The Big Fix

by Tracey Helton Mitchell

  I never could have realized that trip would be the last time I would see my parents. My father slipped in and out of illnesses until he finally passed away while I was in the hospital giving birth to my second child in April of 2009. It was an eerie feeling to have these events happen at nearly the exact same moment. I was numb, literally, from the pain medication, and figuratively from the feeling of knowing he was gone.

  Four months later, I received a call from my sister. It was about my mother. She was hospitalized, diagnosed, and died that week. Living so far away, I was lucky my brother and sister could be there for her. After forty-seven years of ups and downs, I should have guessed my mother would be ready to join my father. I was told by a neighbor that when he died, she had said she “lost her purpose.” My siblings and I found out that my mother had been walking around for months or possibly years with leukemia. By the time she entered the hospital, she had advanced to stage four.

  My last interaction with my mother was a hurried phone call in between lab tests. She had been in and out of consciousness for a few days. The doctors had predicted she might last another month. I was making a plan to get there before she passed on. I had my flight booked. Yet in my heart I felt like I would never make it. I knew her. I knew she was ready to let go.

  “Mom,” I told her, “I am coming to see you next week.”

  “Tracey . . .” she said weakly. “See if you can get a refund on my tickets. I hate to have you spend the money.” She was just a few weeks out from a trip she had just booked to San Francisco with my sister, to meet her new grandson. She would never make it.

  “I got my tickets to Ohio already, Mom. I just want you to understand,” I explained. “I want to make sure you understand how much I love you.”

  I could hear the nurses enter the room as she told me, “I love you too, sweetheart.” We had a few minutes more to talk before she had to go get more tests.

  I was sitting in my office at work. I hung up the phone. She died two days later. My mother was gone. She slipped away before I’d gotten the chance to see her. Fortunately, I had spent the last eleven years telling her how I felt. But hearing her, knowing that cancer was eating her alive, I felt peace in letting her go. The process certainly wasn’t easy. It was painful and scary and lonely. But she had prepared me for this moment. She had loved me. She had guided me to a place where I was a woman who was strong enough to stand on my own, even if it was painful for her at times to let me go.

  I caught her in one of the last moments when she was present. I would like to believe she had hung on long enough to tell me goodbye. When I saw her in the casket, I knew she was no longer there. I had avoided other memorials for lovers, for friends, coworkers, and clients. But I dealt with her passing head on. I touched her hand. Her makeup was atrocious—no one could ever match that overdone foundation and blush my mother had painted on her whole life. I reached into the casket to touch her hand. I gave her back the wedding ring she had first put on her hand forty-seven years earlier. I slipped it carefully on her finger. It was the last thing I could do for her.

  In a sense, I had been telling her “hello” and “goodbye” for the past eleven years. For eleven years, she was my best friend. I had been a junkie, a prostitute, a thief, and a liar. These things were true. I could not change any of them. All I could do was live in the present. I was also her daughter. As I had learned to forgive myself, I had learned how to accept love. As painful as the death of my mother was, I never considered using drugs. The sadness was something I was able to accept. Not because I didn’t care, but because I knew, in my heart, I had made the most out of those eleven years together.

  In the years since I had quit drugs, there had been a vacation to Hawaii, a trip to Vegas, my graduation from college, and many nights spent chatting on the phone. There were no words that were unsaid between my mother and myself. There were no awkward pauses. She made me into the woman I had become. I was a strong person. I picked up my children and squeezed them tightly as we walked out of the church. There was no fucking way I was going to use, today or any other day. My children gave me a reason to continue. Just like my mother, my children gave me a reason to live. I kissed both of their faces as I loaded them into their car seats.

  Chapter 11

  A GOOD DAY

  My day ends like any other day. Lots of screaming, lots of chaos.

  I feel whiskers on my cheek. “Hi,” my husband, home from work, says as he kisses me.

  If he is home, it must be 5:20 PM. I am going to need his help. I need to get three kids fed, bathed, and in bed by 8:00 PM. The countdown starts. Most of the time, I fail at this target, but I am not aiming at perfection. I am aiming at survival. All those years as a street-level drug addict have prepared me for the challenge of a busy life as a mother.

  It feels like I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in three years. But all those years on methamphetamine had prepared me for the first child who refused to sleep through the night. All those years of homelessness have allowed me to take a nap anywhere, at any time. I am not above putting my head on my desk, lying down on the floor, or catching a few fleeting moments on the train. I started out as a mom who swore up and down I would never let my children watch TV. I had more than one argument with my mother about it. When I look back, I laugh at myself. Now, I call it the TV sitter. I use it to help me catch my breath in a busy moment. These little lives are depending on me to get this routine right without losing my mind. It seems hard to believe how we got to this place. Children were just a dream to me. Now, I have three little smiling faces that all call me Mommy.

