My Mom Was Everything I Wanted To Be. Then She Became Addicted To Oxycontin._freckle removal q switch laser

Kristin Fasy·8 min read
The author (right) with her sister Jessie and their mom at the Jersey Shore, around 1988. (Photo: Courtesy of Kristin Fasy)
The author (right) with her sister Jessie and their mom at the Jersey Shore, around 1988. (Photo: Courtesy of Kristin Fasy)

The author (right) with her sister Jessie and their mom at the Jersey Shore, around 1988. (Photo: Courtesy of Kristin Fasy)

I dashed through driving rain toward the detox and rehab center, a grocery store bouquet of gerbera daisies shoved under my arm. In the lobby, I approached the receptionist’s desk with a too-bright smile.

“Hello,” I said, shrugging out of my coat. “I’m here to see my mother.” It was May 12, 2019: Mother’s Day.

A week earlier, my phone buzzed as my husband and I waited on the tarmac at Denver International Airport, bound for a much-anticipated island vacation.

“Ignore it,” Andy said when he saw my mom’s name on my phone screen. But I couldn’t.

“Hi Mom,” I said, turning my eyes toward the ceiling as if I might find serenity among the call buttons and task lighting.

“I’m not good, Krissy,” she squeaked, and I felt a familiar emptiness in my chest where compassion used to live. Calls from my mother ranged from panicked requests for money, to tearful apologies for being a burden, to stream-of-consciousness monologues about growing up in 1950s Philadelphia. They were rarely two-way conversations, and it was never good news.

As the plane began to taxi, she told me she was feeling bad, at her wit’s end, she said, and I murmured calming words as the flight attendant shot me a warning look. The truth was, I felt nothing but resentment. Raising my own two kids was hard enough; I shouldn’t have to mother my mother, too.

“It’s gonna be OK, Mom. I have to go. I’ll call Jessie.” I hung up and texted my sister. “Just talked to Mom. Shit show as usual. I think she’s ready for rehab.”

Our mother wasn’t always like this. In the ’90s she was funny and vivacious, the queen of Sparrow Lane. She organized all the block parties in our New Jersey neighborhood, hosted all the pre-prom photo ops, and turned Led Zeppelin up loud when she vacuumed. When she and my dad got home late after nights out, she would tiptoe into my room and place reverent kisses on both my cheeks, smelling like Calvin Klein’s Obsession and chardonnay. “My girl,” she would whisper as I feigned sleep. My mom.

(editor:)

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