Evicted and Abandoned, at Eighteen

The eviction notice came on the heels of a tough and mournful year. The torment began with a venomous phone call from my father.  His voice was weak, but his words cut like a knife.    

"Joni, you killed your mother." 

Little Joni & Daddy.

I hung up on him.  My legs buckled.  I steadied myself against the wall and made it to my bed, where I collapsed.

I knew what he meant. Mommy was gone.  She was only forty-six years old, and I was just sixteen. But was I a murderer now?

As I lay there, still dazed from the stunning blow, the world stopped. And in that surreal moment, a small voice in my head told me the truth. Your mother is dead, but you are not a murderer. And then I smashed my face into the pillow and howled like a wounded animal.  There could be no greater pain than this.

My Beautiful Mother

I loved her. And her love for me was unconditional, no matter the magnitude of the teenage problems I laid at her feet. She was my beautiful, tall, brown-skinned mommy with the pretty dresses and the soft, lovely voice. She was the warm hug and gentle smile that sent me off to school every morning, and the loving squeeze and kiss on the cheek that greeted me when I returned. She was the strong hand that guided me through life. My rock and my protector. Asthma and pneumonia took her away – not me. I knew it. Daddy knew it. And later, an autopsy confirmed it.  

Pain

 What was I going to do now? 

I curled up into a ball, for days.  My family banned me from the funeral.  They said I was too young.  Too fragile. Too broken. The truth was, they didn't want questions and whispers about my secret. My mother was the only one who didn’t shun me for it. But she was gone. Now I’d have to get rid of the problem, just like everybody wanted me to – wash my hands. I didn't realize my decision would leave a bloody stain on my life, and an even deeper hole in my heart. I needed my mother more than ever now.

 Numb

 She died right before Christmas.  My father walked around the apartment, singing a song with a line I will never forget, “There will be no Christmas for me...”  And when he sang it, I heard his tortured soul crying out for her.   Sometimes he'd sing songs of hope, and recite poems about butterflies and sunlight.  He encouraged me to write. To sing. To thrive. And a few weeks later, when I turned seventeen, he bought me a birthday cake.

 Despite his cruel indictment of me, he didn't want me to drown in my sorrow. In those moments, I was still his little girl.  And he was still my teddy bear daddy – my laughing, sunshine daddy – the man who'd loved, nurtured and adored me all my life.  

Now we cried together, a lot. We were trying to get through life without her, and we were failing miserably. I forgave him for the way he delivered the news of my mother’s passing – I knew he didn’t mean it. Later, I realized he was projecting his guilt onto me.

 All I could think about was my mother. I pushed my secret to the back of my mind – I couldn’t absorb another loss. I was a zombie, just trying to make it through my last six months of high school. I graduated, but skipped the ceremony.  I couldn't face college either – it would have to wait.  I even turned down a full scholarship to a school in Florida. I knew I barely had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. Besides, I couldn’t leave home, because my mother wouldn’t be there to cheer me on, to call me, or to just love me.

I'd made a prior commitment to be a junior counselor, at a camp where I’d spent many summers. So, six months after my mother's death, I got on a bus and headed to the Catskills. The camp’s executive director, a loving, earth mother type, was the only one who knew my story.  I interacted with campers and fellow counselors. I smiled. I hiked. I sang campfire songs. I did what I had to do.  But on the inside, my soul wept.

Downward Spiral

I returned home from camp, thankful for the weekly allowance my father continued to send me all summer. I’d saved all the money I earned at camp, and I had a tiny inheritance from my mother.  It went fast. After a few months, I started showing up at my father’s barbershop, desperate for cash.  

Daddy was losing interest in my well-being.  He kept coming home late, stumbling and reeking of alcohol.  After a while, he rarely showed up.  I didn’t know where he was staying – he never brought up the subject, and I didn’t ask.  Week after week, I was mostly home alone, struggling to make it on the few dollars he gave me.

