The Tamma Story

Grief from the death of a loved one goes with the "Senior Territory". So many of my friends have asked about Tamma that I have decided to share this.  If you lose someone one of the few positives is that after a time your memories can be selective and you can choose to remember only the good.  A few years ago I wrote this when things were raw.  My memories now are more selective of this very special sweet loving person who is no longer with us.

Say Goodnight Gracie

“The Heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of”. 

Blaise Pascal

She had the windows closed and the air conditioner off.

“Those damn sirens!”

“I know it’s stuffy in here.  But if I open the windows you can hear them”.

 You know, the “Delray Beach Ambulance Club. The free Medicaid ride to the hospital”.

“Please… tell them I’m trying to sleep”.

He has heard it before.

This rant barks from a mouth parked parallel to a king sized Westin Hotel pillow attached to a slender t-shirted female frame reclined on a king sized Sealy. It’s not the W but her apartment in Delray Beach, Florida. Actually his apartment. Their sixth in seven years.  He moved out.

Her bedroom looks like a hotel room at Circus Circus Vegas after a week of gambling and drinking.  There are multiple ash trays that are no longer “cleanable”; doggie bags that may or may not contain edible substances; folded aluminum foil balls that contain either the remnants of ash from her precious crack pipe or just plain cigarette ash.  Somehow she knows the difference.  And then there are slippers and robes that may be for warm or cold weather or more likely for pre or post hangover and of course Vodka bottles.  When she was a beginner they were classy bottles and brands like Ciroc, Grey Goose and Belvedere.  Now they were store brands or worse like a jug bottle of Costco.

Nothing was hung but rather arranged in piles based on utility. A pile for stepping out of the shower.  A pile for having to go downstairs to the kitchen.  A pile for vehicle travel without leaving the vehicle and a pile for vehicle travel when you have to leave the vehicle.  This last pile essentially just added a jacket.

There were things to make her nails look less like the ruined cracked remnants they were.  Not as bad as “Lee Press On’s” but borderline. And then there were the bed toys.  The things you see advertised on late night TV.  The newest is some kind of vibrating back rest so you can sit up in bed and watch TV until you die from cigarette smoke.  Her cigarette smoke is winning its battle over the new heavy duty Sharper Image Air Cleaner.  A four hundred dollar lie.  And of course along with the smoke comes the ubiquitous cigarette burns. These marked yellow and brown trails randomly spot the cheap but new carpet and even test the rubber backed mattress cover. He thinks: “Is there a more fragrant violation of my lease terms than these burn marks in my smoke free apartment”?

She seems to be corresponding with someone. There are small legal pads everywhere with notes and lists and still larger pads with block letters reminiscent of a serial killer’s note to the newspaper announcing its next victim.

Pill bottles are everywhere.  Some with names ending in “azapam” for fun and others supposed to help her bi polar condition. So says Doctor “New Black Lexus convertible” who would write a nun a prescription for heroin if asked.

And there he stands, the poster boy for codependency barely taking it all in because it now is so familiar:

It’s still her turn:

So, did they get the sushi right?”

“Toro, Ikura, Inari.”

I hope you didn’t tip those assholes?

“You’d think after all the money I’ve given them that they wouldn’t give me a hard time. 

Big deal so I slurred a little in their precious restaurant.  Screw them! 

I didn’t try to order a drink.  I was just waiting for their overpriced sushi.

If they don’t want me in the place they should deliver”.

“Anyway, THANK YOU”.

“You didn’t have to drive over to pick it up. But I wasn’t going to wait there and let them continue to humiliate me.”

SCREW THEM.

Have you eaten?

Finally he speaks: “Yes dear its 10.  I ate at 6.”

“It’s 10”?

PM? Or AM?

PM

Ok then”.

II

It had started in a restaurant.  Not what you would think. Not late at night. Not “the place to be”, just a restaurant that served a great burger and fries and a good pour after a hard game of racquet ball. A place that had a long bar and draft beer. A place that had trail mix.

