What would you like on your sandwich? Turkey, cheese and my mom is dead. I want to see that expression on their face. My mom is dead.
Officer: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: Yes, sir, I didn’t realize I was going so fast.
Officer: Have you been drinking?
Me: No, sir. (but I am speeding so that I can try to make it to Rite Aid before nine so that I can get drunk. No point in trying now.)
Officer: Drugs?
Me: No thanks.
Officer: No thanks? (Who the hell says no thanks?)
Me: Sorry, Officer, my mother just died… because of drugs. That’s why I’m home. I don’t touch the stuff.
Officer: I’m sorry to hear about your loss. Drugs are bad around here. Are you from around here?
Me: Yeah, I know. You’ll recognize my last name. You probably know most of them.
Officer: Who?
Me: Joey Short… Lorrie McCourt… Randy Short—but I’m nothing like them. I swear. (I want to tell you everything. I want to say everything, but I’m shaking and I can’t find the stupid insurance card. This isn’t even my car. shit.)
Officer: Yeah, I know them. Just keep looking for that insurance card, I’ll be right back.
Blue lights flash. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to give me a ticket. At least my mother’s death was good for something. At least it got me out of a speeding ticket. I do slow down. The car just runs so smooth. But it’s not my car. My car has a ‘heads up’. It tells me how fast I’m driving on my windshield. Not that it would have made a difference. I need Malibu rum, to mix with my Tropicana orange juice and my Donald Duck pineapple juice. Mmm.
The next day I drive my car. I drive my car because it’s familiar. I know I’m not supposed to; it’s not safe—but I’m not supposed to speed in my uncle’s car. And if I have a cocktail, I want to drive my car. I don’t plan on drinking and driving—at least not drinking more than one and driving, but I don’t feel comfortable drinking even one and driving their car. I don’t think they would care—but, besides my car needs gas.
I feel like my car is where I can think. I can think about my mom dying. I can think about my reaction when my aunt called after class. I can remember asking, “Is she going to die?” I can remember the eerie silence, then the melancholy answer, “Liz, they just don’t know.”
When my aunt called she prefaced the fact that my mom might die with the question, Liz, I don’t have to tell you, but do you want to be updated about your mom?
I wasted time—I packed some clothes for a few days. I found my fish a babysitter. MY FISH A BABYSITTER. I went back and forth over what the implications of me going would be. If I go, and she lives, then is she going to think that we’re okay? If I don’t go, and she dies, what kind of daughter does that make me? Would I be sad that I didn’t get to see her. My cousin Becky asks, if you go, will it be because you care, or because of guilt?
My response: What, involving my parents in the last 11 years, have I done that hasn’t involved guilt? So, I go.
When I get there, she’s laying in the bed; the doctor says she’s heavily sedated. My aunt puts on gloves, as she holds her hands that have the pink nail polish on them. She rubs her feet, and wonders why they don’t have socks on her. She tells me that her feel are so cold. She says things like, Lorrie, Liz is here. Liz came to see you. We love you, Lorrie. We love you, Lorrie. We love you, Lorrie. We love you, Lorrie. Be strong. Lorrie, you have to be strong. Liz, you can talk to her. She can hear you. We love you, Lorrie.
When the doctor comes in, she asks questions. My aunt doesn’t live near her. She gets cards in the mail from my mom every now and then. My mom calls her every now and then. I don’t talk to my mom. I told her she couldn't come to my graduation. I haven't accepted her calls, or responded to her letters for a month. I suspect she’s addicted to Valium. I know she has heart problems. I know she smokes cigarettes. My aunt tells the doctor that she heard that Lorrie, my mom, my mom that is dead, has been trying to wing herself off drugs. I think to myself that it sounds to me like my aunt is living in the same fantasy world as my mom. My mom has been doing heavy drugs since I was eight years old. What, in the last two weeks, would have made her change? I say, she’s a dope head. I say, she’s a druggie. I say that I doubt she’s changed. I say that the last hospital she was at is an incompetent group of idiots, and that they’d better check for everything. I say nothing to my mom. I don’t touch her. I leave and let another aunt come in, because there can only be two visitors at a time.
My mom codes. My mom is temporarily dead. They bring her back. They, the doctors, the doctors that are trying to save Lorrie, my mom, my mom that is dead, say they are going paralyze her. They, the doctors, are going to let the machines run her for a few days, so she, my mom, my mom that is dead, can build her strength back up. My dad comes, and my aunts say I can take him back. He hugs me. My Aunt Francine, the aunt that raised me, took care of me, bought me the things that I needed, went to court for me, loved me, loves me, and still maintained respect from my mother, told me to be careful. You just don’t know, Liz.
She had IV medicine for the drug addiction; IV for the MRSA; IV for the Sepsis; IV for the pneumonia. She had a tube down her throat to breath, a tube in her chest to reinflate her lung; a tube down her throat into her stomach to suction out the green and black vile that was in her stomach; a catheter for her urine. She was helpless. Her hair was in a high ponytail. Her head looked bruised from when she passed out in the bathroom and busted her face. Her face was peaceful, but her chest looked like she was still working so hard for every breath. My dad tells me that she doesn’t care if she lives or not. She doesn’t care. Her son is in jail; her daughter hates her. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. She’s shooting up again.
