Giving Up

*Trigger warning: suicide, death, suicidal ideation

My fork clatters to the plate as I sit in shock, staring at my mother’s passive expression, unable to believe her demeanor after uttering the words she just dropped on me like my life didn’t suddenly implode. She continues eating her pasta, sets down her fork, and delicately wipes the corner of her mouth before finally looking for my reaction to her casual bombardment. 

“Are you joking me, mom?” I ask, exasperated. “You just told me you have three months to live and you’re just going to sit there and act like you told me you bought ice cream for dessert? Or… or the trash needs to go out?”

She looks toward the ceiling and takes a deep breath, finally letting her tough exterior crack ever so slightly. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’ve been struggling to find the words.” I can tell how difficult this is for her. Continuing the painful admission, she sighs as her shoulders fall. “I honestly didn’t know how to tell you.” She looks at me and tears well in her bright, honey-colored eyes. 

“Oh, mom” I say breathlessly as I throw my chair back and quickly cover the distance to her side of the table to take her into my arms. We hold each other for longer than either of us would normally be comfortable with, my heart shattering as the disbelief and grief overwhelms me. “What am I going to do without you? I can’t do this by myself” I plead as a wave of guilt washes over me in reaction to my selfish thoughts. 

“You can and you will,” she answers calmly. She’s always made it a point to teach me to be tough and not let the world knock me down, sucker punches from hell be damned. She raised me by herself, worked her fingers to the bone at the cafe to make ends meet, and supplied me with everything I ever needed. She never mentioned my father - if that’s what you want to call him - and I understood from an early age that it wasn’t a subject I wanted or needed to bring up. Mom was enough. She gave me everything. 

“You’re right. I know I can, and I’ll make you proud” I say with false confidence, smiling through my tears. We clean up our dishes and settle on the couch to watch our newest trash TV obsession. 

I spend most of the night tossing and turning in my old twin bed, thoughts racing and heart continuing to ache as I imagine what the rest of my life will look like. I’ll be one of those people - “My mom is dead”. I can’t digest that thought. I turn over, pulling the covers up to my ears, and try to get some rest before my early class at the community college tomorrow. 6am comes far quicker than I’d like, and I need my wits about me if I’m going to keep my running streak of straight-A perfectionism. It’s more important to me now than ever before.

_ _ _ 

Three weeks after mom dropped the bomb of a lifetime on me, I’m standing in shock, barely able to comprehend what the police officer filling my doorway is trying to explain. “Your mother’s car was found on an old logging road just outside of town. We’ve located what we believe to be her body in a clearing about half a mile away and it appears to be a suicide” he calmly explains, his stony expression a clear representation of the walls he puts up in order to deal with these kinds of life-shattering situations. “Please come with me and I’ll escort you to the coroner’s office where we’ll need you to identify her body.” He lowers his head and adds quietly, “I’m so sorry, Caroline.” 

I follow him like a zombie, numb and clearly in shock, feeling light-headed and dizzy. I’m having the biggest dissociation episode I’ve ever experienced and simply can’t bring myself to understand or believe his words. She wouldn’t have done this, right? I know she was declining rapidly, the aches running deep into her very bones, but she would have continued with treatment to try to stay with me a bit longer, right? 

We drive to the coroner’s office, step out of the uncomfortable cruiser, and I follow closely behind the officer as he leads me through the door, down a long hallway, and into a cold, sterile room. 

“Hello, ma’am. Please follow me to the stretcher to identify the body.” The coroner has a cold, overly professional demeanor. I follow timidly behind him, hands shaking, and see the silver steel stretcher with a white sheet draped over what clearly appears to be a human body. As I approach, the coroner briskly draws back the sheet to reveal the head and shoulders of a corpse laid flat and cold. I slowly step closer, holding my breath. As I take in the face I know like the back of my hand, my legs buckle, and I fall to my knees. 

Hyperventilating, I wrap my arms around my middle, the pain unbearable, like a thousand knives stabbing into my chest over and over. I manage to croak out “yes, that’s her. That’s my mother, Sheila Davis.” The world closes in around me and fades to black.

_ _ _

I’ve slipped into a dark depression that I never knew was possible. My mother is gone. She decided to take her ending into her own hands and put the weight of her decision and loss on my overladen shoulders. I’ve become a shell of my former self. Shades drawn, lights off, permanently wrapped in a blanket, my existence is one of grief and self-loathing. I have ceased going to classes. Calls from my handful of friends to check in have gone unanswered. I leave messages of concern on read. 

“Hey girl! Just checking in. You doing ok?”. Such a kind gesture that doesn’t even begin to breach the thick layers of grief I’ve built around myself like a cocoon. Only this one won’t do its mysterious magic to produce a butterfly. This one only continues to tighten and surround me until I feel like I can’t breathe. Every breath is labored and purposeful, like I’ve forgotten how to conduct my most basic function. I fall further into the darkness. I can’t come to terms with the loss of my mother, the only person that has ever been there unconditionally. The impending knowledge of her death was hard enough, but her choosing to end it early, to leave me prematurely, to take fate into her own hands, leaves me feeling empty and hopeless. I pass the time mindlessly by watching our old favorite trashy TV shows, staring into nothing, wallowing in my own self-pity. 

A few days ago, I contemplated the idea that it’s time to join her. The thought has been dancing throughout my waking consciousness relentlessly. I have that old bottle of narcotics from when I broke my arm two summers ago tucked away in the back of the medicine cabinet, collecting dust. I never finished the bottle because I was so afraid after hearing the horror stories of people becoming addicted. Destroying their bodies and lives because they became dependent on the horrible poison. The thought scares me a little, but I’ve lost most of my ability to give a shit. 

I grab the bottle and go lay down in my bed, ready to give up just like she did and meet her wherever she may be. I close my eyes and imagine her waiting for me with open arms.