A Letter to Mom

October 26, 2019

Mom,

I'm writing to let you know that your father passed away at the end of August. Isaac and I drove down to Indiana for the funeral. (Shane and Allie stayed behind because she had daily tennis practices and a match or two.) It was wonderful to see everyone. Aunt Sharon was there from Idaho and stayed with Grandma for a few weeks. She is retired now an is considering a move to Arizona. Aunt Margo and Uncle Bob were there. Sasha, Wes and his wife, and Vanessa were there. Uncle Jim, Uncle John and Aunt Deb, Megan (who was expecting her 3rd baby at the time), Jonny and his wife and their little girl, Jack, Jarod and his fiancee (now wife) were also there. As was Uncle Rod and Aunt Betty. We missed you, Uncle Mike, Aunt Leslie, and Collin. Uncle Mike has been losing his vision and Aunt Leslie has dementia. Lots of friends were also there.
The funeral was at the beautifully restored Sweet Church. The bell was rung 95 times as the pallbearers carried the casket across the road to Sweet Cemetery. Grandad's resting place is in the far left corner -- right up against the corn fields. Very appropriate for someone who farmed til he was ninety. The VFW was there and presented their gun salute. My favorite part were the three sailors from the US Navy in their crisp white uniforms. They folded the flag that draped the coffin with precision and care. One of them presented it to Grandma with the words, "On behalf of the United States Navy and the President of the United States, we thank you...." I don't remember the words exactly. There was much sniffling as it was a very moving moment.
After the funeral, Grandma had a minor stroke, followed by another 2 weeks later. An MRI revealed early stages of Alzheimer's. It's my understanding that the stroke didn't have any lasting effects; however at 94 years of age, she is frail.
Shane and the kids and I are doing well. Isaac is enjoying his senior year by joining every orchestra around. He's quite good at the string bass and at music composition. We're looking at colleges.
Allie is enjoying her sophomore year. She enjoyed her 2nd year of junior varsity tennis and has her sights on making varsity next year. She loves tennis so much, she played it daily during the summer. She has the tan to prove it.
I work at a local middle school in special education and I enjoy it. It's rewarding work.
Shane works from home still and enjoys the work he does. He has our dog to keep him company. In February of 2018, we adopted a rescue dog. She's a yellow lab mix about 60 lbs and her name is Raelyn. We got her when she was a year and 3 months old. She was brought up to Wisconsin from Alabama with her one remaining puppy from a litter she just had. It would have been nice if we had been able to keep them together but we couldn't handle a puppy in winter with no one to potty train it except Shane who would be trying to get his own work done. Allie and I are especially fond of Raelyn. She sleeps on her bed at night and takes up quite a lot of space! We laugh about it.
Our kids are growing up and are very nearly grown. We're proud of the young adults they're becoming. They are kind, considerate, generous, polite, thoughtful, and so much more. You would be proud. I know you are. Perhaps one day you'll get to meet them. It is unfortunate that circumstances have not allowed that to happen. Please be patient. I know you don't understand. No doubt it's been painful for you. Please stop calling the police in my area. We are fine. We are not alcoholics. Your disorganized thinking is telling you that. I know it's not your fault. Schizophrenia is a terrible disease that has cost you so much. If only you were aware of how much you stood to lose when you stopped taking your anti-psychotic meds in the late 1990's. Oh well. What's done is done.
I'm happy to send you occasional letters on how we're doing and what we're up to as long as you stop trying to convince people that my children belong with you. Not gonna happen, Mom. When they are adults, they can choose whether or not to meet you. You're just going to have to wait.
Until then, focus on the good things in your life. Be kind to others. Make new friends. Be the kind of person that you want your grandchildren to look up to. Take care of yourself.

Love,

Cindy

Selling Mom's Stuff

It feels like a relief to slowly get rid of my mother's stuff. I guess it has taken me since last fall to realize that she won't be needing it. I don't know where she is staying or if she is taking her meds. Hopefully, she'll stay in the Baltimore area and continue working with her mobile treatment team. It's depressing to wade through disorganized papers wadded in drawers, with even more disorganized thinking on them.  She is so very very sick. I have more papers to go through, and I dread it.  I skim them and keep the really bad ones in case I ever need proof of her illness. Although if anyone talks with her for 5 minutes it is evident.

Our village is having a village wide garage sale Mother's Day weekend. I plan to have a sale for all the things that we brought up from her Louisville storage unit last year.  It seems appropriate. If I find her, I'll send her the money from the sale so she can continue to live independently. Or, if she needs furniture, we'll buy replacements.  None of her possessions are anything I recognize from my childhood.  My guess is that all of those ended up in another storage unit somewhere and was auctioned off like in American Pickers.  I try not to think about the trunk full of heirlooms and somebody bidding on it. Oh well. You can't take it with you when you go, so you might as well let it go now.

