April 9, 2011
Mexico City
A year ago today Mom died. After eleven days without hydration, even longer without food, her heart simply could not go on any longer, and by 1:00 pm her breathing became dangerously labored, until it finally gave out at 1:35.
Vicki and I and one of her aides were with her, surrounding her and letting the words “I love you” be the last earthly words she’d hear. For years I’ve read “In Memoriams” in the newspaper. They often start with, “I can’t believe it’s been a whole year…” Well, now it’s my turn to say that. I cannot believe it’s a whole year since our lives changed in a dramatic way.
I’d grown increasingly anxious as the week progressed, wondering how I would respond to this day, being so far from home, being alone. But, in the end, I’ve been OK. Those who care and matter the most have been in contact. I’ve deliberately performed small rituals that, while for my mother, are really for me.
The first occurred yesterday when I made way to the gorgeous church of St. John in the center of Coyoacán. I attended Mass, and when that was finished sat very still and recited the Rosary.
This is not my tradition, but it was a gift I gave my mother every early evening in the nursing home. At the beginning, she would recite it with me, but as she weakened the task fell to me. If others were in the room, or came in during this time, they would join in.
For me, it was a time of great quieting, and I came to look forward to this time of the day. The last time I said the Rosary was a year ago on the evening of the 8th. I have often wanted to say it, but never did. Friday seemed the perfect time to say it again.
I have not cried for either of my parents in a long time, but that morning I did. Hot and salty, the tears quietly ran down my face. And, yet again, I could feel my mother sitting right next to me, her hand on my leg as she’d often do when I was upset.
It was a healing time, and when I left my heart was gladdened, and I just knew that that was the right way to start this first-year vigil. My day was made more perfect by this small act.
Today, Saturday, the anniversary, I got up earlier than usual, walked to the flower mart on the corner and bought a dozen gladiolas. “Glads” were my mother’s favorite flowers, the flowers that graced the church at her wedding, and were always a part of her home from late summer into autumn.
I placed them in front of the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe at the gorgeous Baroque Colonial church in the center of town. I could just here say to me: “Don’t buy me flowers when I’m dead. Buy them for me now.” Well…I did buy them for her when she was dead and that’s the way it was. It was an act that I did for myself, one of the grief rituals I needed to move forward. She’d have been happy with idea that gladiolas had been placed in a beautiful church in front of “Our Lady.”
By 10:30 a.m. I was at La Catedral Metropolitana—the huge basilica in the historic heart of Mexico City. Way back in February I’d arranged for a Mass to be said for both my parents. Their names, as well as others, were mentioned. She would have liked that, too.
Just before Mass, my only true friend here in this city, Gerardo, showed up and sat down next to me. I almost cried when I saw him. He had been so supportive a year ago that I acknowledged him at the reception for my mother. And here he was today, showing support again in this quiet manner.
After the Mass, I lit two candles…one for mom and one for dad.
And then I sat and kept silent vigil until 12:35 pm—the hour of her death here in Mexico City. I sought out one of the quiet chapels where I could be alone. Gerardo left me by myself, but he returned at the end of my vigil with a bottle of Diet Coke! That’s a true friend!
I thought of my lifetime with her and my dad, of holidays and picnics and rides into the mountains. I meditated on all they taught me and the great gift I had of being born into that home.
I thought of Mom’s flower gardens and of Dad’s vegetable gardens, and the joy that each of them got from cultivating the earth. I can’t help but think of them tending God’s celestial gardens, joy abundant.
I thought of the complexities that made her the person she was and how those complexities played out to those in her immediate circle—complexities that were not as evident with persons she knew peripherally. Judgment has been directed at me by some of those people who saw Rita Ladue as some mother/goddess. It was not always easy to be her son.
It was somewhat fitting that the church was abuzz with activity—another Mass had started, a group of babies were being baptized, a small wedding was going on in one of the chapels and a family group of farmers, campesinos, were having their farm equipment blessed by the same priest who said the Mass of remembrance. Faith is for the living.
