My mother became my daughter when I was nine years old. There had been an accident, a car accident, and it was a bad one, although I didn’t know that yet.
My heartbeat quickened when I rounded the corner onto our street and noticed that the creaky, rusted out Dodge we couldn’t afford to keep gas in wasn’t parked in front of our crumbling apartment complex. Permission to walk to and from school had been hard won; my mother was careful with me and overprotective in the extreme, resulting in a young girl who was incredibly naive and grossly underdeveloped emotionally. I wet the bed, I cried at the slightest provocation, and enertained myself with a steady stream of fantasies and daydreams, rarely connecting with the outside world. We made a deal: I could walk myself home from school if I promised not to dawdle and play along the way, and if I wasn’t on the threshold of our building by 3:35 she would get in the car and come looking for me.
I didn’t wear a watch, because watches are for grownups, so I broke into a run, thinking I might be able to catch her before she got too far away and my newfound privileges were revoked for good. But I hadn’t even stopped at the corner store for candy! I didn’t roll around on the ground with that puppy down the street like I’d wanted to! How could I possibly be late? Maybe her clock was set faster than the one at school?! There was no sign of the car in either direction, so I turned around and dragged my sorry ass home, savoring what was sure to be the last few minutes of freedom I was going to be granted for the foreseeable future.
I found her standing in the kitchen sipping a cup of coffee, the instant kind you mix with hot water that came in a gallon-sized drum for $2 at the dollar store and smelled like cat pee. One side of her head was bandaged, and there were some cuts on her face. She explained that she’d fallen asleep while driving and had been blindsided by another car. My mom hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt and was thrown across the front seat, smacking her head pretty hard against the rearview mirror in the process. There had been an ambulance, and a trip to the emergency room. The Dodge was totaled. All while I was working on my stupid spelling worksheet.
I had been her first accident, or so it seemed to everyone but my parents. It just didn’t seem logical to anyone of sound mind that two people rapidly degenerating through middle age down a sharp, slippery slope into the pit of senior citizenship would make the choice to have a baby. Why not get another dog? her friends asked. Maybe you guys could travel? My father, at fifty, had recently survived his second heart attack; and my mother, ten years his junior, had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four years prior. But remission is one of those magic words, one of those words that makes anything seem possible, and once her neurologist uttered it she decided that it was time to have a baby. The obstetrician warned her against it, saying I would surely be born with Down’s Syndrome or some other form of mental retardation. He pointed out that she wasn’t in the best physical condition, that pregnancy and childbirth were going to further ravage a body that was long past its childbearing prime.
The day after the accident started out like any other. I had the day off from school courtesy of Casimir Pulaski, and to show my gratitude I kicked the covers off and bounded out of bed early to get a jump on my cartoon-watching and cereal-eating. My mom was generally an early riser, up at five every morning even though the progressing multiple sclerosis had forced her to retire a couple years before, but she was sound asleep next to me. I assumed she just needed to sleep in, that she wasn’t up yelling at me to take a bath and put real clothes on because the accident had worn her out, made her more tired than usual. I tiptoed out of the bedroom and went to fill a salad bowl with cereal. I sat on the couch in a Cinnamon Crunch coma until the cartoons gave way to boring talk shows, which reminded me I still hadn’t heard a peep out of my mom. She was sitting on the side of the bed we shared, eyes unfocused, drooling and unresponsive.
A childhood that began with a sort of cautious optimism quickly devolved into absolute horse shit. My father was an abusive alcoholic, a man tormented by the demons he’d brought home with him after fighting the war in Korea. He’d tempered his rage for most of their marriage, but after two failed stints in rehab he gave up and caved completely, drowning himself in liquor and taking his anger out on everyone around him. My mom and I left the idyllic three-story home into which I’d been born when I was four and shared one shitty Section-8 apartment after another with mice and roaches, relegated to survival on food stamps, Social Security, and other forms of government aid. She could no longer work thanks to her rapidly deteriorating body and brain, and spent most of her waking hours smoking cigarettes and gambling away the little bit of money we had on lottery tickets.
