Entry #31: TWO BOYS, TWO SUICIDES IN MARCH

This blog has been on hiatus for nearly a year while I've been working on some life issues, but it has always been on my mind. There are plenty of topics to discuss!

Writers deal with uncooperative thoughts by wrangling with them on paper. I figured out years ago that if I just can't get past something, it means I'll have to write about it, and see what others think.

Lately I have been unable to get past the death of Cayman Naib, a teenager I never even knew. Cayman was 13 years old and a student at The Shipley School when he killed himself recently. I was 13 years old and a student at The Shipley School when my brother killed himself in 1968. For me, reading about Cayman's suicide is like walking through a door into 1968. The psyche does not know what year it is, and it can jump around wherever it wants.

Most Shipley students have money - some more, some less. Money buys anything, including privacy. People most likely will not call Child Protective Services if you live on 17 acres, as Cayman did, or in a gorgeous estate on the Main Line, as I did. But a family's wealth and address hardly guarantee a childhood free from abuse, brutality, or terror.

The two suicides are not related, but there are some parallels. Whenever a young person kills himself it leads to more questions than answers. You can never know what is happening behind the closed doors of another family. The adults might even be clueless about what is happening themselves.

Cayman took a gun from his family's home and shot himself in the head. He should not have had access to a loaded gun. The gun should have had a working trigger lock on it. The parents are responsible for giving him this way to die. However, if he was really determined, he might have found another way to kill himself.

I was very struck by a quote from Cayman's mother, who said: "We are told he didn't suffer." DIDN'T SUFFER? Yes, he died a quick death - but clearly he was in anguish, probably for years. What a strange, self-serving remark.

The Shipley School is a private "college preparatory" school, and the students who go there are being groomed for greater and more difficult things. In my day, we had an hour of homework per subject per night - and we didn't get home until late because of sports and other after-school activities. If I started homework at 7:00, I already knew I was in trouble, and I'd have to do academic triage, addressing the most critical assignments first. Unless you were super bright - and some of my friends were beyond brilliant - you could never do enough. It simply wasn't possible.

Cayman was flunking a course (or courses) at Shipley, and apparently this was such an insurmountable crisis to him that he could not face his parents about it. Death was preferable. Not long after receiving an e-mail from the school, he took the gun and ran out into a rainstorm. His mother, the last person to see him alive, was not aware he had left the house. He was dead on the family property within half an hour, although the search for his body continued far and wide for five days. 

Cayman was still in the "lower school" at Shipley, which goes up to seventh grade. At 13, he would have been one of the older kids in his class. Possibly he had some learning disabilities - in which case the schoolwork would have been extra difficult for him. This is speculation, but we do know he was behind in his work and flunking something. He needed help.

Has anyone EVER asked you what grade you got in seventh grade math? Who CARES what grades you got in seventh grade? Was there no one at home or at school to tell Cayman his grades were not more important than his LIFE? Why was he unable to face being home? Why did all the adults in his life, at home and at school, fail him?

I really don't want this boy to die in vain. We need take the pressure off kids these days. We need to do a better job of supporting them. And we need to TALK to them, even if they seem "fine."

My oldest brother Richard graduated from the Episcopal Academy - at the time, a boys' version of Shipley - and from there went to Colgate University. He hated it there. But like Cayman, my brother could not face going home. He tried to go off the grid and be self-sufficient, getting a small walk-up apartment and working in a gas station. 

My parents were not aware Richard had left college. My mother called his fraternity occasionally and someone would say he wasn't there. Apparently that was sufficient for her. Eventually another student told her Richard had been gone for weeks.

By March of 1968 - exactly this time of year - Richard was dead. 

At first I truly believed it was a Tom Sawyer trick - that Richard was still alive somewhere in the world, but he had decided to make a final break from my parents. I would talk to him in my head. "I get it," I would say to him. "I know why you disappeared. I know how they abused and disdained you all your life. But could you maybe come visit me secretly sometime? I really love you, and I miss you."

I don't know how many days it took for it to sink into my brain that Death means never, ever seeing someone again, no matter how much you love and miss them. I could talk to Richard in my head all I wanted, but he would never be secretly visiting me behind my parents' back. Every speck of his energy had been wiped off the face of the earth, forever. This realization was like looking deep into the universe and finding darkness and cold silence without end.

I freaked out. When I was forced to admit to myself that Richard was really gone, I cried desperately. "Cried" isn't even an adequate word.

My mother sat next to me, not crying, and not speaking. As far as I know she didn't touch me or say a word. There were no comforting platitudes like, "Your brother is in a better place," or "He is out of pain now," or even, "We'll never forget him as long as we keep talking about him." She had virtually nothing to offer. I did not understand it at the time, but she was not only incapable of sympathy or empathy, but also was completely devoid of spirituality. Even a non-metaphysical comment like "it gets better" would have been a straw for me to grasp, but there was nothing - just my horror at spinning off into blackness.

My parents never mentioned Richard again. When I returned to school, nothing was said. One teacher took me aside and told me she was sorry, and I was so astonished I didn't know what to say. I received no counseling, and no one ever asked me what it was like at home. It was Hell, thank you very much.

Cayman has a sister who is one year older. I have the feeling her parents are not going to be much help. I hope someone reaches out to her and tells her that you never get over it - but life goes on whether you are bereft or not.

Have you ever known someone who committed suicide? Did you lose anyone in your family at a young age? What was the most helpful thing anyone said to you? Please share it here, so we all will have something to say, rather than silence.

Entry #30: STICKS AND STONES

"Sticks and stones may break my bones,

But words can never hurt me."

What a ridiculous idea. Even as a kid, I knew this didn't make sense. Some bully would scoff, "You're stupid! You have a BOY'S bike!" And I would yell "sticks and stones" to banish the power from his words, trying to prove that no matter he said, I was invincible. 