Nothing I did that early afternoon would have any effect on either of my parents. They were, simply, rituals I did for myself.
1:35 passed. I had been living in the land of the dead too long. I left the church, and moved back into the world of the living, into the energy of Mexico’s capital, on a warm early spring day. I was happy. I’d done what I needed to do to make sense of her death a year ago.
My mother was a complicated woman. She had a chameleon affect on people and could be different things to different people, which is why so many of us have multiple experiences in our relationship with her. Sadly, there was always a tension between us, from high school on, and I must honestly admit that I miss none of that.
But there are many times I miss her. I miss the times in the gardens at Lake Forest where we had five raised beds, growing tomatoes and carrots, cosmos and zinnia. The rhubarb I planted for her is doing well. Perhaps I should sneak over, dig it up, and give it to someone who’d appreciate its lineage.
I miss her macaroni and cheese, and apple crisp, but I have the recipes to carry on the tradition.
I miss our weekly visits to the chiropractor and then to McDonald’s or Friendly’s for breakfast.
I know she loved me, and I loved her. It was not easy for either of us to express this.
But she is gone. Just like my Dad is gone. I miss both of them, but know that they are fine and in God’s good hands. That in itself is a great blessing.
Through the past 365 days I have run the gamut of emotions—from deep anger for a variety of reasons that became so severe by Fall that it required counseling. My emotions ranged from flat/blank to deep resentment to intense joy, and everything else in between.
I felt alternately surrounded by support and love and, at the same time, totally abandoned. There is a deep feeling within me that I will never see some of my cousins again. How sad that death, which should unite, often separates.
My mother’s illness in the months preceding the death did incredible damage to my body, and it wasn’t until early December when I could say that my body felt “normal.” Seven months.
I have been extraordinarily blessed to be able to grieve with my cousin/sister, Vicki, whose relationship with my mother was more mother/daughter, and with Steve, who’d become her son through the illness. I cannot count the times that we’d meet at Koffee Kat, chat, rehash the story, tell it once again.
I was hungry by the time I got out of church. I invited Gerardo for a lunch of his choice—Kentucky Fried Chicken. I asked him he had any plans. “Let’s go to La Ciudadela,” he said. I only knew the place as a very old, and quite handsome, colonial building, with two large, pleasant parks adjoining it. I’d never really spent any time there.
But I was in for a treat. What I did not know is that the parks next to the Ciudadela teem with dancers from 9:00 a.m. to midnight on Saturdays. In all, I counted eight groups. Sensational salsa, jitterbug, tango. A large group of Aztecs doing a ceremonial dance. What caught my eye, though, was a small group lesson of a Mexican variation of tango called Danzon. We both watched a bit then the instructor caught my eye.
“Join us,” she said in English.
“Hablas Español? “Si.”
Where are you from? “Nueva York.”
"Una aplausa,por favor."
And then the whole group applauded the gringo and his Mexican friend joining the group. I had to love the instructor.
Two hours later, a hundred different steps later, several dancing partners later, 25pesos poorer for the lesson, multiple promises that I’d return next week, and worlds and worlds away from the somber rituals of the morning, I left exuberant and happy.
What a day!
I said goodbye to Gerardo, let him know what a gift he’d given me—not only with his presence at the Mass in the morning, but with the gift of dance all late afternoon and evening.
I was tired—physically and emotionally. As I drifted off to sleep, I asked myself if I would have changed anything from the past eighteen months? Not a thing, I thought.
It is true that what doesn’t break us makes us stronger. I am a much better, stronger person for what I went through a year ago.
Do I want to go back to any it? Never. But I regret nothing, and that is the greatest blessing.
But I do want to return to Danzon.