I went next door to get the neighbor because we never had enough money to keep a phone on. I should explain that I grew up in a wealthy, progressive community. That, while there were these pockets of poverty and tragedy scattered throughout our town, my experience didn’t mirror those of the majority of my classmates. That I was expected to keep my fucking shit together, and learn the goddamned state capitals, that I was expected to grasp the concept of halves and thirds while terrified that my mom was going to drown in the bathtub. I didn’t yet understand the difference between God and the President, yet I knew which pills go with breakfast and which ones were taken after dinner. I went to sleepovers without a sleeping bag and marveled at my classmates’ novelty pillows and Jem paraphernalia. They had fathers at home and multi-car garages and college funds and MOTHERFUCKING TELEPHONES, and here I was hurtling up and down three flights of stairs desperately pounding on doors that wouldn’t open because normal people had jobs. Healthy people actually left their apartments during the day to venture out into the world and accomplish real things. Finally one of the doors creaked open, and I breathlessly tried to explain, using my limited nine-year-old language, that my mother had a disease in her brain and had been in a bad car crash and now couldn’t answer me when I asked her if everything was okay.
I sat in the waiting room with the kind of faceless authority figure who sits with your child when you are her only person, in my pajamas: milk spilled down the front, urine staining the crotch, reading Harriet the Spy and completely unaware of the major shift occurring beneath the tectonic plates of my life. There was a blood clot in her brain, at the site of impact, and the doctors had to shave her head and crack her skull open to get it out before it ruptured and killed her. And they did, which was a kind of a little miracle.
I brought my baby home from the hospital a few days later, swaddled at the wrong end, head and neck wrapped in thick white gauze and cotton pads. A long red, angry-looking scar snaked the left side of her forehead over her ear and coming to an end at the base of her skull. I would learn over the course of the days, weeks, and months to come, how to mask how much I was hurting. How to hide how badly we were struggling to survive from the nosy social worker the teachers kept sending to pull me out of class, the man in the ill-fitting suit who spoke to me in his most gentle inside voice while silently judging my missing socks and uncombed hair. The woman who used fancy words to try to trick me into admitting that my home environment was unsafe, that I was living with a person who could no longer properly take care of me. She pushed me to betray a woman trapped in a baby body she couldn’t use who had done nothing but love me and try her hardest to make me feel special. She pushed me to admit I had no idea what abandoned building my father was currently drinking himself to death in. Didn’t this bitch know that I was stressed the fuck out? Wasn’t it clear I had been up half the night changing my mother’s diaper and helping her into and out of the bed, and that’s why I couldn’t stay awake in science class? Yes, social studies is boring, but that isn’t why I’m not paying attention; I’m thinking about how I have to run to the currency exchange when school lets out to make a Com Ed payment so our lights don’t get shut off again. Will the nice dude who works at White Hen be there today? He knows the cigarettes aren’t for me, he won’t give me a hard time, and maybe I’ll have enough left over for a Snapple since I didn’t use my milk quarter at lunch today. No, I didn’t have time to do everything in my goddamned homework packet, dudes. I have a lot of shit on my mind. Don’t you know I have a baby at home who is depending on me?
Here is how multiple sclerosis is explained to you when you are a young child: “Okay Samantha, I want you think of your brain as a series of wires. Can you picture it?” I remember wanting very badly to impress the neurologist because I needed him to understand that I was totally responsible enough to be in charge of my baby’s care, even though I peed the bed the last three nights and cried in the bathroom when no one had anything nice to say about my diorama, so I nodded assuredly. “Now, this disease your mommy has is called multiple sclerosis.” He waited while I repeated it back to him. “And what it does is it attacks the coating on those wires. It just eats it up, like candy. Right now it’s working on the wires that control Grace’s legs, and that’s why she’s having trouble standing up and walking around. And eventually it will eat the coating on her arm wires, and her talking wires, and her thinking wires.”
It had been two years since the brain damage left behind by having her head cracked open had accelerated the aggressiveness of the MS, rendering her basically an invalid who never left the squalor of our tiny apartment. I watched her pushing a borrowed walker around his office, her brain a makeshift arcade that housed only an outdated Pac Man machine. Chomp chomp chomp chomp. She bumped clumsily into the chair I was sitting in. Chomp chomp chomp. High score.
I had to get my fucking shit together. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the worse I did of keeping myself clean and getting myself out of bed to get to places on time and finishing my assignments by the time they were due, the more frequently my day was interrupted by various school authorities demanding to know who was in charge of my care and why they were doing such a shitty job. I knew that if I wore the same underwear for three days someone would notice how I smelled and alert the teacher, or that if I put my head down for more than a second I would have to explain to the principal why I was so tired all the time. So I stopped.