But I wasn't. I knew perfectly well words hurt more than a dumb stick. A broken bone is just a broken bone - it heals on its own, and is even stronger in the broken places. A broken heart is far worse. It shatters your optimism, your self-esteem, even your will to fight back - or to live.

When someone hurts your feelings, you want to go hide, or maybe seek comfort from a friend. You may even ruminate over thoughts of revenge, or spend hours thinking of all the things you SHOULD have said in return. Haven't we all come up with the perfect retort - 24 hours too late?

Here is another quote about conflict with which I grew up:

"...and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more."

Because my mother had an Aspergian tendency to repeat quotations, song lyrics, poetry, or limericks again and again and again, I heard this quote often. She liked to consider herself a pacifist, despite her profitable investments in things like napalm and military contracts.

During the war in Vietnam, my mother volunteered at the American Friends Service Committee – a Quaker outfit open to people of all faiths. Her interest in the AFSC was not entirely selfless. She had a huge crush on the guy who apparently supervised the volunteers, and she talked about him constantly. I found this inappropriate and embarrassing. My father passively looked the other way, not worried that a younger man would run off with his alcoholic wife (or perhaps wishing he would)! 

The sad irony of this quotation from the Bible is that my mother did not actually connect with its meaning. She was no pacifist. She spent my entire life beating plowshares into swords, not vice versa. 

When you deal with an alcoholic, whatever you say will be pounded into ordnance and hurled back at you later. An innocent comment at 10:00 AM will be twisted beyond recognition and used as a missile by 6:00 PM the same day - or days, or months, or years later. 

I knew better than to speak to my mother after 11AM, but occasionally she would sound like a normal person first thing in the morning, and I would be lulled into a false sense of security. I might share some personal information, such as, “We got a dog!”

Wow, that was a mistake. Even though my mother had a dog when she was little, MY dog was a source of firepower. How DARE I get a dog? How could I be so profligate? What an idiot I was to get something so unnecessary, expensive, and frivolous. Clearly I could not manage my money and I was a moron. All because I finally broke down and got my son an adorable corgi. 

I adopted a policy of never, ever sharing any information with my mother about ANYTHING at any time of day. For example, when I became pregnant for the first time, I did not tell her for months. I knew she would say something horrible, and I didn’t want her ruining our wonderful event. But even when I tried to stay in neutral territory, I would still get a verbal beatdown later.

Artiste and I once went out to dinner with my parents - an experience that was always high tension - at a nice little bistro. This was before we figured out that my parents HATED going to nice restaurants and really just wanted to go to a diner. We always made an effort to find nice places for them, not realizing that what they really wanted was Spam on crackers.

I was trying to explain my migraine headaches for the 3,537,279^th time. This is not a difficult concept, but my mother’s response was invariably (Every. Single. Time.): “People Like Us don’t get headaches.”

Well, actually, People Like Us do. What was the message here? That I was not related to her? I explained, yet again, that there is a hereditary component to migraines, and that my father’s sister had suffered from them all her life.

No response.

Exasperated, I said, “You know, I wish migraines would BLEED. Then people would know there is something wrong. Migraine headaches are not fatal; they don't even require a bandage or a splint. You usually don’t see people walking around with them because they are home in bed, puking. No one even understands what causes them. If you get something like cancer, everybody knows what that means. They know it’s bad, and they feel sorry for you." 

My mother polished off her third drink and looked vague.

The next morning, my parents stopped by our house. My father was irritated. “Your mother says you have cancer,” he said. “Well, I don’t believe it.”

Holy crap! Within twelve hours she had completely distorted what I had said and now they were both pissed off. How do you even begin to deal with that?

When I got Cushing’s disease, I tried to explain to my mother that I was very sick because my neurologist had prescribed heavy-duty steroids for me for ten years to combat my migraines. My endocrinologist - a different doctor - told me I would be dead in three years if I could not get off the steroids. I had no idea they were ruining every system in my body. 

When I first went to the migraine doctor, I had already tried a couple of local neurologists who were no help at all. This time around I was going to the top. This doctor was a renowned expert who had written several books and had published research papers. He lectured all over the world, and often was followed around by younger neurologists when I was there for appointments. He was highly recommended to me by an intelligent person, and his practice specialized in headaches. 

What my mother took away from our conversation was, “You certainly picked a lousy quack.” I had told her I was dying, but to her, the moral of the story was that I was stupid. I certainly did not deserve help or sympathy.

Over the coming months, she showed absolutely no interest in my illness, except for the fact that it had made me fat. She never missed an opportunity to make a crack about my weight.

“My neighbor started a new ice cream store in town,” I said conversationally.

“YOU better stay away,” she answered snidely.

I didn’t eat ice cream. I didn’t even especially LIKE ice cream. Plus... SHE was criticizing ME? An alcohol addict was telling ME not to eat ice cream? 

Anything I said turned into shrapnel.

Once I mentioned someone who had a $200,000 yacht that they “forgot about” (today we live in Newport, where there are many such boats). My mother instantly responded that I was equally irresponsible.

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely confused. I can pinch a penny until it cries, and I sure as hell do not have a yacht.

“You have a DOG,” answered my mother. Ten years later, and was she still complaining about the dog. She also equated having a dog with forgetting about a $200,000 yacht. A well-aimed stone would be a relief compared to this never-ending emotional mortar fire.

Back when my brother was applying to colleges, there was every reason to believe he would get into all the ones to which he had applied. He was at the top of his class at Episcopal Academy, he had gotten straight 800s on his SATs, he was brilliant and well-behaved and clearly born to be an academic superstar. When April 15 of his senior year rolled around, his friends called him up and said, “Where do you want to room together at Harvard?”