I leave. If she’s going to be paralyzed for a couple days, what’s the point in staying? My Aunt Francine and I go to Wal-Mart. We get snacks for the hospital; Ritz crackers, cheese, and off-brand pop tarts because I like the crust. We buy toothbrushes, Crest ProHealth, Dove powder and Secret deodorant. We buy scrubs for my aunts to sleep in, and we look in the beer section for Bud Ice. We decide we’re going to need to stop at Sheetz.
I stop by my best friend’s boyfriend’s to pick my best friend’s key to her apartment. She’s letting us stay there. I tell her what’s happened. She tells me she’s there for me. I leave her boyfriend’s house to go back to the hospital, and on the way, we get a call.
My mom is dead.
I’m in my car. I feel the seat under me; my legs are attached to my ass that is attached to my seat. My legs extend down and the ball of my foot connects to the floor of my car. It never moves; it pivots. It allows me to hit the gas, or move to the brake. My arms are attached to my shoulders that is attached to my torso that is attached to my ass that is attached to my seat that extends to my legs to my feet to the accelerator and the brake. My hands don’t shake when they’re on the steering wheel that is protected by a black fuzzy steering wheel cover. My mind is thinking that my mom is dead; the roads are bad. Not bad like icy. No, it is a beautiful Spring night. It’s the day after St. Patrick’s day. Every year, from here on, I will have a hangover, and I can somberly remember, this is the day that my mom died. But these roads are terrible. It’s bad in that Morgantown doesn’t take care of their roads, and there are potholes the size of couches; couches that are burned in Morgantown; couches that my mom caught on fire with sparklers and cigarettes.
I go home to Webster the next day; a place I decided to avoid this semester because I wanted to enjoy my last semester. A place I didn’t even stop at on my way South for spring break. I knew the curves of the road. I knew the speed in which I could safely slide through. Though the 16 miles of Birch River, I cried, regained control of my emotions, sped, drove slow, listened to music, lost control again. I felt guilty, angry, sad, upset. I kept saying, my mom is dead.
I wanted to send a mass text message. I wanted to get on facebook and write, Ding Dong, my mom is dead. The mom that put me in pageants. The mom that fought to get the last Dear Diary for me at Wal Mart. The mom that, even when I loathed her, loved me. The mom I made cry. The mom that made me cry. The mom who always threw me a birthday party, and made sure my friends and family were there. The mom who chose drugs over me. The mom who took me to my first Billy Ray Cyrus concert. My mom who made me pancakes that were crunchy and my brother French toast on Saturday mornings. My mom who took us camping, swimming, four-wheeler riding. My mom that got high, and told me that my brother was an accident. My mom who warned us about telling the teachers that they smoked, sold and grew pot. The mom who took me to the doctor. The mom who embarrassed me at my high school football game. The mom who took us to the fair. The mom who believed in Jesus, as the savior. The mom that wrote in 2006 that she wasn’t afraid to die. The one that thought she had a full life at the age of 45. That mom was dead. My mom is dead.
My brain in my head that thinks all of this, all the time, is connected to my neck, that is connected to my shoulders that is also connected my arms that are connected to my hands that are connected to the steering wheel that allows me to pick my destination, when accompanied by the accelerator that my right foot controls that is connected to my leg that extends to my ass that rests on the seat where my upper body including my torso, shoulders, arms and head. I am one with the road, as I battle with this. I thought I wanted her to be dead; I don’t think I was prepared for her to die.
My mom is dead.
*I wrote this shortly after my mom died. April 2009
Turn back on the broken heartache
Some things are just meant to be
I still believe that we got a chance
Still believe that we got a chance to be
Too much is never enough and
Too little is never enough
Full speed got me looking out my rear view
I can’t go back
Goin’ 100 in a 55 and I don’t know why I’m still alive but I
Do what I can but I know I can’t take anymore
I still believe in this rock and roll
And I pray the music gonna save my soul
But till then I still believe some things are just meant to be
It's messed up but I got this mission
Drunk again wont remember anyway
She said it’s just a game boy
Don’t be gone don’t be gone for long
Ten years I’ve been doing this forever
Its all I know baby please don’t turn away
I know you don’t believe in me
But I do believe in you
Goin’ 100 in a 55 and I don’t know why I’m still alive but I
Do what I can but I know I can’t take anymore
I still believe in this rock and roll
And I pray the music gonna save my soul
But till then I still believe some things are just meant to be
I’m still falling
Away from here
Away from here
I’m still falling
The wings are falling off
I can’t go back
I’m in too deep
Goin’ 100 in a 55 and I don’t know why I’m still alive but I
Do what I can but I know I can’t take anymore
I still believe in this rock and roll
And I pray the music gonna save my soul
But till then I still believe some things are just meant to be
Goin’ 100 in a 55 and I don’t know why I’m still alive but I
Do what I can but I know I can’t take anymore
I still believe in this rock and roll
And I pray the music gonna save my soul
But till then I still believe some things are just meant to be
I still believe
Some things are just meant to be
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