We lived like college kids: ramen noodles, cheap hot dogs, instant coffee, grape Kool-Aid. I was responsible for the shopping, which I did every week at the corner store down the street from our newest place. We had moved again so that we could be closer to the fire station, because there still wasn’t enough money for a phone, and I might need to run down there in the middle of the night and get help. There was a bench for sitting and a bar installed in the shower, and a raised toilet seat to make it easier for my mom to do things for herself during the day while I was at school. I had been taking piano lessons since I was four, and we finally had space for a piano. I didn’t even know Mom had been putting money away, but I came home one afternoon to find an upright that was easily nine hundred years old about to collapse in itself in the middle of the living room, and she was so happy, thrilled to death and so fucking proud that she was able to be the mom again that it nearly broke my heart. I played an entire book of Bach concertos while she listened with her eyes closed and tried to move along with the music.
Most people get fifty or sixty years of life to prepare for what I was struggling to cope with after only eleven: Did Mom eat today? Is it okay if I leave the house for more than an hour? Will she remember to take her pills at the right time today? What happens if she tries to leave the house again? And I had to balance this shit against equally important issues like, How badly are they going to make fun of me for wearing fake Keds? Do I have the right Trapper Keeper? What if that boy in band finds out I have a crush on him?
You don’t just get to withdraw from your child life while making sure your disabled mother doesn’t set the apartment on fire because her fingers can no longer close firmly around a cigarette. There is no “opt out” button on adolescence. I would divide myself into two people: the happy, smiling person who needed to make friends and appear to be having a well-adjusted childhood during the day; and my mother’s mother and nursemaid and caretaker and friend at night.
It’s my fault she was taken away from me. I was selfish, and I failed her, and I remain haunted by that to this day. It was my first year of high school, and I so desperately wanted to have some semblance of normalcy in my life. It was palpable, this dull ache of yearning. I was tired, and my life had never been my own, and I wanted so badly to just do the things that other kids got to do. My suicide note was brief, one big weak apology, and I left it on my desk and took as many of her pills as I could. I just kept swallowing and swallowing them until I couldn’t anymore, and then I lay down in my bed and passed out. My little baby was so sad when she found me, called to motherhood this one last time, and she woke me up and poured baking powder mixed with hot water down my throat to make me vomit. She couldn’t walk down the block to get me an ambulance, and I was too sick and embarrassed to go get my own, so I got in the shower and threw up down the drain until I felt empty. That was on Saturday, and the following Monday I got up early to go to school to rehearse with the jazz band before first period. After the final bell rang I hung out with some friends, doing nothing, even though I knew I should get home to make sure my mother was okay. But I resented her, I resented these constraints that were locked tight around what should’ve otherwise been a 13-year-old life of fun and freedom. So I took my sweet time.
My daughter was lying on the floor just inside the door. She had fallen nearly twelve hours before, trying to make her way from her chair in the living room to the bathroom a few minutes after I’d left to get the bus. She was lying on her stomach in a sickening pool of her own waste, voice hoarse from spending hours calling for help, eyes red and out of tears. I tried to get her up, because she pulled me to the floor and begged me to, because I’m sure she knew that this was the end, that our jig was about to be up, that if I couldn’t get her up and into bed that finally someone was going to come and take away her baby. And I tried to, I really did, I got down on my knees and slipped and slid in my baby’s urine and feces, trying to figure out an angle at which I could prop her up so that I could slide something under her and get her to her feet. If only we knew our neighbors better, if only I could call someone to help me, if only I hadn’t been a selfish fucking bitch who thought it was more important to hang around the park with this group of idiot popular people who were all completely oblivious to my existence than it was to get home to my mother four hours earlier than I did, maybe this would have turned out a different way. I could feel the plates shifting yet again.
