by Dawn Mattox
In spite of everything, I followed through with my plan to move Starla closer to home. I borrowed the money from Chance but refused his offer to go with me to pick her up. He suggested I ask Pastor Mac who had a small RV, to accompany me. The hospital could have, and probably should have sent my mother by ambulance. But Starla didn’t want an ambulance, so I was relieved and grateful when Mac said he would be “happy to help.”
“We don't know what the future holds...” said Mac, as we took the I-80 into San Francisco.
“...but we know Who holds the future.” I finished. “I know, I know. Thanks, Mac.”
It was a long drive, and I used the time to talk to my pastor friend about my childhood and how my mother had repeatedly abandoned me.
“Do you have any good memories of her?” Mac asked kindly.
I listed off memories of how beautiful she used to be.
He modified the previous question. “Do you have any good memories of things you did together?”
I thought for a time before recalling, “She saved me from getting Property of Hells Angels tattooed across my back. She talked my ex into putting it on my vest instead.”
Mac smiled at that. “Maybe we should make you a new vest with Property of Jesus Christ to wear on your next visit.”
We laughed easily together. I was glad to be talking with Mac. He had been an outlaw biker, and he understood.
Then, somewhere around Berkeley, I told him the story of my last visit with Starla; my failed attempt at sharing my faith, and how the argument had escalated until I was kicked out of the hospital.
“Are you nervous?” He asked as we crossed the Bay Bridge and entered downtown San Francisco.
“Nervous? No. More scared than nervous, I guess.”
Mac laughed at that. “It's got to be a lot like your work as an advocate,” he said thoughtfully. “You never know when the one you are trying to help will turn on you. Don't give up,” he encouraged. “Don't ever give up.”
“How do I not give up?”
Mac took his eyes off the road for a moment. “Starting your day with a negative outlook is like eating breakfast off a dirty plate.”
“Is that in the Bible?” I snickered. “So whose job is it to clean the plate?” He cocked an eyebrow at me in reply. I thought for a moment. “Is that how you feel when you preach every Sunday? Like it's the first time?”
“If I didn't, next Sunday’s sermon would probably be my last. It's all about the attitude of the heart. You can always ask God into your heart. Maybe you should try to forgive your mom. She is a shattered pot, and you'll want to handle her gently with care and respect.”
I sniffed, feeling short on both.
“Timing is everything,” he continued. “Try again when it feels right. And then try again, and then again.”
If it weren’t for Mac’s encouraging words, I’d never have considered the possibility.
The final transfer arrangements for Starla's placement in a long-term care facility in Paradise were made. She was dressed and ready to go by the time we arrived. I signed papers downstairs while Mac and the attendants made her comfortable on the queen size bed in the back of the RV.
Once we were out of the city, Mac gave me his go-get-'em nod. Releasing my physical and spiritual safety belt, I headed to the back, sliding through the RV to the edge of Starla’s bed with a soft, tentative, “Hi Mom.”
Starla looked pale and thin; blue veins under tissue paper white skin. Sad, watery gray eyes looked everywhere, seeing nothing. Moved with sadness, I leaned over and kissed her forehead. She smiled at me, and I knew I had her attention for the moment. Sometimes a moment is all we get.
Offering up a mental, “God help me,” I took a giant leap of faith. “Can I pray for you, Mom?”
She nodded yes and I kept it short, humbly asking God to restore “both my mother’s health and our relationship. Amen.”
Still smiling and peaceful, Starla patted my hand and whispered, “You keep that... and I’ll keep you.”
Stunned at the impossibility of ever reaching her, I leaned into her, looking deep into her eyes. Embracing her hand with the last visage of remaining love, I spoke. The words came low and hushed. “It doesn’t work like that. I won’t be here forever. Only the Lord is forever, Mama. I can’t save you.”
“Mommy? Mommeeeee. Where are you?” I begged, sniffling and wiping my runny nose on my sleeve as I wandered through the cabin, crying and calling for my mother. “I'm hungry. Please! I'm scared.”
Starla made her way down the steep, narrow staircase, bump-bump-bump, dragging a beat-up leather suitcase she had found at the local dump. She was wearing a short halter-style dress that she had made from a purple India-print bedspread and a pair of black military boots. Her face scrunched with frustration as she blew at a long blonde hair that had stuck to the sweat on her forehead.
“Shut up, Sunny, and grow up! You're always whining. Can't you see I'm busy?”
“But Mommy, where are you going? Can I go? I wanna go too!” Hysteria wrung from a rising tide of desperation.
Red-faced, out of breath and out of patience from her battle with the suitcase, Starla dropped it and turned to face her grubby child that looked so much like her father. “You're not going, and that's final!”
“I'll be good. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't go...”
“Having you was his idea. Fine! He can have you. I'm outta here!” She kicked at Frito who yipped and ran behind the couch as Starla continued tugging and swearing at the suitcase. The bag wedged against the frame of the front door and she yanked on the suitcase until a new gash ripped through the leather, setting both it and her free. Then she was gone, kicking the door shut behind her.
It wasn't the first time she had left. And it wouldn't be the last.
Starla was in the new long-term care facility for two short weeks before being transferred again, this time to Paradise Hospital. My mother was dying. I received an update from the hospital when I went to visit. Her time was now marked in days, not weeks, as her organs were slowly shutting down.
I poked my head in the room. “Hey, Mom, it’s me, your Sunny.”
The corners of her mouth twitched up into a smile. She looked emaciated, but alert.
I couldn't make out her words, but her eyes spoke volumes. I read fear, maybe terror.
My heart ached for her, probably more from sympathy than love. I don’t know if my mother had ever loved me. I'm not sure if Starla even knew what the word meant. She had dedicated her entire life to self-realization, self-actualization, and self-gratification. The Bible confirmed what I already knew. That real love, Christ love, is the opposite of selfish love. True love is other-realization, other-service and the resulting gratification is because it really is “more blessed to give than receive.”
Compassion is walking a mile in another person’s shoes. Love is giving your shoes to someone who needs them more than you. Maybe Starla felt wistful, but I doubt that she ever lost sleep over the decisions she made. Sacrifice was not a part of her DNA. I mulled over her situation. She knew she was dying. The time to make a final decision, one that would determine her eternal destiny, was rapidly running out.
I wanted to talk with her about heaven and the hope I have in Christ. Because he died and came back to life, Starla could inherit the promise of life after death. Every time I started to testify, we were interrupted. A nurse came in to check her vitals, a janitor took out the trash, and a pastor peeked in but was warded off by my mother’s hostile looks. And then, there was the TV repairman. You have to be kidding. TV... At a time like this? I asked him to leave, but Starla managed to croak out, “No. Stay!” It was like she thought her life would end if the stupid TV were turned off. And maybe for her, it really would. As long as the TV kept her attention, she didn't have to think about the future or the past.
I returned to her side and held her hand in hopeless silence as she watched some shows. After a time she whispered, “Roof.”
�
��What did you say?”
“Roof.”
There is a lovely patio with a beautiful view on top of the hospital. There are tables with striped umbrellas where both staff and patients can buy food, relax, and take in the sunshine and fresh air. I had taken Starla up there several times over the past week following her lab work.
“You want to go up on the roof?”
Starla nodded yes.
“Hmm... I need to check with the nurse and see if it’s okay.” I doubted it would be, what with the IV in her arm and the oxygen tube in her nose, but if that is what she wanted, it wouldn't hurt to ask. At least we would finally get some privacy.
To my complete amazement, the staff hurried to accommodate Starla's wishes. I guess dying has become a bit like the Birth Day Place, where they try to make you comfortable and honor your wishes as much as possible, both coming and going. Nice touch.
