I recently had some news, sad news, to
say that a friend I had known for a long time had passed away. I had lost touch
with this lady many years ago, but from time to time, we would catch up and
touch base. I knew that my friend had some issues with alcoholism, but I guess
I had not appreciated the severity of her problem, which she understandably kept
to herself.
I am no stranger to the tragedy of
alcoholism and my friend’s passing brought back a lot of painful memories. You
see, my own mother was a victim of this illness, some 30 years ago, though at
the time, I could not comprehend the complexities of her condition. I
understood why she drank, but, in my ignorance, I, like many people,
thought she should just be able to just “Stop” and to get it under control. How
utterly naïve I was.
I am writing this very personal blog
about my own experiences in the hope that it might offer some small level of
understanding or support to others who might be suffering the same.
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My childhood in the UK was fairly uneventful and
ordinary really. Mum was mum, always there, caring and kind. She was a
brilliant gardener, and grew all our own fruit and vegetables for many years. My grandfather, her father, had been a market gardener during the war, and she
had clearly inherited his skills. She also made jam, dressed me in home-made fancy
dress costumes for the school fair, and raised a ton of money so my primary
school could have a swimming pool. She was secretary of the PTA and an all-round
good person.
A tiny me with my mum
She was my first champion, as a mum
should be, constantly boosting my self-esteem. Always telling me I was
beautiful (even WITH that pudding basin fringe I lived with) and encouraging me
that I could do anything with the right attitude.
Me and mum in her lovely garden, and me with THAT haircut!
I often felt I was a bit of a disappointment
as daughters go. An out and out Tom boy, with a high sense of adventure; I
engaged in risk taking behaviour from an early age. With many broken bones and stitches to vouch for this, I feel that my poor long-suffering mother despaired,
and longed for a more gentile daughter, perhaps one who painted or played the
piano nicely. Hmm, it was never gonna happen. I was usually to be found running
wild in the woods with my boy cousins, up a tree or falling in the brook.
My dad and I had a more distant
relationship. I loved him of course; I mean, he was my dad, but he wasn’t a
hands on dad at all. He was more caught up in his golfing and, as a fairly large figure in the Masons, he spent a lot of time at the Masonic Lodge and was far too busy to
pay much attention to me. I recall as I got older, that
he and mum argued a fair bit about the amount of time he spent out of the
house. On one famous occasion, she threw my roller skate at him (and missed)
while shouting, “It’s not a wife you want, it’s a housekeeper” in great Maureen
O’ Hara style.
My dad was always a bit of a Jack-the-Lad; seen here on the wall
However, despite the friction his
absences caused, the fact was that she idolised the man. He was her whole
world, and like many women of her generation, she depended on him totally. Mum
never learned to drive, she didn’t know how to use a cheque book. Convent educated,
she was an innocent abroad whose life experience in general was fairly limited.
I remember her telling me once that she
had overheard another woman talking about her impending marriage to my father and
saying, “Can you believe it, Tom’s marrying that MOUSE of a girl”. I know that
hurt her deeply, and she felt less than adequate as a partner for such a charismatic,
and popular man.
Mum front row far right; the good girl in the hockey team
The little mouse bride
Despite the opposition, they did marry
and mum settled into a life of domesticity, while dad worked. He would
eventually own his own business, which only served to add to the pressures on
their increasingly strained relationship.
Mum with me and my brother at a local beauty spot
Tragedy struck one day in May 1981. I
had (foolishly as it turns out) got married and only three days previously, had
moved to another County about 80 miles away. I got the news via the new people
I had gone to work for. I still remember the look on the man’s face as he came
to tell me I needed to ring home. He could not look me in the eye, he studied
the ground, overwhelmed with the hand grenade that he had just thrown into
my world.
My father was dead at the age of 56. A heart attack, in the back of a taxi of all
places, and just like that, my life would never be the same.
And just like that, he was gone
This is not the place for me to write
about the feelings of anger, disbelief, grief, loss and everything, which
accompanies the sudden death of a loved one so close to you. Maybe another
time.
I knew however, that the impact of his
death on my mum would be utterly devastating.
I was not wrong.
She learned of his death from the
police – 2 sombre faced men, who came to the house, with their sincere, yet empty
words of condolence and sorrow. Glad when they could leave again and get back
to their own lives. Away from the madness, where the poor woman was throwing
glasses at the wall and screaming at them.
It hit her hard. She was now alone.
Both her children had left and had families and lives of their own. My brother
and his wife lived close by, and offered as much support as they could, but it
was not enough. Nothing was enough, and it never would be again. She wanted the
man she loved, and his passing had destroyed her. She would stand at the open bedroom
window in the middle of the night calling his name, while knowing he would
never again hear her voice. She stopped eating and sank into a grief so deep,
she was unreachable.
Mum was never a drinker, that’s the
ironic thing. Girls educated in Catholic convents, can buck their stringent
upbringing and be fairly wild, but my mother was one of the obedient ones, a
mouse, as that woman had so cruelly called her. She was at best, a social
drinker, a sherry at Christmas, and maybe a glass of wine with Sunday dinner,
but an alcoholic? The very idea was laughable.