  I pour myself a half cup of coffee as I make my rounds. Yes, it is nighttime, but I still need “mother’s little helper.” I let the dog out into our backyard. It still seems strange to say it: our backyard. Where we live isn’t a room. It isn’t an apartment. Christian and I pooled our limited resources together to buy a home outside the city. I used to sit in the twelve-step meetings and hear the speaker say, “I went from homeless to homeowner,” never imagining that could be me. I had many goals in recovery. Living in the Bay Area, I had never felt this one was attainable. Many times Christian and I had discussed the idea. Many times I squashed it with my negativity. When we were handed the keys, a few months before the birth of my second son, I was in awe of how much my life had truly changed. At first, for financial reasons, we had to take on a housemate. But within a few months we were able to catch up and live on our own. I now live two miles from the ocean. On summer nights when the fog rolls in, I remember that feeling of being homeless in 1992. I would huddle next to some other homeless kid for warmth as we tried to dodge the sea breeze.

  Meetings are not a big part of my life anymore. It’s not that I ever think to myself, Oh, I am over those meetings. I still go periodically. Perhaps five or six times a year I read materials related to my recovery. I stay in touch with old friends from the program. I don’t think I am cured of my addiction. I got clean to have a life. Now I’m living that life—a life full of purpose. I share my recovery with the hope of being of service to others struggling with addiction. Over the years, some friends have been able to successfully transition to appropriate drinking. Some have chosen to stay abstinent. There are those who have relapsed, only to return. More than a few have died with a needle next to them, or in them. That is the pitfall of loving an addict. You have no control over their choices.

  “Katie,” I gently shake my daughter. “Katie-bear. It’s time to brush your teeth.”

  I hear some mumbling and know that she heard me. She is the easiest to get moving on the bedtime routine. She loves school. That alone will get her to bed: She wants to wake up in the morning and go see her friends. When I see her face, I wonder what I was like at this age. Every addict was once an innocent child, a son or a daughter. We didn’t wake up one day, then decide to stick a needle in our neck. There was this whole series of events that ended in the epic struggle over dependence on a substance. What can I say to her that m
ight make a difference? Is there some magical phrase that will keep her drug free? It pains me to think that there might be some gene I have passed on to her that, once activated, could lead her down the same path.

  Time to move to the next station. As I go to get the boys motivated, the cat almost knocks me over. When I look at my boys, I wonder what it is I can say to make them into caring young men. I fear for them, too, that they will pick up my addictive habits. More importantly, I wonder how I can keep them from becoming like the violent men I had in my past. How can I nurture them in a way that will bring out their compassion instead of the need to control? Being a parent has completely shifted the world around me. I never thought I had the ability to change or impact anything. Through the eyes of my children, I see the tremendous difference I can make by being present in their lives.

  A few hours later, I turn on the light in the boys’ room. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of their sleeping faces. My youngest son just recently started sleeping in his crib every night. It seemed as if it was always easier to keep him in our room. I don’t know if he actually slept better, but I know I slept better not being woken up by my husband returning to our bed after settling the new baby. Those years of sleeping in alleyways have made me an extremely light sleeper. Unfortunately, the sound of my husband’s snoring is enough to wake the neighbors. I had taken to sleeping with earplugs over the course of our relationship. Now, I need to be able to hear the children crying. I am forced to poke him as my only recourse. I suppose sometimes it feels good to shake the bed and wake him up. As a person who loved heroin, I hate that feeling of not being able to sleep. Heroin for me was one long dream state interrupted by painful reality. My life today is the reality I always dreamed of.

  I used to hear the line, “You can’t turn a hoe into a housewife.” I certainly have proven that isn’t true. I have broken all the stereotypes about what a woman can achieve. I am a mother, a boss, a homeowner. In fact, I am one badass bitch, to use another phrase from my past. It is amazing to me how I have adapted to functioning in this new life. It is almost as if all those years of living out on the street prepared me for my most important role: being a mother. I try to see my past as one big education. I can’t change the things I have done. I can’t undo my mistakes. I can only evolve from them. I have evolved into a caring human being who savors every moment. I am blessed by the new life I created for myself.

  I swoop up the Netflix envelope and pop in a DVD. My husband and I have one quiet hour together before we have to start all over again.

  In the morning, we get back into our zone. Nursing a baby, eating breakfast, and drinking a few sips of coffee. I am a master at multitasking. Sometimes I am so tired in the morning, I have to catch myself from putting my coffee cup on the baby’s head while he is nursing. While I am zoned out, it seems like a logical resting spot. I need these five minutes to watch the weather report. Any type of rain requires extra time, time I do not have in the morning. Sometimes my husband can go into work a little later in the morning and help change and dress at least two out of three. Other days, he does the routine. Alas, today is not one of those days. At least there is no rain in the forecast. I take comfort in the little blessings.

  And that moment is over as my son calls, “Mommy, I’m wet!”

  His diaper leaked a little in the night. He insists on drinking water before bedtime, which creates havoc in the morning. I kiss my baby son and set him down with a toy. He isn’t really a baby anymore, I suppose, at a little over one year old. But he is still my baby—my last child. I had my tubes tied to shut down my baby insanity. I am just shy of forty-two years old with three little kids. I change my middle son and strip the sheets off the race-car bed. Add another five minutes to my routine. The time is slipping away from me. Not unlike those moments when I needed my drugs and I had to make something happen for myself. I know how to react under pressure. I know how to manage my time wisely. I know how to be patient. I can manage this and much more with the love of my family.

