Choppy Waters Run Deep! A Story of Generational Suicide.
Mom almost killed us
My mom’s driving with one reluctant forearm.
A cigarette with a long hot ash dangles precariously from her persistently chapped lips — one little bump in the road and the hot ash will break off, fall on her bare thigh and burn her leg. I’m worried about her leg, but she doesn’t seem to be.
My little brother and sister sit quietly in the back seat, chit-chatting in a whisper. I’m in the passenger’s seat. I keep looking over at my mom to see if she’ll look at me, but she doesn’t. Or she won’t. From where I’m sitting, the profile of her right eye looks like a shark’s eye — dark and empty. I think she’s in there, but she’s focused elsewhere. Maybe she’s out of sorts again because it’s so hot, or perhaps it’s because she just got home from the halfway house.
Regardless, I’m happy she’s home, even if she ignores me. These weekends with her are precious to all of us. When she’s in treatment, she only gets a pass to come home once or twice over several months. She’s broken out and escaped a few times over the years, but this time, I think it’s an approved visit.
Mom finally rolls down her window a little and starts a new cigarette. The slight warm breeze from the cracked window flows in my direction and feels good. Plus, the first few puffs of her new Winston waft in my direction from her deep nose exhale, and I love that smell. Her smoke means she’s home.
As I’m enjoying the emotional benefits of her secondhand smoke, I notice where we are. I know this stretch of road. We’re driving along a lake that separates Canada and the US. This time of year, it’s Turquoise and lovely. All the rich people live on the other side of the road. When I’m older and wealthy, I’ll live there too if my mom will let me. My mom doesn’t like this stretch of beautiful road. She reminds us that fifteen years ago, five years before any of us were born, Grandma dove headfirst into the messy chunks of broken concrete that created the seawall we’re driving alongside. By all accounts, she broke her neck and died instantly. My mom still gets sad about it and tells us that after her brother died in Vietnam, Grandma was never the same and ultimately didn’t want to live anymore. The pain of losing her only son was unbearable for her.
I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t want to be here anymore, either. Maybe it’s why she came home — to ease the pain of her mom’s suicide by ending her life, and ours — on the same day and in the same spot it happened when she was only sixteen. And since we’re here with her, maybe she doesn’t want to go down alone. She’s fascinated with the desperate plight of others. Recently, she’s been obsessed with a story on the news about a mom who drowned her family. This is no coincidence.
She drives in circles alongside the lake, back and forth, and around the Michigan roundabout for what feels like hours before we finally go straight and head back home.
History doesn’t repeat itself. She doesn’t end her life and ours.
We will never know why she changed her mind. Perhaps the Methadone wore off. Or, unlike Grandma, my mom has a mustard seed of hope.
It’s probably a bit of both. She has a reputation at the halfway house as “someone who always tries.” She’s broken, but she’s not a monster. She’s hurt, afraid, addicted, and always trying to do better, even though her attempts are usually in vain.
The drive home is silent. The gravel crackles under the tires as we turn into our long driveway. Dad’s waiting there for us — sweating, exhausted, helpless, grateful we’re home safe, and unclear about where she took us. He’s just happy we’re home safe this time.
In a story like this, there are no bad guys — only generations of families struggling with the demons of previous generations. Is it my mom’s fault she lost her brother, mother, and father — all in tragic ways while she was still a teenager and forced to self-soothe? Of course not. Was it Grandma’s “fault” for being left to cope with her undiagnosed mental illness in private, only to lose her battle when faced with the tragic death of her baby boy out on his first mission in Vietnam? Of course not.
So, this has me thinking about what it takes to break the cycle of a generational curse — to choose life instead of death, wellness instead of sickness, and happiness gleaned from the brokenness and not despite it. For one, it starts with shedding the shame we all feel about taboo topics and sharing our stories with a world that’s finally ready to listen and empathize. It begins with the acknowledgment that although not all of us survive a dramatic near-death encounter at the hand of our mothers, we do all hurt in silence about something that’s probably a lot less scary when shared.
