Category: Grief and Mourning

Writing is one of the ways I manage the grief for the loved ones I’ve lost.

Out of The Pages of My Caregiving Diary

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March 12th is a day to remember on the calendar for me. One of my dearest friends was born on this day, I am so grateful for her in my life. Y luego, my second grandchild was born on March 12, he also took a star position on that day. Hay mas! We also celebrate a special wedding day; Mr. & Mrs. Emmanuel Zepeda, happy anniversary Cita! Added to that beautiful day is the miracle God did for my granddaughter Rachel who was miraculously healed on that day from a dangerous hemangioma.

I had it all planned out to write something else with happy wishes on this post, and I did, pero, it didn’t feel right or good. In the midst of all those celebrations comes the cloud of loss. That day also brought loss for my apa. His second wife died on March 12. After his loss more change then confusion followed. As much as I do not want to go in that direction of mourning, I have remembered its sting.

Quizas la lluvia is adding to my mood, rain does that to me. My trip to Jalisco was beautiful, but also a stark reminder that of my apas 9 siblings, counting him, only 4 were with us still. Seeing my dad’s youngest sister at 79 years of age and his 93 year old little brother brought such sadness. Especialmente when he said “My brother was 96 years old when he left? Then I’ve only got 3 years left” She had commented “Ya nos estamos acabando” We are being finished off.

Looking through my journal I read about my caregiving days with my apa. It is with different eyes that I read those pages. I think I feel some guilt for feeling all that I felt. 

This page in my journal, dated October 26, 2019, arrested me as I remembered the turmoil of that season..

My Journal Page

10.26.19 Sat. Night

Maggie’s (this was one of his other caregivers) gone and I’m back on duty 😶 Lord I don’t know how to articulate what I’m feeling. Isn’t taking care of someone supposed to be to make them better? But instead, taking care of dad is about watching him grow weaker.

God I know talking to you should be enough. 

God these doctors seem to think or be leading me to accepting Dads death. Is this supposed to happen? God help me please. I feel so helpless. Dads weaker, Dads tired, dads lonely, I’m not making his life  better or mine. What did I expect by bringing dad here? (ves, in our attempts to help him and us, we had started to bring him to our home every month for two weeks, then back to his home. This only brought anxiety and confusion to him. When he was permanently in our home he knew it wasn’t his house, everyday that we helped him dress, he expected that it was the day he was going home)  

In my mind I thought maybe that he would find peace. I expected that salvation (ves I was praying for him to repent of his sin and ask Jesus to be Lord of his life) was gonna have him rejoice and be glad.

He’s not well, he’s not happy

I’m tired, maybe that’s what all this emotion is about?

God I wouldn’t want my kids taking care of me like this, my poor dad, so humiliating. What is the right thing?

The man he was is gone, maybe in a certain way that’s good?

I’m tired of having strangers in my home

I’m tired of feeling achy

I’m tired

God I feel such anxiety.

En Conclusion:

That was rough. The journaling did help and it helped now, but  so did talking with my sister. Lately I have been feeling a lot of emotion since I went to visit my apa’s siblings and his pueblo. It’s been a roller coaster, feeling high on the privilege that I was able to go to Jalisco, see the deserted little town of El Amparo. Y de repente, crashing down into loss, as I see his siblings also very old and frail. I realize again that mourning has no time table. For the most part the pain of loss does lessen with time, but triggers go off when you least expect it. Al fin de cuentas, I am glad me and my sis were with my apa when he needed us most. I am also glad to celebrate grandchildren, birthdays and wedding days with miracles. Thank you Jesus that you are always with us. 

How To Manage Mourning and Change

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A Time To Weep 

Is there a clinical time allotted for mourning? I read this on the Center for Grief & Loss website, “Grief takes a long time. In fact, it never completely ends, because you will never stop missing the person who died. You will always feel pangs of grief over the absence of this person in your life”. For me, this is true. I miss my ama, apa, sister Lupe and these past few weeks I’ve especially missed Patty.  

My Rules for Mourning

En mi vida y corazon, I’ve established two rules of engagement for mourning, just to help my heart along. Primeramente, when their birthdays and “graduation days” (the anniversaries of their deaths) come along, I share a shout out with my sis Marina and we remember something good and tender. Segundo, I will not allow the dark memories to crowd into my mind. Even as I write, the memory of the day they passed and the emptiness I felt wants to take over. Nope! I will only allow happy memories.

