(The story of transformation from hate to tenderness)

Love has many manifestations.  “Falling in love” is usually thought of in romantic terms.  I however, have experienced falling in love not in the romantic sense but in a way that was so transforming, so totally and absolutely life changing, I can express it in no other terms.  This overwhelming emotion and experience occurred when I was only fifteen years old.  The day that I first fell in love was typical and began innocently enough.  Off to school with a full day of high school classes, and afterward, basketball practice until 6pm.  What seemed like an ordinary day took an odd turn when my older sister met me in the parking lot after practice.  How unusual I thought, when I saw her sunshine yellow Volkswagen Bug parked outside the gym door.  “Why are you picking me up?”  Her reply caught me off guard, not so much because of what she said, but because I wasn’t sure what I felt upon hearing the news that my mother had collapsed and was in the intensive care unit at the hospital.  “Oh.”  I felt kind of blank actually, although a bit guilty that I wasn’t more upset at my mother’s collapse and potential death.  The winter sun had long set and the darkness and cold chilled my aching muscles.  After a long day and a strenuous practice, I just wanted to go home, take a hot shower and have some dinner.  But as we drove to the hospital, I was unsure of what I was feeling, sort of sad that my mother was sick, but more than anything, guilty that I didn’t care.

When we arrived at the hospital and made our way to the ICU, I was unprepared for what I witnessed.  My mother was curled up in the fetal position and convulsing.  My father was in the room but everyone and everything else was as blank and boring as the wallpaper.  My mother looked as though she had aged in a day, lying there so very tiny and frail, the years of alcoholic drinking taking its toll in the most horrific way.  She used to hide her Scotch bottles all over the house, in the clothes hamper, in the hutch in the dining room, hidden from her guilt perhaps but not from my suspiciousness.  I would be in the kitchen and she would “sneak” into the dining room to the aforementioned hutch, thinking she was fooling me and the rest of the family by trying to quietly unscrew the cap of her fifth of King Williams finest and chugging big gulps straight from the bottle.  Yeah, quiet as a church mouse.  She was always sneaking around chugging that stupid Scotch, fooling only herself.  I know now that the reason I was suspicious of everyone I encountered was the result of her attempts to always get over on me.  I hated that, you liar.  Go ahead mom, have another swig.

Lying there in the hospital bed she turned and looked up at me with a whisper of a voice, asking if I could give her an ice chip. I picked up the white Styrofoam cup and the cheap plastic spoon and fed my mom.  She smiled at me, broken, empty, trembling, and I knew she was saying, “I’m sorry”.  In that moment, seeing her helplessness and utter despair, I fell in love with my mom.  Our relationship in that instant changed forever, and I knew God had graciously lifted the hate and seething anger, the resentment, and a childhood full of emptiness.  I saw my mom as I never saw her before, as a person, a human being capable of hurting as well as the monster who seemed hell bent on crushing me. Prior to that day in the hospital, the thought of my mother brought forth only disgust and contempt. To this day, more than forty years later, the memory is as clear and real as the moment I felt love for her, possibly for the first time. I knew from an early age that she was a drunk although my understanding of alcoholism came much later when one of my brothers and I began briefly attending Alateen meetings at the local Presbyterian Church.  She was a vicious drunk, and there was no escaping her verbal and mental abuse.  I tried to be invisible but she always found me, and when I heard her footsteps I would cringe and shrink, becoming as small as possible, so as to avoid her violence.  The verbal and mental assault would go on and on all evening, every evening, until she would succumb to the alcohol and pass out.  You just never knew when she was going to start.  I was constantly on guard, trying to hide in plain view.  I remember thinking as a small child that I wanted to kill her.  I don’t even think I understood death, I just knew it would get her off my back for a while.  Opening the front door to our house, you never knew what you would find, and I dreaded going to that house.  Her passing out episodes became more and more frequent.  Seeing her lying on the floor of whatever room she happened to be in when she keeled over was frightening and disgusting. Disgusting because as her daily alcohol intake progressed she would turn a horrifying purplish color, and she made facial contortions that were grotesque.  Frightening because my sister and oldest brother had learned basic CPR and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in Health class, and often had to assist her with breathing. Adding to the fright and disgust was the knowledge that I didn’t love her enough to try to save her life, even if I knew CPR, which I didn’t. During these episodes my siblings would be working feverishly to attend to her and I’d be standing in the doorway thinking, “NO WAY, I am not doing that”.  The very thought of any part of me, touching any part of her was truly repulsive.  As these events progressed with greater frequency the unbearable fear of being stuck in the house alone with her should she succumb to the alcohol yet again, I was overwhelmed with guilt because I must be a terrible person, and most certainly a terrible daughter. What daughter wouldn’t breath life into the woman who gave her life?  Only a despicable loser like me.  That night in the hospital when she had finally hit bottom, was sort of a relief actually.  The fear lifted, and my heart went out to this frail, vulnerable woman.  My heart transformed, we began a new chapter.

Every day after school I would walk clear across town to spend the afternoon and evening with her in the hospital. My father would give me a few bucks to buy a greasy hamburger and fries in the hospital cafeteria. Mom’s dinner tray would come at 5:00 and I would sit next to her bed and we’d eat our dinner together, in peace. I was suddenly obsessed with her, wanting to help her, to be there for her in any way possible.  Truly a miracle of transformation from rage to forgiveness.  During her three-week hospital stay, her doctor made arrangements for several women from AA to visit her.  She would be sent away to a rehab after her release. She agreed to go.  She was released on December 24^th, and allowed to come home for Christmas, so we scurried about trying to find all of the hidden Scotch bottles.  It was the first Christmas I could remember where mom was there with us, in a good mood, grateful and showing it, albeit still very weak and sickly.  That Christmas night as I went to bed, I cried, and prayed that God would take care of my mom.  With a full heart I thanked God for rescuing us from the darkness that was her life and mine, and for allowing me to fall in love with my mom.