I couldn’t get her up by myself no matter how hard I tried, and her leg wires had been completely destroyed, leaving her helpless on her own behalf. I dropped my backpack in the hall and tore down the street to the fire department, tracking Mom’s shit the length of the sidewalk. I threw my shoes into a garbage can on the street as I watched them bring the gurney down the short flight of stairs that had been one of the major factors in our choice of this particular building—that and the landlord’s acceptance of rent vouchers. She spent a week in the hospital while people with clipboards and stern faces made decisions about what was going to happen to this child I had spent the last four years caring for and, for that matter, what was going to happen to me. Like most concerned mothers I slept in the lounge chair next to her bed, waking up every few hours when the nurse came in to check my baby girl’s vitals. I tucked the blankets in around her after they messed them up with all of their blood pressure checks and blood draws, filled the pitcher with ice chips from the kitchen area on the other side of the wing, pressed the call button when she needed another injection of pain medication and couldn’t reach for it herself. I was her only person.
For the five years that it took my daughter to die all I could think about was how I’d do anything I could to take her place. That life had dealt this lovely, gentle creature a bad hand she’d done nothing to deserve, while I hadn’t done very much with the handful of years already under my belt. I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t very good at much other than the piano. Why not give her the rest of these years to do something with? It was excruciating, watching what had once been a vibrant and beautiful flower wilt and dehydrate in slow motion. I had to take three buses after school to get to the nursing home she was placed in, and I did so as often as I could while trying not to fail out of high school, writing her name in black Sharpie on all of her rapidly disappearing belongings, making sure that her pillows were fluffed the way she liked them, and painting her nails red even though they always got chipped during occupational therapy. I brought her bags of jelly beans from the gas station and talked to her about all of the kid shit I had been too busy to get around to before: boys I had crushes on, the chemistry teacher I hated with the fire of a thousand suns. But who gives a fuck about my floundering GPA when I can’t be there to stop them from hitting her when she doesn’t move fast enough? Who gives a shit about how terrible the cafeteria food is when she can’t stop my foster family from mistreating me?
Fourteen years have passed since the day I sat at the foot of yet another hospital bed, watching the morphine that would end my mother’s life drip slowly into her arm, robbing her first of consciousness, then of breath. My father had been found dead and homeless, frozen in the street, six months before. Fourteen years since the doctor said that the lung infection was going to kill her in a matter of days anyway, that between the MS and the dementia at fifty-five years young this gaunt skeleton whose skin hung from her skull like wet laundry was a shell of her former radiant self, and at that point it was obviously the most humane thing to do. My mom had worn dentures her whole life, because she’d been severely abused as a child and had never been given milk, causing all of her adult teeth to rot and fall out of her head by the time she was in the eighth grade. She never went anywhere without them, not ever, but sometimes before she tucked me in at night she would take them out and grab her cane and pretend to be the witch in Snow White until I was laughing so hard I couldn’t fall asleep. After she was pronounced dead the doctor removed her teeth and set them in a pan on the bedside table before they wheeled her down to the morgue, and as I leaned over the side rail to memorize her face one last time, it only then occurred to me how without them she didn’t really look like a witch, she mostly just looked like a baby.
What can you possibly do with the rest of your life when this is how it begins? Who am I supposed to be? When do I get the manual on how to be an adult, or what everything means? How am I supposed to build a life on the wreckage that is this foundation? How can I be sure those plates won’t shift?
Children should never die before their parents.
92 responses
This was an absolutely beautiful piece. You don’t have to build your life on that foundation, you can build it on anything you want.
Way to break my heart (yet again), Rumpus.
This is absolutely amazing. I wish only the best for you. You certainly deserve it.
I’m quietly sobbing now. I hope you have fun with your life and see things and do things you want to do. I know that’s what your mother would have wanted, for you to just be happy, and well, safe. I hope you let yourself do good things and feel good too. I think that’s what we’re all here to do, be as good as we can be. You may have had far too much pain and responsibility as a child, but you were so very loved. Treasure that.
You are an amazing person and this is a beautiful article. What a rough way to grow up but you know your mom believed in you and wanted nothing more than your happiness. You weren’t dealt the easy cards but you are beautiful person nonetheless and you should be and do whatever makes you happy because you certainly deserve it.
Oh, Samantha. This brings back so many painful memories for me. I was older when I lost my mother, but everything you wrote resonated. Amazing. xoxo
So devastating, so brilliantly told.
Forgive me if this shows up twice, but I submitted earlier and still don’t see it:
Samantha, I am so very sorry for your loss. I’m sorry you had to endure things that should be borne by no person alone, much less a child. Maybe because it had been just the two of you, or maybe because there was no other option in your world, but I think you handled your life better than most would have in this situation, and I mean adults. (A child going through this is still unfathomable, even after reading your story.)
