Letter to My Mother

Dear Mom,

What really happened that day? In my memory it feels as if it's a story someone told me, not something that I was a part of. How much do you remember, mom? I suppose I could ask my sisters what happened, but you know our family never talks about anything. I will tell you how it was for me, maybe you can fill in the rest. My most vivid memory is standing in my wedding gown watching out the window as the ambulance takes you away.

I am not crying, yet. I don't really feel anything except some relief that you are getting medical help but Stephanie and Sabine are crying and it feels like they blame me and want me to fix things. Perhaps the anger I feel coming from them is towards you, so why do I feel this sense of responsibility? I keep trying to picture what dad was doing through all of this but I can't seem to remember him clearly. It feels like he was on the periphery, somehow uninvolved.

So, maybe I should call off the wedding. Seems logical, right? But all these people are coming and the money has been spent and everyone is waiting for me, "The Bride". I know I always seem confident about things but right now mom, being 19 feels far too young for all this.

We had been asking you to go into the hospital for about a month now, while your eyes and skin turned an alarming shade of yellow, but you kept saying no, telling us that you wanted to be at the wedding and everything would be alright. You being an alcoholic threw me for a loop mom. I never saw you drink much and "closet alcoholic" wasn't a term I knew. When you said you'd be okay to go to the wedding at first I thought you were being strong for me but I think it was more about being afraid to go to the hospital and not be able to drink. I was worried because you seemed really sick and I wanted to spend my wedding day getting married and not worrying about you. I was tired of worrying, and the silence at home, and the fighting. I just wanted to get married and get away from it all.

But eventually it was decided that it was best if you went to the hospital immediately. We called for ambulance transport but since you were already dressed up and the photographer was there we had him take pictures of you so that you would be in the wedding album. Who thought of that? Seems weird to me now. After the photos you changed and packed a bag and the ambulance arrived. I think it was protocol for you to be wheeled into the ambulance on a stretcher. I remember you smiled at me and waved like everything was okay, but you probably drank as much gin as you could while changing your clothes so I can't be sure what you were thinking. Panic probably.

That's why I am writing this letter to you, mom. Maybe you can help me unblock the memories. Help me work through the shame. I am ashamed that I got married, drank a lot of champagne and danced the night away while you checked into your hospital bed. I am ashamed I went on my honeymoon and pretended like it wasn't happening. I told myself you didn't remember missing my wedding because you were drunk and they probably gave you drugs. I told myself a lot of things then, but now I'm not so sure.

I came to visit you in the hospital a week later, as soon as I returned. I was feeling guilty for going away. Sabine was so livid with me for not being there that she didn't bother to call me with updates. I convinced myself that if you were really sick someone in the family would contact me, so it seemed easier to ignore it all and hope that everything would be worked out when I got home.

I got to the hospital around mid-day, the sun shingling brightly. It was strangely quiet. I always thought hospitals were noisy places with nurses and doctors running around yelling "stat!" But I didn't see anyone rushing as I walk down the corridor to the reception desk. I wait as a nurse looks over some charts ignoring me. Her name tag reads Renee.

Finally, Renee says "May I help you?" blinking at me over a pair of glasses with beads running from each side falling back around her neck. I panic, maybe I should come back later? "May I help you?" she asks again with emphasis.

"Oh yes, please, I am looking for Gerda Doescher's room." Renee looks down at her chart and I whisper "I am her daughter."

"That would be 204. Just down the hall make a left and then a right. Her room is to the right of the sitting area." She says pointing down the hall.

I begin walking and I imagine that she must be wondering why she hasn't seen me here before. I wish someone was here to support me. I hear laughter as I walk past a patient's room. One woman has a pretty large group around her bed with balloons and flowers everywhere while the man in the next room is alone staring at the TV. I reach the end and make a left following Renee's instructions. I hope my mom has some balloons. If not I will go down to the gift shop and get her some. I hope she won't be mad at me for not being here sooner. I see the sign that reads 200-210 with an arrow pointing right. I stop for a moment and take a deep breath and put a smile on my face.

Rounding the corner I notice the sitting area, empty except for a lone patient in a wheelchair. I try not to stare. The nurse told me her room was across from there, I see the room number so I rub my damp hand on my jeans and step inside. The bed is empty.

I release a breath and step back into the corridor. I check that I have the right room number. Sure enough it reads 204. I look around hoping to find a nurse, but the only person I see is the patient in the wheelchair. I smile at her absently and begin to head back toward the nurses' station when it hits me. I turn around and look again to make sure. "Oh my God. Mom, is that you?" I ask as I come closer. Your eyes are vacant, your mouth hangs open and there seems to be some kind of goo in your hair. I reach out to touch it but quickly drop my hand to my side. "Mom, please, please answer me. Is that really you?" There is no response at all.