When I keep these boundaries up, things go well and the grief passes like a strong wind, it ruffles me up and our beautiful shared memories are scattered on the floor of my mind. Pero, aveces, mourning surprises me. It either creeps up slowly and distracts me for a season. Other times, it slams me down and paralyzes me for a long moment. In that grief, the accusations sting me. 

No lo entiendo. It can be overwhelmingly confusing.  Is it normal to feel such intense grief after so long? Is it normal not to? Am I a selfish daughter and sister because I don’t feel sad consistently? Am I a selfish wife, mother, sister and friend because I still want to bring up my loved one and remember them always, with memories or memorabilia? 

I have so many things in my home, closet, jewelry box, and albums that tie me to my loved ones, but especially Patty. (A look inside my mourning box is a whole separate post) Once again I find myself facing this: If I remove “such and such item” from my life, will that remove Patty? I find myself painfully attached to these things and they paralyze me from making changes. Guilt screams and points its finger at me. A good and loyal sister would never “get rid of that” And usually I crumble and put off any changes.

Ben and I started some changes  last year. My kitchen is looking great! Mi esposo is a Macgyver!  He can fix, or make anything using his God given talents. He’s been busy and I haven’t had to face “getting rid” of those things that have Pattys fingerprints on them. Y ahora, in this new year as changes continue, I’m getting closer to facing the old worn things again. 

Name Brands

My sister Patty was a lady who enjoyed nice things. Even as a young girl she asked for the best and my ama was always exasperated at her “ricachona” tastes. How in the world did this girl have such rich wants? Somehow, my ama managed and Patty would acquire at least one name brand item of clothing or accessory and she was always classy on that first day of school. Y pues, she carried that ‘trait’ into adulthood. Only the best for Patty. Meanwhile, over on my side, to this day I barely know a name brand. Para que vean, Once I went to church wearing my nice hand-me-down handbag and as I set it down by my chair, one of the ushers said “Wow sis! You must have some money” I laughed a bit confused. Then he pointed to my handbag and said “That’s a Coach purse” I was still confused. He explained that it was an expensive brand. I wasn’t surprised, it came from Patty. For the record, I googled Coach brand, and discovered that Coach is considered a mid range accessible luxury brand! Que “accessible” ni que nada! Ridiculous. It was accessible to me only through my bougie sister. “Anyways” when she bought something new, I got her accessible mid range hand-me-downs and I was more than satisfied. The name brand things I now own are “My Patty Things.”

Because of Patty I have continued to wear Estee Lauder Pleasures and Calvin Klein’s Eternity. Bien muy muy.

When Change is Needed

So what am I getting at?  Over 20 years ago, my beloved sister gave me her nice, practically brand new couches and dining room table. Patty died (that was hard to write) over 15 years ago. I still own and use them. My couches have aged and worn down, I won’t describe how much. My nice sturdy single pedestal claw feet dining room table with ceramic tiles is hanging on, very durable. Pero, it is looking tired and maybe worn down, aveces, when the grandkids climb on it, like kids do, I worry for my table first and then my nietecito! Hijole. The tiles are faded and grout has been picked on . It is  just time for a change. Patty’s family and mine shared many beautiful gatherings. Great conversations happened at the dining table when we were sitting down properly at dinner time. My couches have been so hospitable to all. Patty visited me at full term pregnancy and struggled to rise from my couch. I got some help from the springy cushion to bounce her up on her feet. Years later, though my couches were old, they patiently waited when my 90 something year old apa struggled to rise up from the sunken cushions. Neither would admit that they were tired. 

En Conclusion

These practical pieces of furniture fulfilled their duty. It’s time for a change. They are part of the memories, oh how I struggle to part with them. I want change. It can be so refreshing and pretty. But the grief makes me believe that I’ll lose those treasured memories. That won’t happen, will it?  Will I change? Will I forget her? Where are my boundaries? How do I apply them here?

Grief at Christmas time

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Going to a funeral is always awkward. In my experiences, I go and watch and watch and then try to move toward the family. This week I went to a funeral again, death is part of life.

