Catherine Sevenau

Opener of doors, teller of tales, family scribe.

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3.43 Rainbows and Red Devils

By

Mom, La Habra, early 1960s

Fall of 1968 • Whittier ~ Over the years Mom managed to get along. She worked for room and board with a small monthly salary for clothes, her car, doctor bills, and prescriptions. By the end, she couldn’t hold a job, couldn’t care for herself, the hospitals wouldn’t keep her anymore, and family refused to take her in. No longer permitted to carry her suitcase through their doors, the children she abandoned had abandoned her, not to punish her, but to get away from her.

She spent much of her life seeking help, looking for cures, trying to find out what was wrong. She never did. I don’t know what was wrong with her either. She wasn’t crazy or insane, nor was she demented or deranged. She was desperate at times, habitually detached, and regularly depressed. You might even think her disturbed (one of the things she was disturbed about most was having children). Yes, she was narcissistic and yes, she was a hypochondriac, but all the drugs she took didn’t help. She had several doctors—none aware of who was prescribing what, nor how much she was taking—creating a system that worked well for her. Having lifted a number of their prescription pads, she could write her own. One doctor thought perhaps shock treatments might work. Mom thought maybe they did. I didn’t. The life in her eyes was dimmed even more.

She once bought a mayonnaise jar of speed from Joe Duchi. Joe, Betty’s husband’s older brother, was a convicted felon just out of San Quentin. A part of their catch-and-release program, his history ranged from stealing garbage cans and dealing drugs to armed robbery and murder. Mom paid him $35 for what turned out to be a quart-sized jar of vitamin C tablets. That was a lot of money considering it was half her monthly salary beyond room and board. Joe was back in prison by the time she figured it out. Those were probably the only pills she never took.

Speed, Hot Cross Buns and Dexies kept her weight down and restored her energy. Rainbows, Red Devils, and Yellow Jackets got her through the nights. Codeine eased her pain and Librium calmed her days. She washed them down with Alka-Seltzer or a little whiskey. Toward the end, she graduated to the big guns, Thorazine and Stelazine. She thought drugs were the answer to whatever ailed her, but nothing eased her pain. She didn’t take them to feel good, she took them to feel less bad.

After the month with her niece, Mom drifted back to southern California. In September she turned 53. In early November, the week before she died, she was mugged and robbed. Badly shaken, it may have been the final incident that pushed her over the edge. On November 9, she checked into a small motel on Whittier Blvd., a block from the police station in one direction and a hospital in the other. The following morning she was found by the maid. Dressed in her black slip, propped up in the middle of the single bed, my mother had downed more than enough sleeping capsules and alcohol to be certain she couldn’t be saved this time, a plastic bag over her head and taped around her neck, just to make sure. Her Certificate of Death states: immediate cause of death, ASPHYXIA, PLASTIC BAG OVER FACE, in all caps. My mother took her own life not because she’d gone mad, but because she was done.

Chuck

The Whittier police called Carleen, and Carleen called Chuck. Chuck said, “She’s your mother, you go identify her.

Just the idea of needing help, but worse, of having to ask for it, comes hard in my family. No wonder. My sister went to the morgue by herself. My brother-in-law added another nail to his coffin.

I was baffled and befuddled, not that Mom was dead, but that I fell apart. At first I was confused, like I didn’t get what Carleen had told me. The room was white and all I could hear was a silent roar. A couple of minutes passed. I simply sat there, not breathing, perplexed. And when it hit me, a river poured out of me, watering my regret as I slumped on my sister’s couch: regret for my mother, for her wasted life, for myself, for the dashed chances of her loving me, my slim chances evaporating into none, and regret that I would never understand the why of it all. I also wanted her to apologize, not so much for being a crappy mother, but for the disappointing way things turned out. My mind was relieved. My body was slammed by a hurricane.

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
All rights reserved.

Comments

  1. My two oldest sisters were caught in similar tragedies, including shock treatments, and no one really knew how to help. Thank heavens there’s a lot more info these days about mental illness, and ways to get help. I think your mom would be grateful for your in-depth assessment of her and, finally, your compassion after so much rejection and pain and confusion. So well written. You did for a lot of us!

  3. The oxygen just got sucked out of this room. I send my hugs and love. There are some incidents that even time doesn’t cure. You wrote of it beautifully.

  6. There is no consolation for such a loss and words are no consolation to you. It is a hand dealt that only those who have received can understand. You are brave to share such a story. It is heartbreaking. No solace can compensate for a loss like that. It was a time that doctors offered no real remedy. Sylvia Plath had the same challenges. She lasted only to 30. Your mom fought hard. She was a victim of unresolved issues. “The mind is it’s own place and in itself can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven.” John Milton

  7. What pain for all of you. My aunt had electric shock treatments several times and my grandparents took care of my brother and me while our mom went back to Illinois to care for her sister’s 5 kids. My aunt’s husband was a doctor… The mysteries of the human mind… What causes such absolute unhappiness…?

    • My mother may have had shock treatments more than once, but no one is left to confirm that. I tried to get her records from Norwalk and Camarillo to no avail. I write about the rest in the next three chapters as to perhaps why. And then, I’m done.

  8. I see you on the dance floor, tall, statuesque, grounded, gliding; from the outside, you look like someone gently embraced by life, wrapped in a space where sadness, pain and brutality might brush up against you, but never barge in. And then I read your writing and am reminded how external costumes can so easily mask deeper truths. Thank you for your sharing.

  11. That had to be hard on you to lose your mother that way. Death of family member is always hard I know. Out of our 8 children (combined family) we only have 4 daughters left so I know the hurt death brings. My heart goes out to you.

  12. There’s several instances of mental illness and alcoholism in my family. No matter the cause, it’s always tragic when people succumb to their demons. It affects everyone in their universe. You write about it well, and my heart goes out to you.