college even when I had to learn to forge my mother’s name so I could cash the Medicaid checks and buy necessities. I focused on getting out when I walked down to the corner market once a week to buy us food. I focused on college so I could get through high school, while I learned to cook and clean, while I did my homework and then did the laundry. College is why I didn’t miss a single day of school. No matter how tired I was, I didn’t miss a day. And I still took care of my mother, right up until I got the letter of acceptance to nursing school. Only then did I stop. That was the day I called Social Services and had them come to do an evaluation of her.”
I link and unlink my fingers, fidgeting in the way I used to when I was a little girl. I haven’t done it in years. But then again, I haven’t rehashed the story about my mother in years either. The guilt over what I did is still fresh, as fresh as it was the day I made the call. And after all this time, the result of my actions still burns in my gut like a lifetime of swallowing battery acid.
“I was so bitter. I didn’t want harm to come to her; I just wanted someone else to take care of her,” I explain, the slow trickle of tears down my cheeks starting anew. It has been so long since I’ve cried over Momma, but I never stopped missing her, missing what could have been. What should have been, but never was. I felt grief, grief for the other parent I lost. I didn’t lose her physically, but I lost her emotionally.
Sniffing, I continue.
“After a series of medical and psych evaluations, she was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and was sent to live in a mental institution. Until we came to Europe, I’d been to see her once a month every month since that day. I do it because she’s my mother and I feel obligated, but some part of me…” I admit, my voice breaking, “…some part of me needs her to be my mother. A mother who cares. I need her to be Momma. I just need her.”
My emotions swirl through me, angrily whipping at my heart. My throat is thickening with my increasing desperation.
“I…I need to tell her that I’m dying, and that I’m pregnant. I need to tell her that I’m dying and I’m pregnant, and that I might not be able to stay pregnant because I’m dying. I need to tell her that. And then, I need for her to tell me what to do, because I just don’t know anymore. I need to know how to make it through this, how to have hope. Because I’ve forgotten. I don’t know how to hope anymore.”
I sob quietly, covering my mouth with both of my hands and squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I can, as if in doing so, I might be able to stop the pain, the hopelessness. After half a minute or so, when my throat has threatened to close up around my air, I take a deep breath and wipe my face. I wipe it hard, swiping at my skin as though I might scrub away the weakness I feel, too. I won’t ever have my momma back, not the way I want, the way I need. The way I should. And I need to move past that harsh, cold fact. “But none of that will happen because she’s never been my mother in the ways that count. That’s why I need someone else to tell me it’ll all be okay. I need that. Desperately. Can you tell me that? Can you please tell me it’ll all be okay?” I plead. “Please help me find hope.”
At that, I bow my head and let the tears run again, in earnest this time, without trying to staunch the flow. Maybe letting them out will exorcise some of my bitterness and anger and desolation. Maybe they’ll cleanse what ails me. Or at least some of it.
I’ve never been so honest with a stranger. Hell, I don’t think I’ve been this honest with anyone about my reasons for not taking treatment, about my fear and my lack of hope. I’m not even sure I’ve been able to admit it to myself. I wanted to be strong, even when I felt scared and