And it was nice. More than nice. The nurses unhooked the IV tube leading to a shunt inserted in and anchored to her wrist, then helped her into a wheelchair with a portable oxygen tank attached to the back. They carefully wheeled her into the elevator and up to the sky lobby. Then they left us, after telling me to press the “panic button” near the patio door if she showed any signs of distress.
It was early in the day and we had the place to ourselves. Starla pointed to a private corner that she liked, so I wheeled her over to a table with a view that stretched into forever; cascading across ranks of mountaintops, dappled with sunshine that filtered down through wisps of clouds. Standing at the rail, drinking in the majestic scenery, my heart fairly leaped with thankfulness. I knew the Lord had orchestrated this divine appointment.
“Mom, I love you.”
She nodded in agreement and smiled at me.
“Me too,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Mom? Can you forgive me?”
Starla squinted, puzzled. “What for?”
“I think I have been angry with you for most of my life,” I said. “There were times... well... I just blamed you for everything.” I had her attention. “I’m sorry for the times I judged you. I’m sure you did the best that you could.” She stared at me in silence. Kneeling down, I took her hand and looked into her eyes, asked, “Can you forgive me?”
She turned away, staring out over the flowers and emerald lawn below, and then at the clouds brushing across the rain-washed sky. Everything smelled so fresh and intoxicating. Turning back, her eyes heavy with sadness, she nodded “yes, ” and I kissed her withered cheek.
“Thank you, Mom.” I took another deep breath. It was now or never. “Mom? I want you to know that Jesus forgives us in the same way you just forgave me. And he loves you more than I could ever love you.” Her eyes were unreadable: a closed book.
“You don’t have to die. You can have eternal life in heaven, a place where no one will ever hit you or hurt you again. A beautiful place moved by love instead of lust, joy instead emptiness, laughter instead of tears.”
I poured out my heart and hope from the deepest part of my soul. “It's all good, Mom. It's about letting go of the sorrows of this world and taking hold of Him.”
Tears came quietly, tracking down the deep lines that creased my mother's tired face.
It was a Holy-Ghost moment. “I could baptize you right here, right now,” I hurried to add.
Starla struggled for words. “Water,” she croaked in assent.
Thank you, Lord! My feet fairly flew as I rushed across the patio to the sky lobby and ordered a bottle of water and a paper cup from the girl at the food service window. I felt blissfully alive as I poured the water into the cup. “It’s a miracle,” I whispered. I turned around. I looked. Transfixed. But Starla was nowhere in sight.
The wheelchair was there, the oxygen cord dangling over one arm, but Starla had disappeared.
“Mama...” I strained, terrified, eyes darting around the deserted terrace. Nothing. No one.
I never felt the water splashing down my legs, never heard the glass shattering as I plowed my way back across the terrace; coffee cups, glass table tops, and chairs pushed over as I raced across the patio frantically searching and screaming, “Mama!”
No Starla.
Ghostly hands of terror stretched their fingers to pluck away my failing hope. My mind cast wildly about sifting through possibilities. Maybe this, maybe that, maybe... I reached the wheelchair and the short wall bordering the terrace. Then scorching fear gave way to cold reason.
There is only one place left to look.
Peering over the edge, a strangled cry erupted; “Nooooo,” and the word was caught up by the breeze and carried across the land.
Far below lay my mother, arms spread wide as if to embrace her destiny, eyes wide open stared heavenward with an expression of shock. Her body lay splayed amidst a tangled thicket of morning glories.
The blossoms crushed beneath her seemed to cradle the once-beautiful flower child, while a stray tendril of delicate blue blossoms draped across her brow like a forlorn crown, sadly mourning her passage.
CHAPTER 43
Things had not been going well for Kia Xiong for quite some time. Growing up in a home and culture that tolerates domestic violence and considers it a private and sometimes justifiable matter, she had often watched her father slap her mother and drag her into their bedroom. She remembered how her grandmother would scold her for listening at the door as her father shouted all manner of accusations and her mother screamed and wept on the other side. But that was all in her past.
