My time is limited as Henry naps during the day. As he gets older, the naps become shorter. The more he learns, the more I want to be present. With every breath he takes, I want him to breathe easy in the knowledge that his mother loves him, his mother dies to her identity in little ways every day so that he can retain the smile on his face. I don't say "die to myself" to make myself a martyr for the cause of raising my child, no, I mean it in the most loving way possible. In a biological, polarizing, beautiful way. A feeling that is truly only "felt."
Which is why I have do this. Which is why I have to eulogize my mother.
When I found out that my biological mother had died, I was fast asleep in my bed. Apparently my sister, my step-father and my grandfather had all tried calling me. Instead, I woke up to the gentle pressure of my husband's hand on my shoulder. A gentle rub of the hand. I opened my eyes in the groggy 12 am stupor of someone who had not had a good night's sleep in 6+ weeks. When I realize that Timmy is home, I immediately start to worry. He's got overnight duty. He's not supposed to be here. My eyes dart to the baby monitor on my nightstand, the one I put there even though my 6 week old child is sleeping in the very next room. I can hear every sound he makes. I am immediately relieved when I note that he is breathing rhythmically, undisturbed in his swaddle.
Then, Timmy grabs my hand and says, "It's your mom." I immediately know what's coming next. I look at my husband and say, "She's dead." He somberly shakes his head. I sit in silence. I knew this day was coming. I quoted that she would be dead before the end of the year. The rightness of my words were unsurprising, yet cut like a knife all the same.
I begin making all the necessary phone calls to my immediate and extended family. The story becomes clear:
Let's get this out of the way. Cause of death:
My mother had taken a cocktail of medication that was prescribed to her. She had accidentally overdosed between the hours of 2000-2200. My mother had taken a handful of Xanax, Soma and Oxycodone. She did this all the time, without mortal consequences. The difference, this time, was the newly prescribed Fentanyl patch. A patch that was prescribed to her even though she had a history of accidental overdose, of suicidal ideation and narcotic drug abuse. With this extra added medication, she took her last breath two days before Thanksgiving 2014. She was 44.
The cause of death listed on the program for her funeral states: "an illness." An illness? Is that all this boils down to? The summary of her life was this one line. This one line, The Shepherd's Psalm and a summary of those that she left behind...
There on the pulpit, was a preacher I had never met who kept calling her "Melissa." She hated being called that. There my mother lay in a pink open casket. Donned in a Gamecock t-shirt and jeans, her arms crossed at her chest, her body in the position that it would forever be in.
There were a total of 10 people in the crowd that I knew personally.
This wasn't right.
So, here I am. I'm going to eulogize my mother.
Bobbie Vause
Melissa Bobbie Vause. Melissa? Who's Melissa? For as long as I've known my mother, which has been my entire life, I have never known her to be called Melissa. She has cringed at the thought. Don't even go there with "Missy" unless you have a death wish. My mom told me that when she was born her name was meant to be "Bobbie Jo." Apparently, my grandmother (Betty Jo) had had a lingering wish to name her daughters after the members of a TV show called "Petticoat Junction." In a decision of disdain my grandfather said that she was not allowed to do that, so they settled on the name "Melissa Bobbie Lawrimore."
But, like most good stories, this was not the end. My grandmother, in her had-just-given-birth-to-her-fifth-child-in-the-squatting-position-all-natural stupor, misspelled "Melissa" as "Melissia." This was often a story that warranted big, whooping laughs from my mother. She thought it was absolutely hilarious and felt especially vindicated that she would be forever known as "Bobbie" and still had the chance of picking on the unfortunate decision of her parents NOT to go with the Petticoat Junction bit.
We are here today to remember the life of my mother, of Bobbie. As we sit in this room, I know we are all thinking the same thing. We are thinking about the actions that led to this woman's untimely and wholly unnecessary death. The issue is at the tip of our tongues. The issues we have judged her on, that we still judge her on. We've heard the whispers to one another of the decisions that have led her here. We tip-toe around them, because in death, they have become taboo.
Let's clear the air. My mother was an addict. As the program mentioned, she died of an illness. Truer words have never been spoken. She did not die a "distinguished death" from cancer or some other physical malignancy. She never had a "Pray for Bobbie" Facebook group dedicated in her honor. She never had a "Go Fund Me Account" for rehab expenses. She was often the butt of snide comments, of shame, of degradation and humiliation for her affliction. I would absolutely be lying if I stood before you today and did not admit to my part of her shame. It is hard to see mental illness for what it truly is. It is difficult to remove yourself from the pain that an addict can inflict on you.
My mother died of mental illness. The illness that no one wants to talk about. The selfish illness of addiction, depression, of codependency, of low self-worth, internal struggle, poor decision making, and a broken heart. The consequences of which led her down a path of destruction. A path with many victims, a path that she was ashamed of, one that she could not talk about to anyone. A path she could not beat in life. I mention this, not to condemn her for the illness in which she suffered, but to bring awareness to the fact that it is real. We should talk about it. We should absolutely talk about it. Not behind closed doors, not in whispers and not in condemnation. We are never fully aware of the struggles that another person must face, and my mother's struggles were not few and they were not pretty. When we accept that fact that she had a quantifiable and legit illness, we can begin to accept reality. We can begin to move on. We can begin to change, to help those who struggle around us. This is not by enabling them or contributing to their illness. But, it is by showing compassion, understanding and love. Perhaps that may have changed the outcome of her death. Perhaps not. I just know that I, personally, would have felt better if I would have given her a hand to hold when she was hurting.
