The 2016 Open on an Empty Heart

Two weeks ago I sat at my desk at work and the overwhelming feeling that everything wasn’t okay flooded my body. It was around 2:00pm and I realized that I was 7th in the region for the CrossFit Games Open and I hadn’t gotten a text or annoying Facebook post from my mom. Over the past 6 months or so she's sent me a text saying “GAMES 2016” every couple days, and I hadn’t gotten one in almost a week. I had been so stressed about the open it didn’t resonate that I hadn’t heard from my mom, so with a twinge of sarcasm, I texted her:

“You alive?”

That message was never delivered.

As soon as I knew her phone was off, my heart dropped into my stomach. Like the feeling when you get caught in middle school for sneaking out of your house, or when your significant other says they, “need to talk”. My mom never went silent. In the 24 years I had known her, even when she relapsed, her MO was to over-text. If you met my mom, or befriended her on Facebook you know that she was far from quiet in any sense.

So, as fast as I could, I sent a message to anyone I thought she may have contacted asking if they'd heard from her. All with the same response...not for a week or so.

I found out she contacted a friend of hers on the 7th of March asking if she knew of a rehab or detox center nearby, that she had been drinking and needed help ASAP. Her “friend” responded with a curt, “no”. I then learned her brother called Dallas PD a few days prior to do a wellness check. There was no answer to the knock on the door, so they left a note.

Her friends and family told me they figured she had checked herself into rehab.

They don’t know my mom like I do.

The blackhole of a pit in my stomach grew into a fire that seethed over every square inch of my skin. Why wasn’t I called? Why didn’t they bust the door down? Why didn’t anyone fucking call me?

I called Dallas PD at 2:07 PM. I told them they needed to break down her door, that my mom was inside her apartment.

I sat at my desk patiently for about an hour. I know how local police departments work, they get so many calls, this wasn’t anything new or special to them. But it was my mom. My mom is in there. I called back just to be pushed off, that they would call me when they had any information. I left work around 4:00pm.

I drove away from my office rationalizing everything. Wiping the tears from my face I just kept saying out loud, “she’s not dead, she’s not dead, she’s not dead, please God don't let her be dead.” I knew in my heart I was lying to myself, but I was holding on as tight as I could. Like a child holds onto their mom on their first day of pre-school.

My phone rang as I was driving on 95. I was at exit 22, heading to the Waltham location of CrossFit ONE Nation (exit 26). Unknown number.

Gary from the medical examiner’s office.

Is this a friend of Laura?

This is Lauri’s daughter. Her name is Lauri.

Oh, okay well honey your mom is dead. She’s been dead several days. They found her with several bottles of wine.

Remember in elementary school falling so hard on your back that the wind is knocked completely out of you? That feeling of empty panic? Multiply that by about 10,000 and it still wouldn't compare to the semi truck that had just struck me from behind.

Where are you now honey?

I’m driving. Stop calling me honey.

Oh dear, you’re driving. Okay i’ll call back.

Click.

**Explicit Warning**

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. God fucking damnit. God fucking damnit. No. God please no. Please God no. No. No. No. No. Mother fucker. God fucking damnit. No Jesus no. God damnit. Fuck. Fuck. Please God no. Please. Please. Please no. Please no. No. No. Please for the love of God no.

She was all I had.

My mom was the only family I had. She knew me better than anyone in this world.

And just like that I was alone.

Some of you may know a little of my life story. Others might not have any idea. If you do, you probably know that up until this point I haven’t exactly had the easiest go around.

I used to ride the bus everyday to my $10/hr part-time job to pay rent at a halfway house I was required to live after a few stints at the county jail. That is a struggle, a grind, a life I am NOT proud of. I was 19 years old, 92 pounds, and had survived up to that point only by the grace of God.

I remember how scared I was the time I flirted with death. The weight of fading consciousness. I wonder if my mom was scared. I wonder if she was thinking about me before she died. I wonder if she was in pain. I wonder if she said anything before she died. I wonder if she was watching TV. I wonder if she thought she was just going to sleep, that she’d wake up and try to fix her mess tomorrow.

None of this changed the fact that my beautiful, vivacious, cockroach of a mother was dead.

She told me she had her flight to Albany booked, that she was going to meet up with an old boyfriend and bring her pom-poms to see me make it to the CrossFit Games. She believed I could do things I always thought were farfetched.

When I was a freshman in high school, with 2 years of guitar under my belt, she convinced me to try out for the advanced music class. I begrudgingly did, and made it over my brother, who really is more talented. Anyways.

I did 16.1 with the flu, I did 16.2 knowing the company I had been working for was going under, and now I was going to have to do 16.4 and 16.5 knowing my mom won’t see me at Regionals, won’t see me get married, won’t see her grandchildren, any of it. To say I was being hit in all directions would be an understatement.

I wish she could have seen me do any of the workouts, she would have been clapping and yelling the whole time. She always did when she didn’t know how to contain her excitement. She clapped watching the Oscars on TV. She had my regionals sign propped up in her apartment and wore her TeamKate shirt on a weekly basis.

The next several days I cried at the drop of a hat. I’m crying writing this right now. I cried as soon as I finished 16.4. I cried because I knew she would have been so proud of me. She would have told me I was going to win the CrossFit Games. That was my mom. Always a dreamer.

So, one foot in front of the other, I just kept moving; even when I was mentally and emotionally empty.

My mom treated my successes as her own. I think part of her lived vicariously through me. Through traveling to compete, meeting cool people, training with olympians and Games athletes. She loved it as much as I did. It made her happy to see me succeed.

Even with spirits low, I knew I had to make it.

Not for me, for my mom.

During 16.5 (the last workout) I felt an incredible amount of gratitude. I focused on the music, never stopped moving, and remembered my mom’s voice when she watched me do 14.5 at Ross Valley CrossFit earning my first trip to Regionals.

So, after 5 weeks of hell, I made it. With the love and support of those around me, I pulled it off. And if they seed the heats the way I think they will at Regionals, I’ll be in the last heat. I'd pay money to see the look on my mom’s face with me in the same heat as Michele Letendre and Katrin Davidsdottir.

I keep thinking of her text when she said, “I’ll see you at regionals.” It keeps breaking my heart.

My mom had too many demons. To some, my mom was a demon. She was unfair and hurtful to my brother and me growing up. In fact, she really would never have taken the “greatest mom in the world” coffee cup, let alone award. But she was just so cool.

She taught me how to fight. How to fight when you are down so far in the gutter that even the guarantee that the sun will rise in the morning gives you no faith. She taught me that sometimes it is okay to not have a plan. She taught me to grow my hair long, listen to music that makes you want to sing (regardless of singing ability), and let the good times roll. Everyone loved my mom, or loved to hate my mom. She had big boobs, bright red hair, and drove a red convertible Mustang for the majority of her 40’s. She was a Playboy Bunny, worked on Wall Street, and was an extra in a couple Robin Williams movies. For my birthdays, she gave me t shirts that she had gotten from the concerts she had been to in the 70s and 80s. That was my mom. And I will always remember her listening to Aretha Franklin driving to the beach.

Life goes on. I will go on. Because my mom would have killed me if I didn’t.

Next step, Albany. I’ll make you proud mom.