He was a divorced father who had moved back to his home town. No one does that. Once escaped you remain on the lam. But here he was moved back with a house in the woods, a little more money than the average home town boy and the social maturity of an eighteen year old, at least when it came to dating.  And lots of time since he had not yet discovered what the next business engagement would be. He said to his friends “he was for then committed to reestablishing a close relationship with his boys”. And frankly he would add: “I already met and discarded the one love of my life and am not likely to find another”.

He was alone at a table.  Not even sitting at the bar. There were only two girls at the bar and they were laughing and looked as if they had been friends since nursery school. The taller girl was very angular and quite attractive.  The smaller girl was at first glance your typical Jewish yenta.  He used to call them “tits on sticks”.  Large breasts, no ass and skinny legs. And of course no “verbal holdback.”

It went something like this: The smaller girl walks over to the table.  Much cuter than he had noticed at first glance.   Skin like a little china doll. He guessed mid twenties (she was 32).

“My girl friend would like to meet you.”

He responds: “That’s it. 

No “Hello my name is ____, he gestures to her.“ My girl friend would like to meet you. “

She shrugs: “OK, I’m Tamma.

 “What about Tamma.  Doesn’t Tamma want to meet me.” He inquires.

“Tamma is already taken.”

“OK I’ll meet your friend, but when “Tamma is no longer taken”, here is my card.  Call me and we can have dinner”.

Seven days later, about 7 in the evening on a Saturday night, while he was getting ready for a date with a friend of a friend from out of town, he gets a call. 

“Hi. Tamma is no longer taken.  I’ll be over at 9.”

 And she was.

She wore the same dress she had on at the bar, drove some yellow car he had never seen before (a Pontiac Arrow) told him to tell his date “something came up”. She never left his side until he moved out fourteen years later.

III

Downstairs in Delray Beach, the kitchen was Spartan, well organized and spotless.  Clearly he no longer lived there. The disarray in her mind had not transferred to the one place still sacred to her. She was a quality self taught cook who had raised her brothers and sister while her schizophrenic mother raved on.  She followed the Michael Pollan rules and ate: “real food, mostly plants, not too much”.

She would eat steamed vegetables and drink herbal tea, because “eating right was the thing to do” but at the same time self medicate with drugs and alcohol.

“I thought you ate already.” The muffled voice whispers as she descends from the staircase. “If you’re hungry, I’ll cook you something.”

She wears a K Mart robe and slippers his granddaughter likes, with a bear at the end by the toes. She is naked under the robe with her skinny legs exposed and black and blue marks everywhere.  As if her liver were screaming: “Notice me, I’m dying!”

The downstairs of the condo apartment is untouched except for the couch which now has a large burn hole in the leather where she fell asleep with a lit cigarette. The art he left behind is still not on the walls.  He barely remembers the name of the last four apartment buildings where it hung before the couple was nicely asked to leave or pleaded with to leave, because of frequent police visits. But for now there was no cop at the door asking him “sotto voce” to please commit her.

OK he says: Do you have any eggs?

“But of course”. She smiles

She perches on one leg with the other foot firmly on her other thigh.  How or rather why does she do that he thinks.  And then it starts:

“I don’t know why you have to move out and pay two rents. You know you’ll never divorce me.  And besides if you leave me “who will have a girl such as myself”.

“Someone with lots of money who likes to do drugs”.  He responds.

“And you never did drugs when you were my age? What a hypocrite. Cocaine, pot, quaaludes.  You did it all”.

He wants to battle back but he had given up these contests. And contestant number one was in her bathrobe with a distended stomach, jaundiced eyes and a belly retaining fluids and a failing liver.

OK you win. I’ll eat my egg and go but remember the doctor appointment is tomorrow at 4 o’clock.  It’s been over four months. You missed the last two and this time its in the afternoon so no excuses.  I’ll pick you up at 3:30.

She says: No. 3:45

Bye Tamma. 


He shouldn’t but he holds her while her yellow eyes tear and she moves her head almost to his lips to kiss him, but stops just short.

“How come you won’t make love to me. You won’t even go to a marriage counselor. You won’t even give me another chance.”

He kisses each of her moist eyes and says: Bye Tamma.