As far as who you’re supposed to be, or what you’re supposed to do with the rest of your life, I couldn’t begin to answer; I don’t know you, but I do know these things: Your life has made you strong. Before you were even born, you were loved and you gave love, still do. We both know life provides no assurances for happiness, but if anyone has earned it, you have. I hope you feel it all around and through you, and I hope you keep writing.
good jesus, this is so poignant and heartbreaking. what a strong person you are to have endured and loved and given your mother such love and care. i thought when i cried in the shower this morning because of my problems i was done with crying for another year, but my god, i’m crying after reading this piece.
Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. Who are you supposed to be? You are supposed to be a writer. Please keep it up.
What’s your mom’s name? Her story made me smile.
It’s never perfect. Is it? It’s never the right time. Is it? And the memories are haunting. They punish you, as if you were supposed to know.
Either we’re too young to understand, or too caught-up to notice, or too self-important to change the diaper of someone who loved us as much as your mom loved you. She took out her teeth to make you smile.
The guts. The fucking guts!
Unfortunately, I’m male, which means I’m tempted to answer your questions. Luckily, I’m male and a decade past 33, which means I know when I’m supposed to shut-up, listen and marvel as you answer your own questions.
I feel indebted to you, Miss Irby. I’ve seen you read your stories, twice. Both times I laughed so hard, my dick hurt. This time, I had a different reaction entirely. I could tell you what the reaction was, but I’m going to keep it for me.
My god, what a challenging and poinant story. You’ve grown into such a beautiful, talented woman. Its hard when early life deals us bad hands….I’m glad your suicide attempt failed…its given you a chance and life and new happiness. May life rain blessings on us all.
What a heartbreaker. Samantha, you are a true warrior, and an excellent writer. Thank you for sharing.
A truly stunning story and beautifully told…Maybe it’s time for you to be a child.
Your story is breathtakingly beautiful, and you are an amazing writer. I’m about to read it again, even thought this time I will know the ending before I start. But this time, I can concentrate on the power of your prose. Don’t stop writing–ever….
Such beauty from such pain. True bravery.
Please keep creating, and I am so sorry for your loss.
stunned and drained and amazed by your tale. Amamda was spot on. you should be a writer, and a public speaker and a concert pianist or ballerina or Madonna or a tennis pro…and any one of a million childhood dreams that were denied you because you were so strong and so brave and cared so much. What some people see as tragic I see as beautiful. it was hard, it was shitty. but she had YOU and you loved her, more than anyone else could have. don’t kick yourself, feel proud that you were able to do what you did. you’re fabulous.
I have no words. Just emotions.
What a gripping, heartbreaking story. I’m so sorry for your loss, Samantha. Thank you for turning your experiences into such a beautiful piece of writing.
This piece was truly inspired. Cathartic, original voice, visceral. Please keep writing.
I have no words…………….
Im in awe. I had no clue. You may not remember, but we used to figure skate together. Then I didnt see you anymore, until high school.
This is a jaw-dropping piece-hoping you realize ALL events, from conception to present day have been aligned to develop your character, purpose and devine destiny.
Thanks for sharing this. With your permission, I will use it with my students.
so fucking full of grace, this. you. i am beyond humbled. i wish i could thank you. thank you.
Amazing piece. We are all blessed that you can write with such courage, power, love, and candor.
Your story was awful. Reading it made me cringe, shiver, and want to crawl away and hide. I don’t understand how you did it, and just imagining it makes my throat go dry.
May the rest of your days be filled with blessings.
Whew, you are amazing. Simply, breathtakingly amazing.
Amazing, inspiring and truly moving. Thank you for sharing. (Also, you should fix the link to your blog–there’s a space before the name that’s breaking it.)
I cry in my salad for you and your baby.
So well written, so real. I felt as if you were confiding in me. You are a beautiful soul, so brave and so selfless. As I type this, crying, I just want to give you a hug. Thank you so much for sharing
Most powerful thing I’ve read in years. Made me cry. Bless you.
Thank you. You’re beautiful.
Wow. This was incredibly powerful and moving. I wish I could hug you right now. You are so incredibly strong.
The raw pain of your story is not only moving, but is powerful and full of life and description. You are a lioness and that is the truth. You are very strong for telling this story. When a daughter becomes the mother….my God, this is a powerful account.
