Ice Cold.

I am a stupid, fat, dumb, ugly pig. Don't believe me? I would refer you to the fount of all knowledge, my mom, but, she died two months ago just to prove her point. Every thing I ever did could have and should have been done better. Even my failures did not meet her standards for failing.

I remember the first, perhaps the only, compliment she ever gave me. I was in fifth grade. I dressed myself in a sweater and a skirt and came downstairs for breakfast. Mom told me the outfit looked nice. That not even she had thought of pairing that sweater with that skirt. In my fifty years of life, not living just existing that is my fondest memory of my mom. The number of let downs, disappointments are far too numerous to detail.

Mom smoked and drank beer. Ice cold beer. I hated for her to kiss me on the cheek. Her lipstick left a red ring frosted by the beer and her breath could have intoxicated innocent bystanders. Generally when I think of mom the memory of her playing bumper cars off the hallway walls as she made her way to bed each night stands out clearly.

Before she could go any where or do any thing she had to have one more swig of beer and that last drag off her cigarette. That last swig and drag off her cigarette was worth missing my graduation when I finished nursing school.

Every day she hated me. And every day that hatred spewed forth from her ice cold, beer breath lips.

There had to be three cases of beer in the house at all times. That doesn't mean an opened case with one missing and two full cases. It meant three full cases of beer. There was also the storm cellar beer. There had to be two cases of beer in the storm cellar. Just in case a natural disaster occurred and she was unable to reach her normal stash. Occasionally we rotated the beer from the storm cellar to the supply stash because she did not want her beer to get stale.

I believe that people are not born failures. Failures are created by people at home, at school and even in the church. Location doesn't matter. Where ever there are hurting people they are hurting people. And it doesn't happen over night. It took years and years of demeaning to become the successful failure I am today. Or should that be years and years to be an unsuccessful failure?

Mom was not a happy drunk. She was cruel. She knew exactly when, where and how deep to thrust the knife. She was a miserable drunk. The only thing that brought her any joy was another beer so she could enhance her misery.

The only time mom ever checked herself into a hospital except to have children I knew it would also be her last. I knew she wouldn't be coming home. She had been sick for years and never sought any kind of medical intervention. She weighed 90lbs and her osteoporosis took her from 5'5" to 4'11". I don't know exactly what I saw when she laid down in that hospital bed. Resignation? Perhaps. I just know I saw this tiny frail woman melt in to a yellow spot on an otherwise white sheet. What ever had kept her placing one foot in front of the other and moving on was gone. She knew she would never again have to do any thing for herself. And she was right. Dad and I took care of her for the first two days. After that my brother and sisters arrived and took over her care. I saw them giving her exactly the same care I had provided. But, I saw something else too. Love, compassion and grief. I envied them. I envied them because they had a mom they could love. I had to fail, couldn't prove mom wrong on her death bed.

If I sound angry, resentful, and unforgiving, it's because I am. Perhaps that's more about me than about mom. If I forgave mom, there must be a way to forgive myself. Or, like mom, will I take my self-loathing to the grave?

K.A. Shaw