Andrews First Loss:

When my sister Patty passed away almost suddenly in 2008, she left behind her son Andrew. He was three years old at the time. He didn’t understand what was happening. One day, he went to his grandmother Mary’s house, but he always did that on Mondays. That Monday Patty went to the hospital and Andrew never saw his momma again. When he asked for her and cried for her, he couldn’t grasp the reality of never ever seeing her again. 

I don’t know what it’s like to grow up without a mother, gracias a Dios I had the privilege of having my ama throughout my childhood. For the next 14 years Andrew had his dad, Deidra and his grandma Mary. Aside from his emotional meltdowns at the sight of me and my sis he has done very well. He is a handsome and sweet young man who strives to excel. 

I knew Andrew’s grandmother through Patty’s daughter in law experience. Mary loved my sister. She pulled her into the family and Patty was so grateful for a mother in law that helped her and loved her. Mary made herself available to Patty when she had Andrew, in her recovery and her return to work. She treated her like a daughter and me and my sister Marina rested in that. I’m pleased to write here that Patty loved Mary right back and was grateful to her. We, my sis and I loved Mary too for stepping in for Patty and helping to nurture our sweet nephew. Mary was 92, she hung on participating in Andrews extracurricular activities as much as her body would allow her. Gracias a Dios, Andrew had his grandma almost into adulthood.

Andrews Second Loss

A couple of weeks ago I got one of those calls from David, Andrew’s dad. He was to the point, “Rosie, I’m just calling to let you know that my mom passed away this morning” I was so sorry to hear that, what about Andrew I thought? Pero, I collected myself and gave David my condolences “David, I’m sorry” What else is there to say? He asked if I would let my sister and family know and I assured him that I would. I had to know how Andrew was, David said he was ok. I texted Andrew, I wanted to call him, because I should pick up the phone, yet I knew Andrew wouldn’t talk to me. In time Andrew responded to my text, usually we second guess a person’s mood on text, but I could almost feel his lonely heart through that text.

Then I called my sis, her concern too was Andrew. How is he? When’s the funeral? I didn’t have answers, Dave would let us know the details.

Another funeral

We drove to the funeral with that heaviness that death brings. Everyone was standing around outside, waiting. The big black hearse which carried Mary’s body was surrounded by her grandsons and great grandsons. They stood very close to the carroza waiting for the signal to move her into the church. We went to Andrew and when he saw us, he gave me a half a hug. I said, “give me a real hug” We both embraced very uncomfortably.

Catholic mass or misa is a quiet affair usually, but for Marys mass the family had hired Mariachis, music that is rich in culture and emotion. One song they sang was one of my amas favorite songs. The words brought life in the midst of that funeral. It was hard not to clap in appreciation for those beautiful lyrics, mira: “Senor, me has mirado a los ojos” did the others understand? “Lord, you’ve looked into my eyes” My goodness! I remembered that beautiful day that I actually noticed when Jesus looked into my eyes and I was changed from that day forward.Thank goodness nobody could hear my thoughts, still I looked around because they were like fireworks going off at the memory of my beautiful conversion experience.

Ashes To Ashes, Dust To Dust

At the burial, I was awkward as always. My sis, she’s very thoughtful to participate and give her condolences. I didn’t want to do it. As I watched the interesting burial traditions of releasing the doves and tossing earth onto the casket I ruminated on the crooked paths death takes at times. 

Again I was glad nobody could hear my thoughts, my tears escaped. I cried for Andrew. I was busy regretting Pattys death, tan joven, she died at such a young age, especially when she had a toddler to raise. It is the natural order of life to bury our elderly when they reach a ripe old age. My apa was 96 when he died and while it is so lonely and painful, we make our brains kick start quicker into living again. I ran back to that day when my sister died and Andrew had no idea that the most important woman in his life had left him without notice. That day I didn’t even think of Andrew, I was lost in my loss, but as Andrew buried his grandma this week, now I could weep for him. He worked really hard at mastering his emotions or at least his tears. He flared his nostrils, his nose red from secret tears. I wanted so much to hug him again and tell him how sorry I was and so I did. Pero, Andrew had to be strong, his primos were around him and I was awkward some more. I just asked “Andrew, where is your mom’s gravestone? (Mary was buried very near Patty) and I had to go there, it had been a long time. I didn’t like going there, it was a reminder of the pain, and besides I knew she wasn’t even there.  Andrew pointed and said “She’s just over there by that big tree” I guess he didn’t see that there were many big trees. Eventually we found her gravestone. Marina talked to her, getting on Patty  for laughing at us as we walked in circles trying to find her. I prayed for Andrew there at his mothers graveside. Then Thomas took a picture of us during our short visit. 