I’m just another stranger from the internet who wants to say that my heart goes out to you. You don’t need me to tell you that what you went through is almost unfathomable… no child should ever have to experience what you did. I hope you don’t blame yourself, still… none of what happened is your fault. If this were someone else’s story, would you blame them?
I wish you all the best, and hope that if it hasn’t yet, that your heart heals and comes to know peace.
I often marvel at people who had such difficult childhoods. What strong people they make. The only part I’d change is where you say you’re not pretty – it’s an obvious falsehood.
Thanks for sharing this.
I take this not as a way of struggling but as way of seeing things now and how.
Muchos Gracias.
I read this late last night and then lay awake for hours, unable to get warm or to draw a deep breath. I’ve never been more heartbroken by something I’ve read. It’s so hard to accept that there was not one adult who could or would help this child — no teacher, no neighbor, not the firemen who were aware of the situation. But beneath the annihilating sorrow here is a true love story that is even more powerful than the grief.
What can I say? I love you. I love you as much as I can. I only hope you can feel it.
Samantha Irby…you are a beautiful soul…you have touched me someplace that i didn’t think anyone could. I hope you have found a place & being for yourself…you deserve that…at the very least. I am so sorry for your loss of childhood…as well as the mom that you needed…and wanted…and deserved. Thank you sweet girl for sharing your pain…and growth with us.
Your writing is powerful and this piece will stay with me for a very long time. The final line took my breath away.
“…i was too sick and embarrassed to go get my own…” reading this sentence, I feel a hollowness inside of my stomach and chest. Thank you for sharing your intimacies.
The Lord knows YOU are a strong woman!! And your life will take you far…Such a heartfelt story.
There is nothing I can say that won’t sound trite, except that I wish you would forgive yourself and you can’t spend the rest of your life slipping through that shit, you did a phenomenal job taking care of your mother, and you deserve some peace. <3
Horrible, horrible horrible, and the worst thing is that at the bottom of this story is lack of money. When are we all going to realise that the bankers, politicians, all those in power who have a vested interest in staying there will turn their backs on ordinary people, just like in this case? Where is the thoughtful welfare system that could have kept this mother and daughter together by providing home help? Why was Samantha so scared to let the social services in? Because she knew that there was no way that any help of this kind would be available – just put the mother in a nursing home and put her into care – which is what happened. What kind of society are we? I despair.
Samantha,
How horribly beautiful; how much you have learned; what wisdom you impart to all of us in the end…
Wish I could wrap my arms around you babygirl…
Leah
Wow…so powerful. You are one of the best writers I’ve seen, and now I just got a glimpse of how deep the well goes. Excellence.
Your mother is in heaven smiling down at how much her little daughter loves her. Nothing on this planet that can change how deep the love was (is!) between you two. Nothing can change how brave and beautiful you are.
Dear, beautiful, wonderful Samantha don’t you see you where in the right place at the right time it was a gift not a burden a gift to you and your mother/daughter, for without you she would not have died with so much love in her heart. You loved her and she loved you this and this alone is your foundation, what more could you need. A person capable of as much love as you can do anything she wants, choose love choose life, choose joy Samantha they are yours for the taking.
I resonated with your story, as im sure many do. You captured it, this journey, inside and out, so amazingly. Of course you did, because it sounds like you may still live it inside yourself, waiting for permission somewhere to stop being responsible for life to create a place for you. Mother Theresa’s quote, to the effect of, “God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle…I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.” Send your story to The University of Santa Monica. There you will find your answers. There you will belong. There is Home. And there you will know who you are, how to begging your life from here, and what to do with it all. I promise. Much love.
Autocorrect apologies… I intended to type “how to begin your life from here.” Yet maybe there are no accidents. Maybe there is a place inside begging for your life. Maybe not. Either way, you’re beautiful.
Samantha,
Thank you for not hiding and for breaking past fear. This was beautiful and honest and real. As a mother, my heart breaks for you and your mom both.
I’ve read your blog for a while now but I never knew about your past. Again, THANK YOU. You are the fucking greatest. Please keep writing your brutal hilarious real stories that make us FEEL. You are a force. I send so much love to you, your mom, your child self, and your baby.
