Nonfiction Series
How A Drug Addict Saved My Life
Part Four: What About the Kids?
I couldn’t be “Mom” when I was in the hospital. The worst part for my kids was seeing me in a coma, bloody and bloated. Five different lives suffering the potential permanent loss of their mother. Five different minds in a tailspin, personalities altered, moods shifted, saddened, stressed, and anxiety-filled. None of those feelings are fair in childhood.
Visiting me in the hospital was challenging for the kids. They loathed being treated like babies, but they were still mommy’s babies. They weren’t there to do arts and crafts like the staff suggested. They wanted to see me, but they were uncomfortable talking to their non-responsive mother who didn’t look or smell like herself. Seeing me was torturous and not seeing me was torturous.
“And you’re like dying. I’m your next of kin, did you know that? Did you know that you not signing those advanced directive papers when I gave them to you meant that I’m the one they’d turn to for all decisions? Like you being at risk for internal bleeding. Biopsies. Putting you on a machine to save your life that could literally kill you in the setup. Yeah, that’s all on me.” — Words from my oldest child before Gayle stepped in.
My ex-husband moved into my house with the kids to take over where I left off. It was easier than relocating them. Uprooting them from school, their home, and their routine would worsen their states of mind. They were already coping with so much.
Academic studies have always mattered a lot in our household. It’s one of the few things my ex and I agreed on. The children must do well in school and continue their education beyond high school. The Bachelor’s Degree is the new GED in our eyes. Grades suffered for some when I was in the hospital, while others immersed themselves in schoolwork. Both responses were a reflection of the children’s individual emotional suffering.
The house was a mess. The three boys weren’t interested in cleaning and the two girls didn’t want to be the live-in maids. The bare minimum was being done. Attending school and continuing to breathe were the main goals. The comfort of a clean environment to live in was apparently optional.
My youngest daughter grew up rapidly during that time. Even though she’s the middle child, she tried to fill in every blank that I had left. She was the little mama of the household. Learning how to pay some of the bills that Fred and my ex-husband didn’t handle. Managing grocery shopping and meal preparation. Trying to keep on top of the mess in the house. She got a crash course in adulthood, motherhood, and leadership, but she was still a child.
Older isn’t synonymous with wiser and more mature. When her older sister and brother didn’t volunteer to be the adults in the house and their father was working extra hours to support them financially, she became the responsible one. Sometimes, the younger sibling becomes the leader of the pack. At fifteen, Carley became the head of the household.
“I need you to wake up, mom. I need you to be you. And I just want you better.
“Last night, I thought I heard your voice. And I was downstairs calling out “mom” before I realized there’s no way that’d be the case. You’re in a coma. Even if you woke up they wouldn’t have let you out. Let alone let you out without calling us. But I still went downstairs like maybe your spirit was there, outside your body.
“It was Xavier’s phone I’d heard. And that hurt so bad. Just soo bad. And Jonah heard me call out mom, so he had that unrealistic hope too.”
“We need you, mom. You have to get better. You have to come back. It’s just too much without you. Please get better, Mom. Please.”
Carley cried. They all cried. They were hurting, but they remained strong and hopeful for my recovery.
