“Mother do you think they’ll drop the bomb?

Mother do you think they’ll like this song?

Mother do you think they’ll try to break my balls?

Ooooh aah, Mother should I build a wall?”

~ “Mother” Pink Floyd

The tension in my legs, untamable—unable to sit still to save my life. The ability to concentrate, lost, with the lack of sleep. The constant urge to stretch and move unwavering while being thrusted into stressful situations and doing basic things I haven’t done in nearly three years without a drug’s aid. A condition that morphed into a nearly thirty pill a day dependence. Now, I’ve been reduced to bouncing a black leather portfolio binder on my lap, hiding my unrelenting restless leg syndrome from others after going cold turkey—the opioid well running dry. But, it had to be done, to unburden my mother from this heartbreak.

Hoping to spare my mind of this extreme tension, I opened the black binder, removing a folded piece of yellow paper from it. Believing a rehab facility to be a better place, like a member of the Hollywood crowd, it made me think of my mother’s father, a grandfather who died before I was born—an aspiring actor back in the early forties. He became friends with Big Band leaders, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey. So much so, their sister Mary baptized my mother. I then thought about her brothers, Mark, the oldest and Davey, the youngest. Wondering if they were baptized by anyone my grandfather met while working in Hollywood. Ruminating about my Uncle Mark reminded me of my mother’s story about her pet chicken when she was ten—one she shared several times with me. How she raised Gidget from a chick to an adult hen that she took on walks around her neighborhood. How she looked forward to coming home from school every day to play with her beloved pet. One day she returned home from school but didn’t see her playmate. That was until while sitting in her room, her brother Mark walked inside, throwing its head into her lap. My uncle Mark always teased my mother, taking joy in scaring her, but my grandfather thought he took it too far. After his beating and apology, her trauma quickly evolved into a greater love for animals, or as she called them “God’s creatures”, bonding more with her father after that incident.

“He used to always call me ‘Dolly Gal’”. She told me when I was a child. “He would come home from work and say “Hey, Dolly Gal! Bring me a beer!” and I'd get really excited before running to the fridge to get that for him. It always made me happy.”

I never met my grandfather; he died a little over three years before I was born. My mom used to tell me how much I would’ve loved him—no doubt I would have. It sure would’ve been nice to have a beer with him. I have a lot of my grandfather’s traits—his love for movies and the Hollywood life. The day he got sick must have been devastating for my mother, she was super close to him. One day in high school, she had her hair up too high and was forced to take a shower with her clothes on to set an example for the other students who dared doing so. After that day she quit school, the eighth grade, and never returned. Instead, she stayed home to take care of her father, who had just gotten cancer, while her mother worked to make ends meet. I always wondered why my mother always told me she missed her Dad when I was a kid, but at the time it wasn’t long from the day he died. She shared on the day she turned twenty-one, she went out to buy her first alcoholic drink--a can of beer; not for herself but so she could place it at his grave.

Trying to concentrate on my breathing, the tension builds within, ending any chance at calming my mind. Desperately trying to control the fidgeting only provides proof there will be no chance at success. My business will undoubtedly fail—this affliction impossible to hide from people. Sitting outside does nothing to quell this internal furnace, continually wiping off the accumulating sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. This great discomfort the due reward for loving someone with my heart and soul. Renumeration for trusting in and caring too much about someone’s happiness--falsely believing their love for me was too real to leave behind. It surely wasn’t this difficult in the fifties—the time my father met my mother when he was nineteen and she was fifteen. And when the army summoned him for training in nineteen sixty-five at the age of twenty-two, for two three-month stints in Louisiana and Northern California, he told my mother not to wait for him. Instead, she wrote him letters every day and even three on the weekend. Today, that would scare someone away, but back in the fifties? A whole different story. When he returned home six months later, they resumed their relationship and four years after that came a wedding. Six months after their marriage, I entered the picture.

When you’re a child, marital struggles don’t exist, when in actuality, they do. My parents’ young marriage was tested when my father lost his job nearly a year after my birth. They faced many obstacles up to this point, and now he felt helpless unable to provide for his family. He could’ve cheated, like Jackson, and chosen the easy way out when my mother yelled at him to "get off the couch" when he got down. My mother, the eternal optimist, experienced things he never did—leaving school to take care of a dying parent at fourteen years old. Her “things happen for a reason” mantra certainly puzzled my father the same way it did me. After all, they had a nine-month-old and the stress of not knowing where the next meal would come from. My father burned bridges when he left his mother and sister behind when choosing to marry my mother. But even without knowing if he’d be able to keep the lights on or a roof over our heads, he remained faithful. My mother pitched in, cleaning houses while my father found work through his landlord painting the apartment building, he lived in, to afford the rent. Even settling on pancakes for dinner--it was all they could afford. One thing was clear, something I never realized, my father and mother may not have had the marriage I longed to have, but it was founded on love. And when my father found good work on the docks for Wrigley as a tugboat deckhand, he never looked back. Apparently, my mother was right, things did happen for a reason.

As this uncontrollable anxiety continues to rage within, it brings me back to the times my father used to tell me being a kid was the best time of my life. His commentary coming at those times I wished to be an adult, so I no longer lived being under his thumb. He was beyond right about that being the best time of my life. Unable to fight back this rising discomfort, my irritability and frustration now brings me back to Anya’s lies to the judge; that “I threatened to kidnap her kids”. Leaving me to reflect on the time when all I wanted were kids of my own—what I believed to be a given. After meeting Anya, that dream went out the window--having her love was more important. I know Anya didn’t think so, but that dream officially died the day she lied to that judge—the day she chose to protect her kids with lies rather than with the truth--the day she took the cowardly and easy way out. I worked with kids at the Daycare for three years. Babysat them on the weekends instead of going out. Ran the KinderCare program. Had boys and girls tell me they wished I were their dad. Even coached the boys basketball team for two years. I understood Anya’s anger with me and knew she needed to protect her kids, but not from me and never like that. Not after a nearly two year physical and emotional relationship. Anya made the choice to fall in love with me, as did I with her, and the fact she could be so dishonest about me in such a grotesque way just shook me to my core—using a substance to take me away from its harsh reality. I couldn’t imagine someone doing that to a person like my mother who adored children, with that passionate and fragile heart of hers. The continuing inability to control my bodily movements was now driving me to places in my head I didn’t want to visit on this day--of all days.

