My morning started as usual. Patty cake face with my son. As a baby and toddler, he always woke up in a great mood; now at 16, not so much. He would pat my cheeks and say, “momma, momma” and giggle deep belly laughs. A chubby baby finger stuck up my nose was also a favorite go-to. For the longest time, the first thing I saw upon opening my eyes were his pearly blues, long eye lashes, and toothless grin.
This morning was different because I wanted to stop time. I looked at my boy and saw Pearl. Her blue eyes, cheekbones, and eyebrows always captivated my attention, and my sweet boy was a visual replica of her. I wanted this particular, tender, mommy-son moment to last as long as possible today. To stop time so I could make believe I wasn’t going to see my dead mother.
We slogged out of bed around 10:30. Not a great night’s sleep but not horrid, either. I had a strange awakeness about me. Never a morning person, I’m the one that won’t speak to anyone until I’ve completed one cup of coffee. Jesus himself could materialize and I’d respectfully ask for quiet until the last gulp. It’s who I am.
Fortunately for me, I had deep connections within the state of my birth. People I’d known since kindergarten or earlier. One friend, in particular, knew the real dynamics of my household. Growing up, his mother saved my ass on numerous occasions for minor, kid-appropriate indiscretions; to Mick, these things required corporeal punishment. She interceded and helped more times than I can count. Anyway, this friend had my trust more than anyone in the entire state. Quite unfortunately, this level of belief in my friend’s character never translated to complete faith in his actions; people like me are hyper vigilant and nobody passes our scrutiny. Especially not with our kids.
But this wasn’t an ordinary day and I needed help with my son. The VA hospital is no place for a toddler. I put every ounce of rationalization, cost-benefit-analysis, logic, and scrutiny in my friend and his mom, my personal savior from all those years prior. When I called and asked, no explanation was needed; my mom had died. Of course they would help.
I found myself in a bit of a predicament in that my husband didn’t know about my upbringing, the atrocities of my childhood, and the degree to which I didn’t trust my father. Or anyone, for that matter. He thought I was just an overprotective mom that needed to lighten up a bit. I kept my before-life, everything before driving eastward, and my after-life completely separate. He knew my relationship was strained with both my parents, but he never really knew the why behind it all. Frankly, childhood trauma has a way of hiding deep within the person suffering. So, even if I had wanted to, there was a lot I simply couldn’t tell him. At that point in my healing journey, I only had a ton of intrusive thoughts, horrific dreams, and random bouts of paranoia. Nothing concrete. Read: I’d be deemed crazy so I shut up.
Incidentally, I also couldn’t tell him I was leaving our child with an old friend from school and his mom. Looking back, that would have been horrific for me to do. My husband honestly didn’t deserve this life he inherited with me, and lying to him was also not an option. So, I cobbled together a ping pong arrangement of care for my son. Not too long with any one person, hand-offs, overlaps in care, constant check ins, old friends coming and going, and rules. Military style rules. My son’s day had to be controlled commotion. It was all I could do.
Pearl was in a body bag on ice and I had to go. The pull to get to her was otherworldly. It was some mix of obligation, protectionism, and mistrust of anyone within her midst. I was preoccupied with the proper care of her earthly remains; not only her body but her worldly possessions.
There was a proper order to these things, and couldn’t articulate what they were, exactly, or how I had learned them. This was an entirely new experience for me. I just knew her home needed to be inventoried, paperwork found, and priceless family items hidden. For those of you thinking I wanted first dibs, you’d be wrong. I have my mothers handwritten cookbook, the handheld magnifying glass and tape measure she carried in her handbag for decades for “emergency stops at the fabric store,” and the black purse she carried into the hospital with her the day she died. Her accumulated tangibles mattered not to me. My instincts paid off…the draw to protect her and her things. It was brought to my attention that people were trying to enter my mother’s home, via a window, in the middle of the night, and I had to call the police…mere minutes after we’d touched down. I asked for drive-bys and some oversight until I could get there to change the locks. These were people she knew and with whom she shared blood. Fucking vultures.
