My Theory

 

My Theory

by Rob Cottignies

The first time my mother tried to kill herself, she was in high school.

I have no idea about those details.

---

The second time my mother tried to kill herself, I was in high school. And I found her.

She had a habit of sleeping for long periods but a day and a half was a bit much.

I crept into her room to find her moaning quietly, sideways on the bed. Apparently, she tried to get up but could not.

I called 911, my dad, and the man who eventually became my step-father.

As they began arriving, the neighbors came out and wondered what was going on. I told them it was a bad reaction to new medication, which is what I was told.

Later, at the hospital, I found out the truth.

Among routine questions, a doctor asked my dad if my mother had tried anything like this before. My dad gave him a ‘not now’ look but I was old enough to recognize it.

It *was* a bad reaction to new medication but was not an accident. Taking too many pills will cause that sort of thing.

My teenaged brain was confused because I did not understand depression as more than ‘just feeling sad’.

While struggling to explain the situation to me, my mom made a joke about not being able to do anything right. Including suicide.

I often mask emotions with humor but even I did not find the anecdote amusing.

Either not much more happened or I have mentally blocked out that period of my life because the only other thing I remember was my mom promising me she would never attempt it again.

---

The third time my mother tried to kill herself, she was successful.

There are plenty of details which are not really worth sharing but here are three incidents that have stuck with me for various reasons:

I was living in an apartment about 90 miles from my mom and was (perhaps fittingly) alone when I found out.

The whole night was chaotic but the most uncomfortable part came when the police officer who found my mom told me on the phone that I had to meet another police officer at my apartment to tell me what had happened.

Yes, after he already told me what had happened.

A policy was in place saying that I had to be informed in-person by local officers, who had no attachment to the situation. My immediate thought was that their time would be better spent anywhere else.

(Even in a fairly vulnerable state, I thought about the practical side of things.)

I waited outside in the cold for the local officer, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

Two officers pulled up and asked for my name. They were unaware I knew what happened with my mom and seemed relieved that they would not have to break the news when I mentioned my knowledge.

Everything about the encounter was uncomfortable but one amusing aspect was when the officers noticed my cigarette. They asked what was in it and I assured them it was tobacco, which it truly was.

Had it not been, I am not sure they would have stayed long enough to find out.

---

The other things I remember from that week are two simultaneous stories.

My uncle flew out to help as did my mom’s closest friend, who is my godmother. (Well, was until I turned 18, I suppose.)

My mom’s friend Linda and her intense friend Scott (who drove up from Florida) were also at the house to help. After telling me he made the trip without sleeping, Scott said he was close with my mother, which was odd since I had never heard of him.

(This is a thing people do after a death. There will be another example shortly.)

We each tackled a section of the house. Linda and Scott volunteered to clear out my mom’s bedroom. I told her to keep anything that meant something to her, like a shirt from a concert they recently attended.

A few hours went by and the two of them decided to break for dinner.

Checking the room to see how far they had gotten, my uncle noticed that my mother’s jewelry was not in its box. We did not think it was stolen but also knew nothing about Scott.

While trying to figure out how to handle the situation, an unknown car pulled into the driveway (how rude) and a woman I did not recognize got out.

She said she had known my mom since elementary school and was a close friend. I had never heard her name before. (Told you.)

After her generic kind words, I felt obligated to invite this woman and her blank face inside, hoping she would decline. She not only accepted but brought nothing and extended no conversation.

Was she so stricken with grief that she had a complete loss for words?

(I would find out later when looking through my mom's yearbook that this mystery woman had apparently always been zombie-faced.)

So, there she stood, this stranger offering nothing. No soothing words, no charming stories, no smiles, no freakin' beer. Nothing but an expressionless stare.

Being unnecessarily polite, I invited her to sit.

So, there she sat, this stranger offering nothing.

She declined water but accepted a sandwich.

After giving it to her, I went into the kitchen to avoid ripping my own face apart because of the overwhelmingly uncomfortable silence. I will never know what she did for those few minutes but my guess is it involved eating the sandwich and staring into the void of the hard-wood floor.

After about four thousand years but maybe twenty minutes of actual time, she left.

Thanks for the thought? Nah, there was no thought. Maybe visiting made her feel better but it brought nothing to her friend’s grieving (and obviously busy) family. It was easily the least considerate thing I have ever experienced.