While driving by my old elementary school earlier, it brought me back to when my mother started working there and the feeling of safety at the time of knowing she was close. She started as a ticket clerk in the school’s cafeteria when I was in the first grade. I could still see her standing there in front of one of those old large bronze cash registers with the keys you had to pound your finger into just to ring up a sale. No doubt her carpal tunnel developed working on those for twenty plus years. All the kids joked around with her whenever they were in her line, and no child went without a meal even if they didn’t have a ticket. My mother always made my lunch so I never had to go through her line, but those that did always announced to me they saw her. I don’t know how many times I walked by her at the register without acknowledging she was even there, more consumed with my friends. But I’m sure she saw me each time I walked by hoping I'd at least say hello. I just hope it never hurt her too badly when I failed to stop just one time; even to simply look in her direction and smile.

My elementary school was a public school and paled in comparison to the better private school nearby—the one most couldn’t afford at the time. My mother always felt the school got a bad rap. She even wrote letters to the local newspaper to bolster support for its staff of teachers. She complained in an article they published, that the parents failed to support the school and its functions after noticing "Back to School" night was poorly attended. When the next "Back to School" night came around, she talked the principal into allowing her to put on a show for the parents and kids in the cafeteria. I had no idea what she was up to when she asked me to film the show. At the time, I was two years removed from elementary school and it was a hard sell—I was now above elementary school back to school night, but I eventually caved in. When we arrived, the cafeteria was wall to wall with families who were instructed to meet there before being escorted to their respective classrooms. Before disappearing in the kitchen, she instructed me to stand right outside the kitchen doors and to start filming once the music started.

“Ok, whatever.” I told her, still believing to be “too cool” for this scene.

When the music came on (some fifties song I’ve heard a million times but didn't know the title of) two of my mother’s coworkers dressed up like the Pink Ladies from the movie “Grease” came bursting out. After almost being taken out by the swinging cafeteria doors, I quickly recovered and aimed the VHS camcorder and began filming. My mother’s two coworkers, in pink ribboned ponytails, then performed a swing dance number, while the laughter of children and clapping hands filled the air. Suddenly the music stopped and another song, “Little Old Lady from Pasadena”, began playing just seconds before those kitchen doors swung wildly open again. Springing from them, a grey-haired grandmother dressed in bloomers came rolling out on a scooter, riding around in circles while the kids pointed at her, wide eyed and shouting “that’s Susie!”. It took me a minute to realize the "Little Old Lady from Pasadena" was actually my mother, the "Crazy Woman from Harbor City", puttering around the cafeteria floor in front of all the parents and kids. I remembered two things distinctly on this night—the laughter from the kids following my mother with their fingers while announcing to their parents who she was; and her being egged on by the kids not to stop. For the next half hour, I filmed her trying to catch her breath while free styling on that scooter, determined not to disappoint them.

After her performance, the kids were then escorted to their classrooms and visited with their teachers. She then found the strength to ride up to me to grab the camcorder.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked, still trying to catch her breath. 'Thanks for recording all of that."

“How much longer are you staying?”

“About another hour. I have to help clean up.”

“I think I'm just gonna walk home—I have to get my costume ready for school tomorrow.” I told her, now focused on spending Halloween with my friends.

She sighed then nodded. “Okay Honey, give me the recorder, I’ll take it home.”

“Sure.” I replied, happily handing it off to her.

We lived just a couple of blocks away from the school, so the walk was a short one to take at night. From that night forward, the school experienced better attended "Back to School" nights leading to future gigs for my mother and her coworkers for a few years afterwards. At her retirement party eighteen years later, they played that clip of her on the scooter—the new principal at the school shocked to learn it was her. He never witnessed that side to my mother because she was so opinionated about the direction of the school when he first started, criticizing his every move. Over time, he realized she was part of the old guard and resistant to the changes he made. Somewhere along the line he won her over and during her retirement party announced, “I’m going to miss you, Susie...telling me how to run my school.” My mother showed me the retirement party video and nothing, but laughter, was heard after that was said—perfectly defining her tenure and the mark she left.

My mother claimed the only reason she stayed so long was because of the kids. She befriended so many over twenty plus years—there were always kids from school at my house. Most of my friends from school even came by just to chat with her rather than hang out with me. When I was elected class president my last year, it was mostly because she morphed into my campaign manager during their visits. When I was in high school, there were two young girls who my mother became close to, who were at my house more than I was. Their father was an alcoholic, and their mother was having a difficult time having to work then pick them up from school. Since they bonded with my mother, and even my father, they would spend time at our house after school, so their mother didn’t have to worry. When she got off from work in the early evening, she would then come pick them up from our house. There was a sense of sadness from my parents a few years later when the girls were old enough to walk home and no longer needed supervision until their mother returned from work. After my mom retired, she’d sit in the kitchen and open the front window to watch the kids she knew from the school walk by the house on their way home. They’d wave and scream her name when they saw her—a nice respite from her silent battle. She’d either wave back or walk outside to talk to them—each taking turns telling each other that they were missed. I’m certain now those kids were angels of God helping her cope with an unknown future. After a few years passed and a new group of kids, who didn’t know my mother had worked at their school, walked past the house, a part of her had to have died inside. It’s hard not to get choked up thinking how the simple passing of time made her feel—knowing those old friendships gave her more life than any treatment or drug ever could.

More sweat begins trickling down the side of my face as all the emotions and stress I deferred from feeling, hits me like the moon crashing into earth—there's just no stopping or controlling it. I hadn’t slept well, if at all, over the last week and could hear laughter coming from somewhere but no one's ever there. Doing anything I can to stymie this distress, I open the folded piece of paper and place it on my lap to read its contents—while trembling like a Parkinson’s sufferer. For the first time in decades, the thought of a nice cold thirst quenching cup of lemonade enters my mind—another bizarre craving. This transports me to another point in time, when my mother implored me to sell lemonade at one of her garage sales. My grandmother would visit on a random Saturday in the summer and they would sell old clothes and other household items out on the front lawn. Being a bit introverted, the last thing I wanted to do was sell anything out in public. It wasn’t until my mother made the lemonade, and even the ten-cent cardboard sign, after setting up a table with large Styrofoam cups in our driveway before I was brave enough to take on the venture. On top of selling my baseball cards and cups of ice cold sweet lemonade, I pulled in an average of seventy dollars at each garage sale she had. Whenever my mother sold any of my old clothes, she gave me that money too, even though she bought them for me. Although my father wasn’t a big fan of her selling items outside the home to strangers, she generated a lot of foot traffic mostly because of the lemonade on the hot summer days and baseball cards were a big thing back then. Most of the people in the neighborhood couldn’t afford clothes, especially for their kids who grew out of them quickly, so my mother sold all my old clothes—never having to throw them away. She even had a utility coin belt she wore around giving change to people each time she made a sale that required it. When my grandmother passed a few years later, she stopped having garage sales, another piece of her chipped away.