I departed from my son, got in the car, and drove to the VA hospital. I have literally no memory of the drive. I do remember pulling into the hospital parking garage asking myself how I’d gotten there. I was not well, working with a brain on autopilot mode that was down for maintenance. I wore cornflower blue Nike sweatpants, a long white sleeved tee shirt, a matching Nike hoodie, sneakers. Glasses on my head, zero makeup. 10,000 ounces of coffee coursing through my veins. No food because anxiety is an asshole that makes me vomit on demand.
Upon making my way in, I was quickly ushered to the department that handles the deceased veterans and their families. Again, the kindness, speed, and efficiency of this federal institution was remarkable. After providing proof of my status and relationship with my mom, I was free to go.
Only I wasn’t going anywhere. I asked to see her. The chief medical officer, or some high ranking doctor, came down and informed me that my mom was next up for an autopsy. That I could see her after completion, likely the next day. Nope. No way in hell. God himself couldn’t have moved me from that place.
I looked the man square in the face, told him I hadn’t seen my mom in 22 years, when I was just a teen. Please do not let the first time I lay eyes on her to be after her cadaver was busted open and torn apart. Silent tears flooded my eyes. The doctor told me to give him a few moments and left the room. I never saw him again.
I sat on a blue vinyl chair, circa 1974, in a hallway until a nurse walked up to me some 30 minutes later.
“Are you Stuart?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry it has taken us so long, but we wanted to get your mom dressed in a clean hospital gown and put her in a room for you. She’s lying in a real hospital bed and not a transport gurney meant for the morgue.”
Humanity. There it was. She could sense my nerves, grabbed my hand, and said, “I’m going to be with you. It’s ok.”
She walked me down a labyrinth of corridors, past countless nurses stations, up an elevator, and down a long hallway. Outside a room, the very last on the floor, was a gurney with an American flag draped over it, but nobody underneath Old Glory. Pearl was in that last room. That was her flag.
She stood outside the closed door and asked me if I wanted to go in alone or if I’d like her to come with me. In a flash, I realized I don’t know what a dead body looks like. Especially one that had been through the crushing procedure of attempted resuscitation. I was scared. Pearl was not made up or ready for any formal viewing. This would be raw, unvarnished death. Ugly, but also very much part of life.
I was not in my head as I stood there staring at the closed door, holding a strange woman’s hand. I don’t think I was in my body either. This wasn’t fear, disassociation, anxiety, or panic. I was totally lost, for the first time in my life. My attempts at grabbing onto a singular, cohesive thought in my head all failed. That’s my go-to method; find logic, rationalize, overthink, and get through any situation. But logic doesn’t apply to what I was feeling. This was pure emotion, raw, unvarnished, and totally new. Never once had I been allowed this process, to fully experience my feelings, and to let it all out. I had no words to apply to that which I felt. My skin was tacky to the touch; not hot and sweaty but not cold and clammy. My feet were sweating, and it was roughly 22 degrees outside. I had goosebumps along my hairline but not my arms…strange. The hair on the back of my neck was literally standing on end. I think each foot weighed 10,000 pounds because moving toward the door was arduous.
Standing there was like being stuck in the time and space continuum. The world flew by around me, doctors and nurses bustling about, and I was the one on pause. I’ve become masterful at remembering details of events surrounding me, it’s a great coping mechanism. I can pause scenes in my brain and tell you every last detail. This tactic allows me to focus outward and not on what I was physically enduring. But this was backwards, a reverse freezeframe. I was paused, on hold, and all the details pertaining to me were discernible but nothing around me was identifiable. Normally, my focus was outward, on others. Get to know them and their patterns better than they know themselves. This time, for the first time in my life, I mattered in my own mind. I was putting myself first and I don’t remember making the decision to do so. What I was feeling, where I was, how I was going to be strong enough to get through this.