But, as previously mentioned, I am not here to condemn my mother. I am here to speak on her life. The good parts. The good memories. I see my sister and my brother in the front pew. They know that our lives weren't the easiest. Growing up with two addicted parents does not "Disney World memories" make. But, I would be lying if I said it was bad all the time.
I've been keeping a journal since I learned of my mother's death. My hope is to fill it with memories that were good. I often remember them in the stupor of dreams or as I'm filling my day with one task or another. Isn't it funny how things come back to you?
My fondest memory of my mother begins with us lying on her bed. She has a cigarette in the ash tray beside her and a tall glass of Dr. Pepper beside it. No one in the house was allowed to touch that darned Dr. Pepper or she would kill you while you slept. Seriously, if you took my mother's drinks...you would never hear the end of it. There are numerous people here today that can attest to that. Anyway, my mother loved to budget. There could literally be $5 in the bank and she would budget that $5 until she had saved $20. Not kidding. She rarely (okay, never) stayed on budget, but she liked to do it anyway. When she got tired of adding and subtracting numbers she would move on to plotting schematics for her future home. These homes were often grand and charming. Sometimes, they'd have two living rooms and a fireplace. I couldn't imagine what kind of life that would be! We had grown up in a two bedroom trailer. My mom would then look at me and say, "Ashley, this is going to be YOUR room!" I would look at the page in awe and say, "It's so big! I'll have my own bathroom, too?" To which she would reply, "Duh!" We would talk about this house for what seemed like hours. We would talk about the landscaping and the maid. About our in-ground pool with a diving board and all the friends we would invite over for sleep overs. Then, she would close her book and I'd be on to other things.
My mother was a dreamer. She had the largest dreams I've ever encountered. She never let the fact that her dreams were often unattainable hold her back from dreaming the dream in the first place. She had a great way of getting those around her caught up in the same dreams.
But, like most good stories, this was not the end. My grandmother, in her had-just-given-birth-to-her-fifth-child-in-the-squatting-position-all-natural stupor, misspelled "Melissa" as "Melissia." This was often a story that warranted big, whooping laughs from my mother. She thought it was absolutely hilarious and felt especially vindicated that she would be forever known as "Bobbie" and still had the chance of picking on the unfortunate decision of her parents NOT to go with the Petticoat Junction bit.
We are here today to remember the life of my mother, of Bobbie. As we sit in this room, I know we are all thinking the same thing. We are thinking about the actions that led to this woman's untimely and wholly unnecessary death. The issue is at the tip of our tongues. The issues we have judged her on, that we still judge her on. We've heard the whispers to one another of the decisions that have led her here. We tip-toe around them, because in death, they have become taboo.
Let's clear the air. My mother was an addict. As the program mentioned, she died of an illness. Truer words have never been spoken. She did not die a "distinguished death" from cancer or some other physical malignancy. She never had a "Pray for Bobbie" Facebook group dedicated in her honor. She never had a "Go Fund Me Account" for rehab expenses. She was often the butt of snide comments, of shame, of degradation and humiliation for her affliction. I would absolutely be lying if I stood before you today and did not admit to my part of her shame. It is hard to see mental illness for what it truly is. It is difficult to remove yourself from the pain that an addict can inflict on you.
My mother died of mental illness. The illness that no one wants to talk about. The selfish illness of addiction, depression, of codependency, of low self-worth, internal struggle, poor decision making, and a broken heart. The consequences of which led her down a path of destruction. A path with many victims, a path that she was ashamed of, one that she could not talk about to anyone. A path she could not beat in life. I mention this, not to condemn her for the illness in which she suffered, but to bring awareness to the fact that it is real. We should talk about it. We should absolutely talk about it. Not behind closed doors, not in whispers and not in condemnation. We are never fully aware of the struggles that another person must face, and my mother's struggles were not few and they were not pretty. When we accept that fact that she had a quantifiable and legit illness, we can begin to accept reality. We can begin to move on. We can begin to change, to help those who struggle around us. This is not by enabling them or contributing to their illness. But, it is by showing compassion, understanding and love. Perhaps that may have changed the outcome of her death. Perhaps not. I just know that I, personally, would have felt better if I would have given her a hand to hold when she was hurting.
But, as previously mentioned, I am not here to condemn my mother. I am here to speak on her life. The good parts. The good memories. I see my sister and my brother in the front pew. They know that our lives weren't the easiest. Growing up with two addicted parents does not "Disney World memories" make. But, I would be lying if I said it was bad all the time.
I've been keeping a journal since I learned of my mother's death. My hope is to fill it with memories that were good. I often remember them in the stupor of dreams or as I'm filling my day with one task or another. Isn't it funny how things come back to you?
