The author and her sister were at the Jersey Shore in 1988. The photo is courtesy of the person.
I ran through the rain to the rehab center, carrying a bouquet of flowers under my arm. I smiled at the receptionist in the lobby.
I said, shrugging out of my coat.
My phone buzzed as my husband and I waited on the tarmac at Denver International Airport for our flight to the island.
Andy said to ignore it when he saw my mom's name. I couldn't.
I turned my eyes toward the ceiling as if I might find peace among the call buttons and task lighting.
I felt a familiar emptiness in my chest when she said that I was not good. My mother received a lot of calls from people asking for money, crying about being a burden, and monologues about growing up in 1950s Philadelphia. It was never good news that they were rarely two-way conversations.
The flight attendant shot me a warning look as she told me she was feeling bad as the plane began to taxi. I felt nothing but resentment. I shouldn't have to mother my mother because raising my own two kids was hard enough.
It's going to be okay, Mom. I have to leave. I talked to my sister and hung up. It was as usual. I think she is ready for rehabilitation.
Our mother was not always fond of this. She was the queen of Sparrow Lane in the 90s. She hosted all the pre-prom photo ops, organized all the block parties, and turned Led Zeppelin up loud when she vacuumed. When she and my dad got home after a night out, she would kiss my cheeks and smell like Calvin Klein. My mother.
The author and her mom were just a few days old. The photo is courtesy of the person.
She got sick when I was a teenager. Blocks parties and nights out stopped because of mysterious nerve pain and brain fog. The expensive treatments the doctors tried didn't work. They prescribed the drug. I went to college, got married and had kids, but it took my mother a long time to get used to it.
As my parents searched for a cure and the doctor visits increased, there was only one constant in her life: oxy. It took me a long time to realize that her remedy was the central problem and that the mother was gone. When I said I loved you, it felt like a lie.
When you've been doing it most of your life, it comes easy when you turn your phone off. I took beach selfies with my friends while I drank and sunbathed for a week. I called my sister when I got home.
I was back at the airport and headed for Hanson House.
The receptionist pushed a clipboard towards me. She reached for the flowers, and said that you can bring those in. I was trying to figure out how someone could use a daisy as a weapon. A young woman smiled at me, and I noticed she was wearing slip-on shoes. Not her first rodeo, I thought.
The receptionist told me that I could go upstairs and look at me one more time. I was greeted by a smiling young man on the second floor.
The author and her sister cleaned out their mom's apartment while she was in rehab. The photo is courtesy of the person.
The lounge was filled with patients and family members drinking from plastic water cups. I rested my chin on the top of her head as she squeezed me tight. She led me to two empty chairs in the corner, and then gestured toward an old man across the room. It's like "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" in here.
I said that you are one of the cuckoos.
My mom looked at me with damp, clear eyes after we made small talk. I thought I could work with this. I told her it would be ok and that I was willing to believe it.
My sister and I went to my sister's apartment the next day with face masks and gloves. We hauled 27 bags of trash to the dump, made her bed with fresh sheets, and opened the blinds to let in the sun.
My mom started outpatient rehab after leaving the rehab center. She asked if I knew you could deposit a check by taking a picture.
I teased my mom as she laughed.
A year and a half after her mom left rehab, the author was at dinner with her mom and sister. The photo is courtesy of the person.
It has been three years since my mom woke up, and now we spend a lot of time laughing on the phone. She babysits my niece and nephew a few times per week while she works as a teacher's aide. She has added Lizzo and Bruno Mars to her vacuuming soundtrack.
My mom's sweet, funny, and genuine goodness remains intact, like a VHS tape of her from 1995. I don't kid myself that I didn't get out unscathed, but my therapist reminds me that the most persistent symptoms of addiction are shame and regret. Why was I so quick to abandon her, instead of fighting for her, when I could have fought for her? I cringe when I think about how cold I was. I didn't know that addiction turned us both into people, and the injustice of it all spins me in circles. For a long time, I blamed my mother, but now I know she was a victim as well.
My mom was able to get help before it was too late. Since 1999, almost a million people have died from overdoses, and many of them were caught up in the opiate epidemic of the 1990s. I can curse the doctors who treated my mom, or I can rail against my own ignorant and neglect. My mom is turning 70 in a few weeks, and I don't want to waste more time.
This Mother's Day, we will not be at the rehab center, but we will be going to Miami to celebrate our mom's birthday. I wrote "Happy Birthday, Mom!" in my best calligraphy on a hand-painted card for her. I sealed it with a wax stamp and wrapped it in silvery vellum. I'm excited for her to receive it, and I keep checking my phone.
The author's mom and all her children were at the author's house in Denver last year. The photo is courtesy of the person.
The director of a nonprofit that supports youth and families in foster care is a Denver-based writer. She is working on a book. You can find her on social media.
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