My brother did not get into Harvard. My mother had written the admissions department a long, rambling, drunken letter in her indecipherable handwriting, probably on the handmade “stationery” she used to make on a Xerox machine by copying a New Yorker cartoon in the corner. I have no idea what she said, but it was enough for Harvard to put my brother’s application in the “we don’t need this lunatic” pile. He was embarrassed, and crushed.

When I applied to colleges in my senior year, I had every expectation of getting in. I was among the top students in the class, my SATs were OK, and I was the only senior to take five subjects just because I felt like it.

When April 15 rolled around, I was not accepted anywhere. Not one college. How often does that happen?  At a COLLEGE PREPARATORY SCHOOL?

I can’t prove it, but I am sure my mother wrote drunken letters to those colleges, too.

I had to scramble for a different place to attend, and ended up at Bennington College in Vermont. This turned out to be fine, because I met Artiste there, and I also made some lifelong friends. But after two years, I was ready to move on.

When I applied to transfer to Bowdoin College, I purposely said nothing to my parents about it. I did not want my mother to contaminate my chances of getting in. It was too important.

I was thrilled when I was accepted. Bowdoin was just beginning to take women, and it was a very difficult college to get into.

And then the truth came out.

A note had come from Bowdoin to my home address, and my mother had opened it – and then written ANOTHER drunken letter.

“I know why you got in,” she said smugly. “Because I wrote them and told them I would pay your tuition.”

So. It was not my academic record at Shipley, or my grades and recommendations from Bennington, or my personal essay, or my interest in everything Bowdoin had to offer. I got in only because SHE had written the college a screwball letter. I don’t know what she said, but I guarantee it was not normal. It’s a miracle the college was willing to overlook it.

I believe all drunks are loose cannons. They take hostages. Their brains are scrambled, so you cannot predict what they will say or how they will behave – all you know is that it won’t be good. They hear what they want to hear, not your actual words. They never take responsibility for their actions, and they certainly don’t care about the consequences. In their own minds, they are geniuses, and everything they do is not only justified, but above reproach.

If there is a silver lining in all this – and I am looking for one as hard as I can – I think it is this: I learned very early that words are powerful. I learned how to wield mine for good instead of evil. And I never, EVER criticized my children with hurtful insults. A nasty remark from a parent is branded into the child’s brain forever and becomes Truth. If the child trips, you do NOT say, "Wow, you're clumsy." If the school picture makes them look like a troll, you do NOT say, "Jeez, you're ugly." If you’re mad, it’s okay to ask, “Why on earth did you leave your new sneakers out in the rain?” You do NOT say, “You’re an idiot.”

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but hurtful words cannot be taken back, and are never forgotten.

Entry #29: FRIENDS

Not to be all whiny or anything, but it's hard to make friends when your mom is a drunk. 

First of all, you are probably somewhat warped if you have an unpredictable alcoholic parent. You never know when you might be in trouble, because there is no rhyme or reason to whether you have been naughty or nice. So you either become a bully yourself, which puts you in the driver’s seat, or you walk around on eggshells all the time, with your little kid antennae finely-tuned to pick up the slightest change in emotional atmosphere. Confident, self-assured girls make friends easily. Nervous girls, not so much.

I think I was born fairly good-natured, but by the time my parents were done with me I was watchful, guarded, distrustful, cynical, angry, and hyper-vigilant. They told me for years that I was fat, stupid, and had a nasty personality, so that is what I believed. This is not a great mindset for making friends.

Fortunately my mother was a social butterfly (and little else), so SHE had friends who had babies at around the same time she did. She would visit the mothers, and I would play alongside the daughters. As I grew up, I became a fixture in their homes, and felt I could be myself around their families. My two baby comrades added immeasurably to my life, and I am eternally grateful to their mothers for accepting me as an extra daughter. Now, at this advanced age, I know there is NOTHING the same as a lifelong pal. As one of mine said, "We've known each other so long, we HAVE to be friends!" 

These old - I mean, long-term! - friends mean the world to me today, but years ago neither one lived within school distance. Our lives often went in different directions, so they did not count as day-to-day friends. I spent a lot of time alone in my room, reading, drawing, and making houses out of cardboard for those little trolls with the round glass eyes and the neon hair that stuck straight up.

I knew the neighborhood kids from waiting at the bus stop 180 days a year. I remember once being dropped off for a playdate with little Scott down the road. I don’t remember why we ended up laughing and jumping up and down on the twin beds in his room, totally naked. This was entirely innocent - there was no "playing doctor" involved - but when Scott's mother came to investigate all the noise, I think she thought I was the spawn of Satan. I honestly had no idea why I was immediately sent home. My mother often walked around naked, and I had never been told it was important to keep on one's clothes. I’m sure the other mothers were put on notice about me after that – even if the whole debacle was Scott’s idea.

I had a few other friends within bicycling distance of home. I always went to their houses, not the reverse. I was absolutely in awe of Tina's family. Their house was modern and spotlessly clean. They had a black Thunderbird with fins in the driveway. Tina had twin brothers, Benjamin and Franklin, who were freckle-faced mischief-makers, and I was fascinated by them. But her mother was the most amazing of all. She had a blonde beehive hairdo, a perfect figure, and wore groovy 1960s dresses with high heels. To me she was like the mother from the Jetsons. When I skidded on my bike and bloodied my leg, she produced a can of spray Bactine that was like a cooling miracle. Why did MY mother have to use that burning, orange Mercurochrome? (In case you’re wondering, that stuff disappeared because it contained high levels of poisonous mercury.)

In elementary school, I felt out of place and had anxiety stomachaches every day. I could not explain why when the teacher took me out in the hall and asked, but I still remember the feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The fluorescent lights were eerie, the classroom looked foreign, and I felt scared. I was smart enough, but I came from Planet Drunk Mom and had little in common with the normal little girls. I was like a weed that had grown up in an alternate universe, foraging for food and protecting myself from reality by constantly reading.

By fourth grade I acquired a couple of friends, but it was a Toxic Triangle. The dominant Mean Girl would alternately be friendly to one and then the other of us. We craved her approval and attention. When I was in her good graces, I was thrilled. I was liked! I wasn't a weirdo! I belonged! But when she turned cruel, I was shut out and completely isolated. She once tossed a message on the floor for me to "accidentally" pick up which read: "Nellie weighs 500 pounds." I was not a cruel person myself, so this shocked me. I was mortified, and told no one.

When I switched to private school, my neighborhood friends faded away - although when I was 13 and my brother killed himself, one of them found me and told me with great satisfaction that he was going to Hell. It dawned on me that my family might not have the greatest reputation.

At private school, many of the other girls had been together for years, and they were tight as ticks. They had already learned the special Shipley School handwriting, which instantly set them apart from the ordinary masses, as well as all the Shipley songs, cheers, and traditions that were new and strange to me.

I was completely unprepared for any if it. If you have read the other entries in this blog, you already know that my mother never believed a civilized appearance was important, so I had no socially acceptable clothing. She prided herself on being above anything to do with popular culture, so – other than my two beloved trolls - I was forbidden to own any of the usual toys or dolls. I saw no movies, and was not allowed to watch anything by Walt Disney. The only magazines in our house were the New Yorker and the National Geographic. Of course, popular paperbacks were out, so I read library books, or heavy hardcovers from home that were at least ten or twenty years over my head. 

When I went off to Shipley, the first year was the worst. I was like a lamb to the slaughter. I had the wrong clothes, did not understand any of the "in" jokes or rituals, and culturally had practically nothing in common with the other girls. I did not even realize what I was missing. (I never really caught up. A friend was so aghast that she bought me "The Sound of Music" for my fortieth birthday!) In public school, the adults had not given a shit what I looked like, or why I carried all my books to school and home every day in a liquor box. At the Misses Shipley School, there were standards to maintain.

Despite my mother’s privileged background, she could be quite rude and uncouth. I was oblivious to the social niceties that everyone else at Shipley already understood. After several years of watching the other girls and their mothers, I began to catch on. I found out about things like good shampoo, nice stationery, scented soaps, ironed clothes, and how to do a proper air kiss. My mother did not believe in wearing deodorant, or shaving legs, or wearing stockings, so I learned about Jean Naté spray antiperspirant, Nair hair remover, and pantyhose. By high school, I put it all together fairly well and could pass for a Shipley girl, albeit a Grade B one. 

Making friends is tough for ANY teenage girl, but I had two special problems: 

1.  I was embarrassed to have anyone over to my house. My mother was a disturbed alcoholic and my family was a wreck.

2.  If I DID invite friends over to my house, they often were forbidden by their mothers to come.

One school friend I liked very much was NEVER allowed to come over. Invariably she would say, "I have to ask my mother," and then she would get back on the phone and tell me that her cousins were visiting. Every. Single. Time. Eventually I realized that that cousins would always be visiting, forever. I suppose the mother did not want her daughter going to a house with a strange drunk woman in it, but to me, the message was that I was not good enough.

Gradually I discovered other school friends who had family secrets, too. One told me she used to think it was hilarious when her father crawled around on all fours, barking like a dog. She used to laugh and ride on his back - until she got old enough to realize he was drunk off his ass, and the game lost its charm. We became best friends. She was (and still is) absolutely beautiful and brilliant, and I could not believe she thought I was good enough – AND she was not afraid to come over to my house. I now realize her maturity level was astounding. I regard her as a dear friend to this day.

Another school friend had a mother who, like mine, drank too much, but, unlike mine, always looked terrific and was socially irreproachable. Fortunately that friend did not have imaginary cousins, and we were allowed to talk on the phone constantly and even hang out occasionally. What a difference that made!

A third friend had a mother who drank as much as mine. We didn’t really talk about it at the time, but there was an understanding that her life was as disrupted by alcoholism as mine. Her childhood closed over her head like dark waters after her beloved father died, and she needed all her energy just to make it through senior year. Happily she went on to become an amazing mother and accomplished professional, and today I am so happy that we have reconnected through the miracle of Facebook. (Can’t live with it, can’t live without it!)

My kids are better at holding onto their friendships because of the technology with which they grew up. Using Facebook and Instagram and smart phones etc. etc., they are constantly in touch with friends from every stage of their lives. They don’t lose touch like us old fogeys.

However, even with the best intentions and the most modern technology, people go in and out of each other’s lives - and that’s OK. I once read some Internet wisdom that said: life is like a long train trip. Some friends are there for the whole ride. Some people will get on board for only a brief moment, yet make a tremendous difference over the long haul. Friends will get on and then get off. Maybe they will get back on later; maybe they won’t. Letting go is not a crime.

I have Facebook friends who understand me better than my neighbors, and new friends who like me better – and I like better! – than some old friends. I’ve learned that some friends will exceed your expectations, while others will disappoint you, or even turn on you. Some will be there when you need them, while others - to your surprise - will not. To mix metaphors, I’ve found that some friendships burn brightly and then flame out. Others are more like the embers in the fireplace: they can rekindle a blaze when you speak, but then go months or years just patiently emitting warmth.

I feel strongly that every single friend I have – you know who you are! – is a blessing to me. I am so grateful. We put up with each other’s quirks, laugh at each other’s jokes, share each other’s joys, and help bear each other’s burdens. But in order to be a worthy friend, you need to believe that you have worth yourself. The children of alcoholics take longer to reach that point – but it can be done, and the rewards are priceless.

Entry #28: HAPPY MOTHERS' DAY

Mothers' Day has always scared the crap out of me.

My mother expected to be worshipped every day, but Mothers' Day was special. It was invented for HER, the world's most perfect mother. She never showed any interest in any other mothers, or the women who raised her. This day was for HER.

I had to do something in honor of Mothers' Day each year, but it could not be anything commercial. A card bought from a store, no matter how tasteful, was utterly beneath my mother. Ditto anything else purchased from a store, no matter how lovely.

One year I printed out a personalized card on my computer and sent it to her via snail mail. I thought it had turned out rather well.

"Happy Mothers' Day!" I shouted dutifully. "Did you get my card?"

"What card?"

"I made you a card! Didn't you get it?"

"Oh... you mean that Thing that came out of the computer?"

She hated anything electronic. She hated the card. She sounded like I had sent her a box of doggie doo.

While I was living at home, Mothers' Day filled me with dread because of the ritualized, terrifying dinner. It was guaranteed that my mother would not go near the kitchen, which was a blessing. But how drunk would she get at the restaurant? How many times would I have to apologize to the waitress? How awful would the meal be? And, most importantly, how many grievances had she been privately polishing over and over until this moment?

When I first got to college, no one mentioned Mothers' Day and it went clear out of my head. I was blissfully ignorant. I was so delighted to be away from home that I totally forgot that I should have a stomach ache that spring. Besides, I had just met Artiste and I was a lot more interested in him.

The phone rang downstairs in my dorm. It was my mother.

Speaking with her, I tried to think of subjects that would not get me into trouble. Mentioning Artiste was out of the question. I had been instructed to work my way through college, so I'd gone out and gotten a part-time job at a pharmacy. I was attending the most expensive college in America - although it was rumored that Sarah Lawrence cost ten dollars more - and I was spending my free time re-stocking condoms. Then I got yelled at for working instead of paying attention to my studies. EVERY situation was a no-win situation. It was best not to talk about much of anything.

I had a remarkably civil conversation with my mother. We talked about the weather, her neighbors, my classes - anything non-controversial. After a few minutes I hung up with great relief and went back to my day.

The phone rang again inside its little booth in the downstairs foyer. It was my mother again.

This time she was hysterical. "I CALLED YOU ON MOTHERS' DAY!"  she sobbed, "AND YOU NEVER SAID A THING!" This went on for a long time.

Guilty as charged. I'd had an entire conversation with her which had turned out to be a trap. She had deliberately ended the conversation without mentioning why she had actually called. That made it possible for her to call me back a second time and ream me out. What a Happy Mothers' Day that was.

The memory was so emblazoned on my amygdala that I never forgot Mothers' Day again. I would practically get seizures thinking about it. Must not forget. Must not forget. Send nasty commercial flowers that will not be appreciated. Send horrible fresh fruit basket that contains the wrong things. Send home-made brownies that will be stuck in the freezer forever. Year after year, must remember hopeless gesture that will not be good enough.

After three decades on this planet, I became a mother myself. I was blessed with two absolutely perfect children, and I thanked my lucky stars every day. Nobody ever tried harder to be a good mom. And nothing, but NOTHING, was (and is) more important to me.

The funny thing was, it never crossed my mind that Mothers' Day now applied to ME. That day was forever terrifying, and forever for my mother. She lived to be over ninety years old, which meant that for sixty years running I had never experienced spring without a stomach ache.

This week my daughter said noncommitally, "Mothers' Day is this weekend. Maybe we can do something."

I am not making this up. I looked at her in surprise and said, "I'm a mom!" What a thought!

I think it's time for me to claim a little piece of Mothers' Day for myself. I even know exactly what I want: a big hug.

To all the other moms, grandmoms, step-moms, adoptive moms, foster moms, gay moms, and other kinds of moms out there, here's a toast to you for doing the most impossible, most exhausting, most gratifying, most important work there is. Looks like someone got around all those condoms I hung up week after week. Congratulations to you all - and a big hug to you, too.

Entry #27: ON MY KNEES

One of my mother's favorite stories involves visiting some friends out West somewhere years ago. (Sorry, Westerners - I can't remember which state!)  My parents and their friends went out for lunch, which really meant drinks. They arrived at the restaurant and settled in by their customary drinking hour: eleven o'clock in the morning.

The waitress explained she could not serve them drinks before noon.

"You don't understand!" said my mother's friend cheerfully. "We're alcoholics!" They all thought this was very funny.

I had always heard that when someone finally admits to themselves that they have a drinking problem, they have a deep reckoning within their soul and realize they need help. "The first step is recognizing you have a problem," all the articles say - followed by a list of ten indications you might be in trouble.

Well, my mother had a thousand indications that she was in trouble, and it didn't bother her at all. She once told me how lucky I was that she wasn't like all those OTHER alcoholics who go to AA meetings. She said I was not sufficiently grateful that she was not like them -she was a GOOD alcoholic and perfect mother. She certainly did not need no stinkin' meetings. She was unique and marvelous.

As a kid, it took me a few years to catch on to her drinking problem. I remember being in the big house in Rhode Island one summer morning, standing outside the closed bathroom door. I was probably about five years old.

"Go away," said my mother. She was throwing up.

"Are you OK?" I asked anxiously. No one else was home. Mom was sick.

"Leave me alone!" she said crankily from the other side of the door.

Did she have the flu? What was I supposed to do? Get a doctor? I was worried.

It took me another couple of years to learn that there is something called a hangover. My mother always insisted she'd never had a hangover in her life - but if that was true, then why had she been throwing up that morning? Lies, lies.

I knew from toddlerhood that the five o'clock cocktail hour was a Big Deal. My mother would count the seconds until it was five. In her mind, she was still in control of her drinking if she waited until the appointed hour.

In the beginning she might have waited until my father got home before they had martinis together. But my father never got home at five - who does? - so my mother started drinking alone. No one was looking over her shoulder to see how many refills she had.

At some point a glass of vodka and orange juice was introduced in the morning before lunch. This soon became a glass of vodka without any juice, and eventually that habit turned into several glasses of straight vodka before and with lunch.