I’ve just got to remember…1, 2, 3… 4, 5, 6… 7, 8, 9… 10…11
Mexico City
A year ago today Mom died. After eleven days without hydration, even longer without food, her heart simply could not go on any longer, and by 1:00 pm her breathing became dangerously labored, until it finally gave out at 1:35.
Vicki and I and one of her aides were with her, surrounding her and letting the words “I love you” be the last earthly words she’d hear. For years I’ve read “In Memoriams” in the newspaper. They often start with, “I can’t believe it’s been a whole year…” Well, now it’s my turn to say that. I cannot believe it’s a whole year since our lives changed in a dramatic way.
I’d grown increasingly anxious as the week progressed, wondering how I would respond to this day, being so far from home, being alone. But, in the end, I’ve been OK. Those who care and matter the most have been in contact. I’ve deliberately performed small rituals that, while for my mother, are really for me.
The first occurred yesterday when I made way to the gorgeous church of St. John in the center of Coyoacán. I attended Mass, and when that was finished sat very still and recited the Rosary.
This is not my tradition, but it was a gift I gave my mother every early evening in the nursing home. At the beginning, she would recite it with me, but as she weakened the task fell to me. If others were in the room, or came in during this time, they would join in.
For me, it was a time of great quieting, and I came to look forward to this time of the day. The last time I said the Rosary was a year ago on the evening of the 8th. I have often wanted to say it, but never did. Friday seemed the perfect time to say it again.
I have not cried for either of my parents in a long time, but that morning I did. Hot and salty, the tears quietly ran down my face. And, yet again, I could feel my mother sitting right next to me, her hand on my leg as she’d often do when I was upset.
It was a healing time, and when I left my heart was gladdened, and I just knew that that was the right way to start this first-year vigil. My day was made more perfect by this small act.
Today, Saturday, the anniversary, I got up earlier than usual, walked to the flower mart on the corner and bought a dozen gladiolas. “Glads” were my mother’s favorite flowers, the flowers that graced the church at her wedding, and were always a part of her home from late summer into autumn.
I placed them in front of the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe at the gorgeous Baroque Colonial church in the center of town. I could just here say to me: “Don’t buy me flowers when I’m dead. Buy them for me now.” Well…I did buy them for her when she was dead and that’s the way it was. It was an act that I did for myself, one of the grief rituals I needed to move forward. She’d have been happy with idea that gladiolas had been placed in a beautiful church in front of “Our Lady.”
By 10:30 a.m. I was at La Catedral Metropolitana—the huge basilica in the historic heart of Mexico City. Way back in February I’d arranged for a Mass to be said for both my parents. Their names, as well as others, were mentioned. She would have liked that, too.
Just before Mass, my only true friend here in this city, Gerardo, showed up and sat down next to me. I almost cried when I saw him. He had been so supportive a year ago that I acknowledged him at the reception for my mother. And here he was today, showing support again in this quiet manner.
After the Mass, I lit two candles…one for mom and one for dad.
And then I sat and kept silent vigil until 12:35 pm—the hour of her death here in Mexico City. I sought out one of the quiet chapels where I could be alone. Gerardo left me by myself, but he returned at the end of my vigil with a bottle of Diet Coke! That’s a true friend!
I thought of my lifetime with her and my dad, of holidays and picnics and rides into the mountains. I meditated on all they taught me and the great gift I had of being born into that home.
I thought of Mom’s flower gardens and of Dad’s vegetable gardens, and the joy that each of them got from cultivating the earth. I can’t help but think of them tending God’s celestial gardens, joy abundant.
I thought of the complexities that made her the person she was and how those complexities played out to those in her immediate circle—complexities that were not as evident with persons she knew peripherally. Judgment has been directed at me by some of those people who saw Rita Ladue as some mother/goddess. It was not always easy to be her son.
It was somewhat fitting that the church was abuzz with activity—another Mass had started, a group of babies were being baptized, a small wedding was going on in one of the chapels and a family group of farmers, campesinos, were having their farm equipment blessed by the same priest who said the Mass of remembrance. Faith is for the living.