  “I don’t want that shirt,” my son insists. He tries to push my hand away.

  The struggle to be independent starts so soon.

  “I want Batman, not Elmo,” he says.

  You will give in long before they will. My mother’s words echo in my ears.

  My mistake—I seem to always be a day behind the new likes and dislikes of my children. Unfortunately, I cannot always accommodate their radical changes in taste. I am willing to try this morning, to no avail. Of course, Batman is in the laundry. Many of their favorite things seem to always be in the laundry. The struggle to get my daughter dressed seems to be an endless exercise in pushing the rock up the hill. On a chilly, foggy Daly City morning, sandals and sundresses will be ruled out as appropriate wardrobe choices. This will result in crying, pouting, or perhaps screaming at me. At least she can dress herself. We settle on an outfit of the mismatched variety. Stripes and polka dots seem fine to her as long as they’re both pink. We arrive at a more muted selection of sparkly Hello Kitty top and jeans. The battle over jeans seems to be score one for Team Mom. I am not sure who she is competing with in terms of the battle to be most fashionable, but she clearly feels this is a battle she must win. I might wear the same outfit four days in a row if I don’t have to face the public. Three C-sections have left me with limited options, with an exploding muffin top where I once had a waist.

  I feel a sense of accomplishment. Two out of three children are dressed! Oh wait, I still haven’t changed the baby. I sit on the couch and put him on a changing pad on the floor; I do this whenever possible to save the stress on my back from lifting him. Fortunately, I laid out his clothes last night. Well, this is sort of true—I had actually dozed off while folding clothes. I did not get a chance to put them away. If my middle son was more educated in the domestic arts, he would tear the laundry basket apart looking for his Batman shirt, which must be buried somewhere at the bottom. For now, he sees the laundry as a magical location where clothes disappear, return folded, and are then placed in his drawer. I try to manipulate him into changing his mind about his shirt while I dress the youngest.

  We still haven’t gotten to breakfast. Lately I have fallen into the habit of searching for the most convenient of breakfast items. The main staples seem to be anything that is mashed and placed in a pouch. Crushers, or whatever they are called, seem to be a busy mom’s best friend. They are like baby crack. My kids can eat four of them in three minutes, and there goes $5 up in smoke. Sounds like crack to me. I should know. I really have to thank crack, though. If it wasn’t for crack, maybe I wouldn’t be here today. Heroin kept me chasing my tail, but crack finally sent me into recovery. Thanks, crack!

  My thoughts are interrupted. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” I have snuck off to use the bathroom, by myself (shocking), and now I have a little hand pounding at the door. Clearly, the food isn’t stored in here. I’m attempting to use the toilet while checking my emails. Even though it’s before 6:00 AM, people from work are already texting me. Someone is calling in sick, so I need to arrange coverage. All the elements in my life are overlapping in a symphony of stress. I whisper to myself, “I’ve got this.” I have been through worse things. Managing the morning is nothing compared to almost having my leg fall off from an infection. That memory helps put things into perspective.

  In the kitchen, I pour out a bowl of Cheerios for the kids to share. I set them on the floor in front of the TV while I surf for a show that will grab their attention. I need these twenty-two minutes to get myself together. I need to put in my contacts, get dressed, and get on their kids’ shoes and jackets while they are still transfixed by Wallykazam! or Team Umizoomi. I exhale when I see the clock. There is just not enough time in the day.

  As I sort through my pile of clothes, I get confused by the garments. What have I already worn this week? The clothes are no longer on hangers. I will sort them back into some kind of order on the weekend. My life is so similar to the life of other moms, yet many of my choice
s have been so different. In selecting an outfit, I need to make sure I cover up my track marks and my scars. The abscess scars that pepper my arms and legs cannot be obvious today. I have a presentation to do and I want to make a good impression. Maybe no one sees them, but I know they are there. I see my scars as important reminders of how far I have come in life. I have lived so close to death, yet I am here to tell the tale. Like the junkie phoenix, I rise from the ashes. I take my place in the sun.

  Sometimes it is hard to believe that was ever my life. I started out drinking socially as a teenager and ended up a homeless junkie in the streets of San Francisco. My journey between these two places was not unlike my morning with the kids. I woke up from a fog and thought, How did I get here? The clear difference is that in recovery I do the exact opposite of things I did while I was on drugs. I am able to examine my attitudes and my behaviors and come up with solutions. Rather than being ruled by my insecurities, I can face the future with compassion for myself.

  When I go to put my clothes on for work, I frequently take a moment to breathe a sigh of relief. In that moment, I know my day is full of opportunities. The gratitude I feel puts things into focus. This house, these kids, this life: It is all mine. What a gift. I plan to put it to use. My day is full of the promise. I had so many days in my past when I struggled just to survive. On these quiet mornings in my little home where my only audience is three adoring children, I take a moment to pray for the strength to make a difference today. I have created my own affirmation that helps me put my life in perspective: