Why Do They Gut Me?
Spring Essay Writing Contest Response
“What are you going to do with your Mom’s car?” My aunt asked, glaring sideways at me. She seemed upset. Why would she be upset?
“We’re taking it with us.”
“But, you already have a car.”
“Yeah, the Honda has over 300,000 miles on it, though. Plus, Mom can’t really get in and out of it as easily as she can in her own car.”
There was a pause, and then a slow hum of disdain that was barely audible. The sideways glare became a full on stare. I glanced side to side, not knowing what to say or do. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked myself.
And, then she got up and left without saying goodbye. “Is she implying I give her Mom’s car?” I pondered. “How strange. Maybe I could, but… No, we need it. The Honda keeps breaking down.”
My aunt had spent a fortune on clothes and toys for me when I was a kid, true. But, she also held a high paying job for decades and received a $300,000 inheritance when my Grandparents died. How did she not have a car?
My junkie uncle received an inheritance, too, of the same size. And, just like my aunt, he had burned through it in less than 5 years. His demands were more direct. “You owe me money for all of the metal you took to the scrap yard and cashed in. Some of that was mine.”
“Me and Mom asked you to get your stuff out of the shop before I went to work cleaning it out. You had 3 months to get what was yours, but you didn’t. We needed the money for groceries and bills, to buy time before Mom’s first Social Security checks started coming in. I quit my jobs to come and help her.”
He stepped closer and growled through gritted teeth, “You owe me.”
Looking him in the eye, I countered, “Those were 12 hour days in 100 plus degree weather hauling that metal, and I don’t work for free. I owe you nothing.”
The old junkie slithered off only to resurface a few weeks later, high as a hot air balloon, forcing me to call the cops.
“So, Gayle is moving to Oregon to live with you? What’s going to happen to her house?” Bobby asked, wearing a grin like a mask.
“I’m going to rent it out for a few years, and see how that goes. And, if the profit margin isn’t good, I’ll sell it.”
“I can rent it from you and fix it up, no charge.” Bobby offered.
“No, that’s OK. I’ve already found a tenant.”
There’s that sideways glare again. He looked like he wanted to hit me.
Bobby was a snake and an addict. I helped Mom divorce him after she recovered from her overdose. He was just going to let her die there on her couch, and being that they were married at the time, he would have inherited Mom’s house.
He already had a nice house that he inherited when his dad died. What was his motive here?
They were all willing to just let her die. My sister and aunt called me to break the news. “She overdosed, and is dying at home. The hospital kicked her out. Her organs are failing. Better call her and say goodbye. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
They sounded so casual as I lost grip of the phone and hit the floor wailing in pain and gasping for air. Everyone lived within 5 minutes to 4 hours away from her, and they were not interested in trying to help her or even be with her while she died. There was a hint of anger in their voices, too.
Shouldn’t they have been mad the entire time Mom was in active addiction, threatening my life and sanity when I was a teenager? Why the delayed reaction? Why now, at her weakest moment? Why not then?
I was all the way across the country.
“I’m getting on a plane Mom, just hang on.”
The house was dark and reeked of old piss when I arrived. Her skeletal frame was draped across the cushions turning the couch into an archeological site. Her eyes, grey with death’s curtain. Mouth flapping like a fish out of water.
Organic smoothies, power bars, juice, broth, filtered water, love, and attention saved her life. Like a miracle, she slowly got better and regained control over her bladder. Eventually, she even apologized for the lifetime of meth use. I never thought I’d hear her even admit to using, let alone apologize.
Her true self was renewed for the first time in decades. Spring flowers rejuvenated my soul like the Indian Paintbrush she dispatched to me down the shallow stream when I was small. Unaware of the sender, my tiny hands cupped the water around it as Mama eagerly observed with elation.
The dead leaves of her dark Winter were shed and gone. And, here before us was a new opportunity, a new life. It was all I had ever wanted. Her restoration healed my scars with each road trip, each game of chess, and every burst of random laughing fit or song.
“See the stone set in your eyes, see the thorn twist in your side. I’ll wait for you. Sleight of hand and twist of fate. On a bed of nails, she makes me wait. And, I wait without you. With or without you. With or without you. I can’t live with or without you.” We sang along with U2 on the radio as loud as we could.
“She’s back, and it’s because of me! I saved her when everyone said it was impossible!” I boasted to myself, gleaming with pride and exuberance.
I helped her get healthy and sober, filed paperwork for the divorce she wanted, jumped through all of the hoops to get her on Dad’s Social Security, cleaned out her cluttered house, and cleaned out the 2-story shop all by myself. The shop was no easy task and took months of work, since my family of pack rats had treated it like a storage unit for decades.
I took on the role of full-time caregiver, and we made the necessary legal arrangements for the possibility of death. Mom wanted the will to say that her house would go to me, because I am the one that helped her, and apparently my sister had been granted way more of my Mom’s inheritance money than I ever saw. However, I insisted on including my sister in the will, because it felt right and fair.
We planned for the worst while hoping for the best. Mom’s recovery was inspiring, but her cardiovascular state was still in shock from giving up 40 years of meth. She continued to suffer from the occasional stroke.
A fog of depression rolled over her as she realized that her sober transformation was too little, too late. Each stroke snatched a token of her newly found vitality away as her eyesight and speech began to diminish.
Spring was over as fast as it had arrived. It became harder to make Mom laugh and smile. On top of that, family loomed like acid rain to sting me for her despondency. They conspired in a group, came up with a consensus, and confronted me privately in an attempt to feign original opinion.
“You’re the reason she’s depressed. You don’t let her eat whatever she wants,” my aunt would say.
“Ewww, these organic sodas can NOT taste good,” my other aunt would say with a scoff. “No wonder she’s depressed.”
“How long are you planning on limiting the amount of cigarettes Mom can have? You know that’s why she’s sad,” recited my sister like a trained parrot, excited for her cracker of approval from the aunts.
My codependent inner fixer began to burn out as the strokes continued along with the family criticism. I could see myself strung up to a tree, gutted like a deer, surrounded by vultures. So much had been hollowed out of me that there was barely anything left to feel.
It was the same emotion I had as a teen, chained to Mom’s shadow, concealed and consumed by her victim mentality. Had I not proved my worth? Had I not crushed each challenge towards helping my Mother with grace, talent, and courage?
Why do they gut me? Why don’t I exist to them?
Almost a decade later, I finally know the answer.
Upon reading this, I’m sure you have some answers too. It’s easy to see someone’s situation and circumstance when you are not a part of it.
I will never exist to those that refuse to see me. And, they don’t see me, because they don’t want to. My existence makes them feel guilt, shame, and disdain. My independent mind makes them uncomfortable.
My carcass is now compost for new growth that presses and weaves through scorched Earth, making it’s way towards the sun.
No longer hollow, I exist.
The vultures have departed to seek new scraps.
So fulfilled and content, I exist.
Adventures await for me to explore.
In this beautiful world, I exist.
This essay is a contest submission. Find contest details in the link below: