A Day That Will Live in Infamy

Everyone knows what today is - even non-Americans. It's Pearl Harbor Day, the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, bringing the U.S. into WWII. For me, today has another meaning. 31 years ago today, my mother decided that life in this world was just too painful to endure for another day. I got the call at about 11 PM on December 7, 1975. I was 20 years old, married, and a senior in college. My whole world crumbled into pieces that night. My mom, my best friend, my cheerleader, the one person who saw everything I was capable of being, the best mother a kid could ever ask for, was dead. On one hand, I was happy for her. I knew she was no longer in pain; pain she had endured every day of her life, probably for longer than anyone could imagine. On the other hand, I was devastated - for me, for my brother and sisters, for my uncles (her brothers), for my husband, for all her friends, for my stepdad, and even for my dad, from whom she had been divorced for 5 years. We had all just lost the most amazing woman we had ever known and loved, and we would all be tortured by the thought that we could have - should have - been able to help her, to stop her, to assuage her pain. We would all feel some form of guilt for years and years to come. We didn't know then - no one did in 1975 - that manic depression was the result of a chemical imbalance in the brain. There was no lithium, no anti-depressants, just Valium.

Despite her pain, my mother raised four great kids. None of us ever did drugs. We all did well in school. We went to college. We all got married and had families and are productive members of society. In an era where it is fashionable to blame one's upbringing for all one's failings, we had the perfect excuse, yet not one of us ever points to our mother's suicide as the cause for any mistakes we've made in life. Mom raised us to accept responsibility for our actions, both good and bad. She instilled in us the absolute knowledge that we could do or be anything we wanted. How else do you explain a 17 year-old girl, in 1972, going into electrical engineering with a full ride to any school she wanted to attend (except Harvard and the Air Force Academy, which didn't accept women then)? It never entered my mind that engineering wasn't a field for a girl, but in 1972, that was pretty much the accepted attitude. Most girls didn't pursue careers in engineering, science, and math. Somehow, Mom made it very clear to me, without ever coming out and saying it specifically that I can recall, that no field was closed to me. She gave me the confidence to be who I was, to not let the teasing of classmates bother me, to not care about being different. And I was different. I was poor, tall, skinny, four-eyed, a year younger than my classmates (I skipped 5th grade), the smartest girl in my class of 500, wore clothes from Goodwill, lived in "the sticks", where the poor kids lived, had a job after school beginning at age 15, and really just wasn't popular at all. But Mom made me feel okay about being different, even proud. I can't tell you how she did it. She just did. She wasn't one of those touchy-feely moms - the exact opposite really. And she wasn't one for pumping her kids up with how great they were every day in an effort to build our self-esteem. She put little stock in outward appearances, telling us that how we looked on the outside (whether we were pretty or not) was not nearly as important as how we looked on the inside - our minds and personalities - the kind of people we were. When we did well in school, it was expected, though really excellent performances were applauded - though not rewarded. We never got money for A's on our report cards. We never got an allowance. Chores around the house were just part of what we did every day. Not doing them resulted in punishment - grounding, no TV, stuff like that. Driving was a privilege we had to earn - and pay for. We had to pay our car insurance, and if we wanted our own car, we had to buy it ourselves. Each of us did those things. When I went off to college, my folks didn't contribute a cent. They couldn't afford it. I had a full ride, but since I chose to live off campus, my living expenses were my own to pay, so I worked as a waitress all through college, paid my bills, bought my food, and carried a full load.

I knew my mom was hurting. She had attempted suicide a couple of times before she succeeded. She and I talked openly about her struggles. It was so hard for me to see this woman I loved so much in so much pain. Me, the eternal optimist, just couldn't comprehend what it was like to always see the glass half empty. I just figured I could find some way to cheer her up, to help her see the glass, not just half full, but overflowing. Most of the time, I succeeded, to a point. She used to say I was a great distraction. You see, I tend to be a non-stop talker - and so was she in certain situations, so she had little time to think about much other than what we were talking about when I was around. But I was away at school, so she had lots of days to just think - and her brilliant mind never rested. She sought answers for her pain - and found lots of theories, new research, etc. She shared her thoughts with her shrink, who was a mental midget next to my mom. She talked circles around him. He didn't know what to do with her. He'd never met anyone like her. He prescribed Valium. She didn't take them - until she took a handful of them, was found by my dad, had her stomach pumped, and survived to try again another day. She was in so much pain - a pain I really cannot imagine. It makes me sad that I couldn't help her. But her death was not anyone's fault. She simply couldn't do life for one more day, and that last day was December 7, 1975.

I miss you, Mom. I can't wait to see you again. Thank you for the 20 years you gave me. Thank you for being my mom. I love you.

Gina