I was beginning a new semester at Columbia College and I was now a film major. It was all so incredibly exciting to not only learn about the aesthetics of film, but to learn how to write a screenplay and to work with all of the equipment. I especially enjoyed editing and to this day, give kudos to the editors of a film. They are the ones that are truly telling the story by putting the scenes in a specific order and shaving off a few seconds here and there so that the story is seamless. It was an amazing experience to create my own little black and white silent movies. I even utilized the stage makeup skills I had learned while in theater to create my own little horror film and a mini war epic. I was having the time of my life, exploring the many different avenues of the film industry, including writing. I had begun my major writing assignment for that class. The story was going to involve using astro-projection to seek revenge and utilize a mirror as a gateway to the other side. The other side of what you may ask, but I never got that far.
It was March and I could see that my mother was not doing well. I was getting angry at her for not going to a doctor. I honestly thought, if she would just go to a doctor, everything would be fine. She had already been a pack rat for the previous ten years, but the state of the house was getting worse and worse. She no longer was doing dishes and they piled up on the floor. I remember her buying more towels instead of washing the ones we had. Nothing made any sense and I was too busy living my life to really grasp what was happening. To make matters worse, if I suggested that I do the cleaning, I was told to not touch her things.
One day, I put a bowl of soup in the microwave for my dad and she started to cry. She said that it meant we didn’t need her anymore. My mom had done everything for her family and for the house. My mom, at one point had even painted the flat dormer roof of this house. She worked so hard to keep up on everything, cooking, cleaning, yard work and taking care of my father’s injured leg. He had an open wound on his leg for years, something my mom attended to on a daily basis. One day I was watching and asked in disgust, “How can you do that?” She looked up at me and said, “Are you trying to tell me that if something happens to me, you wouldn’t take care of your father?” No, is what I recall saying in a snotty defiant tone. “No, you will be the one who takes care of him.” “Well you’re wrong.” I said and stormed off. As usual, she was right and I did take care of him till the moment he took his final breath.
One day, my mother fell in the house and I couldn’t get her up by myself. We were alone, so I called 911. They were able to get her up and stable, but since she refused to go with them, there was nothing they could do. I was told that if they took her against her will, it would be considered kidnapping. I was so incredibly angry at her. Why wouldn’t she even try to get help? Why didn’t she want to get better?
Lorraine was always going through the newspapers, it was her thing. She had piles of articles and recipes all marked up with her underlining important points and messily writing her notes of worth. One day she finally saw a newspaper ad for an arthritis doctor and asked to go see him. Arthritis? This didn’t seem like arthritis, but she was finally willing to go see a doctor. Something happened the day of her appointment that pushed me over the edge. I really don’t recall what it was, but I do remember me yelling at her. I was enraged and I told her that I didn’t even know who she was anymore. I told her that my mother was a fighter and she wouldn’t have given up so easily. I told her that she was already dead to me and that I didn’t know the person who was standing in front of me anymore. I said I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was going to get out of that fucking house. Then, I stormed out of that fucking house.
When I returned, there was a note saying that they had taken her to the doctor and had her admitted to the hospital. When I got there, she was sitting on the side of her bed while they ran some tests. She looked at me while she shook her fist, like I was going to get it for what I had said, but there was a smile in her eyes. She was finally going to get some help and everything would be okay, right? No words were exchanged between us, I can only hope she understood how sorry I was, because as it turned out, those words I said before I left the house, those horrible mean and ugly words I said, would be the last words I said to her in a conscious state of mind.
How many times I have wished I could go back and edit those scenes. I want to rewrite the script and even if I couldn’t change the end of the story, at least I could have been more understanding and kind, more supportive and caring instead of selfish and angry, so very, very angry at my first best friend for leaving me. She left me behind to do everything, to take over all of the work she had done methodically for my entire life. She never taught me how to do things for myself, because it was her job to do them, or so she believed. I didn’t even know how to cook an egg or how to do laundry.
She had left clothes soaking in the wash machine and I had no idea how to get the water out of the tub. I took a cup and emptied it scoop by scoop, so angry, so scared, how was I going to do all of this? How could I possibly do all the wonderful things she had done and keep this house going. As long as I live, I will never forget the moment I was kneeling on the living room floor folding her laundry and realizing, she would never wear those clothes again. I felt like I was trapped on a little island, unable to change what happened to her, unable to change what was happening to me. This can’t possibly be my story. This can’t possibly be how the story of Lorraine ends. Somebody yell, “Cut!” Let’s do another take, let’s edit this scene out. I want my mom back!
Fade to black.
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