Urban Mama

A Motherless Year

Mami died one year ago today. It feels surreal. 365 days have passed.

Mami was one of a kind, and a year later, the pain of losing her is still fresh, still raw, still difficult to process. There's not a day that passes when I don't miss her voice or wish she could've been here to witness something or other. I don't cry every day any more, but at the slightest, unexpected trigger, I still feel the grief encompassing me. And that's what grieving is -- an ache that usually stays on simmer but can boil up to the surface without any warning.

I want to honor my mother's memory today by wholeheartedly thanking the people who got me through what was the most difficult day of my life.

My siblings. I can't imagine having survived my mother's death without my brothers and sister to accompany me through the grief journey we've each experienced this past year. Louis, Diana, Jorge, I know Mami would be proud of how connected we are, and how much we genuinely enjoy being together. I count among my siblings my loving (former but forever) stepsister Patty, whom Mami helped raise (especially through adolescence), my brother-in-law Larry, and sisters-in-law Roe and Sinyee, who've been part of my family for so many years.

My husband. How many husbands love their mothers in law? Mine did. They were great friends. They could laugh endlessly at a joke and even bicker like the oldest of friends. I know my husband can still hear my mother's voice say "Ay, Hans!" in his mind on a regular basis. My husband has had to put up with a lot this year, and I can only say it's a testament to our marriage that we've managed to rise above all of my mood swings, disregard for domestic duties and my moping and lounging around the house.

My friends Jen, Madeleine, and Lourdes, who dropped everything to rush by my side, make me lunch, get in bed with me and cry, and show me that it's possible to . My countless dear friends from around the country who called me right away upon hearing the news, especially my life-long friend Ruth Ann, who spent many a night in my house and actually knew Mami.

My three children, who hugged, nursed, cried, and cuddled with me after learning they had lost their Abuela.

My mother's best friends Cacha and Tully, who had known Mami since birth, for reminding us that Mami was an amazing, unconditional friend.

My friend Chris, who brought Delia home safely, so I wouldn't have to get in a car to pick her up from preschool.

My close community of online friends, particularly those on LiveJournal, many of whom I've corresponded with since 2001, who sent me the sweetest of emails and comments after I posted about Mami's death.

And all of you Urban Mama readers, lurkers and commenters alike, who've read my cathartic ramblings this past year. Thank you for providing me an outlet to share my grief.

Memories of Our Friendship

 It's incredibly late, even by, say, grad-student standards. I can't sleep. It's 2:46AM, and I find my mind wondering. I decided to look in on Mami's Yahoo! account, which I do time to time, just to peruse the "Sent Box" and read my mother's email. I am sure some of you think that's an unforgivable betrayal of some sort, but I promise you my mother would be doing the exact same thing. She was nosy like that.

Of course, what I should've remembered I would find on the first page of the "Enviados" folder (Mami used Yahoo! in Spanish) was an exchange I had with one of my mother's oldest and dearest friends, Mario. He was her middle-school "boyfriend" in Colombia, who went on to become her life-long friend.

In fact, Mario was one of the last of Mami's friends to have an entire conversation with her. On her 67th birthday, September 22, 2008, he called from Barranquilla, and I happened to catch the call. I passed the phone to Mami, who was lying in bed, half asleep. I remember her perking up, smiling and lying to him about how she felt "fine" and how with God's help she would be well enough to attend their graduating class' 50th reunion this fall. She thanked for his call, for remembering her birthday, and for singing the traditional Spanish birthday song to her.

A little more than a week later -- on October 1 -- when Mami was in the hospice house, and we knew the end was near, I logged onto her Yahoo! account and saw an email from Mario, who didn't seem to know just how dire Mami's circumstances were. I sent him an email saying the following (in Spanish):

This is Sandra, Diana's daughter. Thanks for your message. I do not know if anyone has informed you, but my mom is very ill. We do not know why her condition has deteriorated so, so fast, but since a few days after her birthday she cannot walk and has no urge to eat or drink. The nurses do not think that Mami is going to live much longer -- maybe 2 or 3 more weeks.

Sorry, my Spanish isn't so great, but I wanted to tell you that Mami cannot talk on the phone anymore. If you want, you can send a message by e-mail, and I will read it to her when I get to Florida on Friday.

Thanks for being such a good friend.

With love,
Sandra, Diana's youngest daughter

Mario responded October 2, 2008 at 5:49 PM. He did not know that Mami had died at 11:10 that morning, before I made it back to Florida, before I could read one final message from her loving friend. Here's what he wrote:

Hi Diana:
You've been such a very special person to me. My memories of our friendship go as far back as when we were studying at the Colegio Americano. We always had such a lovely time talking about everything that came to mind. Ah, those days. Then you got married and you would tell me stories about how beautiful your children were and how your children were growing up. I had the opportunity to meet several of them and later on see photos of your grandchildren, and indeed you were right.