When I was a little girl, I thought my daddy was rich.  He owned a barbershop.   Before I was born, when he and my mother fled the south and came to New York, he thought his college degree would open doors. He’d been a brilliant student. A plaque, displayed in the lobby of his alma mater, memorialized his academic achievements.   But he ended up mopping floors. Undefeated, he cut hair on the side, and saved his money. At the same time, he raised his children, and doted on his wife.  By the time I was in second grade, he opened his shop. That was years ago. I no longer thought we were rich, but I still didn’t understand why money was so tight.  

Soon, my frequent trips to the barbershop got ugly. My father was always angry when I showed up.  He’d dig into his pocket, and throw a fist full of money at me.  I’d try to catch the bills before they hit the floor, and I crawled around to pick up the coins.  I needed every penny. There were times when he’d chase me out of the shop, empty handed.  I never knew what to expect.  One day he pulled a knife on me. Oh. My. God. I ran for my life, but I came back after a few days.  I had no choice. I’d pray that he’d have a customer in the chair, but who would take a haircut from a drunken barber? The shop was usually empty. I didn’t realize he was running the customers away. The man who was my daddy had become an alcohol-fueled monster. 

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 Eviction

 Then it happened.  The eviction notice was taped to the apartment door. 

I had never seen or paid a bill in my life. I’d taken everything for granted. I panicked.

I called my father. He slurred some words into the phone, and hung up. Something told me he was never coming back home. The weight of the eviction was solely on me.  

I took the scary notice to my girlfriend Sherri’s house, so I could show it to her mother, Mrs. Lake.  I needed an adult to weigh in on it. She knew about my mother’s passing, and I filled her in on my father. She sat at her dining room table and read the eviction notice. I watched the color drain from her pretty face.  She said the back rent had to be paid or I’d have to get out in thirty days, and all our belongings would end up on the sidewalk. And then she said nothing. I could see she was worried.  She was known for her big, beautiful smile – she was always a ray of sunshine, no matter what. There was no smile on her face now. She handed the paper back to me, telling me how sorry she was. We were both speechless as I walked out of her apartment and headed home.  

 I went to bed and curled up into a ball, and I stayed there, for days.

The lovely Mrs. Lake, over the years.

Just days before our belongings were tossed out, the phone rang.  It was Mrs. Lake.  She asked me to stop by. I needed food, so I went. I got a nice meal, and something else that I will never forget.

She asked, “Would you like to come and live with us?”

My emotions overwhelmed my voice. We hugged.  When I got myself together, I thanked her as I choked back tears.  I felt relieved, but terrified.  I went home and packed my clothes.

 It was late summer.  I felt the warmth of the sun on my face

Mr. & Mrs. Lake

as I walked out of my building, lugging my suitcases. I wondered when our furniture would be put out on the sidewalk. And then I pushed my feelings way down into a dark place, for a long, long time.  

 I walked to Mrs. Lake’s building, which was just steps away.  When she opened her door and let me in, her beautiful smile was back, but like me, she was speechless.     

 My girlfriend Sherri had just left for college, so Mrs. Lake gave me her room.  Sherri's younger sister, who was still in junior high school, had her own bedroom too.  We didn’t have much to say to each other.   I was functioning, but not feeling.  

Most nights when I lay alone in Sherri’s bed, my mind raced. This isn’t my bed. What am I

Motherless, Teenage Me.

doing here? I can’t do this. What happened to me? Then I started hearing voices at night. It was always someone calling out my name. Joni. Joni. Joni. I told Mrs. Lake about it, because I sensed that I was losing my mind. She said it was probably one of the kids in the apartment upstairs, trying to spook me.  She was wise to find a rational explanation, but I wondered if she really believed what she was saying. Looking back, I cannot imagine what was going through her mind. Her face was calm and reassuring, but I’m sure she was worried about me, and about what she’d gotten herself into.  After a few weeks of torture, the voices stopped. But I was still very troubled. I worked harder on shoving my feelings way down, deeper, and deeper.