My mind begins to whirl with questions. You must be cold sitting out here in just a hospital gown. Why don't they give you a blanket? Swallowing hard I tentatively touch your hand. It's ice cold. "Mommy it's me, Susanne. Please look at me. Can you hear me?"

"What the fuck is going on here? Why didn't anyone tell me she was like this?" I ask the sickly green walls as I pace back and forth in front of you. "Mom, I will be right back, don't worry," I say with my usual I'll take care of this bravado. She doesn't even blink. I head back toward the front desk almost colliding with Renee as I turn the corner.

"Whoa, what's the matter honey, slow down." She says to me grabbing my arm, her fingers pressing into my skin.

"It's my mom, Gerda Doescher room 204." I say pulling away from her grasp. "She is in the hallway, in a chair. Why is she not in bed? Why does her hair look like Albert Einstein? What have you done to her?"

"Shhh, It's ok hon. Come here." She says turning away from me back toward my mom and the empty chairs.

I don't know what else to do, so I follow her to the waiting area and we sit down on the hard green leather chairs. My mother only inches away. "Fuck, 'why is everything green in here?' I want to shout." Can't you people paint the walls a decent color? Why does my mom look crazy? I roughly wipe tears from my cheeks glaring at the nurse.

"She just came back from having a brain scan, and we didn't have a chance to clean her up yet. That is why her hair looks like that." She explains with a gentleness honed from years of practice. "She is in the hallway because we want her to have some stimulation."

"But why is she like that? What is the matter with her?" I whisper, my sudden anger evaporating into mist as my shoulders slump forward curling in around my heart.

"Well, your mom fell into a coma while she was going through detox," she begins, her face a mask of professionalism. "Fortunately she came out of the coma and now the doctors are trying to find out why she won't snap back to reality. We don't have any medical reasons for it so we are watching and waiting." She stands up then and looks down at her watch. The reality of her words settle in along with my shame for not having been here sooner.

"The doctor has explained all this to the rest of the family. I really am not supposed to discuss this with you. Maybe you should speak with them." She says this with what sounds like annoyance in her voice.

Is she judging me? She taps her fingers on the front of her crossed arms, waiting. I look for something to say, to explain my absence, but I find nothing. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Finally she uncrosses her arms and sits down next to me, her face softening. Renee sighs heavily taking my hand in hers.

"Will you be alright?" she asks with a gentleness I don't deserve. "Is the rest of your family coming today?"

"Yes they will be here shortly." I lie.

We sit there for a moment watching my mom. The weight of silence shimmering around us.

"Ok then." She says suddenly, patting my hand. Renee gets up, checks her watch again and walks back the way she came. I listen to the reassuring squeak of her nurse shoes until I can hear them no more. You and I sit in the silence a moment. Or maybe you aren't here. Maybe you checked out the day of my wedding. Maybe you truly found a way to forget all the pain. Your head hangs to the left, your mouth is slack and your eyes seem to be staring at something. I try to figure out what you are looking at but I see nothing except pale green walls. Not even a photo hangs there to command attention.

I stand in front of you then, directly in your line of vision. Nothing, not even a flicker of eye movement. I bend over to look again, my nose almost touching yours but nothing, only a sickly sweet smell coming from your mouth. Is this the smell of sickness? Of death? Or maybe it's just stale Gin. I slump into the chair next to you and put my head in my hands. The darkness that has been on the edge pushes closer. I do not want to feel this! I don't want to remember who you used to be.

Where is my anger? I reach for it looking to blot everything else out but it eludes me. My hand slides across to cover yours. It feels cold and dry as I imagine a bird's claw might feel. You weren't always like this mom, I think trying unsuccessfully to push the memories back. You used to be the best mom in the world. I felt so lucky, so loved. I slide closer to you, laying my head in your lap. The skin and bones of your knees pressing into my cheek as I surrender to the memory:

It is my sixth birthday. All my friends are downstairs eating cake and playing. I have on my favorite blue dress with the white ruffles down the front, white tights and black paten leather shoes. The shoes pinch my feet, but I don't care because they are so shiny and have slippery new bottoms that I can skate on the carpet with. But, the best part of my outfit is my pink and silver crown with Happy Birthday in sparkles on it. I look at it in my hands, the sparkles even more magical through my tears. Tucking my feet up onto your lap, I rest my head on your chest as you gently pull me closer your arms encircling me like a warm blanket. I listen to your heart beating steadily, my body almost merging into yours, riding along on your breath as if I am floating atop waves in the ocean. I try to match my breath with yours, breathing as deeply as I can, getting dizzy with the effort. It soothes me, knowing you won't ask any dumb questions or run downstairs to question my friends. You'll just hold me till I'm through crying. Then, when my tears are spent you pick me up off your lap and place me in front of you.