Later in life we reconnected and once again had the opportunity to share special moments together that made our friendship continue indelibly, and whenever I talk to you, I feel that friendship instantly resumed.

Dy, I hope that you know just how much you mean to me, and I pray that you will get better, so we can continue to have our beautiful conversations and have the opportunity to see each other again.

I pray to my God who is yours also to bestow many blessings on you and all members of your beloved family.

A big hug, a kiss and get better soon.
TQM  [I love you lots in Spanish],
Mario

What a friend my mother was! In some ways, as amazing a mother as she was, she was possibly, just possibly, an even better friend.

God, help me be the kind of friend who's worthy of such praise.

Photo: Mami, second from right, with her gym-class buddies, circa 1958

Six Months Later

This morning marks the six-month anniversary of my mother's death. I'm marking the occasion by sharing 67 (one for each of her years of life) of the infinite reasons I miss Mami.

I miss the way you always blended two shades of lipstick, leaving bi-colored tips on all of your tubes.

I miss the way you said "Claro" 100 times per phone call.

I miss the way you idolized Vivien Leigh's portrayal of Scarlett O'Hara.

I miss your lasagna, which no Italian would find authentic but we loved anyway, with its mix of ground beef and shredded chicken.

I miss your many shades of hair color, because it was always a surprise when you came home from the hairstylist's.

I miss how you made friends everywhere you went, and how loyal a friend you were -- even to people who didn't deserve you -- until your dying day.

I miss your beautiful, precise cursive handwriting.

I miss your phone messages and hate that AT & T Wireless auto-erased my last message from you.

I miss the way you forwarded every email anyone ever sent you.

I miss the way you talked to and adored my children.

I miss the way my children talked to and adored you.

I miss the way you would warn me that a wife has a responsibility to keep herself beautiful for her husband, even though it annoyed me.

I miss how you would make everyone wait for you to freshen up and take off your glasses before we could take family photos.

I miss how you would bug me about not wearing makeup, even after I had actually applied it.

I miss how you kept all of your jewelry in its original little boxes stashed in dozens of drawers and bags.

I miss the way your feet were the opposite of mine -- so small and narrow and with high arches.

I miss your insistence on a regular manicure to disguise the fact you had fragile nails.

I miss how you saved shopping bags, especially the fancy kind with ribbon handles, "just in case" you needed somewhere else to store your stuff.

I miss how you sang "Duermete niño/niña, duermete ya" to all the babies.

I miss staying up into the wee hours talking and watching TV with you.

I miss the way you dished about everyone you knew, not (usually) to be mean, just to let me know what was going on.

I miss your friends calling and asking about you.

I miss getting reminded about important events now that the responsibility has fallen to me.

I miss the way you would sigh "Ay, Hans!" whenever Hans said something crude or stupid or silly.

I miss your throaty laugh.

I miss having a reason to shop in the "Petites" section with you.

I miss your love of potato-bread rolls and seasoned white rice.

I miss watching '60s movies like "Where the Boys Are" and "Rosemary's Baby" with you.

I miss you criticizing the Oscars fashions.

I miss your countless chancletas, some beaded, some Chinese, others ballet style.

I miss being yelled at for not dressing the kids warmly enough.

I miss how fearless you were in every situation.

I miss how you weren't afraid to make a scene when you deemed circumstances demanded it.

I miss your arepas and doubt mine will ever come out the same.

I miss your platanos and think of them every time we eat Latin American food.

I miss your picadillo and can't stand when someone makes theirs too sweet, because yours was so savory and chock-full of olives.

I miss the way I felt safe in your slender arms, even though I had been (much) bigger than you since I was 10 year old.

I miss the way you lost your glasses so much, because you refused to wear them regularly.

I miss your illogical inability to drink anything but instant Nescafé.

I miss the way you kept us connected to our first cousins, second cousins, third cousins and beyond.

I miss seeing your puffy coat out of the corner of my eye, knowing it was way too warm for it, but that you'd be too cold without it.

I miss the way you would get excited every time your father's beloved British National Anthem was played, even though you really only knew the "God Save the Queen" part.

I miss catching you curled up in bed with Elias, because even after we'd returned him to his bed, he'd go to yours.

I miss living in New York with you.

I miss hearing about your life in Colombia before you had kids.

I miss telling you about my kids' accomplishments and antics.

I miss listening to your end of dozens of phone calls every day and trying to figure out with whom you were gabbing.