 I was robotic and needy at the same time. I asked Mrs. Lake to send me to college.  I shared my dreams and goals and asked her to finance all of them.  I didn’t realize she and her husband were doing their best to raise their own daughters, and get them through college. By taking me in, they’d saved my life, and disrupted theirs. But I thought I’d automatically become a member of their family. Mrs. Lake knew it, yet she never dismissed my requests – she didn’t hit me with the truth.  She always said she’d think about it. Then she gently suggested that I get a job, just so I could have my own pocket money. That was okay by me.  But I still didn’t realize the Lakes were not my substitute parents.     

Jobs were plentiful - I found work without much effort.  But I was young, inexperienced, and not ready for the customer service job I’d landed at the phone company.  I refunded customers without reviewing their accounts – I took them at their word. It wasn’t long before I got fired.  

 I started working long term temporary jobs, doing repetitive work, like stuffing envelopes.  With everything that was on my head, it was all I could manage. 

Once I was working and appeared to be adjusting, Mrs. Lake gave me tiny goals – like buying my own toothpaste and toiletries. Or at least buying laundry detergent, since she was the one who was washing the clothes.  She was trying to teach me how to be independent. I needed to understand I was a boarder in her home.  She was very nurturing and gentle as she tried to nudge me into a reality that I still wasn’t ready to accept.  She was a mom – but not my mom. Her talk didn’t work. I had been through too much. I wanted my mommy, and if I couldn’t have her, then I needed Mrs. Lake to be my mom.  I also didn’t do all the things she suggested. So, I ended up feeling guilty, and then I pushed the guilt way down deep.   

 I didn't know Mrs. Lake was an angel.  I didn't know I would cherish her for the rest of my life. I didn't know her gift was so special that I could never thank her enough.  I didn't know that years later, whenever I saw her, I'd get a lump in my throat. I didn't know she would pass away before I could tell her how grateful I was for what she did, and how much I loved her. I remain eternally grateful, and forever touched by her kindness, and her grace.

About a month after I’d moved in, I was chatting with Mrs. Lake and I mentioned something about one of my aunts.   Mrs. Lake was shocked – she’d assumed I had no relatives. But my mother had eleven siblings, and most of them were married and living in New York, in nice homes. I never thought of reaching out to them. It never occurred to me – my parents always took care of everything. Mrs. Lake picked up the phone and called every aunt, and every uncle.

 PTSD

They set up a meeting at an aunt’s house.  Not only did every aunt and uncle show up, but my sister B.J. and her husband were there too.  They were all sitting in a circle when we arrived. Mrs. Lake explained how I’d been evicted, and that she’d been caring for me ever since. She said she couldn’t imagine how I felt, and she was glad she was able to help. She smiled as she spoke, and she kept that beautiful smile on her face, as my family thanked her.  I’m sure she expected someone to say they’d take me in.  That didn’t happen. They passed a hat, filling it with money for Mrs. Lake, as a thank you for her troubles. She must have been shocked, but she just kept smiling. The meeting was over.  I left more dazed than I was when I walked in.     

I was traumatized by that family meeting. For many years, family gatherings were difficult for me. I’d feel sheer terror. I was always waiting for that terrible blow, or for the hat to be passed around in front of my face, making me feel worthless. Year after year, I showed up at family reunions, parties, and holiday gatherings. I relived that awful day, over, and over, but I smiled through the pain until the feelings passed. Sometimes I started reliving it on the way to the gathering, or the night before.  Nobody knew what I was going through. I showed up because I loved and needed my family. I forgave them. My cousins knew nothing about my ordeal. And my aunts, uncles and sister didn’t know they’d almost killed me that day.

 There will be no Christmas...

