A Mother's Tears • Ch. 14 of 16

A Different Sort of Desperation

I entered the hospital room with my duffle bag still slung across my chest—, I’d come over directly from the train station. My mom was asleep and looked as if she’d just gotten back from World War III. The light shining on her face was making shapes I didn’t understand, lacking geometric sense. Even that worried me. What was going to happen tomorrow let alone a month from now? There was no stability. I myself was an outlined contour of a person barely getting by with a slight heartbeat.

The I.V.s were stuck into my mom’s arm and as she moved in her sleep, the monitor’s beeping began to wake her up. She looked at me sitting by her and tried as best she could to make out a smile.

“Hi Mom,” I got out myself, choking back emotion. The nurse walked in and began the breathing treatments—, mask and all. Seeing my mother so helpless and fallen overcame any willpower I was storing up. We didn’t have much to talk about; the situation spelled itself out. I was just as fragile as she was, not knowing what to do or say to comfort her spirit. I wanted to lift her up, to let her know just how great everything was going to be after the treatments and physical therapy, but I hadn’t the slightest clue as to what was going to happen. All I could do was hope for the best.

Outside the hospital, I stepped back into crisp autumn air, it’d always been my favorite season before, but now, it just was. In the passenger seat of a good friend’s car, I tried in vain to explain the scene back at Beaumont Hospital.

“She’s just...,” I’d trail off. “I don’t know, she’s...,” I couldn’t get out a single sentence. I just placed my fingers over my shut eyes, pushing the tears back in. My friend pulled the car over and put his hand on my shoulder in solidarity with me.

“It’s going to be okay Dre,” he said. “I just know it is—, your mom’s too strong to let go.” So it went that with each new day that’d pass, my friend’s words became more and more true. Gabriela would wake up and begin her regimen of medicine, meals, and making sure I was okay. She was eventually released from the hospital and came back home for a while. She couldn’t walk on her own so I held her arm closely before setting her down on the couch so she could let out the stream of tears she’d been holding back wash over both her cheeks.

“Mom, I’m here for you,” I reassured her once more.

Much Needed Advice

The days quickly passed by and soon I found myself riding in a car with a much greater man than me. I felt a strong need to ask him something that I’d been thinking about for a long while. I valued his opinion above all else so I knew I could trust him with anything.

“Sir, I was wondering; which needs to come first —, confidence or success?” I knew they were both important in a person’s life, but couldn’t pinpoint which preceded the other.

“Success,” he said. “No one’s just born confident.” It made sense. I’d hardly known either in my own lifetime so I figured I had to get to work on something, anything, to get myself feeling like I knew I should deep down in my spirit. The thoughts from Chicago came back, that if I just had some writing to my name, I could show my mom and be happy. I would finally know that all of my past experiences weren’t in vain, that I did something of value with them, and most of all, that Gabriela could finally see her son set off on his own path. Unfortunately, I had nothing—, yet. I knew there was a calling to capture everything my mother had been through, before the cancer, before the hospitals, and before escaping to America. I saw the thread of her existence connecting all these events together. There was a story waiting to burst out, I could feel it.

Time Passes Slowly in Situations Like These

Back at the doctor’s office, my mom and I took a seat on a couch inside the large lobby while we waited for her appointment. There was a coffee table placed a couple of feet away. It was a short cylinder with a rounded marble top. The sides were made of strange metal shapes between the ends. I looked closer and realized that one of them was actually a large V. Next to it was another V and an I. So it went circularly around the table until the Roman numerals reached twelve. A clock. All it was missing were the two hands atop the piece pointing to the right time. I stared intently at it, letting my imagination take hold. How much time was truly left? How many months or days or minutes did I still have? Gabriela meant everything to me and I knew we’d both fight this thing until our last breaths. Finally, we got up knowing the appointment wasn’t far off and started walking toward the designated doorway. We went down the hallway, into the office, and up to the front desk to sign her in. We got the next batch of paperwork that needed filling out and took two seats to do just that. Once inside her room, my mom sat in silence waiting for some type of reassurance that everything was going in the right direction.