After each of those garage sales, my mother would later be seated in the bleachers at the park, just up the block from where we lived, to watch my baseball games. While sitting here desperately trying to hide this affliction, going back in time to those days with my mother in the stands yelling at an umpire who made a bad call, was the only way I could feel normal. She’d shout at the other team’s coaches if they ran the score up on us, even yelling at my dad if he made any bad moves as the head coach. You could rest assured if you heard “Screw you, Creepo!” from the bleachers, it was my mother. I remember her telling my father how to coach the team from the stands—in front of everyone. At the time it was embarrassing, but now left me smiling in the worst of conditions. She supported me in everything I did—even when I thought a chance existed of being a five-foot eight Caucasian NBA basketball player. She’d even eavesdrop on my friends and I playing baseball up at the park—she could hear everything we said from her backyard. I’ll never forget the time she confronted Greg when he came over my house with Vance after one of our games for a glass of water.

“I can’t believe what was coming out of your mouth today, Greggy!” She told him. “I could hear your foul mouth from my backyard!”

“That wasn’t me Mrs. Lastman.” Greg told her. “That was your son!”

I guess she was such an ardent supporter, it was safe to say she had selective hearing too.

In school, they preached to us about the danger of drugs, but it went largely ignored—there was no way they’d ever affect my life; never an option or even a thought. I smoked a cigarette or two but didn’t like them. I got drunk on the weekends but never craved a drink other than in social situations to thwart my introverted nature. A pill never stood a chance of having any kind of a hold on me, but life, like love, was unpredictable. And, in my wildest hallucinations I could’ve never envisioned a months long hang over when I stopped taking them. How each day that passed left me craving them just so I'd be able to sleep a few hours during the night. If I had to work for someone and was not self-employed, I would’ve lost my job—unable to get out of bed to face the day and too sleep deprived. The more my addiction grew over the last three years, the less I cared about anything until now, when the most extreme form of guilt left me with no choice but to care again.

Even with all that schooling after becoming a college graduate with two bachelor’s degrees and a CPA license, it was my mother with no schooling after the eighth grade who had it all together. It brought me back to the times she would pretend to be the dumbest person in the room. She often called me out of the blue, while working on a crossword puzzle, to ask how to spell a word.

“Landy, how do you spell liberty?” She’d ask.

“You seriously don’t know how to spell it?”

“No.” she’d tell me.

“How do you think it’s spelled?”

“L-y-b-e-r-d-i-e”. She’d spell out.

I’d then laugh. “Lie Birdy? Do you know many lying little birdies?”

“Then how do you spell it?” She'd respond, acting confused.

“L-i-b-e-r-t-y”. I’d spell out for her. “Liberty”.

“L-i-b-i-r-d-y?” She'd try.

“No! L-i-b-e...r-t…y”

“Oh! L-i-b-e-r-d-y!” She'd try again.

“No! T. Y!’

“Oh! L-i-b-e-r-d-t-y!” She'd fail again.

Throwing my hands up in the air while holding the phone against my shoulder I’d then exclaim. “Sure—that’s it.”

“That’s eight letters, Landy. It can only be a seven-letter word.”

“You’re killin’ me, Mom.” I'd reply in resignation.

There were also those times she was working on a crossword puzzle in her room when I visited.

“What's another word for chatty…you know…talkative?” She’d inquire.

“How about loquacious?” I'd answer with nothing less than sarcasm; knowing full well what her next question would be.

“Wait…that’s a ten-letter word, isn’t it?” She'd wonder before counting the empty boxes on the paper.

“I think so.” I'd reply, unsure myself.

She'd then smile widely. “That’s it! Thanks, Honey!”

“Don’t you need me to spell it for you?”

“Nope, I got it.” She’d tell me. “I’m surprised you knew that word.”

I’d then snatch the crossword puzzle from her after she penciled in the last letter and couldn’t believe my eyes. For some reason, she could spell the most difficult words perfectly leaving me with a perplexing conundrum--did she ask just to see if I could spell it?

Recalling those times brought me to another head scratching moment when she came into the living room one evening to watch the game show “Jeopardy” with my father and I. Once she sat down next to me on the couch, my father sitting across from us in his recliner, looked over at her then rolled his eyes—we both knew we were in for some ridiculous answers.

“I’ll take “The U.S. Presidents When” for one hundred, Alex.” Requested one of the show’s contestants.

“When Hawaii gained statehood.” Alex Trebeck then posed.

“Who is Eisenhower.” My father yelled before the contestant could.

“Leszek.” Recognized Alex when the contestant buzzed in before the others did.

“Who is Eisenhower.” answered Leszek.

“That’s correct.” Stated Alex.

“Yeah!” my mom shouted, cheering my father on while he again rolled his eyes.

“”The U.S. Presidents When” for four hundred.” Leszek requested.

“When the Hindenburg zeppelin crashed.” posed Mr. Trebeck.

While my father and I were bound by silence, my mother yells. “Who is FDR!”

“Al” acknowledged Alex to the first contestant who buzzed in.

“Who is Roosevelt. FDR.” Al replied.

“That’s correct.” Responded Alex.

“Presidents for six hundred.” Selected Al.

“When the U.S. extended full diplomatic recognition to Vietnam.”

With our tongues in suspended animation, my mother blurts. “Who is Bill Clinton!”

“Tad” Acknowledged Alex.

“Who is Clinton.” Answered Tad.

"Correct." acknowledged the game show host.

As bizarre as this appeared, my mother was a United States president history fan, so nothing seemed completely out of the ordinary after she got two in a row right. Our money was now on her spewing non sensical answers once the category changed.

“”Quotes” for two hundred, Alex.” Chose Tad.