With his exit he notices a new dent in the garage door and more scratches on what is left of her BMW Z3. He can’t report another accident.  She is still on his insurance. “Who would have a girl such as herself”.  Not Progressive or Allstate. Not with two DUI’s. 

He remembered beating the rap for her once years ago without the need of his lawyer skills.

IV

She usually drove under the influence of something or other. If not illegal drugs or alcohol, then prescribed drugs that impair your ability to drive.  She was also a very bad driver on her best day.

It was two years ago. He was at home wondering where the hell she was since she was only going to the drug store to buy something related to her nails. All she needed was polish and some kind of number something file. But over two hours had passed. For anyone else this would be cause for concern but for Tamma every turn of the aisle was another adventure that could delay her. She was always shamelessly late.

She could have called him on her cell phone or returned his calls to her cell phone but that would require her hearing the ring of the phone which was usually swallowed underneath her seat along with diet soda cans and mystery tissues.  So when she finally answered his fifth or sixth call he was relieved until she responded by saying: “I’m lost.” This was a surprise since the Walgreen was less than three quarters of a mile from the house. She said she was near the car wash so he immediately knew where she was and started to tell her she was only a few blocks away. But then the only response was “Oh Shit” and then the cell phone played a “capture and arrest” scene as she was pulled over.

He could hear the officer ask for her license and registration and her slurred response: “I don’t know where the hell it is”.  That was the signal to turn off the TV and throw on the jeans and drive over to the intersection where he suspected she was being stopped. Approximately 8 minutes later his suspicions were confirmed as he watched her stand on the corner of the street with her hands behind her back tied with the new plastic restraints that have replaced handcuffs.

Seeing her on the corner in handcuffs was not the shock for him it would have been for a normal husband. It was just another adventure in the world of aberrant behavior. So his response was not: “Hey I’m an attorney let me speak to my client.” It was instead:

“Officer, that’s my wife. Can I speak to you for a moment?

“Listen sir”, the officer responds, “She’s gone. You’ll have to talk to her tomorrow.” We can hold her 12 hours before we have to book her for DUI.”

Now feigning innocence he ignores the lawyer crap which he knows won’t work and responds: “Oh no you misunderstand. I don’t know anything about that. I just want to make sure she has her medicine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d like not to shout at you. Can you come a little closer? It’s a bit embarrassing.”

He approaches.

“Listen, you can take her in and have her blow that thing you use all day but she isn’t drunk she’s just on some crazy prescription drugs.

“What do you mean? If she’s impaired SHE SHOULDN’T BE DRIVING.”

“I cannot argue with that. I don’t know if she’s legally impaired. Her drugs are legally prescribed and she forgot them earlier and so if you are taking her in she MUST have them. I only live around the corner. Just please let me get them for her.”

She is now sitting down on the sidewalk looking like she couldn’t care less and in fact is trying to scratch her nose with her shoulder with her arms behind her back and finding her failed attempts amusing.

The cop says: What do you mean she MUST have them. What happens when she doesn’t take her meds?

“The truth, officer, which I didn’t want to shout, is: SHE IS SEVERLY MENTALLY ILL and those drugs keep her from flying out of control.”

He looks at her again, now even more involved in the nose scratch attempt.

“What exactly do you mean by flying out of control?”

“Well for openers” he says “she may try to bite you.

Later he’d say in his defense, “I don’t like to lie to police, although they of course lie all the time, but actually she was nuts and didn’t people do that kind of thing if they were crazy enough. So I exaggerated a little”.

The officer who he was talking to was obviously the older senior guy, and he shouted to his younger partner.  


“Henry: Cut her loose.”

“Alright, he began,” here’s the deal. Get her out of here. Take her home. And then get her car out of here within the hour. If I see her in the car in the next 12 hours she goes to jail meds or not.

And so she gets in the car and looks at me and says: “Walgreen didn’t have the proper nail files. Can you take me to CVS? 

V

Was he George Burns to her Gracie Allen or was he as crazy as she?  George would say:”Bottoms Up.” Gracie would then ask “Isn’t that an awfully awkward position.” 