Nothing I did that early afternoon would have any effect on either of my parents. They were, simply, rituals I did for myself.
1:35 passed. I had been living in the land of the dead too long. I left the church, and moved back into the world of the living, into the energy of Mexico’s capital, on a warm early spring day. I was happy. I’d done what I needed to do to make sense of her death a year ago.
My mother was a complicated woman. She had a chameleon affect on people and could be different things to different people, which is why so many of us have multiple experiences in our relationship with her. Sadly, there was always a tension between us, from high school on, and I must honestly admit that I miss none of that.
But there are many times I miss her. I miss the times in the gardens at Lake Forest where we had five raised beds, growing tomatoes and carrots, cosmos and zinnia. The rhubarb I planted for her is doing well. Perhaps I should sneak over, dig it up, and give it to someone who’d appreciate its lineage.
I miss her macaroni and cheese, and apple crisp, but I have the recipes to carry on the tradition.
I miss our weekly visits to the chiropractor and then to McDonald’s or Friendly’s for breakfast.
I know she loved me, and I loved her. It was not easy for either of us to express this.
But she is gone. Just like my Dad is gone. I miss both of them, but know that they are fine and in God’s good hands. That in itself is a great blessing.
Through the past 365 days I have run the gamut of emotions—from deep anger for a variety of reasons that became so severe by Fall that it required counseling. My emotions ranged from flat/blank to deep resentment to intense joy, and everything else in between.
I felt alternately surrounded by support and love and, at the same time, totally abandoned. There is a deep feeling within me that I will never see some of my cousins again. How sad that death, which should unite, often separates.
My mother’s illness in the months preceding the death did incredible damage to my body, and it wasn’t until early December when I could say that my body felt “normal.” Seven months.
I have been extraordinarily blessed to be able to grieve with my cousin/sister, Vicki, whose relationship with my mother was more mother/daughter, and with Steve, who’d become her son through the illness. I cannot count the times that we’d meet at Koffee Kat, chat, rehash the story, tell it once again.
I was hungry by the time I got out of church. I invited Gerardo for a lunch of his choice—Kentucky Fried Chicken. I asked him he had any plans. “Let’s go to La Ciudadela,” he said. I only knew the place as a very old, and quite handsome, colonial building, with two large, pleasant parks adjoining it. I’d never really spent any time there.
But I was in for a treat. What I did not know is that the parks next to the Ciudadela teem with dancers from 9:00 a.m. to midnight on Saturdays. In all, I counted eight groups. Sensational salsa, jitterbug, tango. A large group of Aztecs doing a ceremonial dance. What caught my eye, though, was a small group lesson of a Mexican variation of tango called Danzon. We both watched a bit then the instructor caught my eye.
“Join us,” she said in English.
“Hablas Español? “Si.”
Where are you from? “Nueva York.”
"Una aplausa,por favor."
And then the whole group applauded the gringo and his Mexican friend joining the group. I had to love the instructor.
Two hours later, a hundred different steps later, several dancing partners later, 25pesos poorer for the lesson, multiple promises that I’d return next week, and worlds and worlds away from the somber rituals of the morning, I left exuberant and happy.
What a day!
I said goodbye to Gerardo, let him know what a gift he’d given me—not only with his presence at the Mass in the morning, but with the gift of dance all late afternoon and evening.
I was tired—physically and emotionally. As I drifted off to sleep, I asked myself if I would have changed anything from the past eighteen months? Not a thing, I thought.
It is true that what doesn’t break us makes us stronger. I am a much better, stronger person for what I went through a year ago.
Do I want to go back to any it? Never. But I regret nothing, and that is the greatest blessing.
But I do want to return to Danzon.
I’ve just got to remember…1, 2, 3… 4, 5, 6… 7, 8, 9… 10…11