“Karl Marx: This is the opium of the people.” Alex asked.

Before the contestant could answer my mother quickly and confidently answers. “What is religion.”

According to Alex Trebeck, that answer was correct.

“It’s the leading agricultural product of the island nation of Dominica.”

“What are bananas.” She answered.

That answer was also correct.

“The scientific name of this garnish used in salads and sandwiches is nasturtium aquaticum.” Announced Alex.

“Water cress” she answered.

Alex would soon confirm she even knew what nasturtium aquaticum was.

She then answered the next five questions correctly before leaving us at the commercial break, retreating to her room. While my father shook his head in disbelief, I decided to use the restroom. On the way, I overheard the show “Jeopardy” coming from her room.

“What ya up to?” I asked with an eye on Alex Trebeck who returned from break a little earlier on my mother’s television. “What the hell is this?”

“Nothin’.” She smiled, listening for the answers to the clues that will be known a few minutes from now—the show somehow delayed by five minutes on the flatscreen in the living room.

“I knew it!” I shot.

“Don’t tell your father.” She pointed at me in a low tone. “He thinks he sooo smart and knows everything.”

Grinning, I nodded to let her know the secret was safe with me before using the restroom then heading back out to the living room to watch her prank eventually fall apart.

The restless legs that have kept me up over the last ten days are now making a cameo appearance during the daylight hours, threatening to turn me into one giant spectacle at a time I couldn't afford to be. I deserved every bit of this though—my dependence on a pill for survival finally catching up with me. Now, each day a battle to get through the day before another anxiety filled night of being unable to sleep closed in unimpeded. And when my body does receive a reprieve from the nightly extreme tension, the morning sun shining brightly in my room ensures the sleeplessness continues. Even sitting down for a pleasurable meal only promises more anxiety effectively turning it into a chore. And just like my mother, who feared leaving her room because she believed the world had become an unsafe place, I now found myself anchored to my bed--my holding cell, But for the first time in over a week there was no safe space for me from the anxiety. This day called for the world to witness the damage I have inflicted on myself.

Trying to keep my mind off these acute withdrawal symptoms, leaves me angry at not only myself but the world--further mystifying me how my mother could be so nice to people when she wasn’t feeling well. One time while visiting after she had a rough treatment day, I overheard her having a warm conversation on the phone.

“Hey, who was that?” I asked after she said goodbye. “Uncle Davey?”

“Oh, that was Candace.” She told me, her white and black cat, Cleo, pouncing upon her lap the very moment she sat down.

“If that cat gets any bigger, we’re going to have to call the Guiness Book of World Records.” I told her, pointing out Cleo’s girth. “She’s going to break your pelvis one day.”

“Don’t fat shame Cleo!” She exclaimed, while petting the purring feline.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“So, who’s Candace?”

“She’s a telemarketer.”

I laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to hang up on telemarketers?”

“Oh no, I was a telemarketer once and it hurt my feelings whenever someone yelled then hung up on me.”

I remembered the days when my mother sold Avon and had Tupperware parties over the house but never heard about her telemarketing stint. I remember leaving the house that day thinking I’d have a hard time ever getting into heaven competing against her patience.

The more I fidgeted about, the more my craving for pills increased as the pressure inside mounted, bringing me back to the night my father told me they didn’t think she’d make it through the night. Speeding on the 405 freeway like a madman, it was the last time I had them in my system, blasting the song “Bat Country” from Avenged Sevenfold to drown out the agony of my father’s words. They honestly believed my mother wasn’t going to make it through the night after battling cancer head on for twenty-four years? Whoever was in charge at the hospital didn’t know my mother—she would never go down so easily, especially from a minor bout of a "pneumonia". There’s no way this could ever be her last night on earth.

It felt like an eternity had passed when I finally pulled into the hospital parking lot. After stepping outside my vehicle, I looked up at the hospital rooms, feeling like the priest in the movie “The Exorcist” knowing uncertainty awaited me. Harbor City hospital was a small local infirmary, and the nurses there knew most of the patients on a personal level--my mother growing close to several nurses at the hospital over the years. She would ask me if I knew “so and so” before informing me we went to high school “together” but their names never rang a bell yet her nurses somehow remembered me; or maybe they just told her that out of respect? When I reached the front desk, and before I could ask where my mother’s room was, a dark-haired female nurse with a round face, sweet smile and petite frame greeted me.

“Hi Landyn. I’m Sean’s girlfriend, Diane. I’m the head nurse here.” She told me. “Your mother was just taken out of ICU. I’ll take you to her.”

“Hi Diane. Okay.” I replied nodding, drained and high, knowing so little about hospitals that I didn't know what her being in the ICU meant.

Just before we stepped in the elevator, she looked me at me with concern before grabbing and rubbing my hand. Her move of comfort caught me completely off guard, the drug leaving me slow to comprehend and irritated. It wasn’t a romantic gesture but held a grimness all its own, a reality that only fueled my frustration with life up to this point. I mean, what the fuck happened to my mother? How is she on her death bed after coming in here with a "little pneumonia"? Did my father sugarcoat this, or did he just not know? I could’ve been by her side at the hospital instead of reading things written over the years thinking she was out to dinner after a short stay. I knew she had lost a lot of weight, but wasn’t the hospital the best place for her? She walks in here and just a few hours later she’s fighting for her life? My mother fought this thing for twenty-four years just to lose her battle in less than twenty-four hours? This all didn’t add up. And here I was, doped up on painkillers in my most trying moment suddenly thrusted into a situation without knowing how to feel. Diane grabbing my hand was a sincere act of kindness, but it only increased the gravity of what awaited me.

When the elevator reached the top floor, Diane held on to my hand while leading me down a white walled corridor. It was a quiet walk, the most somber I’ve ever taken with another person. The world seemed to stop around me, making it feel like an out of body experience. We passed by several dark quiet rooms with patients in their beds obscured only by white curtains. As we continued our walk, Diane looked up at me with worry in her eyes—where and what was she leading me to? When we stopped at a final curtained area, she removed her hand from mine and slowly pulled away the sheet for me to enter. There laid my mother in her hospital bed, my father standing to her right, his hand caressing hers. There were no breathing tubes or even IVs—what I expected to see; just my parents as Diane closed the curtain and disappeared, giving us privacy while my mother reflexively gasped for air.

