I’ll get in what I can, make it as sensible as possible and come back and edit as necessary. I’ll have to do most of this at night, but I’m not smart at night soooo….

I feel like I’m writing a poor me post to make people feel sorry for me for the “tough” life I’ve led. I want to clarify, I like my life. I like who I am now, and without my life I wouldn’t be me.
Where to start? The beginning, I suppose eh. I was born May 7 1980 in a small town in Ontario Canada. My mom, a single mom with no possibility of a relationship with my father, so much so that even as an adult I don’t know who that man is. My mom had some serious issues. Low self esteem, depression that was either severe or bi-polar in nature. She self medicated with drugs and alcohol. I don’t have any issues with weed or hash or any of the like, but it affected her judgment in so many ways. And it wasn’t just weed, we’re talking everything. Whether she took the hard stuff while pregnant with me or not, I don’t know. I know she drank and smoked. We moved, a lot. We found ourselves homeless a few times living in the upstairs “apartment” over the restaurant she worked for. We lived with my grandmother in a large house with the whole family for a few years, then my grandmother died when I was around age 5, and we had to move again. We did finally wind up in a duplex. It was home to me, not horrible, it had a back yard and a front yard but if I were to see it to this day I’m sure it’d be a slum of sorts. River rats in the basement, bugs, leaking water and an old gas stove that once had the pilot light go out while we were gone, filling our home with gas.

My years in that house were filled with nightly parties, random men in my mother’s room, my mom’s friend having sex with her boyfriend in the living room, smoking, drinking and snorting cocaine while I slept and played upstairs, creepy “uncles” wanting me to come and sit on their lap and leering when I walked around in my underwear. I knew what hash looked like and what “hot knives” were before the age of 9. I knew that the rolled up Canadian Tire money was mom’s and I shouldn’t touch it. I was a latchkey kid, responsible for getting myself to school and spent a lot of nights home alone until all hours of the night. If I wasn’t home alone I was at different babysitters houses. I mean it wasn’t ALL bad, but there were drunken fights, my mom getting pushed around by various boyfriends and a lot of things that I hope my children never see.

When I was about 7 or 8, I was riding my bike to the park and rode it across this bridge that led to the playground. The bridge had a ramp on the end that ended in a sandy dirt area and my front tire hit it and slipped sideways, sending me flying face first over the handlebars of the bike. I landed on my chin first. Dazed and embarrassed, I got up and brushed myself off. There was a lady coming towards me to make sure I was okay and she freaked out. “Oh my god you’re bleeding!” I looked down at the blood coming down my chest and touched my chin and freaked out when my hands were covered in blood. Screaming they tossed me in their car and drove me to my house, where they got my mom who also freaked out, and we all went to the hospital. No, we didn’t know these people but it was a small town so you just did things like that. 14 stitches, I was fine but my jaw was dislocated and I couldn’t eat. I distinctly remember trying to eat after, and my jaw would click and snap, and it would hurt so bad I’d start crying. Mom’s friend Noeleen ever so sweet yelled at me to quit being a whiner. I think my mom felt kind of bad, and so she made me a slim fast shake to “eat”.

We were poor. Dead poor. My mom was a server (back then they were still called waitresses) and had a drug and alcohol habit, so you can imagine how much money we had for food in the house. We rarely had food, and I remember being so hungry so much of the time. One time, I went to the church for food. I was an active member, and I was pretty devout at the time, and I told them that we didn’t have food. They came by with a box of food one day, and my mom was so embarrassed. She screamed at me, and told me to NEVER tell anyone we didn’t have food, ever again. I didn’t, but she also picked it up a bit, and bought food more often.
I spent a lot of time in bars, in a small town your children were allowed to be in the bar until 9pm, so I’d hang out there in smoky bars, playing pool until she made me go home. She had second and third jobs, bartending, bouncing, whatever she could do to bring in a few extra bucks (and still get to drink). Then the party was always at our place after work.

One time, desperate for my mother to pay attention to me, I pretended to faint. I was at a sitter’s place and the sitter and her boyfriend were at a hotel, to which they had dragged me. They had a knock down drag out fight, he put his fist through a window and there was something about a metal baseball bat, and so I “passed out” supposedly. The sitter freaked out and took me to the emergency room to be checked out. My mom, awesome parent of the year she was, didn’t stop partying, but she sent my uncle to come get me. I freaked out and screamed and said NO! because I wanted my mommy. They finally called my mom, the cops came and she took me home. Not to be outdone, my mom had friends over and when she asked me why I threw such a fit I told her that I wanted HER to get me, not someone else. She freaked out. Screaming and yelling, saying she needed to do something for herself for once and the one time she did I pull that crap. So bad, that my godfather dragged her away from me outside and told her to quit being a bitch, and if she was that mad to hit him because he wasn’t going to let her hit me.
That was one time, out of many incidents where I’m pretty sure my mom lost control of herself. I could name so many times when I was being beat or slapped around chased under furniture where I tried to hide, or trying to lock myself into my bedroom. Waking me up at 4am so I could dig through the trash to find my mom’s chunk of hash that I threw out in a fit of anger. To say she was mom of the year is an understatement. I refuse to blame her, she was screwed up and had no way of fixing herself and nobody tried to help her. Hell I thank her as an adult. Had she not shown me what parenting *isn’t* I wouldn’t be where I am now. She wasn’t all bad, either. She had a good heart. She loved me. She was just a screwed up person. She didn’t have a chance to continue to screw me up however, and while I hate what happened and I miss her more than I can describe I think it was a good thing to happen.