“I’m going to fix you,” my mom’s oncologist promised her. She held back emotion as hard as she could, wanting to believe in nothing else more. We went to and from different clinics, always just one step away from complete healing. Like so many years prior, there was an angelic presence watching over every move my mom would make. Even though it seemed to be an uphill battle, she never let her circumstances deter her from keeping as bright a smile as possible on her face. It was contagious. Whenever I’d start feeling down, there she’d be; a portrait of pure optimism.

“There are so many people praying for you,” Gabriela’s closest friends would tell her. My mom’s good friend came visiting her back in the hospital one day.

“These are the best you can get,” she said of the new headphones she’d brought my mom. The building was constantly buzzing and Gabriela’s friend knew it’d be hard for her to get any good sleep. My mom was still laying in bed, barely able to speak when she parted her lips to finally say something. Her friend leaned in to make out what she was saying.

“Andrei...,” she slowly got out before trailing off. Tears ran down her cheeks and my mom’s friend followed suit. She placed her hand atop Gabriela’s forehead and brushed her hair to one side.

“He’s going to be okay,” she said to my mom. “I promise.” Down on the first floor, my friends would come visit me in the hospital’s food court and buy Gabriela flowers to bring upstairs when they’d see her. I’d always appreciate their support and be forever grateful when they’d pull up a chair beside my mother’s bed just to talk and spend time with her. These were true friends who never let their love toward me grow cold, even when I later started losing myself in random bottles and with a rampant self-pity.

Wristband Guardian

Between home and hospital rooms, I began sifting self from body. It was a way of escape that didn’t yet involve poisonous firewater or worse. I let myself walk the hallways through plenty of buildings but wasn’t ever really there. I’d be present, but so far lost within my own mind that I didn’t know what up from down was. Eventually, I stopped hearing that still, small voice telling me to stay in faith and that everything was part of a higher will. Instead, it was the world I heard—, an ambiguous choir sang in minor keys wherever I went. I couldn’t escape the constant imagery of depressive episodes they’d project inside my mind’s eye. It didn’t take long for me to reach back to an old friend with a bottomless pit ready and at the willing. I’d unscrew the lids off and slowly pour out the liquid into a thousand different cups. Do it, I’d hear myself think. Pop the top and swallow the fluid. Keep it down, don’t go throwing up all that sewage. So I did and so it went. Night after night; I’d escape into a haze of lost moments and perceived realities that weren’t anything more than fleeting thoughts of forced happiness. Of course, the joy didn’t last. The mornings were harsh. The pounding in my temples would wake me back up to the truth surrounding my immediate presence; puke and poured out bottles that’d been sitting empty for some time now. I knew it was a horrid routine but I didn’t want to face what was truly happening. I didn’t know whose arms to turn to except those that’d always been there for me in the past—, worldly ones with a tightened grip.

“Think of me when it snows,” my mom told me from her hospital bed. A premonition of future events that hadn’t even happened yet brought tears to my dried, bloodshot eyes. That’s what I started to do—, at home while looking out the windows, I’d see her. A smile so wide that nothing in my peripherals could ever hide. She was laughing like Marcel never liked her to do, she was dreaming of plans that were yet to play out, it was snowing outside and she was very much alive.

At night, I’d lay down on the living room couch and look at the opposite wall while my mind wandered in different directions. I’d eventually see my mom’s bedroom door, shut with a light escaping out from underneath. It was from the TV she’d left on. I knew she wasn’t there, that she wasn’t in her bed watching all of her favorite shows, healthy and whole. She was gone; alone and confused—, just like I was. It still didn’t keep me from pretending she was just a few feet away. I watched the light change brightness, turning into blues and yellows and whites. Closing my eyes, I’d trick myself into imagining everything was okay again. She’s just in the next room over, I’d think to myself. I knew better, but I preferred the make-believe. Daylight would eventually wash the glimmering lights away. Just like it’d eclipse the idea that my mom was finally back home—, the sun would cover all hopefulness of the night before.