Kia was a mature woman of almost twenty-two now and living in an apartment of her own. If she could slap Teng, she would. She knew he was cheating on her and she knew the consequences of marrying someone unfaithful. Her mother had often been sick, barely able to cook or clean for days following a beating. Kia shivered at the memory.
Kia had never met Teng, but he had been a part of her life for a very long time. Arranged marriages are still acceptable in her culture and in her circle. In an age where text messages fly back and forth at the high school, and sexting explicit nude pictures of your privates to boys is considered fun by some American girls, Kia had resisted the temptation to join in such activities. She wanted to be a good daughter and someday, a good wife. She had kept all of Teng's love letters in a box. Including the last one that said he had met another girl at college.
She stared at the letters now, her tears staining the handwritten pages. Lovingly, she piled them in a heap on the little three-burner stove in the corner of the kitchen. Pressing her fingers tenderly to her lips and then to the letters, she placed a kiss on top of the stack, then turned on the burners and went out to her car.
The local news later detailed Kia's suicide drive off the Berry Creek Bridge into the lake. She left behind her parents, two sisters, three brothers, a grandmother—and the charred remains of a neighbor— a single mother with two children who had died trapped inside the burning apartment.
Suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness, a moment in time when a person is unable to see beyond themselves. They lack the capacity to externalize, consider, or care about the wreckage of lives left in the wake of their tragedy. Some people take offense, thinking I am cruel to apply the word “selfish” to such a helpless, hopeless, broken state of mind. But then, I would also cite an unborn child as the epitome of selfishness; unable to see beyond its own needs. They too lack the ability to externalize, respond and reciprocate. I guess my definition of the word “selfish” does not refer to a state of mind, but rather, a state of being.
Right or wrong, unborn or dying, they are no less precious in the eyes of God.
I pulled the blankets up and kicked them off again as I tossed and turned in restless anxiety. I groped for the clock, hoping it was morning, but its luminous hands told me it was much too early to get up. I wondered if I had slept at all. I was desperate for sleep but feared the onset of another nightmare. They had become a nightly occurrence since Starla's suicide six days and five horrific nightmares
ago. I lay in torment for hours, drifting on clouds of sad memories until one seemed so soft, so inviting, so compelling, that I succumbed to its temptation.
“Momma, don't go.” Hands... young, but no longer tiny, reached out again to clutch her floor-length paisley skirt in an all-too-familiar rerun as Starla headed downstairs. This time she was dragging luggage of a different sort—her child—as she yanked and pulled at her skirt, trying to free it from desperate young hands. Tears and snot coursed down my face as I begged the usual refrain, “Momma, I need you!”
Three steps up from the dining room floor, Starla snapped, pushing me down the stairs with one arm. I landed in a heap at the bottom, terrified and wailing at the sight of her other arm; dangling, broken, and covered with a rash of festering cigarette burns. Patches of hair had been ripped from her scalp, leaving angry pink patches of bloody bumps. Her puffy face ranged from plum purple to army green. Blood teared from one eye that had swollen shut. Just above her split lip, her nose bent at a horrific angle. I gaped in horror as she stooped over my body and screamed in my face, “Well, I don't need you! And I don't need this!” She eyes cast daggers of resentment. “I can't be who you need me to be.” Then the door slammed shut, again.
I bolted upright in bed. Kissme growled as she scrambled to the other side. Gasping for air, heart pumping madly, I knew upon awakening that Starla's nightmare injuries had embodied every woman I had ever worked with.
I am sure a psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing my dream, but I saw it as a spiritual attack. I rolled off the bed and onto my knees and prayed, “God, please hear me. I know I don't deserve your help. I have no right to ask, but I am begging you. Please, please take this burden from me.”
In less than a heartbeat, I heard it; Fear not, child. I am with you. I will never leave you or forsake you. “Thank you,” I whispered in the night as I crawled back in bed. Kissme moved next to me, giving me an encouraging nudge as she wriggled under my arm. Wrapping my arms around her I held her close, and my nightmares fled from the presence of God.