The person from which I derived my strength was lifeless on the other side of that door. I was a woman now, a mother, with a raw understanding of mental illness and had been married for more than a decade. I now had perspectives and experiences from which I could judge Mick, as a husband and father. Mick failed every last measure, even the most basic ones. He didn’t want to be married; he sought chattel in the form of a sexually submissive and pretty wife. Dominance. He never wanted to be a husband, he wanted someone to serve him, while he was the master of his domicile. Mick didn’t want to be a father, he wanted to have children to direct and mold like toy soldiers. And the proof is in the pudding…he abandoned Pearl, and me, and later my sister. When each of us lost our utility to him, he left.
From the lifeless cadaver opposite the door, I learned real fear, experienced unthinkable bodily pain, and dread. I learned how to play my cards and when, how to hide my tracks, how to conceal myself in plain sight, and how to lie. Masterfully. But these were the side effects of her untreated illness. Children are human sponges; we learn from words and actions. From Pearl, I learned the importance of self care, because she didn’t know how. Funny thing, I struggle with it now myself. Pearl gave me the strength that day to text Alexa when I was on the way to my demise. Of this, I am 1000% certain because all I saw was Pearl fight. For everything. Everyday.
Pearl taught me that racists are scum of the earth, homophobes next in line. Poor people need love, help, and someone to see them. They are children of God, and animals are, too. My mind was my single biggest asset and never follow a recipe. She infused a love of all faiths in me, an inquisitive mind, books, adventurous walks, and side splitting laughter. Her style was forever imprinted upon me; understated class. I learned to walk unabashedly through life, bold, owning my opinions and my truth, and to never be ashamed.
From Pearl, I learned how to stand up for those you love and care about. Go to the fucking mattresses and bring everything in your arsenal; people around you are too stupid to see you coming and always take them off guard. Play off of and manipulate others’ stupidity. From Pearl’s friends and family, I learned how not to be, how not to act, or how not to exist. I learned what real friends do and what they absolutely shouldn’t. Scum…all of you. But especially you, Number 3. You have the dirtiest hands of them all. Pearl taught me, through her words and actions, that everything in life has a positive upside or a negative down. Every action has a proportionate reaction.
“Can you come with me first and then give us some time alone?” I was ready to go in.
We opened the door. The decor, if you can call it that, would be 1980’s dollar store faux oak. Cheep wood veneers to cover anything, even half of some walls. To the right and left of the bed were windows letting in the warm sunlight and beams danced along the walls. The smell was overly antiseptic; someone used 10,000 gallons of Purell hand sanitizer to clean the room. There was a small end table, lamp, and a bible. Two crappy chairs. The sink had a broken soap dispenser and the faucet an unstoppable drip. I tried to fix it because the incessant, tap tap tap, when I was finally alone with my mom was making me crazy.
The linoleum was faded, formerly a light baby blue that now looked grey. There were replica paintings of some sort on the wall, all depicting some version of military americana, and the room was bereft of any medical equipment. No heart monitors, blood pressure machines, oxygen tanks. A black trash can at the door and a red sharps container near the bed.
My eyes darted all over the room avoiding the very thing that should hold my focus. Pearl.
Growing up abused and with a genius for a mom, I was taught that questions are the best way to conquer fears. And I don’t believe that’s a bad approach; knowledge is power. Power reduces fear. My brain instantly went into hyper-overdrive. In mere seconds I had a list of questions longer than the sacred scrolls.
The nurse put gloves on and handed me a pair. I refused. Nothing was going between me and Pearl. The first thing I noticed was Pearl’s face; the muscle tightness was gone and it looked like her cheeks were sliding off of her face and melding into the pillow. I asked why…what causes this. Something about blood flow and muscle tension no longer existing.