He remembered the episode when the officer came to the house to arrest Gracie for multiply unpaid parking tickets but meeting George the officer felt so sorry for him for being married to her that he ripped up the tickets.

At the end of some shows George would say to Gracie: Say goodnight Gracie” and she would respond “Goodnight Gracie.”

What was the hold? Was it all about codependency?  He had started to go to Al-Anon meetings but they were a nasty crew these Al-an-on-ers. Throw the baby out with the bath water. Basically wash your hands of the drunk. Maybe his problem was that he believed mental illness was actually a physical disease.  Not a popular view in the United States. She needed both a real doctor and real therapist.  And then maybe spiritual help. He tried both for her. Nothing works if you’re not willing to get well.

But that was history.  Now the issue was: should she get the death penalty for being a drunken self medicating bi polar daughter of a schizophrenic? Maybe he’d find out tomorrow.

VI

The real blood had hit the fan four months ago.

He was asleep in the other bedroom.  Actually on the floor, on a Futon, while she was on her king size throne.  Their relationship war was on a hold pattern because of his procrastination and lack of energy and her deliberate attempt to tone it down; the rhetoric if not the drugs and alcohol.  But then the dam broke.

He heard her vomit and then yell to him. He saw a toilet bowl full of blood.  It was 3 am.

“I’m OK”. She says.

“I’m not going to the emergency room and your health insurance stinks. 

I promise if I bleed again I’ll go in the morning. 

Go back to bed.”

Minutes later, it happens again.  This time she does not make it to the bathroom and does the exorcist thing on the floor.  He picks her up and throws her in the car and speeds to the hospital emergency room. The waiting room is packed, and the normally polite restrained husband is now screaming “bleeder.” Where did he hear this: a TV rerun of ER?

She is immediately wheeled away from the stunned waiting room sufferers while he signs papers answering legal questions as to whether or not he is empowered in various ways and of course whether or not the hospital has any hope of payment.

Once in the small internal waiting room she vomits blood into the sink in huge globs of red congealed matter.  In his shock he uses his hand to force these unwanted discharges down the sink hole. Not a wise move.

Now all she wants is water and clonazepam; two things she definitely cannot have.

He discovers from her own confession that she swallowed four pills before she was admitted to calm herself.

Enter the resident, who has branded her one more drug infected alcoholic who has ruined herself and treats her accordingly. Maybe a true assessment but you want more for your loved ones and expect more from the hired help.

And then since Tamma has uttered obscenities at a decibel level that could annoy even deeply sedated people, she is suddenly visited by Dr. Harvey Cohen chief gastroenterologist of the hospital who essentially breaks it all down for the happy couple. 

She needs surgery (the endoscope procedure) which he would normally do immediately but he needs a little more history on her so she will remain in the hospital overnight with of course no water (so he can do the tests he needs) and no fun drugs.

Tamma can live without food or drink for several days but not without drugs or alcohol which (without another entire long narrative description) ultimately results in her being physically restrained and “Baker Acted” by her psychiatrist also on the staff of the hospital.  She is treated against her will.

She does get scoped, banded up and ultimately sent home after much screaming mostly at him for being such a wimp. The follow up is scheduled for four months later.

VII

After the first hospital visit, when he saw her take another drink, he moved out. She really didn’t protest.  She must have understood that even a sick codependent had his limits.

VIII

The morning of the follow-up with Dr. Harvey Cohen, the weather man surprised everyone by announcing the hurricane’s trajectory was now moved west to destroy other people’s lives instead of theirs.  Was this a good omen. He knew she was still drinking. The drugs were probably still in her life as well. Yet the horrible consequences of alcoholism were not within the range of possibilities he considered for her on the 30 minute drive to her apartment. People with hopelessly damaged livers didn’t look like her and they were not in their forties.  Or ?

She was on time and dressed and actually waiting outside for him.  She was as alert as he had seen her in the last several months.  She had on sun glasses so he couldn’t really tell how jaundiced her eyes were but her belly was not swollen nor did she look like she was hung over. Could she be getting better?

He was there to make sure she showed up but also for moral support, but as the car pulled into the medical building he lost it and was in tears.

