died from.) Liver completely gone and now kidneys starting to fail. Not coherent, not responsive, and very drugged up to kill the pain she was in.

Story of her life, actually. When I was a teenager, I remember asking her why she started doing drugs, and she gave the textbook answer, to kill the pain. Emotional pain. And then once drugs started to ravage her body, other drugs to kill the physical pain. Any decision for life support would’ve been for us, the family to say their goodbyes, but not her. She was at the point of no return.

My sister tried to get there in time but was minutes too late. She was dead by noon. Nana and Uncle Kenny were there, and later her sisters, Joy and Greta. I was actually on my way to my first Al Anon meeting when my uncle texted “she’s gone.” If I had to be far away and powerless, it seemed natural to connect with others whose lives have been affected by addiction. I finally shared my story in the last five minutes of the meeting. I’m not sure if it helped or if I’ll go back.

I called my sister right after the meeting, and not suprprisingly she expressed the same sentiments I shared in the meeting. We are sad, we will miss her, but we’ve missed her for many years. She was already dead to us. When she was sober, she was beautiful. She was charming, witty, funny, and smart, and her blue eyes radiated light and love. We are sad that her life was so terribly painful and that she died without any family contact in many years. We are also still wounded, and angry and resentful. Addiction is a bitch. We’ve all heard that it doesn’t just affect the addict, but all those who love them. And it’s absolutely true.

I am sending love to our family in Florida and will be there soon to connect and mourn with them. Her brothers and sisters are posting pictures of the vivacious Gail before drugs, and remembering youthful, happier times. But I feel compelled to share the harsh and complicated reality of her death. It stirs an array of emotions in me. On one hand, this is the end. The end of her struggle. The end of hope. The end of wondering…not if, but when. On the other hand, this is just the beginning, of the difficult reliving, processing and healing that lies ahead. But also the beginnning of being free.

I am not writing or posting this for likes, attention, or an outpouring of sympathy. I am writing it for me, my sister, and my mom. And I am posting it to share with my family and close friends who have lived out the suffering with me, and supported me over the years as I’ve struggled to deal with the impact of her addiction. I’m also posting it for anyone who has lost a parent that they had a difficult relationship with and has and gone through this similar mix of emotions; and I’m posting it to be honest about addiction and hope that it resonates with others who are also afflicted or affected by this disease.

Rest in peace, mother. I hope that your spirit can shine again now that it is free from your diseased body. I hope you are reunited with Chipper and he is embracing your soul after 40 years apart. I hope that Grandpa Buck is harassing you both and entertaining with endless storytelling. I hear David Bowie is playing tonight. You and dad should go to his show.