Tammy Gann (1957-2008)

It is important, when someone dies, not to remember what we will, but to honestly bear witness to who that person was. Click "more" to continue.

To say my mother came from humble beginnings is to gloss over how actually tragic her early years were. Born in Tennessee to an loving, but alcoholic father and a sociopath mother, the beginnings were not auspicious. She had 2 sisters and 2 brothers, all of whom stayed with their terrible mother after she was divorced. Before long, they were all put into a home, like an orphanage, for a year. Eventually, their mother came to retrieve them, with her new child-molesting husband in tow.

I think my mom always tried not to define these years by their tragedy. What she related of these years, which wasn't much, didn't sound all bad. Walking with her brothers to the local liquor store for Double Cola, swimming in a local watering hole. Overwhelmingly, though, these years were sad and disturbing. Her mother made her kiss the corpse at a funeral; she never went to the same school for more than 9 months, causing her to make few friends; her mother was a strict authoritarian when it came to chores; their food was meager.

Eventually her family moved to California, and she escaped this awful situation, moving in with my dad's family. Her piece of garbage mother forged her signature and cleaned her bank account right before she and the rest of the family moved away. My dad's family wasn't rich, but they gave my mom a safe, secure, and stable place to live---something she had never had. This, I think, was a defining moment. She spent the rest of her life paying this back.

After marrying, my mom was told she had a short window for carrying children. She and my father had 2 within 2.5 years, me and my brother Evan. She put her career on hold to raise us, for about 5 years. These, she counted as the best of her life. Nothing else affords one the opportunity of giving, of helping, than the early years. My mom loved to recall stories from these years. I think in some cases, as we got older, worry for us replaced the pleasure.

My mom was a truly dedicated worker. She took pride in any job she did, put in more hours than anyone, and made liberal use of her thinking cap. She wasn't particularly educated: a high school education, some nursing school, and a few development classes here or there. I think, though, that she was exceptionally intelligent. She had a good memory, a keen eye for detail, and was creative. As she gained reputation within her industry, so did she gain authority and trust to do what she wanted. Near the end of her life, while she was still working, she stated that her job was one of the only things that she had fun doing.

It was also the only thing she did for herself. For as long as I can remember, the evening hours were pretty much spent caring for us, feeding us, helping us with what schoolwork we had. Other than that, she seemed to watch a lot of tv. She never had discerning taste, hobbies, or particular intellectual curiosity. I never understood this. I feel that she missed out on so much that I have discovered and enjoy. If it didn't involve helping someone else, she didn't seem to care much about it. She loved encouraging my hobbies and interests.

She endured a lot of pain in her life. Early in life she was rear-ended, hurting her back and neck. She got CMV from the hospital, which affected her for years. She needed a hysterectomy. Eventually, she got chronic painful carpal tunnel and ulnar nerve disease. Ulcers. Periodic bladder infections. Finally, after breaking a wrist, she developed major blood clotting problems that put her in the hospital a couple times.

I relate the amount of pain my mom endured by way of segue. Last February, my mom began having unusual eye watering. Then her vision began to deteriorate, she developed muscle twitching, and a headache. Within 6 months she was mostly blind, had limited sensation on the right side of her body, and had a constant terrible head pain. When I say that it was a lot of pain, it was a lot of pain compared to everything that happened in her life, which was considerable. After months of tests and numerous diagnoses, the doctors finally decided that she had probably had a stroke that damaged her central nervous system. It was unrepairable, and would not improve. Also, horribly, it would probably not kill her.

To see my mom endure that much pain, unable to get out of bed for any length of time, nauseas from the massive amount of pain meds she had to take to cope, was heartbreaking. Her memory and thinking was impaired, whether from actual brain damage or simply distraction by the pain. She was alone all day, unable to work, hardly able to sleep, unable to read. She had no quality of life, no joy. No hope.

The following is my guess as to the events of Wednesday, January 9th, 2008. Having put her affairs in order, survived through the holidays, and made sure her loved ones would be taken care of, my mom assembled all of her prescription drugs. Beside her was a helium tank and a bag, which she never used. Because of her nausea, she had been prescribed pain medication releasing patches. She placed 18 of these patches on her body. After some time, she passed out. The next morning, she was dead.

I don't have any idea what she felt that day. Did she weep? Was she relieved? Did she have, as my grandmother wished, some time with no pain, or did she merely drift into nothing? Did she think of her life as a failure, a success? Did she wish we could have been there? Did she feel we hadn't been visiting her enough, that we had gotten tired of her? Did she worry about us, or was she sure we'd be ok?

***

Two days later, I sat with my dad, brother, and fiancee in the office of a hideously decorated mortuary, listening to a middle aged nitwit talk about spirituality, god, divine plan, and afterlife. My mom was a beautiful, sweet, delicate person, and her life stands as sure as any evidence of no god---no plan. Who would doom her to such a fate?

I explained to the Nitwit that I was a secular humanist. He said that sounded like almost atheist, to which I said that it was indeed atheism. "I can tell you what an atheist funeral is. Hello. She's dead. Thanks for coming." This was patently absurd, and I let the cretin have it. We know that what happens on earth is important, we cared for her when she was here, assured her that a decision to kill herself was acceptable if that's what she wanted, allowed her to free herself. Not like the religious fucks who sat and argued with her, questioning whether she would go to hell, when she plainly was already there. Some people acted despicably during my mom's illness. Fortunately, none of them acted so at her service.

More than 120 people showed up to celebrate my mom's life. She left behind a lot of people who remembered her kindness, her selflessness, her dedication. Despite all the pain she endured, despite all the things she never got to experience, know, or appreciate, she certainly left plenty of evidence that she had a good life.

At her service, my mom wanted Over the Rainbow to be played, and so it was. The Nitwit commented that the playing of the song admits a belief in the afterlife, somewhere beyond this where joy is found. This is one interpretation. Another is that we, the living, will find joy again. That we will recover from this loss.

So, bye Mom. Time for us to start healing now.