El Jefe: In Memoriam

“Let no one weep for me, or celebrate my funeral with mourning; for I still live, as I pass to and fro through the mouths of men.”~ Quintus Ennius

In memory of my neighbor and friend.

So far I have made it through with all that has been going on. Even though my shoulders still carry a heavy load upon them.

We put to rest my neighbor and friend. His immediate family referred to him as “Jefe”, as did I.

But it has been strange and difficult not having him around. Countless times in these past few days, I’ve gone through the urge of giving him a call to let him in on what’s been going on in my world. Then I would stop and think that he’s not here any more, and calling him would be futile. I’m having a lot of trouble with that at the moment.

Yesterday, we said our final farewells to Jefe. A lot of people actually showed up to pay their respects. It was just as impressive as his own obituary was. The biggest thing that people had to say about him is that when they read the obituary, they didn’t realize just how connected to the community and all of the things that he had accomplished in life of 65 years. One of which was his military career. Leaving the United States Army as an officer rank of Major. The surprise came by people of what he had done surrounding his military career. Including a marriage of 44 years.

Since the news of his passing early last Friday morning, I have been surrounded by the family. His wife and his children. Hell, I was even there when they were putting together his obituary. Sitting with his wife and family and going along with them through the good and bad times of the past several days.

But Jefe and his wife had always thought of me as a “son”. They had five children of their own. But it was his wife who endeared me as a son more than he did. For many years, I actually have been regarded as and even introduced as their son. Even to their own family members. It got to the point where it was explained that their five children were brought to them by stork, and I was brought to them by the mail man.

I had a lot of people come up to me and introduce themselves and when I gave them my name, they would say, “Ohh, your their surrogate son. I’ve heard so much about you. Nice to finally meet you.”

But what am I going to really do? In a place where many were mourning. Was I going to fight them? No.

I was kind of surprised when the priest had mentioned my name in the list of his children. Then again, should I have been since they had spent many years claiming as such?

I have a lot of memories of Jefe that it would be too difficult to list them all. Many times going out to eat together, or watching a movie at their home, having a few drinks or whatever.

Being there yesterday just brought back so much to my own mind. Losing my mother and other people in my life, it was definitely a difficult burden to wear yesterday.

Near the end of the service, they played an audio recording of the 21 Gun Salute as Jefe’s sons couldn’t get the approval of the U.S. military for an actual one. And then the playing of TAPS. And it was the playing of TAPS at which point, I broke down into tears. Some tears fell, others simply welled up in my eyes and did not descend across my face.

And with the knowledge that Jefe and his family referred to me as part of theirs, the neighbors were looking at me with strange looks when they saw my tears. I did not understand why they would do that. Considering how many times Jefe’s wife verbally would speak to me as if I was part of their family. But I’m just going to have to let that go.

Jefe was the one that taught me how to improve on my Spanish speaking skills. I had always feared that he would tell me one thing and as a joke, and it would mean another. If you have seen the movie, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”, then you know what I am talking about. But he did not do that. Whenever I asked him how to say something in Spanish, he did help.

He told jokes all of the time. A majority of them, dirty and vulgar. But that’s what he liked to do was tell jokes.

However for myself and most likely for his family, we’ll go on and on with memories of Jefe. Time shall heal our wounds to where we will no longer need to mourn, but to remember. And be rejoicing the fact that I knew him and that he was a part of my life for these past few years. Knowing his pain and suffering is over. And ours one day, will be too.

 

 

 

 

 

Mother

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness.”~ St. Paul

The 26th of July is a date that is no more absolute in my mind and in my life than Christmas or my own birthday.

The words within the quote of this blog post are the ones written on the tombstone, of my mother.

My mother died of ovarian cancer over twenty years ago and each time when this date arrives, I am reminded of the sorrow, the loss, and the pain that my entire family and I went through on that day.

Some of you who have been keeping up with this blog already know. Some of you don’t. And for those who do not, I had promised that I would write my story of that horrible day so that you may know and understand. As difficult as it is to think about and experience through memory, here it goes.