But it was over. Whether or not she realized her un-welcome had been exhausted, she was gone and I was mildly relieved.

Back to the jewelry, Linda thought I was accusing her of theft, which had not happened.

Looking back now, I understand why, but in that moment I had no patience for it. My mom was dead, I was playing host when I most needed to not be in control, and an unknown woman just wasted my time.

There are very few times when I have fully screamed at somebody but Linda got an unhealthy dose of it, though the anger was obviously not aimed at her.

After shouting, I thought walking around the block (wearing only a T-shirt in Winter) was a great idea and expected the situation to be over when I returned, whatever that meant.

It worked. Linda and Scott were gone, the jewelry was back in the house, and all was relatively peaceful, just in time to prepare for the repast meal the next day.

---

Linda and Scott were there but the weirdness and discomfort from the previous day were not. Emotions ran high and things were said in the moment. We all understood that.

The weird zombie lady was there as well. And all sorts of people I *actually* knew and wanted to see.

My uncle had made a very nice video with Otis Redding singing (Sittin’ On) The Dock Of The Bay over it. My mom’s favorite song playing in her favorite restaurant was a pleasant tribute to a woman who had gone through Hell and inadvertently brought some people she cared about along for part of the journey. (More on her reasoning later.)

---

Fast-forward two weeks and a message had been left on the house line for my mother, though the caller clearly knew she was gone. Crying, the voice said how much she missed her and hoped the message would reach her in Heaven.

The caller-ID confirmed my hunch that it was Blank Face.

My immediate reaction was the rage I diverted toward Linda two weeks prior. I screamed, stomped, smacked the wall. That message was just about the last thing I needed to hear.

And that is exactly the point- I heard the message. Nobody else and certainly not my mom.

(Does Heaven even get voicemail?)

If this woman believed my mom could hear her in the afterlife, why did she feel the need to leave her a voice message? Why did she not, say, look at the sky and speak her thoughts? I am not questioning her beliefs but calling out her complete lack of courtesy.

First the pointless awkward visit and then a voicemail to Heaven? I know people grieve in different ways but had no idea dis-courtesy was one of them.

---

Anyway, I oddly understood why my mother did what she did.

She had depression most of her life and a chronic headache of varying degrees for over 15 years. Every possible treatment and medication was exhausted without a lasting result or even an explanation.

One thing that will always bother me is what exactly happened on the weekend in question.

I will never know for sure, so here is my theory:

My mom's Saturday headache was especially nasty.

She could not fall asleep so she took enough painkillers to become euphoric.

When she told her friend (Linda, actually) that she was finally pain-free, she truly felt that way, then fell asleep with great ease and comfort.

Upon waking, the medication had worn off and her headache was worse than it had ever been. The immediate frustration caused her to yearn for the end and act upon it.

In her last moment of sorrow, she went to the kitchen to leave an apology note for me. Then she went to her closet, where there were plenty of pills and pain-patches. (I never thought having that amount was a coincidence.)

Before over-dosing, she looked around her bedroom and smiled at meaningful belongings. Artwork done by friends. Her collection of Lladro statues. A jewelry tree I had gotten her. Material things which had become personally valuable.

Determined to go out happy, she went back to her office and sat in her favorite chair. The window was open and the television was off. The light from outside made the picture collages on the other side of the room come to life.

With photographs of family and friends looking back at her, my mom fell asleep for the last time. Shortly after, she was finally at peace.

I do not think she planned to do this but she definitely had a strategy ready.

I will likely never fully know what happened but this makes sense and has a relatively happy ending.

---

Before I thought of this theory, I felt very angry, betrayed, and abandoned. Admittedly, I still have those feelings but have forgiven her.

I still think my mom is an asshole for going that route but understand as much as I can.

She had migraines for fifteen years and nobody could figure out why or how to stop them. I hope to never find out what that is like.

And yes, I felt guilt. Never that this was my fault but what if I had been home that weekend? Would things have turned out differently or was it inevitable? Questions like this can truly drive a person mad.

This was an unfortunate ending to a sad situation but maybe it was for the best. She did not want to live in pain nor did she want to burden me and now both of those ideas are irrelevant.

There is more to say but I would rather not right now.

Thanks for reading. Go hug someone you care about.