Heritage

There comes a point in every child's life where they begin to understand their parents and accept them as being more than just a mother or father.

I got to that point sometime a few months ago. And yesterday, I learned something: Accepting your parents as beautiful, flawed individuals also means holding them accountable for their shitty actions.

Around three in the afternoon, I stopped by my mother's house to drop off a ficus. Someone at work gave it to me, and since everything I touch dies I decided to pass it on to my mother and her magical green thumb. I wrote a little note for it that read "My name is Fenwick the Ficus! My mommy couldn't take care of me :( Please love me!" and planned to leave it at the doorstep like a cartoon baby.

When I went to ditch the plant baby, I noticed that my mother's car was running and her door was ajar. I assumed she had stopped home for something, and marveled at my slickness and great timing. What a fun surprise, I thought, giggling at my porch baby.

Of course, I assumed that sometime soon, I would be getting a phone call or text message asking me if I had, indeed, abandoned the plant. When that didn't come, I felt slightly alarmed, but not terribly so. I left Tony's house around seven that night, and swung by my mother's apartment to check on things.

Fenwick was still on the porch.

Her car was still running.

I, keeping as calm as one can, skipped into her house. Not to mince words, but I was almost entirely certain that I was going to find her on the floor. Where I actually found her was her bed, sound asleep. I shook her awake and said "Momther, your car has been running for like, four hours." To which she says, so eloquently, "Go fuggin turn it off, then!"

I begrudingly do so. Then pulls up Uncle Frank, a childhood figure from my church, asking me to go help him work the ATM. I tell my mother as much and oblige, getting to hear all the juiciest gossip from my past churchfellows(A few of the deacons had become preachers, our pastor won a big settlement from getting hit by a boat, etc.)

When he brought me back, I went back inside. Mom had managed to move to the couch, and was coughing. Just continuously coughing. I asked if she needed water, she shook her head no. I asked if she need cough syrup. Yes. Did she have any? No. Ok, well, I'll go get some.

I got some NyQuil from our local convenience store, and rushed it back to her. Of course, now she wasn't coughing. She was, however, slurring every word in the book. At this point, I wasn't sure if she was drunk(likely) or having a stroke(equally likely, given how much she drinks). I asked her a few basic questions: When is your birthday, what color is your car, who is president? She had a little trouble remembering Obama at first, but she got there. I squeezed her fingers, hand, arm, face, feet-She could feel it. Bonus points to Tony for looking up signs of stroke for me so I had a nice checklist to go by.

At this point, I started asking her how much she'd had to drink, if she was drunk when she came home, yada yada. I forced her to drink some water and eat a cookie. She didn't want to eat anything, but I was going to force some food into her one way of another. I almost wish she hadn't, so I could just shove a piece of bread into her dumb drunk smart mouth, but that wouldn't have ended well for anyone.

I got her a cheesesteak, and it seemed to help soak up some of the booze in her stomach. I tried asking her questions, but it was obvious that nothing was hitting home. She managed to get half of it down before nodding off. I roused her and put her to bed, fed her cats and gave them water, put the other half of her cheesesteak in the fridge, stole her last bottle of Lord Calvert and went on my less-than-merry way.

When I got home, I tried(for reasons that I simply cannot fathom) to relay the story to Alex and express my concerns about my own future. He responded with sarcasm about self-fulfilling prophecies and silence. I slept on the small couch in the library, which I guess is my bed now, but that's a story for another post.

I've texted my mother a few times, with no response. I'm not incredibly concerned, because I know she doesn't rise until noon when she can help it, but if I don't get an answer I'll ride over there after work. Why do I have to have a drunk for a mother? She went eleven years without it, and now her blood is mostly alcohol. Am I doomed and damned? Am I trying to repair a relationship with someone who is making that all but impossible? Biggest question-What do I do now?