Every time I’d lay back down to rest, I’d see small bits of teal enter my line of sight. I was anything but strong during those days. Still—, the wristband served as something almost holy—, like a guardian angel that was always watching over me, no matter how far I’d fallen at that point.

An Outpouring

I’d often walk down to the single gas station in town to buy cigarettes—, two packs at a time. They’d see me so much that they started ordering my favorite brand and type. I always showed up, like clockwork, every few days. On one particular occasion, I was feeling especially depressed about everything and the lady behind the counter saw it on my face.

“Everything okay?,” she asked kindly.

“Yeah..., it’s just that, my mom has cancer and...” I tapered off, realizing how inappropriate this conversation was getting for a light greeting between patron and person behind the cash register. “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed about the reply.

“That’s okay,” she said to my surprise, “you’re getting it out.” I still remember that as being one of the nicest things anyone said to me during that time. She somehow understood my sadness, maybe from personal experience or from stories of loved ones who’d gone through similar situations. Either way, it meant something to me.

Seven Stories of Complete Separation

One night when I was more miserable than usual —, I’d found a near-gallon of whiskey and began downing gulp after gulp. Unaware at how much I was truly consuming, I eventually started passing out from all the poison in my stomach. I called a good friend with the last bit of energy I had and he could immediately tell I was worse off than ever before.

“What’s your address again?,” he asked worriedly. I could barely speak.

“Two...,” I slowly got out, “...six—.” After that, I shut my eyes and don’t remember anything else. An hour or so must’ve passed by before I was awoken to about seven or eight paramedics in my room, all standing around the bed I’d collapsed on.

“Hey—,” one said, “we’re here to take you to the hospital, okay?” I just shook my head in disbelief. I slowly asked if I could smoke one last cigarette before being hauled off again and they agreed—, seeing how badly I must’ve needed it. Lighting up, I heard one of the EMTs say something about how hard this all must be for me, knowing my mother was in the hospital for her own treatment.

“What do you know about darkness?,” I nearly lashed out. They all looked at me with pity, seeing my sickly-yellow face with tired eyes to match. I still didn’t know how they got into the apartment or who called them, when one of them finally said what I’d already felt all along.

“You have a really good friend who called us for you.” I knew he was standing in the living room a few feet away but they wouldn’t let us talk to each other.

“Can I just powwow with my friend for a minute, please?,” I asked.

“I’m sorry, you have to come with us now.” With that, I put out the cigarette and was transported to the nearest hospital by ambulance. Upon getting to the Emergency Room, I was pumped clean once more of all the chemicals that’d been in my body. The doctors gave me some water to drink and I was brought out into the main waiting hallway with other patients until my BAC went back down to normal. One of them must’ve seen my wristband I was still wearing when he looked at me with slight sadness.

“I know how it is,” he said, “I had a close friend who I’d worn the same wristband for years ago.” I nodded and appreciated his empathy. I was on the bottom floor and I knew my mom was only seven stories up from me. We were in the same place at the same time for very different reasons. Once stable, I had my I.V.s taken out and dressed back up in my street clothes, ready to leave the hospital. Instead of the front doors, I headed straight for the elevators. I took them to the eighth floor of the South Tower, knowing my mom wasn’t far away. I could already feel her presence and warmth surrounding me, I badly needed to see her after the night I’d had.

“Hi Mom!,” I said, walking into her room.

“Puiule!,” she said, surprised. It brought back so many memories of her in the hospital on other occasions, but I was never more glad to see her than in that exact moment. I couldn’t bare telling her about the last few hours—, that I had just been a few floors beneath her, almost unconscious. We talked and caught ourselves up with everything that was happening back home. In the corner of the room was a small fold-out bed that she said for me to sit on. I laid my head down and shut my eyes for the first time in a long while—, feeling a deep sleep taking over me. Gabriela was only a few feet away now, I was safe once more.

