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A Four Letter Word

A Hopeful Memoir

By Sasha BoileauPublished 7 years ago 18 min read
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Reality can change and be twisted or completely turned upside down. This story follows the series of events concerning my mother’s stroke. Every emotion that I never shared.

As a young girl, I didn’t act or think like the other kids. I value morals and honesty; I see value in hope and open minds. This, amongst other things, set me apart. The thing that drove a wedge between myself and the other kids was that I had a mental illness that I was diagnosed with a bit later in life. I started the war in my own mind around the same time my mom started getting "sick."

Before that, however, my mother was my best friend and I told her everything I couldn’t tell the friends that I didn't have. I knew the people who would become my best friends in the future; at the time though, talking about anything deeper than cartoons made them uncomfortable. My mom was different, she was always interested in my words. I don’t remember much more about her before the stroke. My only memory from before is a single car ride. My mother gave me some of her wisdom and I remember thinking that I’d always remember it but all I recall is the image of her in the front seat looking back at me in the rearview mirror. I knew, even then, that she worked two jobs while my father was going through multiple surgeries for his physical injuries.

My father has a bad back; his spinal cord was being cut by his disks and got to the point where there was no cure. The doctors told him they couldn’t reverse the effects. He came upon this injury over many years of over exerting himself. His choice to support us was slowly killing him. No matter what though, my mom and dad were a team. Being polar opposites, my mom and dad fought a lot but somehow they were a perfect match. My father found a new way to amaze my mom every day and says I take after him. My mom kept my dad grounded and stable. Both my mom and dad believe strongly in horoscopes and they were yin and yang, on the opposite sides of the Libra sign, the scale of the Libra became a very important symbol to them both. It became almost an ironic memory of the women my mother used to be—her first self.

I can’t recall when she first started getting sick. My eleven year-old mind thought it was just a cold. I do, however, remember the last few days before the woman I knew left us and came back anew. My mother laid on our ugly brown couch incoherent and unable to talk or stand. For what seemed like days, she barely moved. I remember this image was the first time I started to feel afraid for her.

Our trailer, a bundle of messy blankets and clothes, dishes and wrappers layered the area, though it wasn’t her mess. My home had never been the cleanest and always filled with boxes or piles of roughly organized papers. They tried hard to make our limited space look nice. My father was often embarrassed of our humble and cluttered life. We never had much of green value; everything was generations old and never cost a dime to us—except in physical space.

My mother just laid there in a mess for what seemed to be weeks, but was only two days, my father insisting that she goes into the hospital all the while. She only got up to use the bathroom. When I say "got up" I use the phrase loosely as she’d crawl on the floor to get to her destination, hysterically crying because the world spun around her.

Regardless of my home environment, the next day, I got home from the Bullock Creek Middle School. I found an empty house, aside from my younger brother and I. I remember so clearly thinking, "Dad must’ve taken her to the hospital” and that was as true as it could have been.

My father came home and looked at me in a way that I already knew things were bad. I don't remember thinking her dead but I remember feeling so much concern for his next words.

“Your mom’s staying at the hospital; she had a stroke.” The look of guarded caution made the pain grow; I cried, I couldn’t help but cry. Tears streamed down my face as if attempting to form a river to wash away the world. I can't remember how my brother reacted; I was only aware of myself and of my father's face. I was frozen in place until I couldn't take being seen anymore, I was in between wanting to be hugged and told it would be alright and wanting to take it in a strong, honorable way, and in the end, I simply left for my room. Crying for hours took its toll and I fell into a dark sleep I had wished I wouldn't wake from. I don’t remember my dad waking me up the next morning for school but I got my brother ready while my father left for the hospital.

My brother can be a tad bit of a demon in the mornings and so I’d have to pick out his clothes, his shoes, and anything else he needed before getting dressed myself. He took on no responsibility of his own and ignored the situation as much as he could, but at such a young age, blame wasn't much of an option. My father, on the other hand, had injuries that made his life hell at the time. I don't know how he scrambled to do all he did for us. My father took on working and supporting us—more so than I will ever realize. He took on everything that my age prevented me from taking care of myself.

School was a responsibility I couldn’t skip either. Though it had crossed my mind to stay home, it was only out of complete laziness. I found myself in school. The first thing I did was see Mrs. Fermoyle. The school counselor had become a very important person in my life after my suicidal attempts had brought me to her help. She is a rather large woman with a butt bigger than a doorway and long curled brown hair. She never seemed embarrassed or offset by her odd appearance. She’d have to angle herself to get through the door ways but she was always very pretty. Her confidence made her pretty.

I don’t know why, it just seemed natural that I would tell her what happened, though I never cried in front of her. I expressed how I felt, confused, hurt, scared, and alone without showing my weakness. She asked if it was okay to email my teachers about my current state and I agreed without any care about what they knew. I remember so vividly walking through the halls and finding myself stopped by a teacher. I don't remember his face but he looked at me and said: “I can’t believe you're at school today, if you need anything…” I was caught on the first part and was already fighting tears. I don’t remember his face because I couldn’t bring myself to raise my eyes from the floor in the first place. It never occurred to me to not go to school out of grief, never occurred to me that I just tried so hard to keep things together and as normal as I could.

