After a little recovery time, on, on we go. Looking back into my childhood, before age 8, I remember very little past what I've already described. A few other memories include my brother and his girlfriend allowing me to watch Nightmare on Elm Street at an age appropriate 6ish (my own nightmares of Freddy lasted a good 5 years after that!), as well as a few games of tether ball in the front yard, and that pitiful day my favorite tree was dug up while I was at school. I remember knocking on my sister's locked bedroom door begging her to let me help her with her homework (of which I couldn't read or write, and she, being 7 years my elder, probably had algebra or some other "Greek" studies I couldn't begin to comprehend.) Anyways, the memories continue, this random, and this vague.
A little later, we find out my mom has lung cancer. Probably from the pack a day habit she had for as long as I was alive at least. Being so young, I don't remember much of the technical hospital stuff, as I wasn't involved, but I do remember they had to perform surgery to remove my mom's lung, and the chance of recovery they gave her was slim to none. This changed everything. My dad stopped drinking, kinda. We started eating dinner as a family at the dinner table and saying grace. None of these changes were comfortable for me. I didn't have my mom at home. All of a sudden I had no idea what to expect from my father, and I had no clue what saying grace was or why we had to do it. Life, as I knew it, was forever changed. And I was angry.
Long story short, the surgery went okay. And my mom was home but on extreme chemo and medication. She was very sick. But she was there. She wasn't yelling and screaming all the time anymore. And randomly, I don't really remember what was going on with my dad during this time. Life kind of just stopped.
Fast forward a couple of years. My mom was doing well. The cancer was gone and my mom was in a much better mood than prior to the cancer. My dad was sober more often, but that meant more attempts at discipline from him, which, in my preteen condition, made me more rebellious. And if it wasn't enough, my sister was a seemingly perfect example of a child. I had to live up to her amazing grades and good behavior. Around this time, my mom started spending some of her hoarded money on me and after school programs. I was able to dance and play sports because my mom saved money she was given for groceries for the family. But then, something else happened.
My mom started having migraines. Serious migraines. Migraines that affected her day to day. It was chalked up to depression and stress. Until the seizures started. Now, diabetes doesn't run in my family, and for all I knew, seizures were only linked to diabetes. I had no idea what was happening, being only 9 or 10 and never witnessing anything even as remotely serious as a seizure. My mom just started convulsing. My sister called 911 and I freaked out. By the time the ambulance got to our house, my mom showed signs of being conscious again. I sighed in relief. Then, I just observed. I watched the EMTs lock my mom down on the gurney and then they wheeled her down the driveway. I followed like a lost puppy dog. They asked her questions like, "What's your name? What year is it? Where are you?" She answered all the questions correctly. Then I took charge. "Do you know my name?" I asked her. "Yes," she said. "What is it?" I asked. "Umm....I...it will come to me." All I could think is, "How does a mom forget her own daughter's name?"
The only thing I remember for the next couple of years is crying. My mom's cancer came back in the form of brain cancer. She had multiple surgeries, of which some were not completely necessary come to find out. They took out part of her memory, which left her with minimal long term memory and practically no short term memory. We had to teach her everything all over again. And this is why she didn't know me. But she learned. And I learned. And one day I stopped. I stopped all my adolescent nonsense. I saw my mom for who she was finally. She wasn't depressed and resentful because she forgot she was. She wasn't angry and spiteful because she forgot she was. She was happy. She was loving. She was maternal and caring. She was personable and entertaining. I was able to see my mom outside of the abusive shadow and all of a sudden she was in a glowing beam of light. I was happy.
My dad became increasingly less drunk and participated more. We were able to talk more. The trust we built during the sober times could almost be considered the demise of the trust during the drunken times, however. I would cry to him while he was drinking. I would explain what his alcoholism was doing to me. To the family. To him. He cared. I knew he did because he cried. I knew he did because he said he did. I knew he did because he vowed to stop.
But he didn't. He kept drinking. He kept drinking until he was mad again. He would explain to me how he really only wanted my oldest brother; how he never really wanted me. And that would continue into how his behaviors had affected my brother's life, and that would continue into what a terrible childhood he, himself had. This is what my dad's binges were made up of. But the sober was good.
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