My friend Sherri came home from college for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The holiday season brought unspeakable pain to me. It marked the anniversary of my mother’s passing. I stood around, saying very little. I was an outsider. The Lake’s friends and relatives were eating, drinking, exchanging gifts, and just enjoying each other. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I was glad when Sherri went back to college. I loved my dear friend, but when she was around, my feelings surfaced, and a sense of worthlessness, embarrassment and humiliation overwhelmed me.  She was my mirror.  When I saw her, I knew we were no longer equal.  I was a homeless urchin, sleeping in her bed.  I lived at the mercy of her parents. I was troubled. She had a bright future and a family. She could laugh. She could dance. She could smile.   

  
Growing Up

Mrs. Lake never asked me to leave, but after Christmas, I felt it was time to go. I was only eighteen years old, and damaged, but I wanted my own bed – my own room.  I didn’t want to be an outcast anymore. I realized I’d never recapture the life I had before my mother passed away.  I was growing up.     

 That winter, I struck out.  I found a room in a cheap, old, Single Room Occupancy Hotel (S.R.O) on the Upper West Side. The manager was reluctant to rent to me – he could see I was just a kid. So, I lied about my age, and he never asked for ID. He took my money. I rented a single room, no bath.

My room smelled stale. The wallpaper was faded. The carpet was threadbare, and the curtains were old.  I had a small refrigerator, a hot plate, a bed, and a television. I seemed to be the youngest tenant among a ragtag group of people who all appeared to be down on their luck.

The bathroom made my skin crawl, and having to share it with an old woman made it worse.  The tiles were cracked and dirty, the shower curtain was moldy, and there were always dead roaches on the floor. A housekeeper was responsible for keeping it clean, but no amount of scrubbing could remove years of soap scum and gunk. I know. I tried. I felt sick every time I showered, and I cringed if the toilet seat was still warm when I sat down.  I hated it.  

I was living in a disgusting environment that was not meant for a young girl like me, but I learned to deal with it. Because when I closed the door to my room, it was all mine. And that felt good.  

I went to work every day, and kept to myself. I got locked out of my room a few times, because I couldn’t pay the rent.  I was still working on temporary jobs, and I was struggling.   

When they locked me out, I'd go stay with my daddy, who was living with a woman in Harlem. Her name was Mrs. Palmer.  She wore shabby dresses and loved to drink beer, but she was very nice to me.  I got dinner and a place to stay, until I saved up enough to pay the rent at the hotel.  Mrs. Palmer was my father’s drinking buddy, and more. I didn’t care. For the time I was there, they were my parents, and that was heartwarming.

 Still I Rise*

 After nearly three years in the S.R.O, and six months at my sister B. J’s house, I got my first apartment.  It was a tiny studio in a tenement in Hell's Kitchen, but it was mine.   At twenty-one years of age, I was starting a new chapter in my life.

My losses, including my secret, still haunted me.  I had no mother.  My father was a shell of a man.  Later, he was found dead, lying in a dark, dirty alley somewhere in Harlem, like a bum. He was only in his fifties. I was inconsolable at his funeral.

Me, at about 21.

I held on to memories of the sweet, honorable man who raised me.  And I cherished the good years I had, growing up with two loving parents, and my sisters, before it all fell apart.  Those memories got me through tough years when I had no support. Sherri moved to another state, but we remain friends, for life. Her mother, Mrs. Lake, will forever be in my heart and mind. Over time, my sister B.J. and I bonded, and we were inseparable, until her passing. She was my rock, and I was hers.  But only time would ease the pain of my insurmountable losses.

Some family members predicted that without parents, I would spiral downward, and never make anything of my life. I knew better.  A college degree, a fine career, artistic expression, and healthy relationships followed.  I kept reaching higher, and higher. And I’m still climbing.

 *Dr. Maya Angelou

Twisted Sister Postscript & Photo

Today is Hope's birthday.

I am re-posting "Twisted Sister," along with this picture of Hope.   I snapped the photo on Christmas day, at B.J's house. Lots of relatives were there, including Rae.  That's Rae's baby picture on the coffee table in front of Hope. Although she was still living at home, Hope was in and out of psychiatric wards during this time frame. The photo is old and fuzzy, but I think you can still see the beauty I described in my original blog post.