“What’s going on here?” I asked my expressionless father.

“I was asked to make a choice…” his voice breaking as he spoke, unable to look up at me.

I shook my head. “A choice?”

“The choice to let her go.” He told me, his eyes still on his wife. “The choice I had to make.”

“I need to talk to someone.” I replied, knowing my father was too distraught to make this decision.

I tore away the curtain and exited in agony and desperation. There’s no way I was going to sit there and just watch my mother die. This so-called "decision" was not made by someone with the capacity to make it. Was her oncologist even notified? I searched for Diane but came across a grey haired, sturdily built female nurse standing in the corridor next to the main desk.

“Hello.” I greeted, trying my best to talk lowly and keep it together.

“Hi. Can I help you?” She asked, taking a pen out of her ear to use on her clipboard.

“Do you know what happened to the patient in room B-7” I inquired. “I don’t understand what's goin' on here.”

“Suzanne Lastman?"

"Yes."

“How do you know her?”

“I’m her son.”

"She had a heart attack, Sir." she informed me.

“What? A heart attack? How is that possible?" I replied, irritably and massively shocked. “And isn't this the best place to have one of those in? How come she isn’t being cared for? Why are we being forced to let her go? She came in here with a little pneumonia and now she’s dying of heart failure? This doesn't make any sense!"

“Alright, well, your mother has stage four Cancer.”

“She’s been living with Cancer for the last twenty-four years. How is it possible she’s losing her battle in less than twenty-four hours after walking in here for help?” I countered. “How is she now dying of heart failure? You need to have someone go back in there and try to save her. Has her oncologist been notified?”

“Yes, he has and we’ve done all we can, Sir.” She answered far too comfortably.

“All you can?” I responded, incredulously. “How can she have a heart attack in a hospital, of all places with around the clock vigilance, yet be losing her life?”

“Her Oncologist informed us that your mother has a pre-existing heart issue, and we could do nothing to repair the damage.” She told me. “Her body is too weak to survive heart surgery. That’s what we told Mr. Lastman and then we advised him of his options.”

“A heart issue?”

She nodded and placed her hand softly on my shoulder. "She suffered congestive heart failure due to her late-stage Cancer. We advised your father to let her go peacefully. He agreed and we've heavily sedated her. We're sorry.”

I glanced back at the curtained room my mother laid in then reluctantly gazed back at the nurse before looking behind me again. After a few seconds passed, I nodded my head and whispered "thank you" before returning to where a supreme heartache resided; back to the person who gave me life that was now losing hers. My sweet mother—the one who made me soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, oatmeal and cinnamon toast whenever I got sick; who took my temperature then waited on me hand and foot until I felt better faced the greatest of sicknesses; and here I was unable to return the favor.

Reaching for the snow-white sheet, I stood there for a few seconds with my eyes to the floor, too pained to enter before slowly peeling it away to step inside again. Upon entry, my father looked up at me with the same look I’m certain was on my face. Standing there not knowing what to say to each other, he rose from his seat multiple times to kiss the top of my mother's head while her body pressed involuntarily forward, seeking the air denied to her. My eyes fearfully strayed over to a small digital heart monitor standing beside her bed as it announced she was still with us. Working my way over to the unoccupied side of the room, I placed her warm hand in mine and put it to the side of my face. I then knelt forward, kissed her on the cheek and moved my head gently against hers. The tears wouldn’t come though, this moment feeling all too unreal to believe. The only thing feeling certain was that at any minute she would be gone.

While reflecting on that moment, a hand touched my back.

“They’re going to close the casket in five minutes, cousin.”

My cousin, Chris, stood before me. He had just turned forty, was purposely bald with a muscular build and standing a few inches taller than my sixty-eight. The haunting memory of how my mother’s words “that’s not my mother” reverberated off the church walls during my grandmother's funeral, stole the courage from being at my own mother’s wake, a duty my father handled alone. Remembering the way she always looked, trumped the real fear of being traumatized by her looking anything less than my mother. Even assurances from the Funeral Director telling us she would look "beautiful" couldn’t change my stance.

“How does she look?” I inquired.

“Peaceful.” Chris told me.

In my mind, simply being in her casket could mean she looked "peaceful". Didn’t most people use that word at funerals after viewing a body? For all I knew, they told my mother the same thing at my grandmother’s funeral, giving her the temerity to view her that day.

After nodding at him, he smiled before patting me on the back. “No pressure but she looks really good. Are you alright to speak?”

“Thanks, yes…I’m fine.” I told him, even unsure of that.

He then left me to find a place to sit inside the church. Now feeling more stress about being the last person outside while trying to keep it together, I folded my eulogy, placed it back into the binder and took a deep breath. We spend most of our days taking this ability to breathe for granted until one day it all changes in an instant—this feeling of mortality new to me. Staring into the blue sky, a gust of wind blew mercifully upon my face, relieving me from the heat of being in a suit under the hot sun. Rising from the small bench, I stood in quiet contemplation for a moment before taking a first step toward the church, attempting to stymie the tension and uneasiness building inside. After wiping the sweat off my brow and using my hand to press down my hair, it seemed an impossible task to hide these withdrawal symptoms from friends and relatives let alone get through my eulogy.

With anxiety sweeping over me, I took a few more deep breaths before ascending the church steps. Upon entry, on my immediate left, was the viewing room—my father and uncle still standing over her casket. When they saw me standing there, they froze, shocked to see me approach them. Apparently recognizing the significance of my appearance, my father, while batting his eyes with a handkerchief, stepped outside of the room with my uncle, leaving me alone with her. I moved cautiously to her casket, noticing her hair protruding slightly above it. Unable to look inside, my eyes became familiar with the tiled floor pattern instead. When I found the courage to look up, all I could do was unexpectedly smile—she appearred to be just sleeping. My cousin understated what he saw to me; she was at perfect peace. Touching her cold hand, I fought back tears of sadness, happiness and relief knowing the woman in the casket was not an imposter. If the Funeral Director had been there, I would’ve thanked him a million times over for the care he took into making someone he never knew look so natural at the end of their life. I was eternally grateful he put his heart into his work and was a man of his word.

“You look beautiful, mom.” I whispered, rubbing her hand and then leaning in to kiss her forehead.