I miss how you could fall deeply asleep in the tiniest of spaces without moving an inch.

I miss how you were the one-woman grapevine for my siblings and me.

I miss being comforted by you.

I miss knowing you were out there, worrying about me and mine.

I miss being told the backstories behind old photos.

I miss calling you two or three times a day.

I miss you stroking my arm when I sat next to you.

I miss being assured I was a good a mother.

I miss being assured I had great children.

I miss the way you and Hans always got along like old friends.

I miss hearing the phone ring after 10PM and feeling certain it was you on the other end.

I miss the loud and annoying toys you loved to buy the kids.

I miss telling you what was going on in the lives of your favorite celebrities.

I miss going to see a sappy tearjerker with you.

I miss how you had to drink orange juice every morning.

I miss being called "Mamita."

I miss the way you always smelled like Opium, Passion or L'Air du Temps.

I miss having a mother.

All About My Mother

Two weeks ago, baby J and I went down to my sister's house outside of Tampa, so he could meet his Abuela, aunts, uncles and cousins. It was a low-key but important visit, because I was able to interview Mami about her life -- way before she had children. At first it was difficult for her, and she cried. But after a short while, she enjoyed the oral history project and laughed a great deal. Here are 10 things I learned about my family thanks to our videotaped conversations:

1. Mami's earliest memories are of holding her maternal grandfather's hand and walking around his farm. She was three or four at the time in her hometown of Barranquilla, Colombia.
2. The night after my sister was born was New Year's Eve, 1964. Because Mami had purposely returned to Colombia from the U.S. to have my sister, while my father was a medical resident in New York, she opted to take a sleeping pill early in the evening in order to miss the New Year's festivities at the hospital. But Mami's older sister went into early labor that night at the same hospital, so my aunt's then-husband kept Mami awake until our cousin Francisco was born, just before midnight. When the blue light came on in the waiting area, Mami congratulated her brother-in-law and finally got to sleep! Of course I knew my cousin and my sister were only one day apart, but I never knew my aunt's ex kept Mami awake, so he'd have company waiting for the baby news.
3. My mother met my father during her college's homecoming weekend. College students from various schools would attend each other's homecomings, so Mami was the hostess/greeter for the students from my father's university. The group hadn't made a very good impression on my mother, but since the candidate from her department was named homecoming queen, she ended up escorting them to the celebratory post-pageant party, where my father relentlessly asked her to dance. Had her friend not won, she would've probably gone home instead of going to the party.
4. My mother and father eloped in Barranquilla on Aug. 31, 1961. When my father, then a medical student in Cartagena -- a good three hours from Barranquilla -- realized he had forgotten to pack his nice shoes, he had to borrow a pair from my mom's friend's boyfriend. The shoes were too big for my father, but he didn't complain.
5. The biggest cause for my parents' elopement was that my late aunt, who was nearly 11 years older than Mami, was planning to whisk my mother to the States to finish her college studies. Since my parents hadn't disclosed they were dating to my grandparents, Mami thought her parents would force her to go to the U.S. with her sister.
6. I knew my mother's favorite high-school teacher, Ana King, and her husband, were the witnesses at my parents' wedding. But I didn't know that Señora King was the one to initially break the news to my grandparents, immediately after the secret ceremony (only a few of my mother's classmates, including the one whose boyfriend lent my father his shoes, were present). My parents anxiously waited just outside Mami's house while Ana explained what had just happened.
7. One of Mami's favorite school memories was participating in an annual dance performance. A gifted dancer, she was even selected for a pairs dance, and she and her partner danced several years together in a row. They even represented the school at local youth folkloric dance competitions. No wonder she was so disappointed when I quit ballet and just took tap!
8. In 1959, my mother was one of her prep school's few female graduates to enroll in college. However, my mother didn't finish, because she got pregnant the spring semester of her sophomore year, just five-and-a-half months after marrying. She still regrets not obtaining her degree.
9. Although my maternal grandparents quickly accepted my mother's marriage, continued to support her undergraduate studies, and housed the long-distance newlyweds (my father was still in Cartagena for med school), my paternal grandparents -- who were not as financially stable as my mother's family and lived in a rural village instead of the city of Barranquilla -- told my father he'd have to fend for himself his last year of medical school. He had to move out of his campus housing to live with a distant relative.
10. After dancing with my father for several hours that first homecoming night, he accompanied my mother's friend as he drove her home. When they got to my mother's house, my father asked for her number. She told him, but she also noticed he wasn't writing it down. She went to sleep thinking that he was rude, and that he wasn't planning to call. It turns out, "he was like you," Mami said to me. "He had memorized it."