She battled with it for about four years. I have memories of doing what I could to help make my mother feel more comfortable by massaging her feet because I have very strong hands. Most of the time, it worked. So the story really begins That Tuesday and Wednesday before, mainly Wednesday.

I was called away from the dinner table for the second evening in a row. Interrupted from eating, and called into the bedroom of my parents, to actually help give my mother a back massage. Everywhere I had massaged, my mother claimed that it hurt. She was weak and unable to breathe. My father called the local doctor and asked for him to have oxygen brought to her. The doctor replied that oxygen could be brought into the home, but it would be brought by the following day OR my mother could go into the hospital where she would receive oxygen almost immediately.

I think that for my father, it was a no brainer decision to take my mother into the hospital. I had a terrible feeling about it, but was glad that she was going to get oxygen so she could breathe. Also, I was inwardly happy that I would be able to finish eating that evening, unlike the night before on Tuesday by the time my arms were so exhausted from massaging my mother’s back, it was time for bed and food was gone.

I pleaded with my father to allow me to return to the dinner table to finish eating. He allowed it and I told my mother “I love you.” She replied, “I love you too, sweetie.” in the most shallow of breath I have ever heard anyone speak. A common whisper would have been louder by comparison in volume.

Wednesday night, my mother was admitted into the hospital. She would never return back home. My sister shouted out the same thing as my mother was being helped from her bed to the car to go to the hospital. Almost at the last possible second of being heard, she shouted out, “I LOVE YOU, MOM!”. That time though, I did not notice a response.

The following days my siblings and I tried to go on “life as usual”. We were used to my mother being in the hospital because of chemotherapy and doctor’s visits and tests and what not. Sunday, the 26th was a day that was out of the ordinary.

My father was not in the pulpit, my siblings and I were not a part of the congregation during Sunday morning. It was just “weird”. Instead, we had gone up to the hospital to see my mother. When we got there, all I could see and hear were the sounds of normal routine hospital life. Machines running and beeping. My mother’s pulse and heart rate was terribly slow, but it was there and that’s all that mattered to me at that point. If it was beeping… she was alive. I feared the long steady drone beep while we were there, I just didn’t want to hear it.

My mother lying in her hospital bed, her eyes closed. I gazed upon her chest to watch it move slowly up and down, up and down. All the indications that I needed as a child to be assured that everything was still okay.

My father called out to my mother using her first name. She jumped. Her eyes opened for about a second, then her eyes looked about the room to see all four of her children standing around her in the room. Her eyes shut again, and it was back to slow breathing and machines beeping.

Some of us started to cry. By “us”, I mean us four children. I started to as well. A nurse came in and saw that I was sobbing and she attempted to console me. She actually removed me from my mother’s hospital room and escorted me down the hall, turning the corner and placed me into an empty hospital room where I could be all by myself to cry as much as I wanted…. telling me it was okay to cry.

When I noticed my family had walked by the room in which I was sitting, I sprung up and chased after them to catch up. My father scolded me for running out, but I explained that I was brought there. He then soon apologized.

We had lunch as a family, then came home. My elder brother having to go to work at Wal-Mart that afternoon. The rest of us, who were too young to be by ourselves were kept company by a woman who had a knack for entertainment that we found dreadfully boring in our youth. The board game, “Rummikub” and the card game, “Phase 10”.

These two games whenever I see it, inwardly reminds me of that day when I lost my mother. Even though now, I do play Phase 10 from time to time with my neighbors.

By the evening of the 26th, my younger brother and I were in a fierce battle of Phase 10 with the woman who was there to watch over us. It was coming down to the wire and the game finally came to a conclusion. I thought deep in my mind, “Great! We’re done with this long boring game, and my brother is coming home and so I don’t have to play this stupid game no more!!”.

I was right. My brother came home from work and before he even had time to set down his keys, the telephone rang. By that time, I had got up from the table and refused to clean up the cards and was heading to the bathroom to use it.