I learned that if there was anything important to talk about with my mother, I had to bring it up first thing in the morning, because the rest of her day would be a haze, and she would be passed out in bed by seven in the evening. I also learned that whatever I told her at ten in the morning would become twisted beyond recognition by six, but that's a topic for another day.

I developed the Super Powers that all children of alcoholics acquire. I had special sensors to pick up on how drunk or moody my mother was at any given time. The smell of alcohol on her breath became anathema to me, and for the rest of my life I would recoil from anyone who had Alcohol Breath. I'm onto you, mommy at the PTA meeting. I know your secret, daddy on the train home. You may think you're fooling everyone, but you cannot ever, EVER, fool me.

I remember watching my mother out the window of my bedroom upstairs on a bright, sunny day. She  was staggering across our lawn, unable to walk in a straight line like any old drunk. A drunk is a drunk, whether they are rich or poor. I wanted very badly to get her to stop drinking - but how?

During the summers in Rhode Island, my mother would have heavy boxes of booze delivered to the house every week. One afternoon when I was probably about eleven years old I was home alone when the bottles of alcohol arrived.

A lightbulb went off in my brain. HIDE THE BOOZE! That would solve everything! No booze, no drinking!

I was excited. Finally I could do something! I lugged the heavy box into a dark closet and hid it behind some clothing and old stuff no one had looked at for months.

My mother came home and immediately looked for her delivery. If I had been a little older or a little more wily, I might have lied - but I just told her I'd hidden it. I was thrilled! At last I had some control over this endless problem.

Of course, my victory did not last. I was not prepared for just how furious my mother would become. It is NOT a good idea to get between a drunk and her booze. She let me know that she was going to make my life a living hell unless I produced her bottles IMMEDIATELY. She was scary.

I wanted so badly to keep her away from it. But I caved. I didn't want to die.

It turns out hiding the booze would not have made any difference. My mother could always get more in a flash - and besides, she kept a secret stash in every room of the house. Even the bathroom. In later years she didn't bother to hide the bottles, so her home looked like a frat house. She filled a Thermos with straight vodka whenever she left the house, just in case.

I hated everything about my mother's drinking. I hated pretty much everything about my mother. My brother killed himself, and I held her responsible. She still would not change. How low does an alcoholic have to go before they get tired of destroying everyone around them? Answer: no low is too low. They don't care.

One day while I was still in high school I asked my mother for the ten millionth time to PLEASE stop drinking.

She was unconcerned.

I realized there was one thing I hadn't tried. "Do you want me to beg?" I asked. "Would you stop if I begged you to?"

I got down on my knees on the kitchen floor, and looked up at the woman I hated so much. I begged her to stop drinking. Please, PLEASE, just STOP.

She looked disgusted and walked away. I will never forget prostrating myself before someone totally indifferent, hoping for something to change. That was a mistake. The humiliation still burns.

Alcohol was FAR more important to my mother than her children. Her first love was booze. Her second love was money. Her third "love" -not really a love, but a prop - was my father, who enabled her in all things. HIS first love was her money,  so he did whatever was  required. There was no place for children in this strange dyad between two unhealthy adults. We were way, WAY down the list of priorities, somewhere after "cocktail parties" and "travel."

By the time I was in seventh grade, my mother ceased to take any interest in my existence. During the week I seldom saw my parents, unless we had a brief, hostile dinner together. I never went to the dentist or had any medical check-ups. I sewed, washed, and ironed my own clothes. I never ate breakfast and, in general, grabbed whatever I could to eat during the day, which included huge amounts of candy purchased after school from the drugstore across from the train station. My friend Polly introduced me to diner coffee while waiting for the train.

My mother could not be bothered to drive five miles to pick me up at school, so I took the Paoli Local with some other girls who lived further away. Sometimes my mother picked me up at the station; sometimes she didn't. Sometimes I'd get a ride home with Maggie's mother, who had a ginormous, comfortable car. She was always friendly and impeccably dressed with perfectly coiffed hair that amazed me. Could a mother even LOOK like that?

All children of alcoholics have to be resourceful. It isn't something you even think or talk about. You just do what you need to do, knowing there is no grown-up to help.

It's too bad no adults ever spoke to me about alcoholism - starting with my father, but anyone could have helped. In those days, drinking was not mentioned. I thought I was the only kid with drunk parents, when in fact I bet at least 25% of my classmates had SOMEONE in their family who was a problem drinker.  I found out later the mother of one of my friends had been breast feeding and drinking at the same time when my friend was an infant. The mother went to a party and boozed it up, then came home and nursed the baby - who slept for three days! The pediatrician gave the mother a choice: booze or breast. Guess which one she chose?

Finally, when I was in college, one of my mother's friends indicated that she knew things were not right. I was so grateful just to have someone validate my experience. Alcoholics are so manipulative that they make you feel like YOU are the problem.

If you have children and are drinking too much, please know you are without a doubt ruining their lives, even if you don't think you are. Read up on Adult Children of Alcoholics to learn the kind of damage you are doing. Then, for the love of God, STOP.

If you know a child from an alcoholic family, even one word of understanding will help him or her feel less alone. These days there are school social workers and psychiatrists to help - but they can't help if no one is talking. Please, let them know.

If I could get on my knees to ask these things of you, I would.

Entry #26: THE WEDDING GIFT

I can’t believe I got married so young. In hindsight, it seems insane. I finished up my last year of college in May and got married in June. But, as occurs in so many relationships, we had reached that point of: “What are we doing?” Women don’t have an unlimited amount of time to ponder. If things are NOT going to work out, it’s better to realize it sooner rather than later. In our case, we decided to go for it.