Hope was loved then, and she is loved now. I hope she's enjoying her birthday in Heaven.


Feel free to re-read "Twisted Sister,"  below.

Twisted Sister

I betrayed my sister.

Her name was Hope.  She was my big sister, and she was profoundly ill.  Schizophrenia invaded her being, changed her brain chemistry, and forced her into a murky, distorted world. I couldn't deal with it. 

Hope endured a joyless life in dingy mental institutions, for fifty years.

Schizophrenic Nightmare

The thin threads connecting her to reality were forever broken, and she couldn't fit into normal society.  Once a well-groomed, balanced, polished beauty, she was now a disheveled, messy-haired, slumped over, ghost of a woman. She wore big, ill-fitting, dirty sneakers, and oversized, faded clothing. She shuffled her feet and muttered when she walked.  If you looked into her eyes you’d see she wasn’t in the same room with you.  She’d laugh out loud, or scream, and you never knew when it was coming. She was toothless. In her deranged universe, there was no tolerance for dental hygiene, and the idea of managing dentures was unthinkable. So for more than half of her adult life, she lived on a diet of mushy foods and purees.

Visiting Horrors

For years, every few months I’d hook up with our oldest sister, B.J., and we’d plan a trip to the mental hospital, to visit Hope.  But when we discussed “The Visit” over the phone, our breaking hearts, and lack of intestinal fortitude, tested our good intentions.  We’d come down with severe colds, run fevers, or end up swigging Pepto Bismol, as the calendar closed in on "The Visit.” We had to blow it off a lot, and that didn't feel good either.

Every year, we tried to at least show up on Christmas, her birthday, and one random weekend. 

Shaky but determined, we’d get into the car, with B.J. at the wheel, heading to “The Visit.”  As she drove, fear, loathing and despondency sucked the air out of her little Ford Escort.  B.J. would make a wrong turn, or exit the highway too soon, even though she knew where she was going. It tore me to pieces to see her doing it. I understood. She was trying to lose her way – so that maybe we didn’t have to go. Maybe we’d miss the visiting hours.  Maybe this wasn’t real. Because. It. Was. Just. Too. Hard. 

We came bearing gifts – dishing out goods we knew she loved and craved, and turning a blind eye to her lack of judgment. We gave her cartons of Kools and watched as she stuffed the cigarette packs into her bra, one by one, until we got a nurse to store them away for her. We brought potato chips that she shoved into her mouth by the handfuls, nearly choking and gagging.  And then, without teeth, she’d manage to suck down the whole mess. We had her favorite sweets, and she feverishly tried to savor every morsel, pouring M & M’s and whole chunks of hard candy into her mouth. A piece of us died each time we witnessed this routine. We remembered our poised, gracious, lovely sister. Now, looking at this unkempt, wild-eyed woman, whose behavior was grotesque, we wanted to avert our eyes, and sob.   

After annihilating the goodies, she’d often do something inappropriate, like exposing her breasts in the gloomy public visiting room, or wildly lashing out at invisible people, visitors, or other patients. She rarely recognized us, or if she did, she wouldn’t acknowledge our presence. It was impossible to have conversations. She’d mumble, chuckle, and on rare occasions, she might call out the name of a relative who'd passed away years ago. Her mind wasn't in the room with us.  So there were no real connections.  Not a single time.

Our two elderly aunts, both skinny wisps of women, were strong as a team of oxen.  I was grateful.  They’d bake cakes, fry chicken, put it all in a picnic basket, and together, they'd take it to Hope. They showed up with their church hats on and with a certain cheerfulness that my sister B.J and I could never replicate for “The Visit.”  

They’d sit with Hope, putting up with obscenities or violent outbursts.  Incredibly, sometimes they dealt with her body fluids, accidentally or alarmingly projected. They were patient, and they could withstand a lot.  When we talked on the phone, if they mentioned their visit, I ended up feeling like a poor excuse for a sister. 