For my older brother, it was like he didn’t miss a step. He walked in, kept walking and headed straight for the telephone. By that time, I was making my way down the hall to do what I had to do. But he hung up as quickly as he answered the telephone and shouted, “Everyone. Dad said ‘let’s go’.. so let’s go!”.

Then he looked at me and kind of snarled a bit for going in the other direction. I told him what I had to do, and he let out a sigh of frustration. So I went and did my business.

My older brother and I will talk about this from time to time and he honestly has no memory of coming down on me for having to use the bathroom, and profusely apologizes to this day.

After that, we got into the car and sped like crazy. My older brother ignoring most STOP signs and only pausing for one red light before reaching the hospital.

I remember staring at my sister while riding in the back seat of the car. Her face a completely blank slate. Her mind had to have been racing, just like mine was. But no emotion she showed. Just sitting there breathing softly to herself.

We flew up to the elevator and getting off, we passed the nurse station and was met up by my father who quickly pulled everyone of us four children into a conference room. We did not find this fair at all because my mother’s room was just two doors away from the corner.

My father stood there, ignoring random questions. “Where is Mom?”, “Is she okay?”, “Where have they taken her?”– and so on.

When everyone was sitting down in the room and the doctor walked in, my father announced that my mother had gone into Heaven.

Nothing but grief, pain, and tears could be felt or heard for several minutes.

I asked my father, “When?”. He told me several minutes had gone by when she had died. I looked down at my digital watch that was on my wrist and counted it off. She had died at 7:24 PM.

The doctor that was standing there suggested that we all go in to see her. Two at a time. But I was so scared. I had never seen anyone that I loved dead before. I didn’t know what to expect, so terrified of what I might see. But the doctor was encouraging and eventually I did go into her room. I went up to her side and touched the bed, accidentally I had touched my mother on the arm. I was expecting her to move. I wanted her to jump just like she had when my father called out her name that morning. But she did not.

Even a few days later when we would view the body at the funeral home, I kept hoping and believing that she would wake up.

When we came home, everyone was in tears. My younger brother and I went to bed, staggering to get ready. Filled with grief. He and I shared a bedroom and even slept in a bunk bed. I remember listening to the sounds of my younger brother on the top bunk crying his heart out, it was unnerving. I had never heard him cry like that before and haven’t since.

My mother’s battle with cancer was finished. She also was no longer with us. I had no idea that young, what it would be like without a mother. She was a stay at home mother because of the special needs of me having a disability. She did everything for me. And I mean, EVERYTHING. It took my older brother almost a year after that to teach me how to tie my own shoes.

For many years, I would always think that “If I only didn’t have to pee, things would have been different…”, however that would take a long hard lesson to know, that was not true.

Personally… I was utterly lost and alone. Everything would change. My father would pick up where my mother had left off, because he felt he needed to. My father would eventually re-marry and I would grow and learn as I would need to.

Still, with each 26th of July that passes, nothing in the world surpasses the moments where I will think about my mother. Even after so many years that this happened, it is like it happened just a few days ago.

I will listen to the song that my mother & I would sing together whenever we would hear it on the radio, and think of her fondly.

I’m still here, mother. I love you.

Grieving After Many Years

Today. The 16th of July 2011. Today would have been the 50th wedding anniversary of my parents.

Fifty years is a very long time. A marriage that lasts that long seems almost impossible in the 21st Century, with the divorce rate as it is today. It seems as if married couples cannot even make it to their fifth wedding anniversary, much less 50 years of marriage.

But today is especially difficult for me because my parents were only married 26 years & 10 days before my mother died of cancer. She left behind a husband and four children. And now it is very hard to fathom the possibility of what it would have been like if my parents to have been married for so long.

I have in my bedroom the wedding cake topper that was on their wedding cake so many years ago. And I am sure that my father still has the wedding photo album somewhere in his home.