It was kindof a miracle my wedding came together at all. I knew nothing whatsoever about weddings. I hadn’t been to any, and didn’t know anyone my age who’d had a regular wedding before me. (Elopements were not going to help.) I was far too busy finishing up college to read “Brides” magazine. And this was before the Internet, which today ensures everything you need to know to plan your Big Day is at your fingertips is in less than one second.

I received no advice whatsoever, except from the minister who married us. I envisioned a lovely garden wedding with summer breezes and butterflies, but Jack Lewis convinced us to marry in his beautiful little church. “Years later,” he said, “It’s nice to drive by an actual building and say, ‘That’s where we got married!’”

He was absolutely right. Also, there was a rip-roaring nor’easter the night before our wedding. The next morning it was still raining and the streets were covered with broken tree limbs and shredded leaves. My imagined summer ceremony would have been a complete, sodden loss. Instead, our guests squeezed into the quaint country church for a cozy ceremony among friends.

I received no advice and no money from my parents, but they did agree to host the reception at their home. Luckily, a cheery yellow-and-white tent with a dance floor had been set up on their lawn two days ahead.

To keep things cheap, we bartered an oil portrait by Artiste for a home-made wedding dress. This was a mistake. I recommend that all brides take the time to try on pretty dresses rather than have their wedding dress assembled by someone who wears military grade perfume and has a crush on their fiancé.

I thought it was my responsibility to pay for bridesmaid dresses (it wasn’t), so I just didn’t have any bridesmaids. That was another mistake. Weddings are more fun when you share the experience.

My friend Tildy served as the Matron of Honor. Her father flew her to a tiny airstrip in Rhode Island in his own tiny plane. It was a blustery day, and he had a hard time landing. It took several passes. I could see Tildy’s face in the window each time the plane came in for a landing, was buffeted from side to side, and sped up again into the sky. By the time they landed successfully, Tildy was thoroughly sick. She also was pregnant.

My mother arranged the food and booze, which was, yes, another mistake. She planned for a little of the former, but plenty of the latter.

No one suggested that we find someplace nice to stay the night of the wedding – another mistake. We ended up in a cheap motel five miles from home with questionable neighbors on the other side of the motel room wall.

No one mentioned a honeymoon, so we never took one. That was – you guessed it – another mistake.

I felt guilty registering for any gifts, because it seemed greedy to me. I just wanted our friends to have fun. This was – well, a mistake. People WANT to give presents, and they need some guidance. I did not understand that part at all, and of course no one explained it to me.

Most of these mistakes could have been prevented, but a few things simply could not have been predicted.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my aunt drank too much and stabbed my wedding cake repeatedly with a long knife.

A friend of a friend had just gotten divorced and spent the entire day weeping in the house. Every time I passed through the downstairs on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life I saw her agonized, red, tear-stained face.

One guest was selling marijuana from his pockets behind the house.

One of my very best friends over-indulged a bit in champagne, fell down the stairs, and later disappeared with the photographer.

But all in all it was a grand reception because I knew there was one thing I positively wanted, and that was a square dance. No fuddy-duddy old people music! No one sitting in chairs watching! We had a great bluegrass band and a caller who got everyone up on their feet and swinging around in do-si-do’s.

The most bizarre event of all occurred a couple of days before the wedding. We received from a distant relative a book of Aubrey Beardsley drawings. Why on earth he thought this was appropriate I’ll never know. According to Wikipedia, “Beardsley was the most controversial artist of the Art Nouveau era, renowned for his dark and perverse images and grotesque erotica.” Beardsley himself was thought to be gay, but also may have had an incestuous affair with his sister. In all honesty, I would have preferred a cut glass pickle dish to this slim volume of black-and-white drawings.

My mother was absolutely FASCINATED by this wedding gift. It was rather incomprehensible to me, but definitely pornographic in its intent. Artiste and I scanned through the book, laughed very hard, and left it with the other gifts when we went out to run some errands.

When we came back, my mother had already drunk her lunch and was wandering about the house. We thought we would take another look at our peculiar wedding gift, but it was nowhere to be found. My mother finally confessed that, AFTER reading the whole thing from cover to cover, she had burned it in the fireplace. Sure enough, there was a pile of smoking ashes in the living room fireplace.

Today I am just full of information for brides-to-be. Buy a dress! Order plenty of food! Plan a honeymoon! And don’t let your alcoholic mother get into your presents.

Entry #25: THE WRONG CHILD

When I was little, I was the last child of three, and the only girl. I was cute. I liked to sing. I adored both my parents because they were all I knew. After a long day at work, my father would come home in his suit and tie, a mechanical pencil and slide rule in his shirt pocket, and I would be happy to see him.

My mother hated having me around all day. She once showed me a cartoon of a mother vacuuming, and a toddler following her, dropping crumbs while eating a cookie. “See THAT?” she said, jabbing her finger against the page. “That’s YOU.”

I was confused. I didn’t really understand the cartoon, but her resentment was ferocious. I got that part.

While I was little, my oldest brother, Richard, was the Wrong Child. He was creative and funny, with an uncanny ability to mimic people. He read science fiction, and drew very skillful drawings of space creatures and other oddities of his imagination. He wrote strange stories. He bought comics and monster magazines and taped monster pictures to his bedroom wall. As he got older, he liked beer, and girls. He stayed out too late and wasn’t sorry. He was handsome, he was cool, and he had exactly the right flip in his hair for 1963.

As far as my parents were concerned, he was the worst son on Earth. They wanted a son who would go to Yale and become a lawyer – even though neither of my parents had managed to accomplish this. He was subjected to constant abuse, emotional and physical. He was sent away to camp. He was left home alone while the rest of us summered in Rhode Island. Eventually he just removed himself from the planet, where the criticism of my parents could no longer reach him.

My other brother, one year younger than Richard, was extremely bright and academic. He did not make trouble. A well-rounded and stellar student, he always provided my mother with something to boast about. After Richard died, my other brother decided to play things very, very safe. He saw what happened to creative people.