Eventually, simply being a child who didn't make a fuss wasn't an option anymore. I had to step up to support my family, help my brother and my father. Food never came easy to us as we’ve always been far below the poverty threshold. Now with money as tight as it could be, my options were limited: step up or sit back. I began by taking food from my lunches home and progressed into working in the school cafeteria in exchange for food. They had offered it to me for free but as a member of the Boileau household, I will not dishonor myself by taking what isn't deserved or earned. I worked, every day, and took the consequences that came with it. Consequences seems a funny word when at first glance—I'm simply working for food—but underneath there is much more.

I stated previously about my mental illness, hatewell, to explain how that takes place in my story, here it is. I had Dissociation, meaning that I cut myself off from my emotions for many years and eventually became delusional. As that is the effect of no treatment. As stated, I had recently gotten out of my own mind and into the world I know now. Unfortunately, I felt every emotion I had suppressed throughout the years. The world I saw was one of self-hate and hate for others. I realized that I wasn't the only one whom I involved in my delusions. I was picked on and put in lockers, laughed at by people I had previously trusted with my whole self. This plays into lunch duty because every day before lunch older kids would stand outside the lunch entrance and mock my mental delusions; I would have to pass them to then serve them their food. The embarrassment burned at my heart sometimes, but I had work to do. It wasn't much, but I was too young to work or drive or do anything to truly contribute so this was at least something. We didn’t starve and that was a blessing I was able to provide and so I took this torment for two years as well as developed my own physical hinder.

Working in the kitchen wasn't an awful experience. The lunch ladies were kind and I did my job well but after feeding every other kid, I was last to eat with less than five minutes to devour the only meal I was certain to receive. This, overtime, caused my body to have a negative reaction. My trachea will start to spazz if I eat too quickly, I wouldn't be able to breath or cry out at the pain in my throat and chest. After the diagnosis, it took years to eat without pain. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fix all that I lost because of it. It took an ability from me, the ability to run. I used to play every sport I could: track, girls on the run, anything that involved running. I can no longer run. There were coaches discussing scholarships to college with me for my strength and speed but now I'm nothing more than a wannabe of my former self trying to do the impossible. With sports no longer a part of my life, I took up more work with neighbors and helped my dad out more as he was the only one able to see my mother. I used to give dad things, notes, to take to her in the intensive care unit—I wasn't aware that she couldn't comprehend them. Neither her or I remember what I wrote.

My days followed as such: wake up, wake up my brother, get him ready, get ready myself, go to school, go home, go to the neighbor’s house and work, walk or ride my bike to the nearest store to buy milk or bread (even if I was tempted to get a treat and spend what I earned selfishly), ride home, fight with my brother to do his homework ( while ignoring my own) and so on and so forth. The honest truth is the stress I was under didn’t phase me as much as it should have. Stress has always been apart of my life—especially at this point—however when you never have a moment of relaxation, you don’t even notice your own suffocating stress.

Time passed, however slow, April first came about and it was the first time we’d be able to see my mother, it was my brothers’ birthday and seeing his mother was the only thing he would get that year. More time passed and eventually mom came home but that wasn’t the end of our battle.

The truth is: this is all a summary. Bits and pieces of a child's memory. No matter the pain or fear, if pain isn't held onto, time will force its fading touch. I remember… I remember… I keep expressing pictures and images as if they tell the story I slave to remember myself. My mom spent two weeks in the hospital—although it felt much longer. My mom had so many accomplishments and was approaching her masters degree in college. She went away for two weeks and came back as a person I no longer knew.

I remember finding out that I could no longer truly talk to my mother. After her stroke she became inherently selfish and every pain I would express to her would be thrown back into my face. I knew then, as I do now, that she never meant to make anyone feel that way and was only expressing the emotions she’d never experienced before. Even so, as such a young girl, I was relied on to hold my head up and hold up my mother's, listen to her cry and complain knowing full well I wasn't allowed to. Watching my parents begin to argue daily and I was the one who silently heard each negative thing they had to say for one another. My father would talk of leaving and divorce, and even at times killing himself, and my mother talk about how unfair the world is to her and how much of an asshole my father can be at times, how my brother always was so cruel and screamed at her (which is true, although fairly, she did a good amount of screaming too). My father telling me how much he just didn't understand how to talk to her and my mother mirroring his words—both implying a need of answers from a child who had yet to even pass her middle school classes. It was hard to be honest, because sometimes you don't know the answer, or worse, you know, but would hate to say it. I was often put in this position. I found that I’d rather be blinded by the light of shifting truth as it’s seen rather than an ignorance formed from fear and dark neglect.