Mother's Day is one of the worst holidays for me. It's the one day of the year that I feel overcome by grief.  She is alive, yet gone. I mourn the relationship we used to have. Her smiles and her saying, "I love you," or "I just enjoy you so much."  She may be capable of saying those things still, but other conversation is very limited and complicated. Maybe someday I'll be better able to articulate this. I guess it's like talking to someone with brain damage who has delusions of grandeur about herself and delusions of the worst in everyone else.  Oh, the things I have read!

Maybe Mother's Day will be different this year, knowing that I'm doing something to help her. Maybe I'll be able to think about my own family or my amazing stepmom or my wonderful mother-in-law, or my friends who show me up close how to be a mom.

I look forward to having an empty basement and garage and being able to move on from the hopes I let get too high.

Thorns and Blessings

I just spoke on the phone with Aunt Margo for an hour and 20 minutes, and boy does my ear hurt! But it was SO worth it to hear her warm voice and to share pieces of the puzzle. My goodness. What a puzzle the mentally ill can make of things.

One of the things I didn't know was that in 1978 or 79 my mom took an intentional overdose of sleeping pills, and that's when she was committed to the mental hospital the first time. (Dad says it wasn't enough to kill her but enough to be a cry for help.) I remember her being in what was then called the South Unit of Parkview Hospital. She assembled a pair of leather moccasins for me which I would later wear until they were too small. I'm glad I had no idea at the time that it was a suicide attempt. I'm also glad that she survived. I can only imagine the profound sadness and bewilderment I would've carried all my life if she'd been successful.

Last week I enjoyed lunch and games at Grandma and Grandad Sieber's house with Isaac and Allison. Grandma patiently taught Allison how to play Crazy 8's while Isaac and I played a game. Afterward, while the kids played outside in the little snow there was (especially compared to Wisconsin!) Grandma shared with me the details of an unpleasant development from the day before. She and Grandad had received a summons to appear in Family Court in Louisville, KY in 7 days. My mother filed a petition against her parents listing several charges which are too ludicrous to mention, but which give some insight into her delusions. But I'll save that for another time. When I thought about my elderly grandparents driving all the way down to Louisville to be wrongly maligned by fabrications, I felt indignant. I thought, she's gotta get by me first! Nobody messes with my grandparents! :) I left their house that afternoon with photocopies of their summons (summonses?) and my heavy heart full of prayerful snippets. One sentence prayers are usually all I can manage when it comes to my mother: Lord, help her. Open her eyes. Lord, keep her safe and other people safe from her. Lord, please get her the help she needs. Lord, I don't know what exactly to ask for her, so please just help her.

When I got to Dad and Diane's that night and told them about the summons, they reacted the same way I did. "She did what?? What is she thinking?" (That's always the question, isn't it?)

After I got back to Wisconsin a couple of days later, I thought a lot (ok, worried) about my grandparents and whether they would make the trip, whether they could handle the trip with Grandad's infirmities, and whether they could find a lawyer. I asked some Facebook friends to pray and was touched by the support I got from them and from my Aunt May and Aunt Marilyn on Dad's side. What blessings!

There were more blessings in store when I talked to Aunt Margo this afternoon. The one that almost knocked my socks off had to do with the lawyer. The first guy they tried was uncaring and very nearly rude. The second lawyer was on vacation, but her partner was available. Enter Chris Stewart, lawyer extraordinaire. Aunt Margo was able to get in touch with him almost immediately yesterday and he was very much 'present' and involved. I'm so glad! The court proceedings lasted 25 minutes this morning, which the lawyer will get G&G a videotape of. Omigosh, we'll get to see her on tape. I've been wondering what she looks like now. He said she was nicely dressed, articulate, and well-spoken. Then, the judge, who Aunt Margo praised for being "exceptional," told mom very tactfully that if she wants to leave the past in the past that she should do exactly that. The charges, which were too vague, where dismissed. Or, as Grandma put it, "They threw it out." I liked that. As they should.

In my frustration with Mom I sometimes think of her as a thorn in one's side. At times in my side, but most of the time in the sides of my grandparents. But when Aunt Margo described to me the love she saw in G&G's eyes when they talked about her, their oldest child, I was moved. My grandparents still love her. If only she could grasp that. Bless them, Lord, for their steadfast love.

