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Life Without a Mother

By Mary Russell

Fifty years ago, on November 12, 1961, I was a 10-year-old child whose life was forever changed when my mother took her own life. I have hesitated to write about it, especially as it pertains to helping others through my experience, as I did not think I could offer any words of advice. However, I might have a few suggestions for those who have more recently suffered such a loss. That will come toward the end.

First, let me tell you about my mom. She and my dad met in Germany. They came from opposite sides of Poland, but were both forced, as healthy, young adults to work on German farms during World War II. It is on one of those farms they met and married. After the war, they were given the choice to go back to Poland or move to Australia, South America, Canada or the United States. Lucky for me, they chose the United States.

My dad was a hard-working man, putting in his 8 hours during the day as a punch press operator, coming home for dinner, and then going out to paint homes at night. He managed to take some English language classes and, being out in the work world, he learned English and adapted to the American way of life much quicker than my mom. Ma was left at home to deal with three small children and taking care of the home and all it entails. I have learned, a little over 3 years ago, that she very much missed her mother, with whom she was very close, and the rest of her family back in Poland. When she came to the U.S., she would never see her family in Poland again.

I was told by an old neighbor and friend of my mom that she suffered from depression. The sense I had of my mother was that she was sad. I rarely saw her smile. I think she was more the quiet, introspective type while my father was gregarious and out-going. We were a Polish-Catholic family living on the northwest side of Chicago. I’m sure things looked O.K. from the outside.

My mom changed her religion to Seventh Day Adventist when I was maybe 7 or 8. This did not sit well with my father, an understatement if there ever was one. In retrospect, I know she was searching for meaning in her life, the meaning of life itself, as some of us do. This change of religions brought even greater disharmony to our family. We went to church with my mother on Saturdays, even though our father forbade us to go while he was at work. On Sundays we would go to the Catholic Church. Monday through Friday we went to our Catholic school.

I vaguely remember my mom going to “rest” in a hospital for awhile. I am sure it was due to her depression, the responsibility of her 3 children, greatly missing her whole family across the ocean, and having a husband who was hard-working and also hard-drinking. I can only surmise that she was “lost,” as all that was familiar to her was far away. Plus, there were barely any medications, if any, to ease depression back in the 60’s.

The night before my mother died, my parents had a big fight. Afterwards, my crying mother took us three children onto her lap and told us she was going to die soon. My brother was 14, I was 10, and my sister was 6. As young children, we dismissed what she was saying, thinking she was just sad about the fight. We assured her that things would be better.

I woke up on Sunday morning to the sound of my father screaming. At the foot of my bed lay my mother, lips and fingernails already blue. She was gone from an overdose of sleeping pills.

After the funeral, we went back to school and lived our lives not speaking of our mother. There was no therapy, no clergy support. Nothing. After all, to others, what she did was a grave sin. I never believed that. Ever. I remember standing at the kitchen sink doing dishes while my brother and father were out doing the grocery shopping. I was still 10. I distinctly remember thinking, “I have to push this down so far inside of myself because there is no one here to help me and I will not survive.” So, I did - until I was 23, married, and we were thinking of starting a family. I was so confused about what it meant to be a mother, as mine died and my father married the proverbial evil step-mother. I barely opened Pandora’s box and what came out with a fury, the thought of which still frightens me, was worse than the pain of my mother’s suicide or any other pain I have experienced since. That is a story for another time.

This gets me back to my few suggestions. Do not bury the pain. It will come out one way or another. Let it come out as you are able to bear it, but please let it work its way out. I do not say this without cringing as I know the almost unbearable pain of losing a loved one to suicide. Find support groups, such as LOSS, and take advantage of all they have to offer. Also, be gentle with yourself. The way I look at suicide is this. People get cancer, breast or otherwise. Most will beat the cancer, some do not. It is the same with mental illness. Some people will beat it or learn to live with it and some blessed souls will not. I don’t even ask “why” anymore. I ask God to give me the strength to deal with what life hands me.

So, what else has life handed me? I have been married to my best friend for 39 years. What I didn’t get in love and acceptance as a child, I have gotten from him. I have two kind children, one of whom was born on the same date, 25 years to the day, on which my mother died. I don’t know exactly what that means, but a sad day was turned into a happy day.

Looking at me, you would not know that I psychologically always walk with a “limp”. Some days the limp is greater than others, but I can deal with it. I am still surprised that I often think of myself as that little 10 year old vulnerable girl. No one else can sense that, not even my husband.

To those who see someone suffering from a family member’s suicide, little things matter. Send a card saying you are thinking of them. Help with the kids. Buy a small gift for the person suffering. Make a meal for the family. Reach out to the teenager. You might not think it matters at the time, but it matters in the long run.

In my case, I will always remember Sister Mary Consolata, my 6th grade teacher. All my nuns were pretty tough in grade school, but she seemed to treat me a little nicer and gave me good grades. Another neighbor woman took my sister and me over night. We dressed in costumes and she made special meals for us. I don’t even remember who she was, but I remember that a human being cared enough to do that. I think those closer to us, my parent’s friends, were grieving themselves and that fact coupled with thinking suicide is a mortal sin, prevented them from helping much.

Not wanting to live when I was in my mid 20’s (that is the other story mentioned earlier) I totally understand why someone would take his or her life. I have experienced that pain, but I held out or maybe it was just not my time. Knowing how it feels, I feel that those who have suffered so much just want their suffering to end. Not seeing an end in sight, they are accepted into God’s loving arms. I imagine God cradles them and they are in perfect peace and love.

We will never be in perfect peace and love on this earth, and especially, if you suffer the loss of a loved one to suicide. You will always “walk with a limp”, but it gets better with time. It also helps to help others when you are able, if you are able.

Love and peace to all of you,

Mary
Daughter of Lucia Elizabeth Koza