It was the end of April in 1990 when I got off school. It was a beautiful sunny warm day and I was in a great mood. School was going well and I loved being in the 4th grade. Where I went to school, we were the “seniors” there and I ruled that school. It was awesome. I skipped to the chinese restaurant where my mom and all my aunts had worked. The owners there were like family. Ping and Mrs. Tam. I loved them, and he’d seen me grow up. He saved us so much, often he would “accidentally” mess up an order and would tell my mom she could take it home to me. He’d give me free lunch there every day. I went there and my mom came over to me. One of her friends was having a hard time, her boyfriend had been seriously hurt and was in the hospital in another town. She was drunk, and still drinking and mom kept giving her drinks to try to make her feel better I guess. Mom told me she was going to go with her after work to the hospital so she could see the boyfriend. I honestly don’t remember the friend’s name any more which is funny because I thought I’d hate her forever. Mom gave me the keys to the house and told me that she wouldn’t be home till late, so just hang out. Besides it was “Junior Soldiers” night, so I’d be occupied. I ran off to go home and when I got to the door, I had an overwhelming urge to go back to my mom. I did, and I kissed and hugged her again and told her I loved her and would see her later.

I went home, ate some food and watched TV waiting for my ride to church. When someone knocked on my door I didn’t think twice about it because I was expecting it. I opened the door and there was the Lieutenant as expected, but he didn’t look happy to see me at all. I looked past him and there stood my neighbors and a few other people on the sidewalk behind him. People kept patting my shoulder and hugging me, telling me that everything would “be okay” and I was totally clueless. TOTALLY. Nobody told me a thing, until my uncle and his friend pulled up in their truck. “Nadine, your mom has been in an accident. We’re going to go out to the hospital right now okay? We have no idea what happened yet but I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
I saw the Lieutenant from the church pull up then to pick me up, and the look on his face as he was filled in.

So, I got in the truck and we drove to the next town. On the highway going to the hospital I saw the accident site. It was a mess, the car. The windows were all busted out and it was upside down and crushed like a tin can. I thought, “well Mom’s tough, I bet she’s fine.”

Turns out, mom wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and in her poor judgment allowed the drunk friend to drive. The wheel come off the shoulder and hit the dirt, and she overreacted, the car’s wheel hit a ditch and flipped several times, throwing my mom out the rear window head first. She was found several feet behind the car, when the emergency crew arrived, and she was still mostly alive at the time. She died on the way to the hospital in the ambulance. That’s about all I know. The head trauma was so severe that there was no chance that even if she had lived, that she would be “her” again.
I got to the hospital and there was the woman who was driving. She had a dislocated shoulder and I had no idea of mom’s condition so I went to her and asked her if she was okay. She said she was sorry, so sorry.. and then my aunt came out of the family room and took me back there. Inside, they shut the doors and I sat down. I looked down at the bible on the table at that moment. This is important because I think this is a major turning point in my life. As I stared at that bible, my aunt told me my mom was dead. I wanted to see her. My aunt said okay, and went and asked the doctor to let me in the room. There was a quiet, but heated argument and I only heard some of it but “we haven’t cleaned her up yet” was part of it. I didn’t care. I said “doctor, that is my MOM in that room. I need to see her because I’m not going to ever see her again. I don’t care what she looks like.. she’s my mom”. After a while, he let me in.

The following is pretty graphic. Skip if you need to.

There she was, her freshly dyed hair was still burgundy except for the spots that were matted. Around her ears, and in her hair was a lot of blood and pieces of something. Her features were somewhat deformed, the intensity of the damage to her skull had done some facial trauma even. She was still, however, my mom. I needed that moment to look at her and know she was really dead. She was naked, and her cut up clothes were still on the floor in the room. There was still blood and resuscitation materials.. it was all so surreal. It was exactly the closure I needed.

In a haze from there, I left the room and spent some time with my family listening to them grieve. I didn’t cry for a while. I kept looking at the bible on the table and the cross on the wall. I refused to let the clergy talk to me. I didn’t care. Eventually I was driven home and expected to continue breathing.

(back with more later)

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