“What are you worried about big boy?”

“If I die look at all the alimony you’ll save. And besides remember how short my life line is.  Remember the palm reading. This was never supposed to be a happy ending”.

In the lobby he noticed the elderly patients he used to find amusing.  The geriatric army that seemed to live there.  Pushing their walkers and staring into space with vacant eyes. They were old.  They were supposed to die. Not a kid.  Not her.  Never me.

She signed in at Dr. Harvey’s office and then he told her he would wait for her in the hall.  He really did not want to see the doctor.  They were no longer living together and although they were not yet divorced he intended that they be soon.  He would listen to Harvey’s instructions for her rehab and cure but she was on her own.  If she wanted to get better, she had to do this herself. This lie sounded good to him and he marched outside.

Twenty minutes later he poked his head back in the lobby and didn’t see her.  The receptionist said she was in with Harvey.  He went back outside looking for a restroom.

When he returned she was smoking a cigarette sitting on the ground outside Harvey’s office in the open air hall. 

“Well I’m dead”.

“What do you mean”.  No more drinking, of course. 

Did he say no smoking either?”.

“No.  He told me I only have six months at most to live”.

“What!”

He went charging back into Dr. Harvey Cohen’s office, ignored the receptionist and banged on Harvey’s door.

“Did you tell her she has six months left to live?”

“I did”, he says, if she keeps drinking which she obviously is doing.

“If she’s living alone she will also probably bleed out in her sleep, too weak to call for help.”

“Well what if she has a nurse and does everything she is supposed to.  Then what is her prognosis.”

 “Maybe a couple of years. Her liver is very damaged.  I’m sorry.”

Out on the office deck where the smoker sits, apparently without an apparent care in the world, all he can muster is : “no he did not say you would be dead in six months”.  “Only if you keep drinking”.  He ignored the rest of the conversation with Harvey about the two years.  He was sure she never entertained that polemic. Hell he could be dead in two years he rationalized.  So he hugged her and drove her home with a promise of dinner in a few days. Like no big deal.

Once alone, he accepted the obvious, that she would not stop drinking and could die. So beautiful, so young yet so damaged.  If she were to die what would die within him, or would the converse occur. Would he reawaken from the dead.

Epilogue:

It was a paper box that could have held a new router or portable clock radio.  There was a wall of these boxes all the same size as if one size fits all: a sumo wrestler or ballerina.   On the cover of his box was an envelope addressed to the Memorial Company (Levitt-Weinstein) and the Certificate of Cremation for Tamma, done up like a prize.  Inside the envelope another card Permit No. 422 signed by the Crematory.

He didn’t want to open the box and didn’t want to deal with the contents until he had thought it through but then it was Tamma and he could imagine her saying: “what the hell is your problem…do this now I’m not staying on the floor in your shitty filthy car. Put me in the ocean.”

So he thought about where.  Was there a board walk so the ashes wouldn’t blow back on the beach? Did it matter? Were there rules about this stuff? Should he wait until it was dark? Say a special prayer?

He ended up on the beach in Delray by a restaurant called Luna Rosa because she loved to go there and we had spent most of our Florida time in Delray. It was raining now and so he just grabbed the box and dashed to the water and sat down on the sand and opened the box. He pulled out the clear heavy plastic bag and dropped it in the sand between his legs.

The stuff inside (Tamma stuff) looked just like the sand but not as fine.  It didn’t look like ashes.

And then there was this plastic brad holding the bag together that clearly required a tool to safely remove. He could imagine a frustrated mourner just heaving the bag directly in the water or tearing the bag and having the ashes blow everywhere. So he worked the tab up the bag using my fingers like a needle nose pliers and somehow got it off.

He put his hand in the bag and let the ashes fall through my fingers. Inside the bag was a metal coin stamped ABCO Crematory 30336. With the bag open he walked into the ocean up to about his waste. He forgot his wallet was still in his jeans.  He let the ashes fall into kind of a milky cover like creamer in your coffee. He was alone with her.  


No rabbi, no body in a box, no family and only one mourner.