After viewing my mother, providing incontrovertible evidence she was no longer burdened by the life sucking menace of cancer, I felt strong enough to give her eulogy—feeling good knowing the last time I saw my mother on earth was the best choice I’ve ever made. As I watched them close her coffin and wheel it out of the room for the mass, I revisited my last moment with her at the hospital.

“Mom, I really hope you can hear me.” speaking into her ear and softly stroking the top of her head--her involuntary movements now less frequent. “For the last forty-one years I’ve been beyond blessed and didn’t even know it. You're the greatest gift I've ever been given. I couldn't have been more blessed in life having you for my mother. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it so I could tell you. I simply took you for granted. I love you, Mom. Now...you need to go be with Jesus. He wants you to come home. Dad and I will be okay. Mom…please go be with Jesus.”

Slowly pulling myself away, something told me to look up—to imagine her soul was looking down on us. When my father began sobbing, it felt right to leave him alone to say goodbye in his own way. She was my mother, but she was his wife and knew her more than I ever did.

“Dad, my heart can’t take this…it's too hard.” I said standing across from him, not wanting to see her take that final breath. “I’m going back to the house to call her brothers. I’ll see you back at home.”

My father looked up at me before speaking through tears. “I love you, Son.”

With one hand clutching the soft white curtain I nodded, fighting back the trauma of seeing my father emotional.

“I love you too, Dad.” I told him before exiting, leaving them alone for the last time together.

When I arrived at my parents’ house, I walked directly into her room and crashed upon the bed knowing this house would never feel the same way again. Not only did my mother die, but all the warmth and comfort that surrounded me here did too. If my life would never be the same after Anya left me, my mother’s passing made it official. As expected as her death should’ve been, there was no way to prepare for it. The way it played out dug a deeper hole inside me, always envisioning her passing in the privacy of our home surrounded by loved ones. Not the unintimate setting played out under the white lights of a hospital with only a curtain separating our grief from others. What made it more difficult was finding the words to tell my uncles their sister had just passed away, certainly shocking them as much as it did us. This just didn’t seem real; coming at least ten years too soon. My grandmother smoked every day and lived to be seventy-three. How could her daughter, who smoked a few cigarettes here and there only live to be sixty-five? There were grandchildren for her to have—to fill her with some of the joy she had raising me. How could she have a “little” pneumonia then succumb to congestive heart failure? As much as I didn’t want to believe Anya didn’t love me, I also didn’t want to believe my mother had just died.

While awaiting my father’s return, I posted to Facebook about her passing—unsure how to handle the magnitude of what just happened. Many friends sent out their condolences making me feel less alone in my grief. Three hours after leaving the hospital, my father returned home. From my mother’s room, I heard him hanging up his keys on the hooks in the kitchen followed by the cranking sound of adjusting his recliner. When I didn’t hear the television, I walked out into the living room to join him.

He gazed at the ceiling before acknowledging me sitting across from him on the couch. He then peered upwards again before speaking. “I watched her take her final breath. They took her away about an hour ago.”

“The nurse told me she had a heart attack.” I replied, shaking my head in disbelief with my eyes on the carpet. “Did she have a heart problem? I thought all she had was a little pneumonia?”

“Your mother was coughing all night and into the morning—she couldn’t sleep.” He informed me before placing his hand on his forehead. “I mean…she couldn’t stop coughing...violent coughs. Just hacking and hacking. I asked if she needed to go to the hospital, but she told me she was fine. An hour later she came out here and told me she thinks she better go to the hospital.”

My mind tried wrapping around all my mother must have felt before making that decision; wrecking me to imagine the fear she felt realizing the cough syrup wasn’t working—seeing the desperation and panic in the two Vicodin pills she left out for me; likely believing there was a real chance she wasn’t coming home. And in her most desperate and anxiety filled moment of life, she worried more about my survival than her own, shaking me to my loathesome core.

“How was she at the hospital?” I asked, barely breathing.

“She was fine." He told me before reaching for a Kleenex to blow his nose. "She tried to fall asleep but couldn’t find a good sleeping position in the bed they put her in. She fell out of it twice when I was there. They then put a mask on her and gave her some medication. I'm not sure what they gave her, but they were able to stop her coughing. She was upbeat after that...but I just never understood the seriousness of everything.”

“The seriousness of everything?”

“That her heart was damaged....that years of chemo took a toll but I should’ve known…” He told me.

"How could you have possibly known, Dad?" I asked, knowing my mother hid her struggle from us the best she could.

“After her last treatment, she got inside the car with a look I’ve never seen on your mother’s face before—like her entire spirit had been drained." He revealed. "The look on her face…just the heaviest look of worry. I asked what was wrong and…and she told me her doctor recommended hospice.”

“Hospice?” I answered, incredulously.

“I guess her Oncologist gave her the news her heart tissues were damaged, and she should consider hospice. I’ll never forget the look on her face…" He paused. 'It scared her to death.”

I thought nothing could rattle my mother—she believed in God and the afterlife too much. Hearing this from my father shook me greater than any earthquake ever could. No wonder she was so strong around us--she never truly believed cancer to be a death sentence.

“Were you at the hospital when she went into cardiac arrest?”

“I was there all day with her, but at three I got a call from the park. The kids needed me to put a volleyball net up. I told them I couldn’t go—my wife was in the hospital.” He informed me, rubbing his reddened tired eyes. “But your mother insisted she was fine and told me to go. I told her “No Susie! They can have somebody else put up the damn net!” but she knew it would only take me fifteen minutes to put it up and I’d be right back. After begging me to leave, I left her. I left her for fifteen minutes, Son. And the minute after I finished putting up that net, I got a call from the hospital telling me she went into full cardiac arrest. I rushed back and…well...”

During my mother’s battle, my father retreated to the park to escape the reality of her illness, but not this time. She felt fine and would only be away for fifteen minutes. What could go wrong in fifteen minutes after over fifty years together? We were both so unprepared for all of this—we knew she was sick but to lose her this way? So suddenly? I guess nothing in life happens the way you expect it to. Given the circumstances of my mother’s illness and how far it progressed, I better understood why he let her go. Considering her quality of life, it would’ve been selfish to hold on. As painful as it was to accept, it was her time to go.

After wrapping up most of my eulogy, I folded the yellow piece of paper then placed it within my suit's inside pocket. I then cleared my throat in an attempt to stymie my tears before finishing.

