Urban Mama

Soon

I'm not sure if this is going to be an upbeat blog to visit anytime soon. It's not that I'm depressed all of the time, but I'm grieving, even though my mother is still alive. I'm not much in the mood to run giveaway contests, post product recommendations or track my kids' shenanigans right now. I love being with Mami, my brother, sister and their families, but I'm also reminded every day of the undeniable fact that my mother is dying. And not in the "we're all going to die some day" way, but soon, soon, soon. OK, not today, tomorrow, next week or perhaps even next month, but SOON. SOON. SOON.

Yesterday I had my first breakdown since coming down July 27th. Mami said she wanted to look for a piece of jewelry to leave to my youngest niece, who is 21 months old. She also asked me to help her find a sapphire ring my father gave her; she wants to give it to the Schmoopette. My composure completely cracked then, and I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. Mami turned herself away from me while I cried and suggested I put the baby down (he was sleeping in my arms). I took that as a directive to leave, so I went to my 13-year-old niece's room, where I've been sleeping, and cried. After a while I decided to take a shower, and I cried again, knowing no one could hear me over the sound of the running water.

I've come to realize that in addition to being sad, I'm also quite angry. I'm angry and bitter that some people live until their 60s before their parents die. I'm angry that my father died when I was two, and that I mistakenly assumed that God would allow us to keep our mother until she was in her 80s. I'm angry that I'll be parentless, an orphan at 32 (my birthday is in September). I'm angry that I live three states away from my brother in New York and four states away from my sister and brother in Florida. How will I get through this without them?

I'm also worried. I'm worried that after my mom's heart stops beating I'll stop being who I am. Not completely, but enough for those who love me to notice. That I won't be as kind or sweet or funny or loving. That I'll turn into a bitter, weepy shrew of a woman who lashes out irrationally at her kids and her husband. That I'll be angry at my husband for having two living, healthy parents who are older than Mami. That I'll dread Mother's Day Thanksgiving and Christmas. That I'll feel alone, even though I know I won't be...

This is my life, trying to keep going as normal as can be while always being aware of the fact that my mother is dying. Soon.

Photo credit: "Grief and sorrow" by Javier Kohen on Flickr

Querida Mami

You look so gaunt I can't help but stare at your tiny frame. You joke that you're on a concentration camp diet. I'm relieved you still have your sense of humor. I laugh, but I'm also terrified at how breakable you seem. You don't even want to know how much you weigh anymore, because it's in double digits you haven't been since girlhood.

You sleep so much throughout the day that I told the kids: "Abuela is kind of nocturnal."

You keep the TV on most of the time and show no interest in reading -- even the sweet prayer devotional guides one of your best friends sent. You don't watch anything but the Spanish-language stations anymore.

You grimace and wince and close your eyes and rub the parts of your body that ache, that hurt you so deeply you can't even describe the pain.

You wake up after midnight and call out for ice in your cooler, vanilla ice cream, a ham-and-cheese sandwich. It's the least we can do. Whatever you want, whenever you want it, you can have it. We want you to eat.

You come down after much prodding to call your second-oldest grandchild -- the eldest grandson -- for his 12th birthday. Everyone sings, wishes him well, asks about his presents on the speaker-phone. You ask to speak to him privately. After a minute or two, you hang up the phone, your eyes misty, your nose red, and your voice cracking.

"Are you OK?" I ask. You nod, but I know what you're probably thinking: "Is this my last birthday greeting to him?" or maybe "Will I get to see him again?"  or "Will he remember this conversation?" Maybe you're thinking something else entirely, but that's what I'm thinking, anyway.

You sing your youngest grandson, my sweet baby, a lullaby in Spanish: "Duermete niño, duermete ya..." It's hard now to hold even a 15-pound four-month old, but you cradle him tightly in your feeble arms, crooning the same song you sang to all of your other grandchildren, and your children before them.

You know he won't remember the song on his own, but I will, and I'll sing it to his children one day too.

Mourning a Stranger

On June 23rd, a friend posted about a mother of six at her church in Philadelphia who was dying of Inflammatory Breast Cancer. She said the family thought she had about two weeks to live and linked to Punk Rock Mommy. I was intrigued by the name of the blog, the fact that she was suffering from IBC -- an aggressive form of breast cancer I had only recently become aware of through Susan at Toddler Planet --  and because my mother also has terminal, stage-IV cancer. So I began to read the blog that very day.

I became engrossed in Andrea's words. She had a raw, no-nonsense yet lyrical way of writing about facing death. She was open about the physical, emotional, and spiritual aspects of accepting your own death. She was heartbreaking in one sentence and funny in the next. She didn't shy away from gallows humor. She was straight forward about her urgent need to be with her children, her husband and her inner-circle of friends, even if it meant saying no to well-intentioned would-be visitors. She joked about death being inconvenient and admitted she was jealous her husband would get a big master bedroom all to himself.

Every day since the 23rd, I would reload her site multiple times to see if she had updated. When she didn't update, I read posts in her archive, looked at the photos in her Flickr set and prayed for her and her family.

On the 5th of July, after a day out with the kids, I came home and reloaded her blog. I saw the photo of a lit candle and just knew she had died. But what's amazing is that she left one final post for her husband to publish. It is one of the most powerful things I've ever read. Andrea's dying declarations challenge us not to be petty or spiteful. She thanks God for the final year she had with her family, even though it was it was so painful. Read her words yourself; they're heartbreakingly beautiful.

I'm so thankful I was able to follow Andrea while she was still alive. I am grateful that she gave me insights on what it's like for my mother to face a disease that is killing her. Thank you, Andrea, for everything. I'll miss your words and wisdom.

Why Cancer Sucks

Of course this is the understatement of the millennium, but recently I've met or read about more and more strong, amazing women who've had to put their lives on hold to battle cancer. Sometimes, like in the case of my new friend Susan, there is a triumphant remission. But in other cases, like with Meg's soulsister Jen, the cancer proves so powerful that final wishlists must be drawn up. And then there is the heartbreaking story of two sisters the Mothering community knew as mighty-mama and Kundalini Mama. Both had breast cancer and died a few months apart last year, leaving behind children (babies really), who still desperately needed them.

With my own mother, cancer has left her weakened but not defeated. She has a permanent ostomy and a surgery-related fistula to deal with, yet her voice is full of spirit. She has a long road of recovery ahead, but we -- my siblings, our spouses, her best friends -- all know she has the will to live, to overcome the depressing obstacles in her way. What's devastating, of course, is that for some, and eventually most people battling cancer, will is not enough. No amount of determination or support or even access to the country's finest oncologists can beat some people's cancer in the long-run. It boils down to a matter of time, and how that time should be and could be spent.

I know when "the time" comes for my mother, and I'm hoping it won't be for a long while, I will want to be with her as much as possible. Even if that means leaving my children temporarily under the care of friends and a live-in nanny. I will want the kids to talk to their Abuela and brighten her mood. I want to take lots of pictures, so when they ask about her I can show them and remind them what a funny, happy woman she was -- a woman who had so many friends she lived with her cell-phone virtually attached to her ear. I pray that my mom still has several rounds to go in her fight with cancer, even if I know deep-down that eventually her body, if not her spirit, may have to put down the gloves and rest. It's a downer of a thought, but like I said, cancer sucks.