By Sarah Shapiro
Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner
Tomato sandwiches. Tomatoes bursting with juice, peak ripeness of the summer season. Picked fresh from the garden of the salmon colored house. Sliced and smothered between two slices of bread, smeared with butter and salt. I can picture my grandmother Helen assembling the sandwich, beads of sweat dripping down her back from the humid summer air.
Of all the memories of my mother’s childhood, her favorite was eating tomato sandwiches. It was one of the few moments my mother remembered when Helen was good. A moment before the drugs, when she showered my mother with affection, cared for her the way a parent should. A snapshot of pure, nostalgic, happiness. As most memories are.
…
Benzodiazepine was first released to the drug market in 1960. It was a miracle drug, melting away anxiety through an induced, sleepy haze. Doctor’s prescribed them to everybody, unaware of their addictive nature. My grandmother was prescribed benzos for her “heart problems,” an effect of the crippling anxiety she developed from childhood trauma. For Helen, this would shortly become a rampant addiction. Whoever she was before the drugs was a moment of the past, just like the tomato sandwiches.
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Helen was passed out on the bed in the living room. Blood rushing everywhere, her body limp on the bed. My grandfather picked her up and carried her to the hospital. My Uncle Steve lay in the crib, having just been born. Because of the pills, Helen’s muscles didn’t contract like they should after birth. She survived, but barely. My great grandmother always said it would have been better if she had just died.
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My mother came home from grade school to a dark house. The drugs made Helen photophobic, all the shades were shut. Steve muddled with a train set in the corner. Rhapsody in Blue played softly in the background. Helen sat in a rocking chair, smoking a cigarette in long, deep drags. Her arm moved slowly back and forth, the cigarette grazing the armrest with each puff. The chair was covered in burns. My mother would stay awake at night watching, waiting to put the out the light after Helen dozed off. She had nightmares of flames seeping, spreading throughout the house.
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My grandfather sat at the kitchen table, tears streaming down this face. He couldn’t take it anymore; it was too much. Too many questions about the oblong tool box filled with pills that my grandmother kept locked, the key strung around her neck. “Where are you getting these pills?” he asked many times. “The doctor,” she always replied. My grandfather, who went to school by day and work by night, left. He would be back, but for now my mother and uncle were left behind.
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My mother ran into the bathroom after hearing a loud thud on the floor. Helen passed out on the ground, covered in slivers of glass. My mother picked up the pieces carefully, worried they might sink deeper into her skin. Helen’s eyes glossed over in a daze. With her husband gone, the addiction had escalated. She was always high, always angry, always critical. My mother thought about the tomato sandwiches.
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My mother saved up her money and walked to the K-mart across the street. She bought a comb set with every cent she had, in a desperate attempt to make Helen happy. She brought it home to Helen, who was smoking in her rocking chair. Helen took the set and threw it to the ground. The box cracked in half. “I just want you to be a good girl,” she said calmly, and took a puff of her cigarette.
..
The psychiatrist told my grandfather Steve had a “strange” attachment to Helen. It was toxic, which was decided shortly after Steve began having trouble. Everyone knew he was not normal, but no one could figure out exactly why. He needed to be put in a home. Steve would later be diagnosed with Asperger’s and Schizophrenia, a consequence of the intense drug use during pregnancy. My grandfather drove Steve to Northwood, an institution for troubled children. It was not a choice but mandated by childhood protection services.
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Steve ran down the street, tears streaming down his face as my grandfather drove away. This happened every visit. My grandfather couldn’t take it anymore. “How do I get him out of here?” he asked legal services. They told him Helen must be gone. My grandfather left again and finalized it with a divorce. This time he brought my mother and Steve with. It was in later years that they would learn of the intense abuse Steve endured during his time at Northwood.
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Three women sat around a table in the lounge, smoking cigarettes. They looked as if they had seen better days. Which was probably true, as they sat together at Anoka State Mental Hospital. After months of my mother asking of Helens whereabouts, my grandfather decided she could visit. Helen had just gone through intense shock therapy, in a desperate effort to cure her psychological addiction. My mother walked in the room, beaming with excitement. Helen gave her a blank stare. “Who are you?” she asked and took a puff of her cigarette. My mother’s heart sunk.
Helen brought my mother to her room and opened up her locker. It was filled with old food, molding and rotten and pungent. She was hoarding it in fear they would stop feeding her. My mother started sobbing. She ran out of the room and down the street, my grandfather chasing after her. It would be years before my mother would see her again.
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Walter thought he was a priest. He kept a portable communion box on the coffee table of his apartment. The kind used to give people their rights before death. Helen had met Walter in treatment. With no money or family after her discharge, she moved in with him. This dingy basement apartment was her only option, besides the streets.
“Get me out of here,” Helen whispered to my mother. It was the first time they had seen each other in a long time. Walter was abusive. Helen was trapped, so my mother took her home. My grandfather was not happy. She ended up in the hospital again shortly after.
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There is a large gap of time in my mother’s life that is a haze. She knows Helen sobered up again, got clean. She worked as a nurse at the detox center. She became somewhat stable, acted caring and kind. My mother could see the shadow of the woman who made her tomato sandwiches in the kitchen. She desperately hoped the old Helen would stay. But that’s the thing about addiction: it never goes away. Helen started using again. Her life unraveled as the addiction grew. It could never be recovered.
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There was a phone call. Helen was braindead. At the age of 75, she collapsed on the floor of a group home. The state appointed trustee told my mother the news, and so she drove to the small-town hospital to say goodbye. The hospital was eerily quiet, Helen one of two patients.
My mother stood over her bed. Helen was old, her chest rhythmically triggered by the ventilator. A tube was taped over her mouth. My mother touched her arm. “Mom, it’s me,” she whispered. There was no response. Helen’s arm felt cold and clammy. It was time to let go.
My mother sat in a vinyl chair next to Helen as they took of the tape and removed the tube. The respirator was turned off. Helen gagged, starting to breath erratically as she died.
My mother had not been in contact with Helen for years. The last time she saw her I was just born, the only time I would ever meet my grandmother. For years Helen had stole drugs from our bathroom, made up stories to extort money from our family. My mother finally had enough. She refused Helen’s contact for years. A drug users’ best talent is their ability to manipulate those around them.
As my mother looked at Helen, she didn’t know what to feel. A mixture of guilt from refusing her contact, combined with relief that she could no longer cause her pain. This was not the ending my mother had envisioned. She always thought she would see Helen last time. Get the chance to explain that she loved her, but because of her addiction could not see her. Ending with one last warm embrace. Now, this could never happen.
My mother planned to wait for Helen to pass before leaving. She felt she at least owed her that, to be there while she died. But Helen’s agonal breathing went on for hours. Eventually, my mother decided it was best to go. Helen died shortly after she left.
…
The worst thing about addiction is how it affects those around you. Helen was so lost in her addiction, she was unable to see the damage she left behind. My mother, who suffers from anxiety, and an obsession with controlling the lives of herself and the ones she loves to prevent them from feeling pain. My grandfather, who abandoned his children to survive, something that strains their relationship to this day. My uncle, who was given a disease that could have been prevented. He sits medicated in a rocking chair and listens to rhapsody blue. He misses Helen.
But my mother had the strength and will-power to move on. And that is the thing I admire most about her. She became a successful doctor, a wife, a caring mother. Her life was painful, but it made her who she is. She is strong.
My mother tells me about a recurring dream she has. She is walking up a long staircase to a small house perched high on a hill. In the house is a couch, pushed up against the wall. There sits Helen, young and beautiful. She moves slowly toward my mother, arms outstretched to embrace her. But before that can happen, my mother wakes up.