Clink, clink

Familiar sound had a much different effect in relationship with mom

The clink of two glasses for most people means there is something to celebrate.

Cheers. Smile. Life is good.

Followed by a quick swig of champagne. Ahhhhhh.

For me that sound means anything but cheery, happy times.

Clink.

For me it meant Mom was gone for hours, days at time. In her bed, dead to the world but living in my head.

See - she thought she was all sneaky and sly; hiding her Black Label 40s between her mattress and bed springs.

Whenever she retreated, afraid to face the day, acknowledging that man that she loved didn’t feel the same way was too much, or just having no will to function, Mom went to her bedroom. Sat on the bed – clink, clink – turning those 40s into 80s and 120s as those bottles rattled together.

Clink. Clink.

To this day two bottles or glasses coming together reminds me of how un-together she and I were. We were in the house together, sure, if comatose and alone, left to fend yourself at age 15, is any kind of relationship.

But that was the cold, hard reality most days. So, I scattered. Looking for the comfort of the normal family.

Ice cold chocolate milk. Ooey and gooey mac and cheese. Canadian bacon. Even good old Spaghetti Os.

Oh, yeah my neighborhood friends had it good. Their fridges were filled. Mine? Not so much.

Not much more than a morsel. So I’d just happen to show up at their house right around 5:36 with hopes of them adding another plate, going from a table five to six.

Cheers. My faux family. Happy and normal as can be.

Just the opposite two houses up the street. One brother was grown and out of the house. The other was partying and other rarely home. Dad worked long hours, and spent free time elsewhere.

It left Mom and I. Some days

.

Others it was me and the TV. Watching other happy families – like the Keatons or Cosbys. But the Facts of Life always brought me back to reality.

So I handled it differently each day depending on what she chose to do that day. When she had a good one there was dinner and conversation. A bad one meant I’d probably be fending for myself. Making my own dinner.

When I got home, I knew immediately what was in store for me – upright and happy sober Mom or word slurring, stumbling sloshed to the gills unrecognizable woman, just by the smell when I walked in the door.

Spaghetti or that unmistakable stench?

The mix of stale beer, pee, vomit and body odor is pungent. Your nose is sucker punched like the start of bar fight. WHAM.

And as soon as it struck me my eyes watered. Not always from the smell. They watered because I felt helpless as I watched my Mother drown herself.

Not knowing if today was the day that her liver couldn’t take it anymore. I know I couldn’t. Or she passed out with a smoke in her hand with the possibility of the house being gone – like her will to live.

So I did what I did.

Sometimes I just left. Went to one of my faux families.

Others I yelled. Let the anger bubble to the top until it boiled over.

Screamed – the kind where the veins pop in your forehead. I took pots of cold water and dumped it on her face. Desperate for her to wake up. Just give me some sign that you’re still breathing.

I’d hide her keys so she couldn’t go get that numbing agent. It infuriated her. Led to a battle of wills or worse. We’re both ashamed about some of the things that transpired, but now we know it was part of the journey.

One that actually has a happy ending. She got sober. I got Mom back. Every day. More than 30 years of sobriety.

She has sponsored more than 100 women. Giving back to the program that saved ever since she looked me in the eye before entering rehab 1988 and said, “I am doing this for you.”

That was the last time she looked into my eyes bloodshot and with shame.

And that’s plenty to celebrate.

No clink needed.