Many years passed since then and many things have changed during those years. My mother came home and was no longer a happy person; she came home an angry, confused stranger. Although her stroke had passed, she stayed in bed for days depressed and angry. Angry at herself or her world, her cards in life perhaps? In a way—I understood—she no longer knew herself. I remember she would get angry and sleep on the floor some nights, I’d stay up all night, watching her breathe, making sure she never stopped. She could no longer work or keep her calm. She’d scream at the world and throw tantrums. In a way, she became a child younger than me.

I used to cry and scream at the world in privacy, the same way she did. I’d scream about the confusion I had as to why this happened to us, what I did to deserve this? I’d beg to gods I never believed in on the small chance they were there, pleaded that they’d make everything okay again. It’s true there was an awful time when I thought that if not for the blood in my body I’d hate my mother. I found instead that learning the new her was key to loving her. My mother was a calm women before, collected, cool, witty, and now she’s a creative, emotional, and strong women even if she’s angry and suffering.

Months went by in this similar fashion. Things had changed however, my father hustled money from day to day jobs; I got food in the school kitchen and did labor work for some neighbors for food or gas money. We worked hard, my father and me. We took on responsibilities that shouldn't have been ours to take. I welcomed responsibility, however odd it may be. I never saw it as optional, nor did I care too. Mrs. Fermoyle was always so passionate about how cruel it was that I took care of my mother and brother and did what I did for my family. To me though, that was simply my duty as a member of the Boileau family. Family means more than blood, it means sharing responsibilities without the restrictions of age.

At this time, I was nearly out of middle school as opposed to starting it. I vaguely remember being fourteen at this point. We had protective services stop by more than once, attempting to rip my family apart. People who believe they know of one right way to live attempting to force their way on us. These were the times where my family was forced to either come together or allow us to be stolen away for those who play “god.” They attempted to take us away three times—being called for my writing (apparently my fiction writing is a tad too dark for some), the messiness of our home, and the simple combination of both—I must be abused. These people sicken me, still to this day I live in fear to write. I’m not abused; truth be told, I’ve never even been spanked. My writing is a symbol of hope and my house is messy because my family is lucky enough to have things to be a mess.

Time did help heal my family but more than just time can change things, I had realized something of my months of pleading, that no one can paint your perspective for you. For a long while, it seemed as if our canvas had reached its limit and there was no good fortune, no more colors, to paint our futures. I was wrong, grateful, I was very wrong. No one tries to go outside their frames when painting but we left those limits behind and used our frame to paint amongst the walls, as cliché as it is to say, truth still rings in it.

My parents slowly stopped fighting and my brother started growing up, even if the progress was slow. At this time, I was nearly out of middle school as opposed to starting it. Slowly my family found ways to love each other again, see each other for who they had become rather than who they were. We eventually got the food card, though my father still struggled with work and my mother no longer can work. My mom showed an overwhelming dedication to my brother and me. She takes on the role of a mother best she can. She tries to hear us now, although selfishness still shows through towards the world outside my brother and I. Even when she’s attempting to sleep away her reality but still, she tries. The responsibilities hadn’t much changed but the reason to keep going became clearer, for all of us.

I recall the day my father expressed to me that Mom wasn’t going to get better; he was wrong. My mother has spent years angry and is still to this day, however, she does things the doctors said she’d never do, handle things she shouldn't be able to. My mom eventually got out of bed and for a while, mixed emotions took hold of me. I had gone from being the adult in the family to being the kid once more. More than that I found my mother trying through her emotional pains, I saw my father stay when leaving would have been easier.

My story has no real ending. I have no close—my family still stands strong together even if I wonder and question at times. We’re here. The Boileau family is here. We have hope even if nothing else. My family has a deepness and bond that I can’t even quite express. A woman once emotionless turned passionate, a young boy once oblivious became aware, a girl once hopeless found a reason and a father once gone found himself home. This is the result of my mother’s stroke. Pain heals overtime, once forgiven it will eventually be forgotten. Change, however, cannot be undone. Hope found my family, though it's all we have, I find that it is enough.

Many would imagine my family to be a bunch of fools. We all stay when it’d be easier to go, we all dream when it’d be easier to let go, we all hope when hate comes naturally. We are fools, I am at least. I dream of a future I’ll never see, strive for a goal impossible to explain. I am a fool, but a fool I’m happy to be. Hope gives me the ability to strive for greatness: my mother the drive to get up and try again today, my father the will to keep his smile and my brother the idealism to keep himself growing. So yes, indeed, we are fools. Full of dreams and fictional tomorrows. The cruel truth is in the reality of perspective. My mother had a stroke and I lost the only women I knew as a mother, but she came back anew. I can choose to resent her or appreciate a side I never got to see. The world we see is based of perspectives, however, only fools seem to dream. A four letter word creates the future. As long as hope survives in this world, my family will keep dreaming and working to follow endless paths made of untouched fool’s gold.

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About the Creator

Sasha Boileau

Hi! I'm currently studying to be a secondary education English Teacher. I have published books ranging from young adult fiction to childrens books. I joined Vocal for a place to share an unedited array of peices, I hope you enjoy them!

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