She had come out of herself a bit as with
my dad, she had quite the social life but an alcoholic? Never.
Mum having a bit of fun, not long before dad died
However, in an effort to deaden the
pain of her loss, she began to drink. Bell’s Whisky was quite literally her
poison. As a family, we all tried to reason with her, to offer some comfort,
while secretly and with a large measure of guilt, wishing she would “move on”.
After all, my dad was hardly ever home. Surely, she could start a new life?
Oh
the callousness of youth, the selfishness of reason, which is designed to
benefit only the self. Get over him? She had worshipped the ground he walked on
for over 25 years, she was never getting over this man.
Never.
Her drinking became the topic of much discussion
within the close family. I went as far as visiting her own GP and discussing it
with her. She told me very simply that unless my mum wanted to stop drinking,
there was nothing anyone could do to stop her. Tragically, mum did not have the
motivation to stop. Her world had collapsed, there was no reason to try any
more.
The hundreds of friends who had packed dad’s funeral to the extent that
there had to be police directing the traffic, had long abandoned her, unable to
deal with the raw pain she exuded. It also turned out that they were mainly dad’s
friends; mum was a persona non gratis – she was “Tom’s wife” and not a person
in her own right. The “friends” faded into the background, no more than a
memory of a life she used to know. It was, in effect, a slow suicide. She was
killing herself one day at a time and the rest of us got to watch, to stand by
helplessly as she did so.
Here’s the brutal honesty of it all. While mum was sinking lower and lower, I was fighting my own emotional battle. I am so thoroughly ashamed to admit this now, but I was filled with seething resentment. Several years had gone by, and her drinking had got worse. I now had 2 small children, one of whom was less than a year old. I was a busy young
mum in a miserable marriage of my own, and limited in what help I could offer.
I missed my dad too; she was not the only one suffering from grief, but rather than unite us, his death seemed only to divide. I had wept rivers of tears for him; he would visit me in my dreams and I would ask him where he had gone. Once my children were in bed for the night, I would cry for hours, aching with the longing to see him again. The next day I would put on my game face and be a mummy again. My simple logic was, "If I can carry on, then why can't you?"
Clearly, I'd never been in love like she had.
My emotions would flare up at the most unexpected times. One day I was pushing my first baby in her pram through town and saw another young mum doing the same. The difference was, that this girl had her mother with her. What a happy scene they presented, 3 generations together. I was jealous, angry and resentful all at the same time. Why couldn't my mum be there for me? I wanted my babies to have a grandma, to know that family bond and to be excited when grandma was coming, like I used to be as a child.
It was never to be.
Mum had taken to making drunken rambling phone calls to me in the middle of the day. I knew she wouldn’t remember any of it the following day, and took to avoiding answering the phone. Some days when we did talk and she was
more lucid, she would plead with me to visit her. Money was tight, and I would
try to explain that it was not so easy to simply “pop over” as it was too far
to travel with 2 small children in one day and at that time, petrol was an expensive
luxury. Days later I would receive an envelope with £10 in it “for petrol”. My
insides would cramp into a ball; my own mother paying me to go and visit her - it
felt like emotional blackmail and only added to my feelings of frustration and
failure.
I did visit, of course I did. I would
go into her house, the house I grew up in, and I would search it like some
deranged CSI agent looking for evidence. I would find it too; glasses of whisky
hidden behind the curtains, behind furniture and even in the oven. I went
through every emotion possible, from rage to sadness, from sympathy to
contempt. Yes, contempt; I found myself despising my own mother for what I perceived
as her weakness. In one awful argument, I recall asking her why she could not
deal with my dad’s death as other widows I knew had dealt with it. I pointed at
my children through tears of anger while demanding to know why they were not enough motivation for her to stop drinking. Oh what an ignorant, stupid
egotistical child I was.
She would cry, I would cry and we would
try one more time to “work it out”.
I look back and cringe at my own insensitivity. How could she possibly “move on”? She lived
still in the house they had occupied since I was three years old. Every room
screamed his name, as the ghost of his memory walked past her every day.
She made promises she had no hope of
keeping. One of the worst times was when I planned to make a trip to the far
north of Scotland. At the time, I only had one daughter. She was 18 months old
and suffered from appalling car sickness – taking her with me was out of the
question. I only planned to be gone a few days, and mentioned to my mum that I
was thinking of asking my close friend to care for my daughter in my short
absence. There was a wounded silence on the other end of the phone. I waited,
knowing what this was about before asking with an inward sigh, “What’s the matter?”
The silence between us grew until finally, she spoke, “Why can’t I look after
her?” she asked in a small voice.
My breath caught in my throat. Did she
really just ask me that? I stumbled over words, trying, not too successfully,
to be tactful as I explained that given her circumstances I thought it best if
she didn’t babysit.
Her next words were stinging, and
delivered with all the self-belief she could muster. “You think I would drink
don’t you? How could you think that I would do that when I’m caring for my granddaughter,
how COULD you think that of me?”