My fondest memory of my mother begins with us lying on her bed. She has a cigarette in the ash tray beside her and a tall glass of Dr. Pepper beside it. No one in the house was allowed to touch that darned Dr. Pepper or she would kill you while you slept. Seriously, if you took my mother's drinks...you would never hear the end of it. There are numerous people here today that can attest to that. Anyway, my mother loved to budget. There could literally be $5 in the bank and she would budget that $5 until she had saved $20. Not kidding. She rarely (okay, never) stayed on budget, but she liked to do it anyway. When she got tired of adding and subtracting numbers she would move on to plotting schematics for her future home. These homes were often grand and charming. Sometimes, they'd have two living rooms and a fireplace. I couldn't imagine what kind of life that would be! We had grown up in a two bedroom trailer. My mom would then look at me and say, "Ashley, this is going to be YOUR room!" I would look at the page in awe and say, "It's so big! I'll have my own bathroom, too?" To which she would reply, "Duh!" We would talk about this house for what seemed like hours. We would talk about the landscaping and the maid. About our in-ground pool with a diving board and all the friends we would invite over for sleep overs. Then, she would close her book and I'd be on to other things.
My mother was a dreamer. She had the largest dreams I've ever encountered. She never let the fact that her dreams were often unattainable hold her back from dreaming the dream in the first place. She had a great way of getting those around her caught up in the same dreams.
When I turned 16, my parents took my brother and sister and moved to Florida. I stayed behind to finish my Junior year of high school. I lived with my grandma for half of 2004. When the summer came to an end, I received an offer to be taken in by a family who loved me, a family that nurtured and encouraged my success. My mother would often tell me of the struggle she had in convincing my father to "just let her go without a fight." My mother boasted about how she got him to concede that I was better off elsewhere. She would often brag, "I love you so much that I let you go. That was the hardest thing I ever did."
I never understood the depth of those emotions until I had a child of my own. My Henry is 7 weeks old. The love I feel for him is without comprehension. Without depth. Without reason. In 7 short weeks my view on much and nothing has changed. There is a magnet in my soul that gravitates toward him. He is the sun and I am the Earth. A bond, that if ever broken, threatens to disintegrate my life. "Letting him go" will not be an easy feat of heart. Painfully, I imagine him going off to college or getting married or whatever his future adventures entail.
When I think of the inner turmoil my mother must have faced when she "let me go," I think of it with a whole new heart. In my mother's struggles she did not often do the best parenting job. The feeling of being discarded when she "let me go" is something that I struggled with for years. Until very recently. With this new set of eyes, I realize that my mother loved me. She never stopped loving me. There is no way that a mother could ever stop loving the child she bore. It's not physically possible. The heart of a mother is all encompassing and passionate. No matter how often you hear mothers say, "If my child is this or that, I'm going to disown them..." I'm here to tell you that it is not physically or emotionally possible to reject your child. It cannot be done.
My mother loved those around her fiercely, often to a fault. When I had my wisdom teeth out, she wanted to be there. When my grandfather was sick, she wanted to be there. When I brought Henry home, she wanted to be there. When my brother had broken her heart numerous time, she still protected him. Ever on his side. When my sister struggled, she wanted to be there. When my father left, she loved him still. She took friends back who didn't deserve her friendship. She loved animals immediately. She loved with her whole heart.
Let's remember Bobbie for the fierce love the the Carolina Gamecocks, Mellow Yellow, Neutrogena make-up, tons of fabric softener, her love of budgeting and drawing big houses, her pride in being a grandmother, the fact that she could have probably committed a perfect murder given her extensive knowledge of forensics and "true crime" television shows, her love of Count Chocula cereal and the fact that any gift anyone got her was "the best gift ever." Let's remember her as a dreamer and a lover.
My mother loved those around her fiercely, often to a fault. When I had my wisdom teeth out, she wanted to be there. When my grandfather was sick, she wanted to be there. When I brought Henry home, she wanted to be there. When my brother had broken her heart numerous time, she still protected him. Ever on his side. When my sister struggled, she wanted to be there. When my father left, she loved him still. She took friends back who didn't deserve her friendship. She loved animals immediately. She loved with her whole heart.
Let's remember Bobbie for the fierce love the the Carolina Gamecocks, Mellow Yellow, Neutrogena make-up, tons of fabric softener, her love of budgeting and drawing big houses, her pride in being a grandmother, the fact that she could have probably committed a perfect murder given her extensive knowledge of forensics and "true crime" television shows, her love of Count Chocula cereal and the fact that any gift anyone got her was "the best gift ever." Let's remember her as a dreamer and a lover.
Look back on good memories with fondness. Uplift those around you. Be mindful of the struggles that other's face. Love one another as fiercely as Bobbie loved those around her.
Thank you.
Other people would share their memories.
Her funeral program would include this link: www.nami.org
Then, my brother would play "To Be With You" on the guitar.
My sister would lay the first rose on her casket.
The pallbearers would take her to her final resting place.
She would be surrounded with flowers.
Her tombstone would read: "A dreamer. A lover. A soul that is finally free."
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