A Letter to My Mom
Mama,
I started this letter in January 2021, when it started to sink in that this battle was bigger than all of us. I remained hopeful but there was a deep sense of dread in my soul. I needed to prepare myself for life without you.
In early October 2020, you shared news with me that I processed immediately as bad news. I stayed calm and asked what you would like me to do next. You said, "wait until I get the biopsy." We ended the call. I fell apart. I guess I knew then, or at least my mind did what it always does, prepare for the worst. It's not good that my brain is conditioned to do that but I would rather be prepared than blindsided.
In late November, the kids and I went for a visit. We cleaned, we laughed, we rushed around frantically at your requests and we carried on with business as usual. You were still you; funny, witty, fiery, but you tired easily. You weren't running circles around me, and again, I knew something wasn't quite right. I focused my energy on next steps. I knew I was coming home for Christmas. I allowed myself to wonder if it might be the last one with you.
I planned a trip in December but this time I would travel alone. I would miss Christmas in California. I would be apart from Thomas and Carolyn and my sweet Louie. But you and me would have some of the most intimate and meaningful conversations we have ever had. You looked better but there was a laundry list of things to do to get you ready for treatment. I bought you a record player so I could play all your 45s and classic albums you used to love to listen to. You and Ynez even danced in the living room. I tried so hard not to cry. I had not seen you dance in years. You sang along to Ruben Naranjo, Juan Gabriel and Vicente Fernandez. It was the first time in over decade that all of your girls were together at Christmas. We laughed and you shook your head at the nonsense I was saying. I left on Christmas day. I told you I would come back at my next break.
I came home for MLK weekend. It was supposed to be a quick trip. I stayed six extra days. You were losing so much weight. "I will be back at my next break."
I arrived on February 13th. You said to come on Sunday so I could stay with you all day. The hospital was only allowing one visitor per day. Dr. Chen said, "What a way to spend Valentine's Day, huh?" I said, "Well doc, if it wasn't for this lady, I wouldn't be around to celebrate any day. She's the reason I'm here." He chuckled and said, "You got yourself a good one here." We all laughed. Around 3:00, the icicles started to form and I told you I would just leave in the morning. At 11:56 it started to snow. I opened the blinds to your room and we sat in silence watching the flurries dance in the wind. I was 12 the last time it snowed this way.
On Tuesday, Dr. Chen said it was time to go home. You cried. He asked what was wrong. You said, "There is only one person who is going to take care of me the way you do here at the hospital." You paused and pointed at me. "And she is leaving tomorrow."
I don't know if I called home that day or the next or how I broke the news to Louie and the kids but I wasn't coming home. I would take a leave of absence. I would stay with you.
On March 6th, I came home to California, to share the happiest day with Stori, Louie's daughter. I didn't want to leave you. I knew I would have to muster all my strength to get through that day with a smile on my face. I spent the next week trying to catch up with home life, school, work and packing for our road trip. The kids wanted to see you for Spring Break.
There is a picture I have of you, one that only lives in my mind. I regret not capturing it on my phone but maybe it would be too painful to look at. When the kids and I were leaving back home, we said goodbye to you inside the house, we came out to say goodbye to Ynez and I could hear you rushing to the back door. You opened the door. The kids laughed because they thought you had put your shoes on the wrong foot. You waved and said, "Catch ya later." That would be the last time Thomas and Carolyn saw you.
I flew back on April 23rd. I came to say goodbye. I have to admit, I selfishly wanted you to go peacefully in your sleep, while I was still there. But the hospice social worker had told me, "She's still your mom and she might still be trying to protect you. She might be waiting for you to leave."
I thanked you for being a great mom, for helping me find my strength and courage, for letting me spread my wings, for encouraging me to go and live my life even though it meant moving 1200 miles away, for listening to me and for telling me, "You don't have to put up with that shit." Out of all the things you taught me, that has been my go to!
You joined Granny and Papoo at San Jose Cemetery on May 11th. Your amazing life needed a beautiful celebration and that is what it was. The tears flowed but so did the beer. We gathered, we ate, we sang, we laughed. It was a day you would have enjoyed so much. And when the celebration started to wind down, the sky opened up and it "poured down" like you would say. It was as if you were telling all of us it was time to go!
The last 12 months have been some of the most challenging but they have also been filled with some of the best moments. Life without you sucks, mom. I want to call you and talk nonsense so bad. I want to hear you say things like, "Vieja mendiga" or "Pos, que tiene" and "Oh brother" or "Cynthia Michelle, what is wrong with you?"
So mom, happy birthday. Catch ya later. I love you.
Comments
Post a Comment