I was at my mom’s house in Manhattan, dropping off groceries so she could eat. I was about to turn 17. As I fixed her an egg sandwich, my mom sat with a bottle of alcohol, telling me how lonely she felt, and how much she missed my siblings and me. I felt so sad to see my mom hurting, watching her torture herself with another bottle.

When I finished making her sandwich, she turned and looked up to me. I looked back at her, holding back my boiling tears. She watched me pour her an iced tea and said, “Hollie, can I ask you something?”

"Yes, what is it, Mom?” I replied.

"Am I a bad mother?”

"No, why do you feel that way, Mom?” I asked.

“I just wish I could have been there for you kids more. I hated to watch the tears on your faces when you was all being taken away from me. It hurt me so bad and I want you kids back.”

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She began to cry. It was breaking me apart inside. I wanted my mother to get better. I put her plate in front of her and wrapped my arms around her as her tears fell on my shoulders.

"No, Mommy, you’re not a bad mother, we’re going to get through this all together, OK?”

"I love you, Hollie,” she replied. “Oh, God, I love you, Hollie!”

My mother had been an alcoholic for many years. When I was not quite 9, Children’s Services (ACS) took my siblings and me away from her, although we remained close. When I was with her, I often felt like our roles were reversed, like she was the child and I was her parent.

My mother’s drinking was like someone switching the lights on and off constantly. How long will you continue to switch the lights on and off before the light bulb blows out?

Last Relapse

Her last relapse was a week before Christmas. I had gone AWOL (run away) from foster care so that I could see my mom. I often AWOLed when I wanted to be home again. I was always concerned about my mother.

The night before, my mother had gotten into a big argument with my Uncle Steven (her boyfriend). After all the years of my mother’s drinking, I knew her pattern. I was worried because she had been sober for about seven months, longer than usual. I decided to call her cell phone.

"Hey, Mommy, it’s Hollie,” I said.

"Oh, hey, Sweetheart,” my mother replied. I could tell immediately that she was drinking again. Whenever my mother would relapse, I heard the squeaky sound in her voice.

"Are you OK?” I asked.

"Yeah, Sweetie, I’m fine. I picked you up something to eat,” she answered.

"Thank you, Mom. Honestly, are you drinking again?” I asked. I didn’t really have to ask because I knew she was. She told me she was in McDonald’s, and that’s usually where she drinks when she wants to be alone.

"Hollie, I will talk to you about it when I get home. I don’t want you to be mad at me. I love you, Sweetie! I will see you when I get home,” she said.

I was upset. I knew my mother didn’t want me to see her drink but she did not want to lie to me. She had no choice but to be honest.

"Try to hurry up and I will see you when you get back, Mommy. I love you too and I am worried about you. Later,” I replied.

This is how my mother’s last relapse began. From that point on, she was drinking her life away.

Losing Control

Even before I went into care, I knew my mother had an alcohol addiction. She would run the streets at night, get into conflicts, sit in the cold, and just drink. And I would try to take care of her.

Once, before ACS took us away, I asked my mother if I could go with her because I thought it would ease my worry if I could see she was OK. I went with her to Harlem, her favorite place to drink and hang with the Spanish guys. I had to help my mother out of the street a few times because she kept falling. I watched her drink in a staircase while people offered us food.

Different men who I was uncomfortable with would come to my mother’s house. ACS started coming to check up on us. They knew about my mother’s drinking problem, but they didn’t want to take us away without giving her a chance to get sober. But as my mother’s addiction became worse, she lost control and we were eventually taken into care.

Broken Hearts

For two years I did not see my mother. As I got older, I learned to travel on my own. That’s when I started running away to see her.

An alcohol bottle was like medication to my mother’s broken heart. She was in love with Uncle Steven, but behind closed doors it was an abusive relationship. She seemed even more broken after we went into foster care. She wanted us back as a family so bad. She began giving up on everything.

Watching her broken heart ate at my heart, so sometimes I would just cry with her. After her last relapse, I caught a very serious anxiety attack to the point that I was shaking all night from the fear of losing her. The next time I checked up on her, Uncle Steven told me she’d taken herself to the hospital.

Diagnosis

My mother went to detox at the hospital in March, three months after her relapse. The doctors told my sister Emma and me that she was very ill. They found my mother had liver damage and a kidney infection. My mother’s skin was yellow all over from the jaundice caused by the liver disease.

image by YC-Art Dept

About two weeks later, they found my mother’s kidney infection getting better, but her liver was continuing to fail. The doctor diagnosed her with cirrhosis of the liver.

