Day 367; Lessons after losing mom

Mom’s hometown - Arecibo, Puerto Rico

I know I’m not special…

Everyone loses their parents. We have no choice in the matter. 

But I have to admit losing my mom the way I did, suddenly and unexpectedly, left me feeling a special kind of ripped apart and untethered, floating out in the atmosphere alone. 

As I sat at the little table in the lobby of HIMA Caguas, my face pressed against the nurse’s belly, clutching her hips and hyperventilating into my fabric mask, I felt frozen, suspended in disbelief, and sick. I was lost and clueless and I still can’t believe how well I staved off the vomiting while seated in the little plastic chair. It felt like they turned the heat up, but my limbs were numb. My head was spinning. All I could find myself doing was repeatedly typing, “Mom’s dead into each text message to a loved one.

I needed help. There were so many questions. Who do you release the cadaver to? Where is the morgue? Why can’t I see my mom one last time? How do you get a body off of an island? Why are there so many logistics? Who is gonna hug me? I wouldn’t recognize for another two days what shock does to the human body and for another 365 how insidious PTSD is. Honestly, I’m still learning. 

My mom’s death wasn’t like how it is on TV medical dramas. No warm and friendly doctor came out. No apologies were offered. No sensitive and careful language or some level of accountability. No one brought me her things until I remembered to ask more questions.

Instead, I was met with ambivalence; repeatedly told by the front desk staff “no one by that name is in this hospital” - and then her doctor, who made me wait - for 3 hours when finally a nurse came out and handed me that silver cordless telephone. All I remember hearing from the other end of the line was “Ella esta muerta” before my forearm went limp and the phone escaped my grip and crashed to the surface of the table. I looked up at the nurse. “I don’t understand. Dead?” Yes, she nodded.

The front desk staff was right. She wasn’t in the hospital anymore. As of 4:30 that morning she was lying in the morgue waiting to be claimed and her room was emptied and cleaned. And I was 9 hours too late. She died exactly how she didn’t want to. Alone in a hospital in Puerto Rico. I can’t imagine what would have happened if I didn’t get in touch with my mom while she was still coherent at her check-in two nights earlier. The hospital would have never phoned. We would have had no idea. The thought still terrifies me.

And so my personal labyrinth of a journey with death began.

Mom’s home - Gurabo, PR

Grad school at Fordham, NYC

One of the hardest parts of losing someone you know so intimately is how the world moves in a blur around you while you’re still grieving.  People move on. They stop calling or become afraid to ask or bring it up. They want to give you space, but then they never come back around. Or they simply forget. It’s not a judgment. It’s how our western society learned and handles grief. It makes the experience of your loss isolating, vast and confusing. How do you get out? How do you start over? Who wants to listen? Who wants to navigate the darkness with you? Where do you turn? More questions.

Today is day 367. A year and a day without mom. The woman who gave me life and held all of my secrets. The one who kept me tethered to the planet. The reason, no matter where I was in the world, I never felt lonely.

So, what do I do now? What is life the year after the one who gave you life’s death? Every day feels so different from the next. “They,” say time heals all wounds. But I don’t believe that to be true anymore. I think it’s a thing you sort of get used to and that newer rhythm is what feels like healing. Grief is indeed nonlinear and that dark force is gonna show up any time in any way it wants to. But for some reason, today - Christmas Eve 2021,  next to the flickering of the lights over the stove it isn’t showing up with a panic attack or a side of blinding tears. It’s showing up with a little perspective. Maybe because I’ve cried my allotted amount of tears this week. Maybe because there’s tangible growth. Maybe it’s because energetically I know my mom is still with me and she wants me to press on. 

I’m not gonna go as far as saying I’m seeing a silver lining here because I’m not that optimistic of a person again yet, especially since dad’s cancer diagnosis in September and we are still journeying down that road. But there is space inside my heart able to acknowledge the changes within me that aren’t all horrible. There is awareness. There is gratitude. I think there has always been. And there’s a surrender where I can see tiny gifts mom’s loss has left behind. I don’t want her passing to be in vain. I want to try and understand these pieces of her legacy where some light is cascading in on - where blessings are being left in her wake. Here are a few I have recognized.

