Something unexplainable happens when you get the phone call that someone you love has been given a feeding tube. How we arrived at this place is a winding tale of Chardonnay, addiction, and denial. But, at this point, it's moot, as they say. I must love the addict for they know not what they do, right?
But unfortunately, I am also human and I am not sure how to feel.
I walk down to the subway platform, begin to cry and miscalculate the steps and trip. In this moment, I am -- full out -- a hot mess. Waiting for the subway can be such a lonely experience. There are people physically around you but no one knows each other's stories -- all of your wins, losses, and mistakes of the day.
I peer down the tunnel looking for the lights and feel such rage towards her last binge. At the same time, I love her as if she were a child - she doesn't know any better. This dance between anger and love is one I know all too well.
The doors open and I briskly walk past a pregnant woman and win the seat. I feel guilty for a second and say to myself, "I did it. I am sorry." I am owning my selfishness in this moment and am choosing not to make eye contact with pissed pregnant lady. Instead, I stare at her belly.
I am suddenly overwhelmed with the fear of losing her - losing my own mother to something neither one of us can seem to control.
I scan the subway and do my normal train behavior of scrolling Facebook through my glassy, tearful gaze. As I scroll, I keep thinking about the feeding tube. How did we get here? Do people know this can happen from drinking wine?
When I was a kid, in 1982, Mommy sometimes had a glass of Chardonnay after work. But what working mom doesn't unwind and have a glass or two sometimes, right? But as I grew and Mom became closer and closer to retirement, her loneliness was stark, and the Chardonnay became a coping mechanism gone wrong. I watched the one glass become three or four until that bottle of Woodbridge never left her side.
I want to update my Facebook status to read: If you are someone who needs to get sober, do it - like right now. Your addiction is killing the people who love you. But then I think of her shame and how rageful she becomes when I mention anything about her wine; I play her angry voicemails in my head and feel hopeful she might live and be mad at me. Yes, be mad and live, please? For a minute, I think I should send my Facebook PSA anyways, so I can help other people.
But I soon realize, in this moment, I don't need to fix anyone else. I need to fix me.
Instead, I decide to take in other people's updates. The first one exclaims love for flannel sheets. (I despise flannel sheets. They make me sweat.) So many status updates about American Sniper. (I could watch Bradley Cooper do anything. He's so hot, right?) And then someone shares a skit from Funny or Die (My mom might die and yet, I am still finding this skit funny. Fuck. Wow, Bradley Cooper really is so hot. Fuck again.)
And then an overwhelming sadness comes over my body. When your mother might die you have this sense of floating in space that I cannot even begin to explain other than I can somewhat slightly begin to fathom what orphans might feel. I have had my mother for 40 years and I am in no shape to let her go - not for one minute, one hour, or for the rest of my life.
I want to shout out, "Has anyone lost their mom and survived? If so, I need to know you." And here I am, seconds away from starting a group therapy session right on the C train. I mean this is New York - stranger things have happened.
Suddenly, I spot a man across from me who clearly has had a hard life. And although I am so sad, gratitude fills my heart. I am not homeless. I have a home, that's a plus in my day. I also have a mother who has loved me, nurtured me, and so I know somehow, no matter what, I will survive today.
I start to think about this man's mother. What was she like? Was his childhood a happy one? As I exit the train, I slip him 20 dollars. Listen, I have no business slipping anyone 20 bucks - I am late on my Con Ed bill - but it was an amount that meant something to me. He lights up like a Christmas tree.
I want him to know in this moment, I feel connected to him.
As I make my way back up to the street lights, I start to cry again, but these tears are different. I am crying for the reality that is my life. I am 40 years old. I do not have children. My mom may never know a grandchild. I have not made choices to create a family because of my defenses and fears. I never trust anyone. I have allowed myself to be homeless in spirit.
And today that changes. My life will be different because I choose it to be. I cannot change it for my mother, but I can change it for myself. Mama, although I cannot change you, I love you more than you will ever know.
Changing history is changing yourself.