Day #180 in A Year of Thanks:
I’m thankful for the earliest memories I have of my mother from my childhood.

How far back do your memories go? With your earliest childhood memory, can you recall how old you were? I can. I have memories of my mother, her paternal grandmother, and me going back to before she met the man who fathered my two younger brothers. I’m four and a half years older than Mike, who was the first of the two, and then Kristopher came along two years later. Mike was born in 1992, which means I have memories of my mom going back to the summer of 1991, when I was three. Of all the summers I’ve had, 1991 remains one of the best I’ve had with my mom. Why is that? I will tell you, but this post is about to get long, honest, and raw with some tears between my words because talking about this is difficult for me.

If you were to put my earliest childhood memory of my mother, which is sunny and full of life, next to my last memory of her, which is dark and hopeless, you’d likely be thinking one of two things. 1) These are two very different women living two very different lives. 2) What on earth happened to this woman that caused such a dramatic shift between the first and last memory I have of her? Life, cancer, death, and drugs happened. There are many intricate layers to who my mother was, as well as the complexity of our relationship, but I will only discuss two of them.

My First Few Memories of My Mother
My mother used to take walks, and I would walk with her, or she would carry me. She was always so sunny and bright, and she’d often take me to the Shell gas station, where she would buy us orange creamsicle popsicles. This was our special thing, our precious time together, just the two of us, in our own happy little world. One day, she introduced me to a neglected, starving pony that was locked up in a tiny, cramped stable. Mama was an animal lover, and this is my first memory of her: so loving, so gentle, so full of life. After she introduced me to that pony, we fed it carrots and sugar cubes (I can’t recall what happened to that pony, but I pray it got rescued and taken away from our former neighbors). Through this interaction with the pony, Mama taught me the importance of kindness and compassion for life and the animal kingdom. I pray to God that I never forget these memories, because this is how I want to always remember my mother.

My Last Memory of My Mother
It was Saturday, May 13, 2017, my birthday, which coincided with Mother’s Day weekend. After five months of estrangement, Grams and I attempted to reconnect and rekindle our relationship with my mother. We wanted to celebrate Mother’s Day together, as well as my birthday. While I tried to celebrate Mother’s Day, celebrating my birthday was the furthest thing from my mother’s mind. Not once did she wish me a happy birthday when we were at Texas Roadhouse. All Mama could think about was getting back home to her place to get her next high, because by this point in life, she chose drugs over family, over and over. It was heartbreaking for me and Grams because we had spent so many years preventing her from committing suicide while also trying to get her help for her drug addiction. Five months later, though, she passed away from a massive heart attack.

So… what happened between my first and last memory of Mama?
My sweet, precious baby brother was diagnosed early on with Neuroblastoma, which is a cancer of the adrenal gland that affects children. Some versions of Neuroblastoma have a cure with complete remission in children, but in Kristopher’s case, which was genetic and had relapsed aggressively, there is no known cure. He was two months shy of his third birthday when cancer took his life. What happened with him is what changed everything with my mother. She admitted at one point that all she wanted was to be with him.

The Glass Wall Between Us
I tried everything I could think of to emotionally and mentally connect with my mother, and my Grams tried, too. However, Mama couldn’t see past the pain of losing Kristopher. Her depression spiraled into many years of suicide attempts, with Grams and I foiling them at every turn. At some point, my mother was prescribed one narcotic or another, and this spiraled into a drug addiction. I couldn’t get Mama to see me, to see that she still had me, and two other sons who were still alive and needed her.

My poor teen mind and young adult self struggled so much with feelings of inadequacy. I felt so invisible, like I wasn’t good enough. Yet, I felt guilt and shame in even thinking about my own emotional and mental needs not being met. So, rather than putting another burden on my family, I kept most of my emotions and thoughts to myself, put on the mask of strength, and carried on as much as I could, for as long as possible, sprinkling hope and optimism wherever I could for myself, my family, and others. Mental and emotional strength both have their limits, though.

After 15+ years of dealing with this, I finally had my first official emotional breakdown in December 2016. I had just come home with Grams from visiting Mama in the psych unit after her last suicide attempt, which she’d almost succeeded in. It was unlike any other visit we’d ever made in times past. As per usual, Grams and I did our best with support and trying to connect with Mama, but this time was different. The feeling of having a glass wall between us, with that emotional and mental disconnection, had never felt more painfully obvious. I literally felt like a ghost, because she was looking straight through me as if I wasn’t even there in the room, and neither was she. When I looked straight into her eyes, it felt like no one was home, and that was terrifying. I fought with every fiber of my being to keep from crying during the car ride home, but once Grams and I were home, I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It was like the wind got knocked out of me when it came to my mental and emotional strength, because I’d lost every ounce of it that night. It was like an eruption of fear, grief, and everything else pouring out in a never-ending flow of big, ugly crocodile tears. I told Grams I couldn’t handle seeing Mama anymore, not as an empty shell of her former self. I was so used to putting the needs of others before my own, but in this case, I had to prioritize my own needs, or I would have found myself in a negative spiral as well. I thought I was ready to handle things again with my mom when my birthday came around with Mother’s Day, but then things didn’t go according to plan, and then five months later, she was gone.

I hate how she suffered so much and felt like she couldn’t see past her pain. However, I’m grateful she’s also no longer suffering from mental, emotional, or physical pain. I loved my mother. I miss her deeply. I miss who she used to be. I miss her smile, her joy. I will always be thankful for those beautiful summer memories from when I was three. While Mother’s Day continues to be one of the hardest days of each year for me, I choose to believe she’s with Jesus and my baby brother, smiling down on me and Grams, waiting for us to come Home when the Lord says it’s our time.

Day 179 | Day 180 | Day 181
Year of Thanks