Your piece was just amazing and moving. I hate when people say amazing, but this truly is. I think about your mom, and how her life was so hard, and if you could ask her, I am sure she would say her best day on earth was the day you were born. The only point of being alive is love, and sometimes you give, and sometimes you take, and sometimes it takes time to figure out where you are on the spectrum…and sometimes you are in all places at once.
…and then sometimes, I stumble onto something that knocks me flat and reminds you that I’m never alone, because other people are feeling their humanity the same way I feel mine.
Thank you for this.
Beautifully breaks my heart. I have progressive MS and my children have special needs. I feel every day that I am failing them. Even though I know I’m not. Life is strangely hard and wonderful.
My god Samantha, you make word art! Beautiful, painful and incredibly moving. You are by far one of the most impressive people I was every lucky enough to meet… on facebook 😛
I am deep in the middle of caring for my elderly mother who fell and broke her hip a month ago, and my friend Adrienne sent me here to read this. As hard as it has been these past six years or so that my parents became my third and fourth (special needs) children, I cannot for the life of me imagine doing this level of caretaking AS a child, as with such slim resources. You did NOT fail your mother, you were / are human, and a beautiful one to boot. Thank you for the gift of your words.
Irby this was an amazing story. I know it took a lot of courage to write. I truly, truly appreciate you sharing your story. It was very sad and very real at this same time. Thank you.
You are a fucking legend Samantha. The fact you are able to write this story so beautifully and truthfully is a miracle in itself. You strong inspiring woman. Best of luck with your ongoing recovery through a challenging childhood.
Samantha, thank you for being able to tell this story/experience in such a powerful, honest way. My father was ill with ALS during my childhood and I watched my mother turn into a child over the overwhelming responsibility of his care. It would have helped me a lot to see my parents as children, if I ever could have imagined it at that time. Looking back….they both were lost, helpless, and “parentless”. Your strength and intelligence and integrity during your childhood is stunning! Thank you.
How can I say how beautifully told your story was, and yet so real and hard and truthful at the same time? That you lived to tell the tale is testament to the human spirit. You are brave, stong, smart, loving and gifted. May all blessings in life now be yours.
Your beauty and strength are an inspiration. As your life plates continue to shift I hope you know that you have purpose and meaning. Your mother must be looking down on you with joy. Thank you so much for sharing your story.
I hope that you realize that growing up means you can be who want, we are not defined by what happens in life but how we deal with it. You were not responsible for your mother and yet you tried, tried as hard as your little self could! I am so sorry no one took the reigns who should of, the system failed to help, no it wasn’t your fault. But now be proud that you loved with all your heart, and the future wins when you don’t let the past steal it. Best of luck to a beautiful future!
Samantha. This is the story I could never write.I was a bit older and in a better living situation, butI was there.Our Moms are probably watching us both now, still our biggest fans and our sweet ones. You do not need to worry about what to become, just read your writing- She has brought you to this place and you have run with it.No one could have cared for her better. Much love,Anne
I can’t see what I’m typing because I’m crying. All I can say is, keep playing music, it seems sometimes that music is the only beauty left in this world. Keep writing too.
This story is a healing force. I don’t know you, but I know that anyone who can write this is a truly beautiful person. You did not fail your mother. You gave her the only thing that matters — all your love. Even if that love was only child-sized, it was all you had to give, and you gave it freely. Never underestimate how important that is. Thank you for your words.
The power and beauty of a child’s love–no matter how confused, hurting, damaged, alone, in agony that child is, is a powerful love because it is so pure, honest, raw, real, human. You saw your mother for the woman she was not and was and was trying to be for you, FOR YOU: what more is there, what more can there be between the beloved and the lover? You have so much love to give and receive because of your childhood which was a confusing version of adulthood. Thank you so very much for sharing your powerful story Samantha; I wish God’s best forever more.
I’m 40 with MS. I have no children and never will because I don’t want them to have to watch while I circle the drain. I’m gay, so I have no family; there won’t be anyone to watch while I fail. Your mother was lucky because she had someone who cared while her life went to hell; I can tell you from experience that that matters.
Thank you for writing and posting your story. It is not that different to mine. I haven’t been able to find any way to heal but after reading your story I don’t feel so lonely.
Jesus, this was something other. Thank you for writing it.
This was such an honest piece. Thank you so much for sharing this with us.
This has me crying. I feel like I’ve experienced this with you. You have a talent for the written word. You are a wonderful daughter. Be well.