Broken Promises

My friends from Chicago heard about my recent near-overdose and one of them called after I got back home to check up on me.

“Aren’t you worried that you’re gonna like—, die?,” she asked sincerely. I didn’t know how to answer her. I just sat in silence. “If I woke up tomorrow and found out that you weren’t here anymore—, that’d just, I don’t know...,” she let my imagination finish the thought. I tried to console her that it wouldn’t happen again and that I still had my wits about me, but deep inside, I was just as lost as ever.

City Streets and Hospital Hallways

Back in our routines, my mom would come home for a brief while before going inpatient again. One doctor’s visit after another and so it went. Day after day, the thought of potentially losing my mom to this unrelenting disease would take new ground in my heart. After her bone marrow transplant, she started long stretches of living within the off-white walls of medical rooms. Hospitals, nursing homes, cancer clinics; it all blended together. She never asked “why?,” always kept praying, and her smile never disappeared.

“Let’s go to the prom,” she’d like to say, clutching my arm with one hand and the I.V. monitor with the other. My mom took baby steps as the bottoms of her bright yellow hospital socks gripped the floor underneath. The hallways of Beaumont shimmered with shining fluorescent lights akin to the city streets of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile where we’d been side-by-side just a year prior. Now, instead of pea-coats and patent leather purses, she wore a tied hospital gown and a couple thin blankets around her fragile shoulders. We walked slowly, but together—, never letting go of each other’s arms.

“There she is!,” the nurses would call out from behind their workstations whenever they’d see her up and about. They liked seeing movement, attempts at some type of exercise, even if it was just a little bit at a time. That’s one thing I grew to greatly admire about Gabriela; her determination to get well again and live out her life as healthy as possible never once wavered. Throughout all of her trials and treatments, she stayed as strong as any substance this world could possibly produce.

Like Father, Like Son

Though my mom was doing as well as she could in her current position, I was still reeling from my depression. My mind began to slowly deteriorate due to the constant worrying and little activity I was doing. I did anything to numb what was going on inside my heart. I couldn’t bare knowing Gabriela was in the hospital by herself, but I didn’t say much when I’d visit either. I felt a pang of guilt whenever I’d come back home knowing my mom laid there in her bed without me standing by her side. I needed to occupy my free time with something, anything to get my mind off of what was happening around me. I soon took a job at a local pizzeria as a dishwasher. No longer did I need to dress up in suits and ties like I did back in Chicago—, from here on out, I would go to work everyday with the thought of my dad. If he could do it, I can do it. The people there were nice enough to understand why I was so quiet and kept to myself rather than go to many outings or house parties with them.

“We want to put you on the line,” the manager said to me. Not a second passed by before I turned down the offer.

“That’s nice of you, but I’d rather get really good at the job I’m doing now than to step up further,” I said in return. Really, I just didn’t want anymore responsibility. I was comfortable doing the mindless work of washing, rinsing, and putting plates away. It was just enough for me to keep going. I was working for fifths and cigarettes and not much else. Week after week—, I drowned further down into my ditch of deepening loneliness.

Finally, Sobriety

On an afternoon I was off work, I found myself at a coworker’s place. I began downing shot after shot, no chaser. Thoughts started to swirl around my head; stress, worry, fear, desperation. It all seemed to blend into a singular voice whispering to me, “you’re not worth sobriety.” I slowly fell back onto the bed and let my mind’s circuits rewire themselves as they saw fit.

“Do you want to quit?,” another coworker asked me. I sat up and thought about it for a few seconds before answering.

“Ninety-nine point nine percent, yes,” I said. Immediately I heard the words I’d let take root in my heart to this very day.

“You need Jesus.” At that moment, I knew—, this was the perfect time to stop, once and for all. As of this writing, I’m four years free from all alcohol, drugs, and even cigarettes. I couldn’t be happier to say so. I never thought it possible, but sober life truly is wonderful and I am very much worthy of it.