Since my sister was over 18, she became our mother’s health care proxy, which meant she could sign papers and make the decisions for her. My mother wasn’t functioning well enough to make decisions for herself at the time. She had a strong slur in her speech and it was hard to understand what she was saying. She sounded like a baby speaking.

The doctors warned us that my mother may not make it. My sister and I accepted what they were saying but we held on to hope. We did not want to give up on our mother. It devastated us to know that she might die. We worried about my mother so much we both cried together. The hospital was a peaceful place to get our emotions out in the open. It was calm and quiet.

Sad News

On May 27, I had just finished a meeting at my agency about my now-constant AWOLs. When I returned home I began talking with my foster mom, Mrs. Peace, about how I wanted to stick with my mother until she got out of the hospital, how I hoped she’d be out because she got better, and not because she died. It happened the other way around.

"Hollie, Ms. Miller, the agency director, and Mr. Fields, your caseworker, are coming by the house. They have something to talk to you about and it’s important,” my foster mother said with sympathy. I was very anxious, hoping it was not bad.

"OK,” I replied.

I helped clean up the house and made sure my room was straightened up. It helped clear my mind for a moment instead of just sitting around anxiously.

Finally, Ms. Miller and Mr. Fields arrived. They took a seat on the dark brown sofa under the flat screen TV.

"Ms. Peace, will you come sit next to Hollie because she’s going to need your support and comfort at this point,” Ms. Miller said. After my foster mother moved over to me, Ms. Miller continued, “Hollie we have some bad news for you. It’s about your mother.”

"OK,” I replied. Here we go!

"We received a phone call a few minutes after you left from the hospital,” she continued slowly. “We found out some very sad news. Your mother has passed on.”

We just sat in silence for a minute. I was holding my breath. It was devastating. I just could not believe it.

"Are you OK, Hollie? I am so sorry about your loss and we will look into funeral arrangements for you. You can stay here in your home with Ms. Peace if it makes you feel better,” Ms. Miller said.

"I will be fine,” I answered.

"I am sorry about the news,” Mr. Fields said.

I was so shocked I could not even cry. Eventually I did, but it took time for me to accept my mother’s death.

Denial

After finding out my mother had passed on, I tried to keep my mind constantly occupied. I would read books, go on the computer, write poetry, clean, do my hair, go out to get away from home for a while—anything I could do to avoid my thoughts.

The moments I had to think about my mother ate at my soul. I’d ask myself, “What if everything they told me was a lie?” I did not want to believe my mother had died.

It didn’t help that my mother never got a funeral. Unfortunately, I was 17 when my mother died, so I had no say about it. At my age, I could not claim her body or make decisions about whether we’d have a ceremony. I really wanted to participate in a funeral so that I could show my respect for her with my last words, but I didn’t even have that opportunity.

The funeral would’ve helped me find a little more peace in my heart. To this day, it still bothers me. My mother deserved some sort of ceremony. She always went out of her way for us, even panhandling to buy our Christmas presents. It was sad but sweet at the same time. I feel my family could have got together and done more for her.

I dream about my mother all the time. I think I will never accept her death completely, but I am able to cope with it. I think about how my mother will not be there to see important events in my life, like finishing high school, going to college, and my wedding day. Now I am pregnant and she will not be here to see her grandchild. Mother’s Day will just be a reminder of my mother’s death.

I am going to miss my mother’s love but I will always hold it inside me. On my big events, I will have to remember to just smile and try to be happy because I know my mother would’ve been happy for me. And now I have a new life growing inside of me. I have to be strong for my child and for myself. I have to accept the truth and live my own life.

My Last Gift

When I thought about my mom not having a funeral, I wondered if there was another way I could give back to her. I realized I could give her happiness back. Behind my mother’s addiction was sadness. What would make my mother happy? My mother would be happy to know I am happy and not repeating the pattern of her mistakes.

I do that by finishing school and going to college, and by not using alcohol to get through life’s struggles. I know accomplishment will make me happy. I know loving my child will make my mother happy because she always loved me. The greatest gift I can give her is to make something out of my life so she knows she died with a strong daughter.

One thing that helps me feel better is to keep a daughter-to-mother diary. In my diary, I have glued a picture of my mom on the left-hand page and a picture of me on the facing page to remind myself of our connection. Whenever I want to tell my mother something, I open my diary and write it down, and remember that she wants the best for me. Although life is bitter before you enjoy sweets, I know she wants me to be happy.