So then it became my turn to become the Wrong Child. Although I was the only student who took five subjects at the Shipley School, that wasn’t good enough. Although I got a 740 on my SAT, that wasn’t good enough. (My mother consoled me by saying, “That’s OK – you can’t always get 800s.”) Although I was working New York by age 23, that wasn’t good enough. I was supposed to grow up and marry a lawyer from Yale, and I did not come through. My mother told me I had “broken her dreams.”

I've already mentioned in earlier entries that my mother used to tell me there was a "secret Nellie" living inside me - a different personality who agreed with everything she said, but for some reason would not reveal herself. I found this idea disconcerting the first time my mother said it, but I realized it was just another way of indicating she did not like me the way I was.

I am certainly not the only person with this problem. After all, look at “Mommy Dearest”! In my case, there were no wire coat hangers, but there was constant emotional sabotage. My mother would use other people as examples of the kind of daughter she wished she had. No matter how hard I tried to please her, there was always someone FAR better. This game continued for decades. In fact, it never ended.

Who were these Better Daughters?  Mostly they were - in my mother's mind - perfect examples of financial success and filial piety. They had acceptable husbands. They had money. And they were endlessly devoted to their mothers.

"Who are these people you think are so wonderful?" I once challenged my mother, when she complained yet again that I was an inattentive burden and disappointment.

"Lisa," she answered immediately.

Lisa sold weed as a teenager and eventually became a heroin addict. She moved back home with her aged parents because she had lost everything and had nowhere else to go. My mother, with her usual acuity, saw this as an act of loyalty and adoration, and felt I should be more like her.

"She's a drug addict!" I cried.

An addict herself, my mother could not have cared less about details like heroin. She saw what she wanted to see. It was truly grating that my mother held a heroin addict in higher regard than me. I hung up the phone in disbelief. This was clearly a battle I was not going to win. The rules were made up by a crazy person.

On another occasion my mother mentioned a friend of hers who’d had a stroke and, luckily for her, had a Superior Daughter. She said Leah came EVERY DAY to sort out her mother’s medications and read to her. At the time I was living in another state and was hardly in a position to visit my mother every day. I could not compete with a visiting angel like Leah.

My mother repeatedly compared me unfavorably to the mythical Leah. Later on, I found out that Leah did not live anywhere near her mother. It was just a story my mother had made up. She may have convinced herself it was true, but this Perfect Daughter with whom I was thrown into competition did not even exist. Another battle I could never win.

Another favored child was Philip, a man my age with an impeccable pedigree who, according to my mother, had made a fortune in the stock market and was building a large, wonderful home nearby. She went on at length about how successful he was, and asked why I couldn’t be more successful like him. My career in publishing was virtually meaningless to her. She had nothing fantastic to tell her friends about me. I might as well have worked in the bathroom at Grand Central Station.

A few months later she mentioned Philip again, forgetting her first story. Dementia was beginning to make it hard for her to keep her lies straight. This time she said he was using all of his elderly parents’ money to build an enormous house, and that he had not included any space in it for the old folks. So now Philip was on the Naughty List. It was a hollow victory, and short-lived, but still satisfying.

Another favorite was Heather, a woman roughly my age who always agreed with everything my mother said, thoroughly ingratiating herself with her. This annoyed me no end, because most of the things my mother said were simply not true. She loved people who would agree with her, no matter how outlandish her remarks were.

I would disagree with my mother often - telling her she should not refer to her caregivers as “The Africans,” noting that she could not possibly be as blind as she pretended to be, and reminding her that barely 1% of the elderly population could afford to live at home with several full-time caregivers as she did. “Oh ALL my friends live this way!” she exclaimed. No, they did not.

Heather would never make waves by arguing with my mother. She also had money – VERY important to my mother – as well as two sons who apparently were perfect in every way. Because Heather did not need them, my mother gave her gifts from the house. My mother particularly enjoyed giving away things I would have liked to receive myself – not just the valuable things, but items I remembered from my childhood. No gifts for me.

While I was living in Massachusetts, an older woman, Faith, took a keen interest in my parents in their old age, and claimed that she enjoyed them greatly because her own parents were dead. This was highly suspect, because NO ONE enjoyed my parents that much.

Faith intruded into every area of my parents’ lives. When they moved to the retirement place, she went through all their furniture. According to my mother, Faith was helping them decide what to bring with them. I wondered what the hell Faith was up to, but my mother thought she was marvelous and SO supportive, unlike me. In fact, Faith was so nice she once drove all the way from her home to the retirement place, picked up my mother, brought her back to the old Victorian house that was still filled to the rafters with antiques, silver, and china, and then suggested to my mother that she go through all her valuables. No one else was present. To thank her for this thoughtful gesture, my mother gave Faith the most valuable painting and the most valuable sculpture left in the house.

When I heard about this I pointed out it was quite remarkable that Faith was willing to walk off with the most valuable items in the house without even consulting my brother or myself to see if we cared. My mother responded imperiously that she WANTED Faith to have those things because, of course, she was a Better Daughter. No artwork for me.

Obviously I would never be the Right Child. It frustrated me no end that on some level I could not get past the desire to be loved and accepted by my mother. I knew perfectly well that this was like wishing for water to flow uphill, or for summer to follow fall, or for us to light candles with our fingertips, or put stars in our pockets.

But there is one way to win at this hopeless game, and that is by paying it forward – that is, by giving my own children all the unconditional love in the world. I am blessed with two kids, and the minute I saw them I knew I would crawl across broken glass for them if I had to. Certainly they get mad at me. Certainly parenting can be exasperating. But they know I would never change anything about them, and that I would go to the ends of the Earth to help them. I know I’ve made plenty of mistakes as a mother, but lack of love is not one of them. It is my privilege and my honor to adore my kids wholeheartedly, every day.