My Story, Part 2: The Day Mom's Fiance Died

This is a long post, so get comfortable. You might want to grab a cup of coffee or go to the bathroom first. I'll wait. :)

First, a bit of background information. My mom dated a wonderful man named Karl in the mid 1980's. He was a divorced father of 3 grown children. He fit right in with Mom and me. He made us laugh with his easygoing personality and charm. In 1987 they got engaged. However, Karl had a secret problem: he was an alcoholic. I never saw him drink. If he was ever drunk around me, I never knew it. With Mom's support he entered into rehab and stayed sober until they went to his office Christmas party and he unknowingly drank spiked punch. A relapse followed. Then in early March she told me she broke up with Karl because he relapsed and needed to hit bottom. A week later, he was dead.

The Day Karl Hedges Died

It was March something, 1988. Mom and I were at home in our 2-story townhouse apartment. It was morning, one of those mornings where the sky is gray and the day is slow in dawning. Mom was lying in bed, which was where she spent most of her time in those days. I was in my room doing 15-year-old girl things like listening to the radio and playing with makeup.

The phone rang, which was not unusual with my mom's many friends. What was unusual was that it was a man I never heard of before, asking for Mom. I called out, "It's for you. It's a Dr. Alinah." Mom looked surprised. Out of curiosity, I stayed at the foot of her bed and listened to her side of the conversation. "Hello? Yes, this is Pat Mapes... Yeah...? What?? NO! OH, NO! NOT KARL! OH, NO-O-O-O-O!!! Mom started sobbing and hung up. (I later found out that Dr. Alinah was the Whitley County Coroner.)

"Mom! What happened??" Listening to her half of the conversation left me with a sense of deep foreboding and alarm. "Karl's dead!," she wailed, continuing to sob. I'll never forget hearing those words, seeing the pain in her face, and feeling totally helpless. My knees went weak and my stomach fell through the floor. Karl, gone? It couldn't be! I tried to comfort my mother, but I every time I put my hand on her shoulder it felt so awkward. I was relieved when she picked up the phone to call someone (probably Grandma or Aunt Margo) to tell them the news and probably to receive the comfort which I was too young to give. It was then that I heard the horrible details of his death. He died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his garage. A suicide note was found on the kitchen table along with a check to my mom for one hundred dollars. (It ended up being no good -- his assets were frozen.)

I went back to my room and sat on the floor to think. When was the last time we saw Karl? I couldn't exactly remember but I knew it had been at least a week, because a week ago Mom told me that she was breaking up with him. I could tell she still loved him and expected him to hit bottom eventually, get rehabbed again, and to pick up their relationship where it left off. There was no way she could have foreseen the disastrous events a week later. It was a nightmare. Karl's death was only the beginning.

A couple of days later we travelled about 150 miles to Karl's hometown for his funeral. As soon as we got out of our car, we were asked to leave by Karl's sons. I hung back, but Mom was determined to see Karl's body and to say goodbye. She marched past them; I followed timidly. I was surprised to see only Karl's immediate family: his three grown children, his five sisters, and even his ex-wife. The atmosphere grew very cold when we entered the room. Again we were asked to leave. How dare we show our faces here, they wanted to know. Karl's sons Dean and Troy and his daughter Stacey were downright hostile. All three of them were yelling at us, accusing us of being responsible for his death. Stacey and I literally stood nose to nose while she yelled in my face. I was too shocked to move (or to cry, thank goodness!). She was bigger than me and I wasn't about to upset her further. I was puzzled to say the least. Blaming us for Karl's suicide was ludicrous, but they were angry. Looking back now, I can see that it must have been too painful to blame their own dad for leaving them. I was relieved when the funeral director came in to restore order. He let us approach the casket for a minute, and then we had to leave. Mom took out the wedding band they had chosen together and placed it on his finger. Karl's kids were scandalized; one of them snatched the ring away while we were still standing there. Mom turned to me and whispered, "He moved. Did you see that? He moved!" I didn't see what she was talking about. I was just eager to get out of there in one piece. We whispered our emotional goodbyes to Karl and left.

It was during this trip that I first noticed Mom acting strangely. She told me that as she put the wedding band on Karl's finger that he moved and that it was a sign. I think this was where she began to believe that he was coming back from the dead. (There's a whole other story in there that I'll save for another post.) Mom became very afraid and wary. She thought that she was being watched and that our phone lines were bugged. She thought Karl's sons were "after us." Then she thought the Welfare people were "after us." One time she stopped at a pay phone and called a local news channel to tell them she had a big news story. Something about Welfare and that it was going to be BIG.

Mom became increasingly more fearful. We even stayed in a motel for a couple of nights. I must say, it was weird to have your mom drive you to school from a motel. After two nights, she ran out of money and we went back to our apartment. Then Mom's behavior took a really strange turn. The scariest part was when she looked down her nose at me and told me she was God. The way she stood there with her fingertips together and the ethereal whispery voice she used gave me the creeps. I went to my room and blocked the door in case she tried to come in. I couldn't be around her when she was like that. Clearly, she wasn't herself. What would she do next? Was I safe? I wished I had a sibling to ride it out with. I felt anxious at school, knowing that Mom didn't want me to tell anyone about our situation. I felt isolated. I couldn't tell my dad, I couldn't tell my grandparents because Mom said they were against her, too.