Post signing mom’s death certificate - Christmas morning 2020 - Carlos + Brian - Cabo Rojo, Puerto Rico

Me + Rosie Bean - Cabo Rojo, Puerto Rico

Rosie Bean. The tiniest sweetest most codependent teacup chihuahua you’ll ever know. I’ve been a solo traveler for over a decade and when I first acquired Rosie, my mom’s support animal, I cried over losing my independence. Like it was all of a sudden ripped away and taken from me. I was responsible for this tiny animal all the time. However, I think Rosie saved me. She was the only reason for many weeks I even got out of bed. She helped to stop a number of anxiety attacks and she never tires of greeting me with insane amounts of joy whenever I enter a room or when she wakes me in the morning. She’s become the best travel companion. And people are exponentially nicer to me when I hold her. Blessing number 1.

“No.” That big powerful word and the complete sentence that is No. Mom’s passing somehow left me with more permission to say no. To the things I didn’t want to participate in and the people I didn’t want to engage with. I didn’t fully realize how uncomfortable saying no to people had been or how much I needed an extended explanation every time I said it. But “No”. No thank you gave me some level of power and I’m grateful for the comfort with it.

Better boundaries. Those beautiful invisible emotional fences. Where someone else’s problem is not for me to solve. What someone wants of me is not my responsibility. Those external expectations of me are not my issue.  I am now OK with the discomfort of my line drawing and I don’t have to take on any emotions about it. Those things are no longer my problem to hold. Because there isn’t the energy. I no longer have the same bandwidth to keep both my plates and anyone else’s plates spinning. And it feels right.

Rest. In the wake of her passing, I had to slow down to a place I’d never known. Probably one that would have felt uncomfortable because I always had to be producing. I was finally required to sit and feel and be still. Though there have been tireless weeks and months of work since mom passed without a will living in Puerto Rico and that brutal feeling of walking into her house for the first time without her, once I adjusted, there were some sweet days of beautiful glorious rest. A nap in the sun. Laying by the side of the pool. Listening to the crashing waves of a hidden beach. A comfy couch in front of Netflix for hours. I’m grateful for those sweet moments of rest. 

Vulnerability. This one I’m still not so good at. I can’t feel vulnerable without being safe. I learned more about my love language and when I felt ready I had to find physical touch where I could get it. Mom’s passing left me with no choice. I’ve never cried so much in front of strangers and friends I’ve known for years that never saw me shed a tear. I’ve never had to find new vocabulary to describe what was happening in my heart and my gut. Or convey my deep and sometimes irrational fears about my life and future. We need to feel safe. I’ve had to soften. There’s more work to be done, but there’s new space for it.

Receiving. For a long time, I thought people didn’t understand or didn’t want to stick around for the messy bits, but I can see now, they do. In our western culture, it’s common for humans to not know how to help when someone dies, but deep down they do want to. People often need to know how and be told what to do. I don’t think I could have gotten through this year without the donations, gifts, cards, meal deliveries, flowers, advice, guidance from our funeral directors, helping hands, trips to Puerto Rico, police escorts, Marco Polos, referrals, and genuine patience and kindness. Receiving has historically been a challenge for me. Accepting gifts or being embraced… all of it could feel really funny. This time I had no choice. It was a means of survival.  There was no mom to phone me to check in or to send me a birthday message, to help me dress shop, or to light up as soon as I got off the plane for a visit, especially Thanksgiving. Today I am better at learning to say yes to help, asking for it, and leaning into the love of my chosen family. It breaks my heart that the world seems so divisive these days because we are all looking for love through the perspectives of like-mindedness. The need for love is our common human trait and necessity for living.