My aunts were saints. I couldn’t do what they did. On one hand, I felt envy and shame. On the other hand, I knew I just did not have it in me. 

The Good Times 

But there were brighter days.

Before her teenage years, she was normal. She was a part of me. My big sister. My pal.   She was smarter than most- a whiz at word games, she could finish the New York Times crossword puzzle so fast it would make your head spin.  She had an analytical mind, and she always had her head in a book. She spoke a little French, and a bit of Spanish.  To me, she was a wonderful resource for just about everything – The girl was a walking encyclopedia. 

 She kept to herself, but was never really closed off.  If you scratched the surface, you got fun, laughter and joy.    

I loved it when she’d read stories to me, or crack jokes. She could do great impressions of lots of people on television from our era, like Ed Sullivan or Jack Benny.  She was lovely – about 5’8”– with a thick beautiful mane of course black hair.  I loved her hair – it was longer than mine, and I used to watch her comb it into a nice bob.  She had a slender, well-proportioned figure, a beautiful smile, and a warm heart.  

Everything was great at home.  We never ate a pancake that didn't have my mother's signature happy face, which she created out of love, and raisins. My father was a teddy bear who doted on his daughters. We sang, laughed, and prayed together. We didn't have a lot of money, but there was no shortage of love.  When B.J. got married and moved away, I was glad I still had my buddy, Hope.  But during her last year of junior high, she began to unravel.   

Coming Apart

By the time she started high school, her pool of friends was shrinking, and she became more and more withdrawn, and strange. She'd complain about the television - it was speaking to her. We shared a bedroom, and I noticed she didn't get much sleep. She was keeping me awake at night, because she couldn't stop talking - not to me, but to whoever she thought she saw, in the dark. Little by little, her irrational thoughts and behavior started eroding what little mental health she had left. And soon, some of her most bizarre conduct became routine.

We lived in the northern-most part of Manhattan, in a quiet, diverse community called Dyckman. But our sad, delusional Hope was becoming an unintended sideshow in our mundane and peaceful world.

I have vivid memories of the troubling ritual she'd perform with the help of stark white pancake makeup - something you might use for Halloween. She’d cover her ebony face with the stark white powder, leaving her black skin exposed around her eyes and mouth, like a mime. She’d smear pale pink lipstick on her beautiful, full lips. Then she’d put on a dress and strut around the neighborhood, with her white face and light pink lips, startling people.

She'd come back to our building, ringing the doorbells of our closest friends and neighbors. If they didn't let her in, she'd jabber away at them, through the peephole. Sometimes they'd open the door just a crack, to get an eyeful. It was the stuff of neighborhood gossip, and pity. Word of her alarming charade would always get back to our family. My little friends made a point of nervously recounting the details. It hurt, even though they never ridiculed me. There were more public incidents - at school, the corner store - wherever she went. She needed help, and my parents knew it.

They took her to social workers and psychiatrists, and they started putting her “away,” for short periods. She got rest. Therapy. Meds. But she wasn't cured. When she came home, no one in the family could find refuge from her broken mind. The neighbors avoided her, but we loved her. So we lived in a place where tension and schizophrenia hung in the air, except when she was “away.”

With the help of medication and her high IQ, she made it through high school, and she spent a little time in college too. But by then, she was never stable. She’d linger in psychiatric wards, for longer and longer periods of time.

Suicide and Death


She tried to kill herself.

I came home from junior high school, found her in bed, and couldn’t wake her. And then I saw the telltale bottle of pills, lying next to her. Choking on tears, I ran to our neighbor, Mrs. Ranks. I dragged her to our apartment, and showed her. She covered her mouth in horror, and burst into tears. We shook Hope, over and over, but she was still unresponsive.