This day has already become emotional for me. And it is approaching 3:00 AM. So I do not know what the rest of the day will be like. Probably full of tears and memories. My mind is totally full of wonder. Trying to imagine what it would be like for my parents to have been able to celebrate a milestone anniversary. I wonder how much different my own life would be today, if they had been able to celebrate. But it something that I will never know.

July is a roller coaster month for my family. At least it is for me. I would not really want to speak for the rest of my siblings nor my father. We are the same blood, the same family, yet so very different in how we have managed our own lives during these certain days.

My father just celebrated his birthday a few days ago. Then the rememberance of their wedding anniversary, and then a few days later after that towards the end of the month, would be the anniversary of my mother’s passing. It has always been extremely difficult for me. I will blog again when that anniversary comes and deal with the topic of the loss of my mother.

Today, I miss her. And I love her. And I am ever so happy, grateful, and appreciative to my mother for giving birth to me.

Each person deals with grief differently. I do my best with it. Dealing with death has never been, nor will it ever be something easy.

So as I retire for bed (at last), I will think of my mother and tell her that I love her still.

Memory Assimilation

“Memory is a paradise out of which fate cannot drive us.”~ Alexandre Dumas, fils

I went to the grocery store the other day and I saw a bunch of strawberries, and thought of someone. I smelled a pizza being baked in the bakery, and thought of someone else. Then I could hear a song being played over the store’s intercom system, and thought of someone else. Strolling through aisle after aisle there was a mother having an argument with her child about why she would not buy any ice cream and overheard her reasoning. When she said the phrase, “That’s the way it is.”, I thought of another person.

I found my brain being driven into overload from the memories of certain people that these certain things were reminding me. Throughout my time inside that store, I thought of these people. I wondered what and how they were doing, how their lives were, and an overall curiosity of simply, them.

The human memory has got to be one of the most powerful things that our brain posesses. I started to wonder about human memory. I wondered why some people can remember a lot, and others cannot remember what they did an hour before.

I had always been told by my own family, “You have a memory of steel.” I can remember a lot. People, places, things. And in great detail. I think it drives my own family to the edge of either insanity or jealousy whenever my brain releases these memories to my thoughts and I begin to tell their tales.

The earliest memory that I have, I was either three or four years old. I was in double leg casts after having surgery and I was crawling around on the floor inside of the house because my family did not have a wheelchair. Dragging those “heavy plaster boots” around me wherever I decided to roam. Having to be picked up by my parents and placed at the dinner table, or on the couch to watch evening television and then being put into bed.

That’s as far as I can go with my memory. It is not as distinct and clear as a certain memory that I have created today when I went out for coffee and donuts. That was today, this childhood memory happened many, many years ago.

Still though, what is it about our brains and about certain things that will cause us to remember individual situations and times?

The brain does not actually remember things like specific dates, but rather it remembers what we were doing on those specific dates and we are able to connect and assimilate exactly when that was. It is the actions that causes the memory. Not the day of the calendar.

So it was driving me crazy. What exactly is it that causes us to remember?

There are certain “triggers” that cause our brains to remember things. Little bitty things that will make us stop and think about what we had done in our past and where we have been, where we came from.

These things are the following:

• Sensory
• Emotions
• Background
• Intellect
• Visceral Sensory

You can look them up on your own time, if you wish to research it further. However I believe that Sensory has got to be the strongest trigger that our brain uses in order to remember things.

I could see, smell, hear, taste, and touch all of these individual things and the senses go into action that I would remember particular situations with these people. Specific conversations or whatever. Nevertheless, their images were in my head in an instant and they remained on my mind the rest of the day. My thoughts were that they were all doing okay in their scope of life and that they were happy wherever they were.

It all boiled down to pleasant things. My reaction was priceless when I realized that everyone or everything that I was “remembering”, I have a fervent passion for. And for each their own reasons.

I cannot explain why I have such the remarkable ability to remember a lot of things in which my family cannot. Or other people for that matter. But I have been blessed with it. One memory will turn into another, and then another, and then yet another.

Memories are flowing as I still write this post!

What is it that causes you to remember certain things? And what is your earliest memory??