I wanted to see her eyes. Her beautiful blue orbs, crystalline in color. The nurse opened her eyelids, at my request, and I was frightened by what I saw. The shiny, clear radiance of the eyes in a living person are nothing like that of its dead counterpart. Upon death, a thin grey cloud forms over the eye, I’m not sure why, but it obfuscates the color. Her eyes were vacant, void of life and character. The blue vibrance was gone, and a hazy grey blue in its place. Actually, her whole eye had a haze over it. Please leave her eyes open, I asked. I was told there’s no guarantee they would stay that way.
Pearl’s eyelashes were still dark, her God-given eyeliner was present, and she had remarkably few wrinkles given her age. Seems she still used eye cream religiously. I smiled because I do, too, and all because she told me that “a woman is never too young for eye cream.” Excellent advice. I’ve passed it down to my daughter. Small traditions matter.
I wanted to see her chest. The doctor mentioned that resuscitation procedures are violent. I wasn’t expecting what I saw. Her chest looked deformed, like she had broken ribs and her skin was discolored. But not really bruised because when blood stops pumping you don’t bruise. Her chest had concaved like she had been hit by a battering ram. Her torso looked like she was a mutant. On one side of her, there was a hole that looked like someone punched a large metal drinking straw into her chest cavity. I think she developed a hemothorax. Whatever the cause, the hole was wide open and I could see in it.
My God, what exactly transpired over those 70 minutes? What did they do to her?
I noticed her hands and my inquisitive mindset left in an instant. The hands of my mommy, my life giver, my teacher, my muse, and also my tormentor looked horrible. She hadn’t had a manicure in weeks and it showed. The Pearl from my youth would be mortified. The Pearl today would, too.
I grabbed my purse, handed a complete stranger my American Express card, and asked if someone, anyone, could walk across the street to the pharmacy and buy all of the necessities for a manicure. I would pay them and buy their lunch. I needed fingernail files, lotion, clippers, polish removers, cotton swabs, and Q-tips. The works. I specifically asked for any brown color with a “disgusting amount of frost” in it for the fingernail polish. No price limit whatsoever. My nurse graciously walked and procured my items.
The moment the nurse walked out the door, my composure evaporated. In an instant. My mommy was gone. I was lightheaded, sweating, and I felt like I had no bones in my body to hold me upright. I collapsed to the floor and cried in the fetal position for what seemed like an eternity. Every ounce of my being was in ethereal pain. I eventually crawled on to a nearby chair and pulled it next to Pearl’s bed.
I grabbed her hand and lowered the railing on the side of her bed. I wept the tears of broken homes, lost childhood dreams, mental torment, anguish, fear, and relief. I nestled my head in that special place in the crook of her neck; the place where mommies soothe their little ones. And that’s where I stayed.
For the next three hours, I talked to my mom. Out loud as if she was alive. I told her about her beautiful grandson, and that I was a mom. Lost but figuring it out. Stories of my tortured pregnancy and hospitalization came up along with his birth. We talked teething, finger foods, and utter exhaustion. Breastfeeding mishaps and ear infections.
I made my way to stories of how I met my husband, and how I’d tried so hard with his family. I told her that my mother-in-law was so critical of me, and I didn’t understand why. I know Pearl heard me and hated this; her mantra was, “if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.”
We talked about my troubled marriage, and thankfully my husband was nowhere near as bad as Mick. I painfully admitted that I saw divorce in our future. He was emotionally stunted from fucked up, backwards, Southern, white ideology. In his family, black people, the poor, and other minorities were pure trash. So, too, was my Catholic faith. His family gossips about others like they star in their own reality series. My husband never espoused his family’s disgusting belief system, and always worked hard to distance himself from it and them. Aside from my absolute disdain for their beliefs, his family never shared their love for each other or their feelings.
