Remembering Mother

This videography was put together for Mother's service. I enjoy watching it and listening to her voice when I miss her.

Mother's Eulogy

Giving Mother's eulogy is one of the most emotionally difficult tasks I have completed. After the service, my cousins and a couple of other people asked for a copy of it. I decided to create a collage video with it. It helped me channel some of the feelings of loss and disconnection.

First Sunday

First Sunday that I don't visit Mother. First Sunday that I wash my clothes without hers. First Sunday that I won't feel my mother's little hand in mine, the warmth of her forehead on my lips or the softness of her cheek against mine. I'm glad I work on Sundays now. It gives me something with what to replace her absence in my routine. There are going to be lots of "firsts" in the coming year. I'm glad she never remembered my birthday and we didn't celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. At least those will be easy.

As it happened with my brother, Tete, I had to tell my mother that she would be dying soon. HCMC's Nephrology clinic forgot to schedule an interpreter - no surprise there. The doctor mechanically explained to me over and over how her kidneys were failing Mother and there was nothing to do. I had to ask repeatedly if all the medical explications meant end of life for Mother. It was so hard for her to just say, "yes." I couldn't look at Mother. I remember fighting back the tears by biting the inside of my cheek until it bled. After what seemed like forever, I turned to Mother and said, "Your kidneys are failing you and it will kill you." She asked me if they knew how long. The doctor and I did some mathematical calculations to hypothesize a timeline and predicated that maybe by the end of the year or beginning of the next. The only other question she had was if it would hurt. She was so afraid of more pain. We asked to be alone for a bit. I tried so hard to be strong for her but ended up on my knees weeping with my head on her lap and she consoling me like she'd done so many times before when life punched me in the gut.

After that doctor visit, I assured her that I would do everything in my power to ensure she did not experience physical pain. She'd already endured so much physical suffering from the Rheumatoid Arthritis. Mother was kind to me in the past year as she helped me transition to life without her. She stopped calling, asking or expecting things from me. She extricated herself as much as she could out of my life. This was done purposefully on her part after we got the prognosis. We talked about my need to redefine my identity, absent from being her daughter. It worried her so much to leave me alone. It was important for her to know that I'd be well after she died. She focused our visits on making sure that she was able to communicate all I needed about her history and answer whatever questions I had. Aside from the times that the Renal Failure toxicity caused her horrible anxiety that overtook her, she allowed our visits to be about loving each other. Once hospice started, the amazing Allina folks alleviated Mother of all physical pain with Methadone. For the first time in 20 some odd years, she didn't have physical pain. We began to work on her Eulogy and what she would like for her service. For those of you who came, thank mother for the tamales, fried plantains, and sweet bread. They were her request.

The next few months seem like a blur now, watching her cognitive abilities slowly diminish like the dimming of a light bulb. It was torturous to watch her suffocate with anxiety and having to explain to her every Sunday what was happening to her body and why she was so confused. After about six weeks, she finally integrated the information. I asked her, "do you understand what is happening in your brain?" "It's full of shit." She answered. The worst came when she re-experienced her childhood trauma and believed it was happening in present time. She would cry like a little girl asking me to take her away from there as she felt all the rapes and beatings anew. Relief came when she began thinking I was her Mother. Not her actual mother, but that I played the role of her mother. I didn't mind being her mother. It brought her such joy and I actually enjoyed treating her like a little girl. We began having ice cream at the deli downstairs. She would eat her strawberry ice cream and finish off mine. When she had lucid days, we would record video messages or conversations. I had told her early on in the process that there would be a time when she wouldn't give a shit about anything in this world. I asked for her patience during that time because there might be sentiments I may want to share with her. She fought to stay present with me until the Sunday before her body began to shut down in her last seven days of life. I had gone to see her in the middle of my work day. After about an hour, I stood to go and changed my mind. She asked me what I was doing and I told her, "I want to sit with you a bit longer." She just said, "OK." I could tell that she didn't care one way or the other, but I wanted a few more minutes with her. I fell asleep for a bit and woke up to find her in deep slumber. She looked so peaceful and I knew that she experienced terrible anxiety in the afternoons, so I kissed her forehead, let her sleep, and went back to work.

She waited until my honey brothers, Sitt and David, landed in Minneapolis to begin her dying process. She knew that I would not be alone now and she could let go. The nursing home arranged to have the Catholic priest who was about to do mass in the chapel downstairs give her Last Rights. The last words Mother said to me were, "OK" and a mumbled "te amo" six days before her death. For three days, I sat with her as she called out for my absent brother, Juan, when she came back into her body from wherever it is she went in her last breaths of life. I kept my promise of praying Rosaries as close to around the clock as I could. This was hard because she knew the Mysteries; Apostles Creed; and Hail, Holy Queen. I have never been able to memorize the long ones; I know the Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory be to the Father, and that there are five Mysteries. So, my Rosaries were lacking, but the love was there. In between amended Rosaries, I sang and hummed her the lullaby she would sing to me as a child when Father was out of town. I held her hand in mine and relished every time she squeezed. I kissed her as many times as I could knowing that these moments were ending. The Saturday before she took her last breath, a relief hospice nurse came and sat with me while I prayed. I told her Mother's story and we cried together as we held each other's stories. When she realized that she'd disclosed more than she "should," I told her that she need not feel regret or shame. We had held each other's stories and sorrow. It may be frowned upon by the Board, but that what had happened was that we'd shared a moment in time, a very human and vulnerable moment in time. The next two days, I prayed, sang, hummed, and tried to keep her calm and the nursing home staff away from her, as I held her hand. I re-positioned her bed so that it was against the wall and I sat between her and the door. I was her honor guard, making sure her last breaths were peaceful. On her last Monday on this earth, her breathing had become mechanical and steady. Around 10:30 pm, nothing had changed. She no longer held my hand and would not open for my finger. I knew she needed to be alone now. I kissed her forehead and with my cheek next to hers, I whispered, "I love you. I will leave you to die. I will be well." At 1:30 in the morning I awoke with a start. It felt like I'd been punched in the gut; it took my breath away and jolted me upright. Then nothing. At that moment, I realized that Mother and I were bonded with a connection that transcended physical space. I realized this because suddenly, it was gone. Severed. Leaving me with nothing. Mother was dead. I laid back down and tried to adjust to this loss of connection. It was terrifying this feeling untethered. I waited for the nursing home to call, which they did at 2:17 am. I put some clothes on and went to Mother's side for her last Rosary before the funeral home came to claim her body. I no longer had a mother. After she was secured in the hearse, I walked to the swing where we had sat on nice days and wept.

I know that the grieving process is, well... a process. There is no rushing through it. All the things Mother did to help me while she was still alive are certainly being felt and appreciated. My grieving process can be focused on missing her and adjusting to not being "connected" to her. With time, I will learn to incorporate all the feelings (sadness, pain, regret, loneliness, anger, resentment, emptiness, fear, and many others I'm sure await me in the horizon) into the totality of who I am. For now, I sip on them gently while ensuring I stay present. Today, I miss my Mother. I miss her little toothless smiles and loving eyes. I miss our routine endearment. I would say, "Who loves you?" To which she answered, "The dog." Maybe I should go to church. I always have such good cries in church.