Mom was small, a slight 110 pounds but through my eyes, she was large, even after my height surpassed hers. To this day, she would argue that she weighed only 100. Her strong presence claimed her space, and anyone else's that she cared to. Being right was of utmost importance to her, and she made sure always to have the last word. Overbearing, and overprotective of me, her only child, she usually controlled every situation, regardless of how trivial. I had always wished that she would allow me space, privacy and freedom to form my decisions, although I did take comfort knowing that she was always there for me. The night before Dad’s funeral, Mom and I stayed at Uncle Bernie and Aunt Ros’s home in Flushing Queens, New York.
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Mom boasted, ”I never in my life had taken so much as aspirin,” but this catastrophe was so hard, the doctor had placed a bottle of Valium in Mom’s hand, to help her cope. Ridden with guilt and embarrassment, she told me she had been ingesting the pills. With her anxiety elevating, she intimated taking the rest of the bottle, all at once, which terrified me. I realized I had only myself to rely on. I found a boldness and confidence I had never known, took control of the situation and became “The Mom.”
Deciding to inventory the remaining pills, I opened the dresser drawer, and a bottle of a low dose generic aspirin, resting on neatly folded handkerchiefs left by my relatives, ignited an idea. I flushed the remaining Valium down the toilet, and filled the empty bottle with aspirin. Later that evening, with her head down, Mom admitted,
“Linda, now you’re going to be an orphan, losing your mom as well. I took Valium.”
Distressed, she couldn’t remember how many, nor at what time she swallowed the pills. “Everything will be alright,” I reassured, but with suspicion she demanded to know what I was talking
Mom boasted, ”I never in my life had taken so much as aspirin,” but this catastrophe was so hard, the doctor had placed a bottle of Valium in Mom’s hand, to help her cope. Ridden with guilt and embarrassment, she told me she had been ingesting the pills. With her anxiety elevating, she intimated taking the rest of the bottle, all at once, which terrified me. I realized I had only myself to rely on. I found a boldness and confidence I had never known, took control of the situation and became “The Mom.”
Deciding to inventory the remaining pills, I opened the dresser drawer, and a bottle of a low dose generic aspirin, resting on neatly folded handkerchiefs left by my relatives, ignited an idea. I flushed the remaining Valium down the toilet, and filled the empty bottle with aspirin. Later that evening, with her head down, Mom admitted,
“Linda, now you’re going to be an orphan, losing your mom as well. I took Valium.”
Distressed, she couldn’t remember how many, nor at what time she swallowed the pills. “Everything will be alright,” I reassured, but with suspicion she demanded to know what I was talking