"Let's fix this pretty hair." You say as you tuck my hair behind my ears and smile at me, the smile where your eyes get real soft. The smile that I know is just for me. It makes me feel so safe and I almost begin to cry again. Your head cocks to the side as you place the crown back on mine. With a small satisfied nod you ask, "OK, ready to go back to your party?"

"Yup, much better, thanks mommy." I say throwing my small arms around your neck and squeezing. "I'm ready."

With a kiss on my forehead you turn me around and playfully push me back toward my friends, my tears all but forgotten.

"Mommy, why?" I whisper hating the smallness of my voice. "I just want to know why? Was it because of me?"

What did I do wrong? One day you were holding me in your arms and the next you were looking at me as if I were the biggest disappointment in your life. Maybe if I had stayed that little girl you would have kept loving me.

I think to myself stop it, as I jump up pacing back and forth. "You brought this on yourself mom. Why should I sit here and cry about you? You don't give a shit about me or about anyone else or you wouldn't drink yourself to death!" I feel like shaking you. I want to shake you so hard that the truth spills out.

I am so sick and tired of all the silence. It's deafening. Why wouldn't anyone tell me anything? I kept asking everyone! "I asked Dad over and over again what was wrong with you!" I shout. "You know what he said? That you were going through your changes!"

What the hell does that even mean? Even Sabine wouldn't tell me the day I came home and found the two of you in the middle of fight. The air so thick I could barely breathe. I begged Sabine to tell me what the fight was about, but all she would say was to ask you. I pleaded with her but she said no it was up to you to tell me. It made it all such a fucking mystery. Something so strange that only you could tell me. I racked my brain. What possible thing could it be? But Sabine just looked at me like I was stupid. Maybe she was wondering how the hell I didn't already know. Dad knew, Stephanie knew, but not me. How could I have been the only one in the family that did not put the pieces together?

I never knew there was such a thing as a closet alcoholic. I knew something was wrong with you, but I thought you were crazy, not drunk. I never saw you drink. How was I to know that you drank gin with your morning orange juice? I didn't know that the reason you couldn't drive yourself home from that party when dad got a DUI was that you were drunk too! If someone had told me Dad was an alcoholic, that I could have believed.

"But you mom? I don't think I ever saw you have more than one cocktail at a time. But I guess if I couldn't figure it out for myself, I didn't deserve to know."

Look at you with drool hanging from your lip and an ugly yellow stain on your hospital gown, "Mom, If you knew what you looked like you would freak out." I take a tissue from my pocket dabbing at the spittle. You always liked to look beautiful, mom. I remember when you and dad used to dress up for date night. You would wear your mink stole and put on Chanel Number 5. I loved to run my hands through the soft fur and smell you. Dad would whistle approvingly and you would tell me how dad swept you off your feet.

I remember the old photos of your wedding in Germany and the early days of your marriage in New York City. You both looked so young so happy. But there was this one photo. A photo of you looking over the railing of the huge ship you were taking to the United States. It was a beautiful black and white photo, with all the passengers waving happily to their families below. You were dressed so Jackie O (before Jackie I might add). It looked like something out of a movie. I'm not sure who took the photo or the others from that day but I remember that one best. You were the only one on that railing not smiling. The sadness in your face was palpable. Every time I looked at it I thought of you leaving your home, your family, your country and it always broke my heart.

"Is that why you drank mom? The sadness? I know the only reason you left was for Dad. You told us that often enough. Did you think it made me feel sorry for you?" For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker in your eyes, but then nothing.

I actually did feel sorry for you if it that makes you feel better. I always thought how terrible it must be to be so far from home and alone in a foreign country. Not speaking the language, not being able to use your degree. But as I grew I started to wonder just how long someone was allowed to wallow in self-pity. When do you take responsibility for your choices in life? When do you start to make new choices, ones that you want? I don't know exactly, maybe no one ever asked you what you wanted. Perhaps you simply became who everyone expected you to be. Maybe it was easier to believe everyone else's version of you than to come up with your own.

"It isn't easier in the end though, is it mom?" I lean back in my chair exhausted. I take your hand and close my eyes. I picture myself small and snuggled on your lap late at night all those times when I couldn't sleep. Your heart beat and the rhythm of your breath soothing me. This is how I will remember you mom. I love you.