“No matter what she faced. Through all the times she visited a doctor’s office for just one shot but receiving several, leaving her with a bruised arm because they were unable to locate a vein on her. Through all the chemo treatments that would leave her on the bathroom floor and with sores in her mouth so painful she couldn’t eat a thing, not even a salad leaf. Through all the times she’d wake up in the middle of the night just to put an ice pack on her arthritic hip just so she could try to sleep. Through all the hair and weight loss over the last year. Through all the pills that became so numerous she’d have to jot down notes to remember how to take them. Through all the times she’d have to swallow a liquid that illuminated her body just so she could take a PET scan only to receive more bad news a week later. Through all of that, not one single time did she ever burden us with her pain nor ever give us the slightest impression she was going to die any time soon. It really wasn’t what she faced physically but what she faced mentally every day that would’ve broken most people. Cancer may have taken the things that made her feel less beautiful as a woman, but it could never take away all that truly made her beautiful. My mother wasn’t just an amazing woman, but an amazing human being.”

I then paused to catch my breath to look upon the many people sitting at the pews, those I recognized from years past and some I didn't. At least a hundred quiet attentive faces who seemed to understand her struggle now more intimately. Fighting off pins and needles of withdrawal symptoms I fought to continue.

“After I came home from the hospital the night she died, I laid upon her bed. I had a lot of questions why this happened to a person who’s only guilty pleasure in life was maybe a Twinkie, here and there. She didn’t smoke. She didn’t drink. There was a lot not to understand. While lying on her pillow, I felt something on the side of my cheek. Reaching inside, I removed two pictures of Jesus along with a note titled “Do You Know Me?”—things my mother slept with every single night. What I’ve come to understand is that Cancer was my mother’s cross and God gave her that cross to carry in front of us like Jesus did...knowing she could teach us a lot about Him. Just like Jesus, she had to endure pain and suffering, but it was her faith in God that gave her the strength and courage to carry that cross for as long as she did."

Pausing for a few seconds, I ascended the stairs until I stood at the head of her casket, fighting back the urge to break down.

“Her strong faith in an entity she never saw gave her an immeasurable amount of strength. We used to have many interesting conversations about God’s existence that usually ended up with me either arguing with her or fighting to bite my tongue.” I revealed before pausing to fight back the tears, remembering the time she invited me for lunch at the mall after Denise left me. When she mentioned God had better plans for me and how I lost it on her at a time her cancer returned.

“But in the end, I could never believe for a second, something that brought my mother so much strength could not exist. I now know God because of my mother’s sacrifice.” I announced placing my hand on her casket hoping she heard me--that she was right about God all along.

“Mom, we did not know your pain because you were too noble to let us, but one thing was certain, we knew you. We have always known you. You are our hero. And most of all…we know you’re in a better place with God, pain free and no longer suffering. We’ll do our best not to be selfish, but please forgive us, because we’re not in a better place without you here." I spoke as the tears began to break down my face, barely able to get the next words out. "But we promise you this. We will do whatever it takes in our lives to make sure we meet again.”

I then paused one final time before finishing.

“We miss you. We love you. Until we meet again.”

There was a strict policy at the church—the Eulogy could only last no more than five minutes. But, how do you talk about the greatest human being you’ve ever known for only five minutes? Although the church police weren’t happy with the length of my speech, I needed every single one of those ten minutes. And judging from the laughter and weeps heard in the crowd, we all did. Although I put my words to paper, I honestly didn’t know if I had the strength to get through it. After seeing my mother for the last time, witnessing her great peace, I couldn’t help but be sad for me but beyond happy for her—that she no longer had to deal with the hardships of Earth anymore. Her funeral became a celebration of her life more than a day of sadness. As hard as it was on me, this was about all the lives she touched on earth. A little over a hundred people in the church were grieving too—this wasn’t just about my grief. This was about the joy of her being no longer earthbound. Seeing so many people in church that day, so many that cared, mostly faces I haven’t seen in many years, made my heart break more than anything. We were all grieving. It was my job to comfort them, the way my mother did for twenty-four long years for me. I saw God’s plan for my mother--that she fulfilled her duties here, her soul’s purpose, and it was time for her to return home.

The day after she passed, it felt my life had officially reached its nadir—the two most important females I’ve ever known were now gone. With a mind consumed with grief, I notified my clients I needed time off—to mentally check out of life to make sense of this sudden new one. Unable to work and without money to continue buying pills, along with the enormous guilt I felt my pill addiction had on my mother, I went cold turkey from a nearly thirty pill a day habit. What I didn’t expect was how much it debilitated me after the first six hours. When hour twelve arrived, it felt like I’d never feel life the same way before the addiction ever again. All the pain, all the stress and all the sadness I used the pills to fight against, was just deferred—waiting to gang up on me when I stopped. I should’ve been in a hospital rehabbing from this nearly three year addiction, but no longer had health insurance. Instead, I fought each hour through relentless leg and arm syndrome, not allowing me to sleep a wink at night. This could only end up in one of two ways—either finding the strength within to no longer rely on them or losing everything left in life. At a time my father needed me, the unrelenting withdrawal symptoms crippled me.

Three days after she passed, I visited my father. The minute I walked in the house, it felt completely lifeless. While sitting at the desk inside her bedroom to write her eulogy, the VCR suddenly whizzed—I had forgotten she set it at noon each week day to tape “Days of Our Lives”. It made me smile remembering the time I teased her about the show “jumping the shark” when Marlena became possessed—the same way Happy Days seemed to end when Fonzi jumped an actual shark on a pair of skis. For a moment, it felt my mom was in her room with me.

When my father informed me the funeral was not taking place until nine days after she died, it hit me in all the wrong places. It was a busy time for the funeral home but to imagine my mother lying in a box waiting to be laid to rest for over a week left me unsettled.

“That’s the earliest time they had?” I inquired.

“I’m afraid so.” Replied my father.

I shook my head. “Alright.”

“I know.” He said, handing me an envelope. “Your mother gave this to me to hold onto until she died.”

“What is it?” I replied, taking it from his hand.

“Something she wrote for you.” He told me. “I have to go to the park. Lock up when you leave.”

“Thanks.” I nodded. “Will do.”

When I heard the back door close, I opened the sealed envelope.

Softly As I Leave You

Life is so uncertain, this we all may know…

No one knows the time or day, when they’ll have to go.