Marriages require mutual support and nurturing; he thought he was. In truth, his parents were horrible examples of how to love…big. There were no nightly snuggles, tons of strings attached, abundant guilt, and a lot of boundaries. In my husband’s world, love was an obligation, not a choice. My child deserved better. His father loved him and I would never get in the way of that; but he needed to see a home that thrives on love. Mom, I want my boy to have big, beautiful, ugly, messy, and all-encompassing love. In the end, I could distance myself and our son from his family’s ideological flaws and sins, but my husband and I were disconnected. It would take time, but we would break free. I was sad that I’d likely not be able to give my son a full-blooded sibling, but blood is not required to make a family. You taught me that, Mom.
I shared stories of prior failed relationships, horrible first dates, car accidents, getting fired from my first job, and going to school. I finally went to school, mom. And I didn’t stop. Pearl gave me my brains and my God were they a blessing. Her quick wit, slicing tongue, and impermeable analytical skills had been handed down to me, nurtured, and blossomed in college. I hoped she would be proud of the woman I’d become. I was an outspoken advocate for the underprivileged and underdog, and she gave me that fight.
Then the hard part. I had to apologize. It was a compulsion even though I felt no moral obligation to do so; I was, after all, the child in this relationship. Mommy, I’m so sorry I didn’t understand how sick you were. As a little girl, I couldn’t have known, but later I did. Even when I was a teenager and knew something was wrong, I looked away. That I didn’t fight for you with Mick; mostly I’m sorry for believing the lies conjured up by Mick. That I left you alone at night to cry, and that you must have been scared, too. Just like me but for different reasons. I shared that the demons in her head had seeped into mine, but not as bad. I felt horrible for believing every twisted and sick lie that Mick told me about her. I should have known better. Please, please mom, wherever you are, I hope you can forgive me. I understand now.
Sitting on the floor just inside of the door was a bag full of manicure supplies. I never heard the nurse return my credit card, sitting atop my purse, or put the bag down. It was my time with Pearl and I was locked in.
I spent two more hours meticulously manicuring her nails and pedicuring her toes. It’s hard; her body was cold and very stiff. I don’t know if it was rigor mortis or that she was so cold, or a mixture of both. It didn’t really matter. The color was flawless, the shape her favorite, and they dried perfectly. I was proud that one of my final acts of love and care for my mom was her favorite way to pamper herself.
Not once during the 5 hours I spent with her did it ever cross my mind that she was dead. That I was touching a rotting corpse. That I could catch some foreign disease. That my actions were morbid. I was simply showing my mom that I loved her in the only way I knew how and trying my damndest. The only thing I had left in me. I was fighting desperately to make up for 22 years of lost time with my mom and the clock was ticking.
At the end of our time I was exhausted. My head hurt from crying, I was dehydrated, my soul hurt from the depths to which I opened up. I had unbridled rage for Mick, and I was barely able to function. I was alive but barely, cognitive but hanging on by a thread. I was depleted in every possible sense of the word.
For the first time in 22 years, I felt peace. My fear of Pearl evaporated, left behind was deep love, gratitude, and the sliver of hope that she’d be proud of me. She gave me my brave. You see, breaking generational trauma is neither easy nor clean. It rarely happens in one act or within one generation. Indeed, it is slow, excruciating, and time intensive. I can see now that, despite her inner demons and struggles, Pearl was working her ass off to break patterns she inherited from her family and those that were inflicted upon us by Mick. Without her, I’d not be free. Her breaking patterns, her stalwart spirit, her “fuck off, Mick,” allowed me to render the final blow to that which plagued our family. The trauma stopped with me. But not without one hell of a sacrifice made by Pearl. Never to be forgotten.
I leaned over, kissed her cheek, and told her I loved her fiercely. I prayed that God showed her mercy.
I drove to pick up my son, grabbed Chinese food on the way to the hotel, and we sat criss-cross-applesauce on the hotel bed and ate with our fingers. He was exhausted from his day, but I also sensed he knew I was tapped. Fast hot shower, bedtime snuggles, and the deepest sleep I’d had in years. Short, but deep. That night, I believe Pearl was there watching over my son and I as we slept.
Tomorrow was a new day. I had Pearl’s purse, house and car keys, and I had a job to do.