Antoinette + I - Gurabo taking a pool break

me + CM taking a break - Cabo Rojo

Consumption. I’ve always been a maximalist. A very organized one, but always with too much stuff. I know this came from poverty consciousness. My mom came from nothing and my father not too much more. My mother was a self-made woman and along the way she spent little, but amassed a lot and those characteristics rubbed off on me. I learned the hard way that when the angels come, you can’t take your things with you. I spent months in Puerto Rico sifting through her four-bedroom house trying to get rid of everything as responsibly as possible and in those days I had time to reflect on collecting and consuming.  I found having too much stuff to be the ultimate burden. It requires so much time and energy to maintain and ultimately becomes an even heavier burden for your loved ones. Now my mission is to downsize. Try and get rid of one thing every day. Minimize. Perhaps it’s quite dark to think about what will happen to my belongings after I’m gone, but I like the idea of ending years of ancestral trauma and not being a burden to anyone else.

Capability. This is probably my biggest lesson. I can do nearly anything by myself when I don’t have a choice. From talking about death and dying to watching chemo getting injected into a loved one. Learning about the legal inner workings of a new government and finding a local attorney. Finding solutions in a town I’m not familiar with. Asking for help from friends who want to get on airplanes. It took finding and communicating with 11 attorneys before I found one in Puerto Rico who wanted to work and help us navigate the estate process in both Spanish and English.  I had to sit at the closing in PR and sign away her house alone and advocate her heirship all while I’m not properly fluent in Spanish legalese. I wish I was more informed before her sudden passing, but ce la vie.  I’ve learned more about my professional worth as a small business owner and been reminded that by asking enough of the right questions I can tackle the hardest tasks. 

Pride. Puerto Rican pride. I don’t think anyone was more proud to be Puerto Rican than mom. The flags, the music, the dancing, her cooking, and that “special taste” -  mom lived it loud and proud. A Puerto Rican actor or singer couldn’t appear on television without her referencing their roots. I buried her with a flag. After spending almost four months in PR this year I felt it too. I get what she got. Puerto Rican culture is warm and big and rich and deliciosa. I’m touched when friends reach out for travel advice on the island. I’ve never been more grateful to have it running through my veins and to have the island as a second home to go back to where I always feel welcome. Mom’s passing opened up a new connection with her siblings too. It feels special to have my own adult relationship with them. 

New traditions.  I embrace the need for new memory-making. Every Thanksgiving weekend used to be action-packed with mom. A spontaneous road trip, Costco with my brother, hunting for Christmas presents, and of course a trip to the city for a Broadway show. The latter was my favorite. Our last show together was the Thanksgiving before the pandemic started. We finally went to see Hamilton. Truly, better late than never. Sitting in our seats with our Playbills is one of my favorite pictures of us.

Now there’s no more of that, but I recognize I have a chosen family who has been gracious to step in and help make new magic with me. Even in the shadows of grief, it’s not at all lost on me. I look forward to seeing what new traditions take shape.

My mom was complex. Since birth, we’ve had a wild journey together. We are more alike than different and I understand that now more than ever. Sometimes after I wash my face and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror I see her DNA. It simultaneously breaks my heart and it makes me proud.

She was the hardest-working person I’ve ever witnessed. Her love was massive and complicated. She endured so many challenges at a young age and never mastered how to beat them in her adult years. I can clearly see now how part of my life’s purpose is to end our ancestral trauma, particularly for the women before me.  Mom was energetic and talented and caring almost to a fault. Jesus was her homeboy. Her grandson, Jaxon Noah was her everything. I believe she traded her life for his. 

In the finale song from Hamilton, George Washington says, “And when you’re gone who remembers your name? Who keeps your flame?” And the cast sings “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” For mom, my piri,  I’ll do the best that I can. Sharing her gifts and telling her story.  

Te amo, piri. Con amor siempre.

Elba Iris Gomez Maldonado Weitzman August 2, 1954 - December 23, 2020