So imagine my surprise when our dinner was interrupted by a knock at the door. A look through the peephole revealed a strange sight: Grandma, two police officers, and, in the background, an ambulance and two police cars, including a K-9 unit. I told Mom who it was. She yelled, "Don't open it!" But it was too late. As they rushed past me, Mom tried to make a break for it out the back door. I watched the officers tackle and handcuff my mother. I was so confused. Why was this happening? Was Mom right about her parents being "after her?" I went to my room and refused to leave with my grandparents who insisted I go with them. How could I? Mom said they were the enemy. I couldn't betray her...I was so confused.

There was only one person whom I would trust, and that was my dad. I tracked him down by phone and he dropped everything and drove forty miles to get me. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I got in the car with him. I felt safe. Surely Mom would forgive me for telling Dad everything, since he's my Dad for goodness sake. I was glad to be able to get it off my chest, like how everyone was "after her" and that she said she was God and that we even stayed in a hotel because she thought we were being watched... Dad was stunned. He had no idea what I had been through since Karl's funeral, which was only two weeks ago. The most curious thing happened to me on that car ride. It was like a veil was lifted from my eyes and for the first time, I understood -- we weren't in danger, there was never any danger -- it was all in Mom's head. I could hear how absurd everything sounded as I told it to Dad. Exhausted, I lay my head in Dad's lap and wept as he drove to my new home with him and to a normal teenage life.

Incidentally, in my first week in English class in my new school, we studied "Julius Caesar" by William Shakespeare. In the story, an oracle appears to Caesar to warn him of danger, saying, "Beware the ides of March..." (Be careful around the middle of March.) After the trauma I went through, I was a little freaked out. I thought, the ides of March indeed! The next few years I was always nervous around mid-March, thanks to that story.

My story isn't done. There is more to this adventure. To be continued...

(Dad, if you ever read this, I'll always be grateful to God for you. Grandma and Grandad, your intervention possibly saved my life. I try not to think about what could have happened if her psychosis had been allowed to continue. My deepest thanks and love.)

My Story, Part 1

I have always admired good storytellers. I SO envy the talents of writers like J. K. Rowling or the Bronte sisters. Creatively, I can’t write my way out of a paper bag. Back in high school (which was, sadly, half my life ago!) I could whip up a five-paragraph essay quicker and better than anyone in my class. But when it’s time to share an anecdote, or tell a joke, or explain the plot of a movie, I usually go into too much detail or worse, give away the ending. Like when I told a friend that “The Shawshank Redemption,” was about a jailbreak. Oops, there went the surprise ending! Shane and I still laugh about that one. Oh, well. So I’m not a born storyteller. But I do have a story I want to tell. It’s for my children, and their children, and anybody else whose lives have been turned upside down by mental illness. The story is about my childhood, my mother, and about how it has shaped me as an adult – both for the better and for the worse.

I can’t remember exactly the last time I saw my mother, but I know it’s been about six years. The summer she ran away, I became pregnant with her first grandchild. This may sound strange, but I never told her about the pregnancy. The daughter in me longed to confide in my mother, but the mother in me chose to protect my baby first and foremost. That first year, I often cried over my mom’s stubborn refusal to get treatment and mourned the loss of our relationship. Many questions I had about motherhood have gone unanswered: What was I like as a baby…was I calm like my son or fussy like my daughter? Or, did you carry me in the womb compactly, like I carried my babies? Was your childbirth experience as quick as mine? How long did I take to potty train? At times when I feel her absence acutely, I wonder if I’ll ever see her alive again. I also wonder, is there anyone out there with a situation like mine or am I the only one in the world whose bipolar mother left home to live out of her car? (See what I mean about giving away the surprise ending? I’m way ahead of myself here.)
I never realized there was anything wrong my mom until I was 15 years old. Before then, I thought it was normal for mothers to call the Suicide Hotline and talk for hours or to stay in bed for days. She spent so much time talking on the phone or talking to herself in the mirror that sometimes I would remind her to make supper. She was a good student who earned an Associate’s, a Bachelor’s and a Master’s Degree while raising me. But in some ways I was like her parent. I would coax her out of bed or sit and talk to her in her room. I never dared to tell her my problems because she seemed so fragile that I thought she would break if I shared my burdens with her. She had enough of her own and besides, I didn’t think she was competent to help me. So I spent a lot of time alone with my thoughts and my movie posters and my radio. More later.