Though now my time has come to leave you, to face this world alone…

These promises I make to you

To give you strength to carry on.

When the sunlight awakens you, I’ll be there too.

When the moon shines on your pillow…I’ll be shining on you.

I’ll be the cooling breeze, as it rustles through the trees…

I’ll be in the pouring rain, as it hits your window pane.

When the darkness dims your vision, close your eyes and look above,

I’ll be standing right beside you, you will always have my love.

May peace and comfort be upon you,

Hold our happy memories close.

For in our hearts we know that no matter where you go…

Is where I’ll always be.

Landyn,

You were my only child and I always overprotected you…but only because I loved you so much.

Don’t let anyone change you. You’re a wonderful person. You gave me much happiness.

Love,

Mom

I loved our times together, Lakers, eating, etc.etc.etc.

Two tacos ????

Don’t forget your prayers. God is where I got my strength!

I am in heaven, where I want to be, and soon we will be together, you and me.

I read when a person dies, their soul usually doesn’t immediately go to heaven—that they hang around to help console those who are grieving and even witness their own funeral. After the VCR came to life, I believed my mother found a way to speak to me while I visited. It was something my soul desperately needed with all the guilt and withdrawal symptoms threatening to break me. It helped take me away from the pain of feeling I stole much needed peace from her through my addiction. A dependency so great, she reached for her only remaining pills to help see me through while likely knowing she was not coming home to save me from myself. Leaving me beyond sick to know she had to worry a single second about a man who was truly blessed in this life who choose to wallow in his self-pity instead. In the eyes of God, I had to be his Frankenstein—a creature gone bad in the lab after all the excess undeserved worry I put her through. Unable to forgive myself, the written words in my hand were equivalent to her hand being on my shoulder at a time I desperately needed it.

Knowing she was at peace and no longer suffering, her funeral provided some relief from her loss. The real miracle though began taking shape—realizing without God, I truly had nothing—that truly having nothing would be believing for a second, I’d never see my mother’s face again—a chance I couldn’t take. The week after her passing, I felt her presence. Traffic seemed lighter than usual, not irritating me in the slightest bit. It even seemed drivers were making an effort to not be in my way. There was a pink hue that appeared on the ceiling in my bedroom each day disappearing only at night. I thought at first it was the sunlight coming through my blinds, but it was there when the lights were on as well. After seeing it a few times, it felt like she was watching over me.

The more I sensed God's presence, it left me reeling from all the times I cursed his name, blaming him for everything under the sun without any consideration of the blessings and free will he bestowed upon me. I may not have the love of my life, and chances are now I likely never will, but he gave me the greatest mother anyone could have ever hoped to have. I would’ve probably handled my break-up with Anya a little better if He were a part of my life the way he began to be. For forty-one years he blessed me with the best parent any man, woman or child could ever have. Who taught me the true meaning of love and the power of hope—a person who made sure I’d have a relationship with Him and who taught me that life, in and of itself, was a miracle and there was nothing mundane about it. Embracing my deep sorrow, He allowed her to be there for me, even just as a pink hue on my ceiling. It made me pay attention to as many signs as possible that maybe she was trying to communicate with me, and although I never heard a sound or saw a sign from her, my belief in God never waned. Vowing to see my mother one day, I would do my best to live the life God intended for me by paying attention to the signs He leaves me—the signs He leaves for all of us when we start trusting in His existence.

My newfound belief in God did not stop the relentless symptoms of withdrawal. The sleepless nights unable to sit still in my bed, full of tension and restlessness only intensified—my entire central nervous system ceaselessly on fire. Severely hydrated from emptying out my guts nearly every hour on the hour, I grabbed the phone one night to call an ambulance but feared they could care less about a drug addict who brought this all upon himself. For nearly six months I battled nightly, fighting off the incredible tension of acute arm and leg restless syndrome leaving me in my bathroom on my hands and knees at two a.m. every night. And when it finally wore my body out enough to rest for an hour or two, the sun was shining vibrantly through my bedroom window refusing to curb the torture. Mercifully, the withdrawal symptoms began to dissipate, allowing me to sleep two to three hours a night but a dark depression began to fall over me—the reality of my mother’s death now coming into complete focus. During the afternoon, I’d turn on a talk show and see all the people in the crowd enjoying life. I’d watch people walk by me, making plans and laughing, and it would break me down wishing I could feel the way they did. The pills had taken away my natural ability to feel pleasure, my nerve receptors still pining for the drugs to fulfill its needs. If there was ever a time that jumping off a bridge was a reality, there was no time greater than this. Only my new found faith kept me nailed to the ground. I just wish I had trusted His plan for me sooner.

My new found belief in God also led me to the belief, that my mind, eyes and heart were truly on God when I made the decision to date Anya. Notwithstanding knowing how this may appear to my mother, I factored Him in but I truly believed in the eyes of God, Anya was not married. That only in the eyes of the wicked, self-righteous, money loving demons of society on Earth was she married to Jackson—the place the devil now runs loose. A stance I’m willing to take until my day of judgment. And if the Lord’s judgment differs from my own, I will accept his verdict. But I would stand there, not with indignance or defiance, but with the knowledge I truly loved Anya—the way he loved his own children, and my reasons were not simply for my own pleasure. I suffered greatly by choosing to love her without reservations, with all the trust in the world she would never lead me down the wrong path. If there was a price for doing so, then I’ve paid it back tenfold already.

In late November, a little over a year after my mother’s death, on a cold Saturday evening, I took a walk through the Naples area, curious to see if Sonomas was still catering to the young crowd. There was always the chance an encounter with Anya could take place, but the chances were slim to none—the restraining order barring me from any contact anyway. I hadn’t seen her in over two years and had walked this area many times over. As I passed many of the towering streetlights and those enjoying the nightlife, the powers we cannot see, that tell us there is no such thing as coincidence in life, allowed that chance encounter to manifest itself.

I always believed on that day in court, the reason she held Jackson’s hand was only because she was forced to do so, an effort to provoke me into confronting them. But, as I walked past Anya, this time she was nestled close to his chest, his right arm wrapped tightly around her waist bringing her lips close enough to be heard through whispers to each other, like we used to do together in bed. Proving what is done in the dark will always be brought out into the light.

And as I walked right past them, knowing she saw me and he didn’t, I realized my mother was right.

She did play me for a fool.

The world’s greatest.