As Mrs. Ranks called for an ambulance, my mother came through the front door. I cannot imagine her state of mind when she saw what she saw. The ambulance took Hope to a nearby hospital. Thank God, she survived.

Within a few years, my forty-six year old mother lost her battle with asthma, and the pain of her death was unspeakable. Not too many years after, my father passed – it was obvious to us that he couldn’t make it without her. My sister B.J. and I soldiered on. By this time, Hope spent most of her time in psychiatric facilities.


The Awful Secret


One day the mental institution called to tell us that Hope had wreaked havoc with a book of matches. Matches? We were both incredulous. Psychiatric. Patients. Never. Have. Matches.

During those years, patients in psychiatric facilities were allowed to smoke, but cigarettes were lit by orderlies and aides. Matches were contraband.

But she had matches, they said. As a result, a patient was severely burned, and our sister was culpable. She was ordered to spend the rest of her life in mental asylums. 

The match incident, resulting in that patient's death, was a secret I would almost take to my grave, until now.

B.J. and I continued to make “The Visit,” wondering if our sister was criminally insane, and feeling terrible about the woman who died, even though we never knew her identity. The courts were likely involved, but we were not. We just accepted it, and we followed Hope from asylum to asylum, year after year.

Loss

In February, 2000, my big sister, mentor, and best companion, B.J. died – she was only in her fifties. She left grief-stricken, devastated me, standing at the doorstep of insanity, I thought. I could not bear the loss of my B.J. Yet somehow, I did not fall apart. I put one foot in front of the other. I managed, and thrived.

But I couldn’t handle “The Visit” without B.J. So I gave up on Hope.

I may have seen Hope a few times in the seventeen years since B.J’s passing, but only when accompanied by my last surviving aunt. Time passed, and guilt took its toll on me. A concerned friend told me to donate money to mental health charities, in lieu of visiting Hope. I wrote checks to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), but continued to beat myself up. Then she said I should find a support group for families affected by mental illness. I didn’t. Hope was weighing heavily on my heart, so I put her in the back of my mind, and buried my feelings.

2017 - The Beginning of the End

Recently, I got a scary phone call.  It was from Rae, a family member.  She and I had been estranged for more than a decade, and had not spoken until that moment.  I braced for the worst.  First, she confirmed a story I’d been hearing for a while. She had been monitoring and visiting Hope, particularly during the period after I’d stopped.  She’d stepped up and taken charge of Hope, in a way that I could not. For that, I will be forever grateful. 

She told me Hope was in the ICU and it didn’t look good.   I went to the hospital.  Hope was surrounded by tubes and monitors, unable to breathe without a ventilator. She was at the end of her life – a life spent in mental asylums, for more than five decades.  Rain was pouring down outside, and tears were spilling from my heart.

Rae was tough, had training and certification in psychology, and was experienced in the mental health field.  After talking to her, I got the impression that I had not been alone in my inability to stick to a rigid visitation schedule, for Hope.  She’d done better than me – she’d done a good job.  And she helped me understand that “The Visit” was not easy, no matter who you were.  She gave me a gift.

May, 2017 - The End

I got that phone call.  Hope was gone.

Rae was Hope’s proxy, but we made arrangements together, taking care of her with dignity but modestly, since she had no friends and few living family members who knew her well. Later, we will memorialize her at a small family gathering. 

For me, there is more reflection than sadness. It is chilling to know I am now the last living offspring of my parents, and that I am sister-less. I also wonder what Hope’s life was like, in her mind.  And I wonder why the guilt I carried for so long, is gone.  I have mourned young Hope my whole life.  My grief for the Hope who lived in a Thorazine-laced, schizophrenic world, is a dichotomy.  I embrace her, but I release her. I morn, yet I am free.  I am enlightened, but bewildered.

The lessons in Hope’s demise are rich. There is already growth and healing in her passing. 

It marks the end of a long journey, for both of us.  A journey we are sharing now, finally, together. After all of the dark, silent years, we are letting our lights shine.