I am so sorry. Your story is so honest and beautiful.
Hey Samantha, I know that this is one of those stories that you held inside for a long long time because likely every time you sat down to write it, it hurt to go there. Or else you have been writing it for a long, long time (maybe since you were a teen) and didn’t show it to anyone and it just bled and bled in you until it was time to let go of it and let us witness it as well. I’m sorry you had to carry it all, and I know you still carry it. I know it’ll always be tender in there… I read it and felt the heartbreak. You took me there. I read it knowing that there are way more stories like this that you haven’t shown to us yet. Thanks for having the guts to put this out. I know it’s way tougher to put something this out in the world than it is when you’re talking about a dick (which also makes me laugh so keep feeding me dick too).
Those questions – the how to build a foundation on wreckage. When you feel like you’re missing that something that everyone else has but this is you building something out of the wreckage. I get those, but here you are a phoenix born of its own ashes girl.
You are loved, and now I love you, too.
Thank you so much for writing this, and in the way it needed to be written. I am so in awe of your talent and for the fierceness of the kid you were. May you live out many happy childhoods for the rest of your life.
Love you, Sam.
You can do way more than play the piano, you can write beautifully. She brought you here, and it probably made her health decline more. She brought you here as a sacrifice. NOW Live, Just live! Don’t focus on the foundation, just fly with your wings.
Your story touched the very heart of me. You were able to be there for your Mom and she must have loved you more because of that. So sorry that you could not be a child then, but what should make us weaker makes us stronger.The Good Lord never gives us more than what we can handle.His love is infinite and blessings are sure to come your way. When you’re feeling down and out, just remember that this too shall pass (your sadness). Take care and God Bless.
POWERFUL! Thanks for sharing with us!
SO touching, beautifully written and such an amazing story!
My wife has MS and while you would never know it by seeing her I can’t help but wonder what fate awaits. However, your story gives me great strength. Your story touched me deeply regardless of this potential situation. That means you are a special person on this earth. Few have the ability to truly touch others on such a level. You have a great gift.
As a person who comes from a childhood rife with episodes of extreme abuse and now deal with the tribulations that a diagnosis of Complex PTSD brings, I humbly suggest that you may be ealing with PTSD symptoms as well. None of what you went through os your fault. I wish you well on your path and hope you find a good therapist who specializes in PTSD.
Hello. What a heartbreaking story. To say this was a sad and trying time for a child would be an understatement. I wish you nothing but luck and a world of happiness. I have a six year old and one on the way. I once read that when you have a child you fa in love with your child and all the children of the world. I couldn’t agree more. Reading or listening to others speak of their childhood my heart just collapses. I hope you are in a better place.
Well, that ripped me right in two. What a horrible way to grow up. I’ve spent more time in hospitals on the chair by the bed than I care to think of, and there’s more in my future; you’ve captured the despair perfectly.
Obligatory note of optimism: I’m impressed you survived to tell your story. It’s a hell of a story.
I wish I had half the writing talent you possess. If you continue to pour your heart onto the page with such unflinching honesty you’ll find your way because your resilience, however sorely tested, came through. I read this with tears in my eyes but not a broken heart. Instead, inspired.
My sister was diagnosed at about 13 years of age, I soon became her care giver. I used to feel so much guilt and anger, wanting to switch places one moment and abandon her then next. I was embarrassed of these feelings. I found out was MS was via google. I remember those visits to the hospital. She was lucky and is doing well with new treatment. This makes me remember it could be so much worse. Thank you. Thank you for your strength to share your story, the good and bad emotions that come with being a carer, especially when you are younger and still a child.
Moved to tears. Thank you.
Re-read this again. Still amazing.
I love you. Beautifully written.
Thank you for sharing your story. My heart aches for the start you and your mama got in life. It’s simply not fair. But you were a beautiful candle for your mama, doing things no child should have to do but driven by love. You gave her the best life you could. I don’t have any easy answer about how you go on, but I hope you do. Let that same beautiful candle shine for you now and for all she would have wanted for you. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for sharing this touching story with us. There is no doubt that you are a brave girl. I know you have no choice but to be brave in those days, and now you have all the courage and love that this experience had given to behave better. To be stronger means that we must have enough courage to embrance all the suffers that life has given. You must believe you are strong. With all my best wishes Wish you all well.
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