The strongest man and woman in the world...

Post originally published in spanish on monday, sEPTEMBer 07, 2015

NOTE: I was planning on posting this blog post a month ago ... Before Mom passed, but once again the time was gone. Instead of editing, I present it as-is to remind myself how fragile life is and how much it can change in the blink of an eye.


August 24, 2015
In Mexico we have a saying "Eyes that do not see, heart that does not feel". A couple of weeks ago I took an express trip to Mexico to see dad, who has had several strokes in the past two and a half years leaving him without mobility and without the ability to speak as he did before. The trip was followed by a whole week of school registration, sports sign-ups, and visits to the doctor (I ended up sick and dehydrated) as well as preparations for back-to-school... My mind and body were exhausted.

Two-and-a-half years have passed since I heard the news of my father's first stroke. I felt I was losing him. After three more strokes that have practically condemned him to bed, I was finally able to see him for a week. A week was not enough to hug, kiss, and say so many things that were not said in a lifetime. But enough to realize that life happens, that there is no turning back and before we realize, the people we love grows old and leaves us. 

There are many reasons why I didn't visit before, which were valid at the time and excused my absence. Now, I see them as useless reasons that I wish I could have avoided. Despite everything, I was glad to see dad now when he still recognizes me, when he can still laugh when I remind him that he owes me a bunch of money for the gray hairs he made me cut while he'd fall asleep (I was just a little girl and he'd said he would pay me when he woke up), and when I can still hear him complain about the tasteless food he now has to eat. 

The strongest man in the world that I once knew no longer exists. The human being in that small white room that was built in a blink of an eye is not the same human being that waltzed with me on my Quince Años twenty years ago, nor the one who played horsey with my children when they were little. The human being that inhabits that room is a human being that leaves us little by little and gradually fades away. My heart hurts every time I think about what I could have said, what I could have done and what I might have changed when that human being still existed.

On my visit I talked to Dad, but mostly I listened. The little he could tell me was about how itchy his skin had become (he has dried up extremely because of dialysis done four times a day), how he misses his teeth when he eats and how much he wants to go for a walk and to go back home. He teared up every time - when we talked about every one of his children, when he saw or talked about my skin's photodermatitis, when he asked when I was returning to the US, when I asked him about grandma, and when he saw my children and realized how big they already are...

I asked him what he liked to do when he was a teenager. I learned that he took swimming lessons in an Olympic pool in Mexico City and that in one of the events he was congratulated by the Mexican president at that time (there was a photo, but he had no idea where it ended). We talked about the time he worked as a bus operator on 'Ruta 100' (mom told me he worked there for nine years). And when he met mom - a story that mom had told me a few days before, when he started talking about it, he laughed so hard it made me chuckle. What I enjoyed the most was the interaction he had with my children, especially Diego, who learned a hand shake from grandpa even. And what a surprise was when Abril saw him, hugged him, and burst into tears. This action confirmed to me that although a teenager (who seems to have no feelings at times and would care less about what happens around her), she maintains her empathy and the love she has for her grandparents, despite the distance. I saw my children mature incredibly during this week. Yes, they missed their house, their bed, their schedule, but in the evenings Neal reminded them of the reason for our visit and I heard them reiterate that "this trip is for mom and for mom only"

I wish I had had more time...   

September 7, 2015. 
Mom died on Thursday, August 27th at 12:01 in the morning. Thirteen days after my week in Mexico and the last goodbye. It had been six years since the last time we had seen, hugged, laughed, and even cried with each other. 

Mom had been complaining about pain in her stomach for months. It wasn't uncommon to hear her talk about pain or "aches". This time however, the pain was intensifying. She went to the doctor several times when she couldn't bare the pain and kept her in bed. They prescribed pain pills that worked to some extent over a period of time. The last time she got sick, the doctor recommended an ultrasound, because he suspected it was a case of stones in the gallbladder. Part of my plan in the week I was in Mexico was to convince mom to start taking advantage of my sister's health insurance for once. 

On Wednesday, August 26th at 5 pm my mom went into surgery to extract what was believed to be stones in the gallbladder and which were obstructing the bile ducts. Two hours later I received a call from my sister - mom had left the operation room with a prognosis that I wish I had never heard: they found cancer in the bile ducts, the doctor wasn't able to remove it all and had given mom just a short time to live ... I never thought this would mean five hours.

My mom was a beautiful soul. Whoever got to know her knows that she took bread from her mouth to help and always had a positive attitude toward life despite how unlucky her life was. She always thanked god for allowing her to live another day. No matter how humble she lived or what little she had, she offered it to those who came to visit her or needed it.

I could write a book about her life - the way she came to this world, the way she grew up, the way she lived with dad, and the way she got her five children to grow up and make their own lives, are reasons to remember...  It is true that through the memories I have of her and as long as I live, she will live. But knowing she is no longer a call away, hurts. It hurts to think about all the things I "planned" to do with her once I brought her to visit me. It hurts to think of the times when I could not tell her that I was sad over the phone and all I wanted was for her to tell me she loved me. It hurts to realize that my children will grow up without her. It hurts to know that mom left without seeing all her children reunited for the last time. And it hurts to think about how selfish I am for wanting her to endure the pain once more and resist/fight the cancer for the rest of her life. 

Yes, life is fragile and has surprised me unimaginably.
Seeing my siblings during the wake and spending a couple of days with them afterwards, helped me to not sink in my tears. The visit of my brother this last weekend did me good too. It's when I'm left alone, when the lights go out or when the sounds fade that my mind finds no distraction and begins to ask "why?". That's when it seems unreal that mom is gone. I'd like to be able to sleep and sleep more, because that is when it doesn't hurt so much. 

Of the many condolences I received, one stands out: "This is a loss that will never stop hurting. Weeks will pass, maybe months until one day it will suddenly 'hit' you and you'll realize that in fact, she is gone".

I'm scared of when that time comes.