I never expected to care when I heard the news. It had been years since I had any type of contact with her. My life was going great, I was moving on from the hurt and pain she caused and realized I was better off without her in my life.
The her I am referring to is my mother, whom I affectionately refer to as her first name, Pam. And our relationship (or lack of) was an odd one. We didn't have a relationship. But not having her in my life has affected me more than I can ever begin to explain. But my mother was a severe alcoholic and was in an abusive marriage. She had no intention of getting help for either one. And so, I couldn't help her. We reconnected for a short time, but I eventually realized that I couldn't have a relationship with her. I was always the one keeping in contact with her, I was always the one working to keep the relationship going. She always used the excuse that she wasn't a good communicator, but my thinking was that if she cared at all, she would make the effort. It came to a point where I couldn't handle her or her situation any more and pushed her out of my life. It didn't take much, she made no effort to stay in my life.
Every day, there was a part of me that expected the news of her death. I always said I didn't know what would kill her first: the alcohol or her husband.
I had a great day on Friday. Kristine had a football game for school to attend. That left me and her son to hang out for the evening. Kristine took a nap after school so she would be refreshed for the game. She woke up discombobulated and I could see she was clearly out of it. She didn't tell me till later, that she felt something was wrong. Her son and I went to Tempe Town Lake to view the 9/11 Memorial. It was a good evening and we had a good time. So far, my day is still going good. Justin and I get some dinner and I help him look up something on the Internet.
In seconds, my world would change. I came into my room and logged into my email to find that my mother had passed away on Thursday. It didn't register at first, I had to re-read the first line of the message again, "Your mother died last night." The walls of my chest closed in again and I was struggling to breathe. I stood up and braced my desk. Moments later the tears fell. And they continued to fall for quite some time. She's gone, she's really gone. My mother is dead.
The details to her death are haunting me and will for some time. Her death is under investigation and for respect of Pam, I'm not going to write what happened. As of right now, I still don't know her death was caused by her drinking or her husband.
I tried to save her from the live she lived.
I tried to get her to stop drinking.
I tried to get her to leave her husband who was abusing her. I even had the phone number of a police station near her as well as a battered women's shelter for when she decided she was ready.
I tried to get her on a plane for a visit in Arizona. But I knew I wasn't going to let her get back on the plane to Michigan. She never came, instead she ended up in the hospital.
I tried to tell her about Jesus. I bought her a Bible, she said it was a nice book and looked colorful on the bookshelf.
I tried to have a relationship with her.
I tried, I tried, I tried. And now she's gone and it's too late.
I have experienced a lot of things in the 32 years I have been alive. Different kinds of pain. Both of my grandparents who raised me have died. But the pain I am experiencing is a whole new level that I have never felt before.
The pain of losing an actual parent. It hurts. It hurts really bad. It hurts like nothing I have known before. Yesterday at the doctor's office, the nurse asked me if both of my parents were still alive. I hestitated and swallowed the lump that suddenly appeared in my throat and said, "No. My mother just died."
I never expected to care so much about the death of woman that I really didn't know. I never expected to grieve for losing her twice (once for our relationship and now her death).
She was 55 years old and is no longer suffering from the life that held her captive.