As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up a little different than
most. Not all, but most. I grew up in what is now referred to as “a
broken home.” Turns out, that’s not so
different. I was raised by two hippie
parents. Also, not so different. My hippie parents weren’t necessarily the
norm for hippies, though. Last week, I
told you about my dad, the war veteran who came home from Vietnam and decided
that the fringes of society were more comfortable for him than the mainstream. My mom, the other half of the equation, was
also quite different. She grew up VERY
wealthy. Her grandparents owned A LOT of
shit in the central valley in the early part of the 20th
century. They sent their only daughter
to Stanford. She married an Army
officer. They had three daughters, my mom
being the last of them. My grandmother
married a foreign diplomat, after the father of her children left her. After my grandmother died, of breast cancer,
at 40, her three daughters were sent to live in a castle in Bethesda, with the
diplomat and his next new wife.
Between all of the children, there were like 12 or 15 or something like that. A ridiculous number of children, living under
one roof. Also being raised by people
who should have been sterilized before they ever had the chance to procreate. Cromwell was a sociopath and an abuser. Vicki was a narcissist and…Well, actually, her
only character flaw was being a narcissist.
But narcissism makes you victim
to everyone else’s demons, therefore, it makes you guilty of those demons,
too. At any rate, my mom lived in very lavish surroundings for
many of her formative years. Despite
living with assholes and predators.
It should be no surprise that she left Bethesda, by way of
her right thumb, before she graduated from high school. My mom hitch hiked across country, in the
early 70’s. She found her way to her
grandparents’ house in Turlock. There
she told her grandmother what had happened to her, and her sisters, in
Bethesda. There, she watched her
grandmother pick up the telephone and call the lawyer. As my mother, in her hotpants and crocheted d tank
top, listened to her grandmother, the suffragette, tell the lawyer: “Cromwell Riches gets nothing from my will.” As my mom relives the story, that was the end
of the conversation.
After that, my mom made her way up and down the coast of
California. Many times. Mendocino.
Eureka. Back to the Central
Valley. Santa Barbara. Always without a home. Always without friends. But she went anyway. She made her home in Isla Vista. That was where she was diagnosed with rheumatoid
arthritis. That’s where she worked with
the disabled. That’s where she rode her
bike to work every day. That’s also where
she met my dad, the haunted Vietnam Veteran.
They drove up the coast one weekend, and there I started. My mom and my dad have long since gone
different ways and had different opinions, about very many things. But they both like to talk about that
weekend in San Simeon. Anyway, nine
months later, a little girl appeared in their life. Neither one of them could have seen that
coming while they traversed Hearst Castle, that many months earlier. But there I was. The child of a Vietnam veteran and a trust
fund reject.
So, I guess it goes without saying, that things didn’t work
out between them. My parents that
is. Both with troubled pasts, both with independent
thoughts. So, when I was two, they went
their separate ways. Not without struggle,
though. I made sure of that. After years of custody issues, I moved with
my mom to Stockton. I feel nauseous just
thinking about Stockton. But that’s
where my mom met the love of her life. That’s
where my mom and Gene looked at each other and said, “uh…maybe we shouldn’t
raise a child here.” That’s where we
moved to a small town nobody ever heard of before. A lot of very important things happened to me
in Nice. I learned what family meant. I
learned what friendship meant. I learned
that getting what I wanted meant going to work.
That’s also where I learned that my mom was sick.
I would come home from school, excited to
tell her about my day, and she would be in bed.
I wanted to see her at my games, but she never came. She apologized every time. Every. Single.
Time. I was actually surprised when
she showed up to my high school graduation. And we
had a graduation party. I didn’t see the
effects of that party on her, because two days later, I left for boot
camp. But after I left on that plane, she
spent the next week in bed, unable to move.
All because she left the house and hosted a small party in her
home.
After that, the only time I went home was when I absolutely
had to. I moved back to California a
couple of years later. When it was only
a three hour drive, it was easier to cope with seeing how sick they were
getting. Then, on Mother’s day weekend,
2003, I had finally gotten comfortable with going “home” again. That was the weekend that Gene died. It was a Friday. I brought a bucket of
chicken and everything to make enchiladas on mother’s day. I was excited to be there. Until my mom called me in the hotel room
early on Saturday morning. She said “I
called an ambulance for Gene this morning and the hospital just called and they
won’t say why I need to come.” I knew
why, though. And as I drive to pick her
up, all I heard was white noise.” As we
drove to the hospital, ;we didn’t say a word.
She knew. I knew. We both knew.
The man who had consumed 17 years of our life was dead. The man who clothed us and housed us and had protected us (many
stories to tell in the future.) and knew MOPAR better than most MOPAR guys, was
dead. I walked into that hospital room
with my mom, and she didn’t weep when she say his gray, bloated body. But I did.
Then I pulled it together and called my Auntie and she was there in
minutes, despite the 200 mile that separated us. That's when
I looked at my mom, and I saw her start to
die. Not like what the disease did to
her. If it was only physical, she would
have never made it to that minute. I
watched her start to die, in a manner that only a woman who has lost the love
of her life, could start to die.
I never worried about my mom’s life before that. She had many surgeries. She had many hard times. She spent many days in bed. But I never feared she would die. Not until Gene died. After that, I found myself spending more time
with her in hospital rooms than anywhere else.
I went to college on the east coast…I flew back three times when she was
in the ICU. I moved to Alaska, the two
times that I went to see her, she was very sick. One day, my ex-husband got a call at work
from her doctor. The power was out
everywhere else on the island, somehow, my MOTHER’s doctor found the number
for my husband at his job. I knew that
must have been the end. But Dr. Gierke
just wanted me to know that she was OK.
And “no, don’t catch the next flight out. We’re all dying Angela. Just not today.” That’s what he told me when I finally talked
to him.
So, I came back to California. I live three hours from where my mommy
lives. She’s made an incredible recovery. I’ve been to see her many times. More importantly, she’s been to see me and
Radley many times. She has come here, ON
THE TRAIN!. She has taken Radley to the
grocery store and the zoo. She’s in
remission. Things I never would have
imagined her doing, she did.
Movies. Animals. Babysitting. Baking pies. With my son!!! She was supposed to be dead by now.
She fought back, though.
Tonight I got a call from her friend. I don’t accept calls from family
anymore. Because they always have very
bad news. So, when I saw my mom’s BFF calling, I started packing my bags. Then I listened to the message: “Angela, it’s Shelly. You’re mom’s in the hospital. Please call her.”
My mom is supposed to be in remission. She’s supposed to be making train
reservations. She’s supposed to be
planning our Christmas dinner. She’s
supposed to be past the worst of it.
Instead, she’s lying in a hospital bed, weaker than I’ve ever heard her,
telling me she needs me. Where are my
inner peas now?
