May 21st has, for many years, been a hard day for me but today, in 2008, it weighs a little more, carries a bit more sadness and right now at 8:35 a.m., feels like it will be a very long day, indeed. You see, twenty years ago today, my mother died. And twenty years ago yesterday, I went out and got totally smashed instead of staying at my mom’s bedside.

My mother had battled ovarian cancer and had just passed her “five year” clearing when she started to have blurred vision. The cancer had spread to her brain and eventually metastisized to her whole body and on May 21, 1888 she died. As she had done with her whole life, she never complained, accepted her condition with quiet resolve, remained completely devoted to the Virgin, Mary and tried never to bother any of her children with the many, many obstacles she faced raising a family of five as a young widow whose youngest child was severely disabled and required around the clock care.

She had just been moved from the Neuro Intensive Care Unit at Northwestern University Hospital in Chicago to the Hospice unit in the same facility, and my siblings and I were with her the night before she died. All I could think about was how I was going to get a drink that night when I knew she could die at any moment. It was a Friday night and I remember asking her, “Mama, would you like me to stay with you tonight?”, knowing full well what her answer would be. She turned and sweetly whispered, “No, Love, you go home. I’ll be all right.” That was my green light, my permission slip, my “get out of jail free” card, and my siblings and I left, went to a Mexican restaurant and I have no idea if it was Sangria or Margaritas or both, but I proceeded to drink my way into oblivion. I don’t even remember driving back to my sister’s house, but in the wee hours of the morning the phone rang and we were told to come to the hospital.

The next thing I remember is that we were all sitting around her bed, saying the rosary, and I was so sick that I had my head resting on her arm or leg, I don’t remember, just to try to stop the volcano in my bloodstream from erupting through my cerebellum. Each minute became an hour as I ate aspirin, drank copious amounts of water and tried to eat something to fill the empty garbage can that had taken the place of my stomach. Mom was slipping away and I was trying to get over a hangover. Around 8:00 p.m. that night, I sat next to her on the bed, with my arm around her, and with my brother and sister, helplessly watched her take her last breath.

I remained in active addiction for many, many years after her death and spent endless hours in the self-destructive pattern we addicts know so well, blaming, condemning and punishing myself for my behavior that night. We addicts do that so effortlessly that it becomes second nature. It is part of our insanity. But over the years, through therapy, working a program, making my relationship with my Higher Power a constant, and also because of the gift of grace, I have been able to forgive myself for that night. I always knew that I had already been forgiven by my mom and my Higher Power - that was never the issue. It was my self-centered, self-annihilating, disease that wanted to keep me alone with my shame, and bring me closer to its black vortex, hoping that one day it could suck me in forever. Such is the nature of our illness.

Today I am forgiven - but I do not forget…. I cannot forget…..I will not forget.

Till Next Time -

Your Humble Road Warrior