It was enough; she shamed me into
agreeing that she could care for my precious baby.
I got to Scotland after an exhausting
10 hour drive. I immediately went to the phone to ring mum to let her know I
had arrived and to ask how she was getting on.
She was drunk.
My world spun, everything tilted and at
that moment, for the first time in my life I hated my mother. I felt utterly
betrayed and totally helpless.
I hung up, rang my sister in law, and gabbled
out a tearful explanation begging her to go and rescue my daughter, which of
course she did. I returned home the following day with 24 hours of pent up
anger just waiting to explode. There was a terrible scene of course, which I regret to
this day.
However, it was this event which
brought my mother’s issues with alcohol into sharp focus. As she lay on her bed
sobbing tears of guilt, I suddenly saw with alarming clarity what had evaded me
for too long.
This woman was sick. Really sick.
She did not need me to shout and blame
her for her actions, what she needed was unconditional love and understanding,
which had been painfully lacking from me, her only daughter. I stood shaking
with the adrenaline of the confrontation, and was overwhelmed with shame. I
went to her and sat down besides her attempting an apology.
For the first time since my father died,
I felt the full force of the pain of HER loss. She cried like a child,
repeating over and over, “I want him back, I just want him back”. I felt like a
voyeur; I was witnessing something which I did not deserve to be a part of,
something so primeval, which I had never before encountered. It was a sobering experience.
I’d like to be able to tell you that things
improved and that my mum sought the help we had all urged on her for the past 4
years.
That would be futile. She did not get
better, in fact, she got worse.
She knew; of course she knew. She began to set her house in order, putting the home she had shared with dad on the market and agreeing to buy another, smaller property. She never got to make the move.
Her drinking caught up with her, and
she was admitted to hospital where she lied to the consultant, and believed she had fooled him. When I arrived, he spoke to me and said that my mother had
told him she drank approximately a bottle of whisky a week. Confirming the skepticism I could see in his eyes, I told him that it was more like a bottle a day. He
commented that people did not get this sick on a bottle a week. I found myself trying to explain, to somehow make him see that I had tried, we had all tried. He understood of course, he'd seen it all before.
One day when I was visiting, I came out of the lift and sat on a bench in the hall, working myself up to go in and see her. She looked absolutely shocking. The illness had turned her a terrible shade of orange and she was basically skin and bone. As I sat there steeling myself, the lift doors opened and an old man got out. Looking at me, he came and sat beside me and patted my hand, as if in silent sympathy. He asked who I had come to see and I found myself weeping into the arms of this total stranger and telling him about the pain and sadness I was feeling. He just listened and let me get it all out. Then, standing up to leave, he pressed a box of Mr Kipling French Fancies into my hand, no doubt intended as a gift for whoever he was visiting. "For you lass" he said, "Cake always helps". Who he was I do not know, but to this day I will never forget that small kindness.
Mum was in hospital for three weeks
before cirrhosis of the liver took her from us. It had only been 5 years since my dad died,
and now, I had to face the loss of my mother.
Before she passed away, she said
to me, “I’m afraid”. When I asked her what she was afraid of, she said, “I’m
afraid I’m going to die”.
In that moment, I wanted to scream. I
wanted to shake her and shout as loudly as I could, “Of course you’re going to bloody
well die, we’ve been telling you that for the past 5 years”. Instead I took her
hand and asked without a hint of cynicism, “Was that not the plan all along?” She
smiled, a rare smile and simply said, “Maybe, but now it’s here I don’t much
like the idea”.
At that moment, my heart broke into hundreds
of tiny pieces.
All the hurt, the anger, the
frustrations about her drinking evaporated in that moment and as we held hands,
we made our peace.
I never saw her again. She slipped away
while I was not there.
I miss her every day. She was a beautiful person, she was my mother.
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I have shared this very personal
account, hoping it might help people in a similar situation, whether you are
ill with alcohol addiction, or living with it as a family member. The loss of my mother and the accompanying sense of a life wasted never leaves me, neither does the regret that I did not do more.
Alcohol is responsible for so much pain and many tragedies, from car accidents to domestic violence and child abuse. It is legal, widely available and socially accepted.
I am now a qualified social worker with
much experience in dealing with issues surrounding alcohol and its impact on the individual and their wider families. I am aware of all the available research and
theories in working with people who have alcohol issues. I did not have the benefit of this knowledge 30 years ago. However, all the knowledge and learning in the world can not prepare you for the journey you must take when a friend or loved one is battling with addiction.
In many ways, my personal experiences
with my mum, contributed to my current knowledge. I don’t doubt I am still
trying to make amends in some way for my historical failure to help someone who
needed more from me than I was able to offer at the time.
If you are affected by any sort of addiction, please, be encouraged to seek
professional support. Go to your doctor, he or she will understand
and point you and your loved ones in the right direction.
I only wish I had
done more, sought more advice, not been so caught up in my own angry emotions,
that I could not see my mother’s terrible pain. I cannot turn back time, but I
can try and help others not to make the same mistakes I made.
Freya
