MENTAL HEALTH

I Want My Mommy

The monsters are closing in

Heart, racing, hands shaking, my anxiety is in full bloom as I type this. There’s too much to take in these days, in the world at large, and in my world.

Too much. Do you understand what I’m talking about?

Although I’m adept at slapping on a game face, I feel myself cracking. The facade is shifting, like a faultline. And there’s not a cosmetic that’s been made that can hide the fear bubbling just below the surface. I see it in my eyes when I look in the mirror, like those of a snake. Black. Flat.

I want to pick up the phone and call my mother. Tell her how scared I am, of demons both real and imagined. But I cannot. She’s “gone.” Along with my father, seven years now. It still doesn’t seem possible. Both dead within two weeks of one another from stage four lung cancer.

I want my mommy. Desperately.

If we could talk, I’m certain our conversation would center around my cousin’s sixteen-year-old granddaughter, who was just diagnosed with stage four bone cancer and is lying in an IC unit right now recovering from multiple surgeries that I won’t go into as I can barely wrap my head around this latest tragedy. And you all have problems of your own.

Sixteen!

I’m sure that before we hung up our phones my mom would make me laugh, somehow. Never one for sentiment, she had a wry sense of humor and an edginess that often left us at odds. (Remind you of anyone?)

That said, maybe I can pretend that we’re just on one of our frequent “breaks.” After all, that beats thinking of her in the cold ground in a cold cemetery in a cold suburb of Chicago.

Yes. It’s still fucking cold here. Mid-April and we’re shivering. In fact, I awoke to snow on the ground. There are barely any buds on the trees and our squirrels are hiding the nuts I give them, as if preparing for a long, frigid winter.

Even our squirrels our screwed up.

My dad. I miss him terribly, as well, even though we had a difficult relationship. If he was still among the living, I’d call and wish him “good Pesach,” to commemorate Passover. If I didn’t, he’d be pissed. He was definitely the yin to my mother’s yang. He cared, where she did not. Neglect to acknowledge his birthday and you’d live to regret it.

My brother, estranged from my sister and me for as long as our parents have been dead, frequently forgot. Sometimes, I forget that I have a brother. Although technically, I don’t. He doesn’t even live in Illinois, anymore. Oh, well. Just one of those things we suck up.

My mother could take or leave holidays, like Easter. As I said, sentiment wasn’t her strong suit. Yet, right now, she’d probably be preparing a brisket for my dad or one of his other seasonal favorites. He wasn’t religious, but he loved his brisket and kugel (noodle pudding).

And if it ever warms the fuck up around here, he’d be prepping his beloved vegetable garden.

This Thursday, my husband and I meet with the gastroenterologist who will be detailing the “next steps” following the positive result of his at-home colon cancer test. Of course, this will be a colonoscopy, which he should have been prescribed in the first place. But you know, when there’s money involved in the form of payola, a patient’s wellbeing takes a back seat.

No matter. I will try to remain stoic and positive. Like Sarah McLachlan, who so eloquently sings in her heartbreaking, “Answer” —

If it takes my whole life I won’t break, I won’t bend

But I am breaking, little by little. Lately, I forget stuff. I’ll stash something in a drawer or closet and can’t recall where I put it. I accidentally toss purchases and then have to rifle through the trash bin to find them. This last bit I’ve done far too many times to count.

Mommy. Help me.

I don’t have a “center” so there’s no use trying to reclaim it. If I’ve ever felt centered, I can’t recall when the hell that was. So instead, I will attempt to focus on something else, something tangible, like how to make some fucking money. One thing is for certain: It’s not happening here, nor will it ever. I’ve almost made peace with that, yet that shred of acquiescence is infused with anger and frustration that the people who run this joint are making bank off of us.

Enough of that. Nothing can change it.

There’s just too much.

When I feel like this, I tend to veer toward the self-destructive, like drinking too. much. But I mustn’t. I haven’t been hungover in months and I kind of like that. Plus, I must be clear-headed for whatever is ahead.

Do you ever feel like this? That there’s just too damned much to deal with, to absorb and deflect?

If so, you’re probably sick of reading this so I’ll STFU and hop on my treadmill. Put on Netflix and try to breathe. That’s what “they” always tell us to do. Just breathe.

I wish my mother could breathe. I wish I could pick up the phone and tell her I need my mommy. But, like so many other things I strive for, or toward, she is out of my reach.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.