Our Hope

 My apa, ama and sisters are in a better place, Jesus  was Lord of their lives. I didn’t feel right to participate in the ceremony, perhaps I should have, no se, my brain keeps arguing that all those touching traditions don’t soothe, they hurt. I loved Andrew’s grandma Mary and I was glad to support Andrew and my brother in law. Andrew sent us a sweet text thanking us. 

Funerals are so final, I miss Andrew’s mom and I’m certain he misses his Grandma Mary and yet we must go on. I came home to finish the Christmas season. Por supuesto, that it is sad and lonely to experience death at Christmas, es obvio that funerals can put a “wet blanket” on Christmas. It is my choice to replace it, with a cozy throw of peace and joy. After my respectful condolences have been given, I choose to rejoice at Christmas. It is a beautiful season for me, I pull my loved ones in close and to anyone who will listen to my joyful Christmas pasts I give them an earful 🥰 Gracias a Dios, that while I wait to see my loved ones again, the ones we’ve buried, I have these beautiful memories to enjoy and share.

Twenty two days until Christmas, I wish and  I hope to see Andrew again soon and bring him some Christmas joy. 

Que Dios los bendiga, enjoy the hustle and bustle 🙂

If I Could Send a Text To Heaven

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The Heavy Weight of Loss

Ya se, ya se. Here I am in beautiful San Diego smack dab in the middle of the summer, beautiful city, perfect weather y aun asi my heart is heavy with loss. Circumstances of my life have propelled me into a feeling of swimming for survival. Que dramatic verdad?

My ama, oh how I wish we could talk. I would pick her brain about her marriage and motherhood and grandmotherhood. Ahora si, I see her sacrifices, and totally relate to her tears and her fatigue. Y, I’d pull out the pictures of her great grandchildren, “Mire ama, todo lo que Dios me ha concedido” Oh I know she would cry tears of joy to see my beautiful inheritance. I get anxious at times about my apa. Is he indeed resting in peace? so I’d also have her ask her “Como esta mi apa?”  In my mind I still imagine some of those unspoken difficult conversations, pero, gracias a Dios, that He was with my apa till  he finished his race.  I do want to tell him about Hector, his youngest. The travieso!, his troublemaking days are behind him, I hope he knows that is ok. 

Y mis hermanas, my sisters, I want to assure them, or maybe me, that all is well. 

With all the things to come, I think I’m behaving quite “self controlled”. While I’m not quite Ben (my cold blooded Englishman), I’m handling life. Pero, I’m tending to want to keep on that terrible and wicked stronghold of pride, yet I know it only damages me. If you’re latina, (or maybe pride affects everyone) ya sabes. Hold your head up, if needed, look angry to ‘prove’ you are a strong latina woman and nothing can knock you down. O, if something has threatened you push back, be strong, fight, no te dejes! 

Like I’ve said a few times, anything can trigger mourning, my sister Patty’s birthday just passed, and I asked God if he would give her a message. Honestly, as long as I’ve been Born Again, I have very little knowledge of heaven. Note to self: Learn about the place you’ll spend eternity girl! The streets are paved with gold, Jesus, my savior is preparing my place, there will be no more suffering, pain or mourning. But I don’t know how Heaven functions, I pray and and hold fast to His promises, then one day I’ll be there with my familia.

If I Could Send a Text:

I want Patty to know that our Emery is getting married and she would be quite pleased with the jewel God is making her to be; beautiful, strong, sweet and spicy are the traits I’ve detected thus far. 

Could an unfeeling text, even with emojis, relate my heart in this? I want my ama to know that I understand her now. I want her to know that I regret my disrespectful ignorant attitude toward her trials. I want her to know that I realize how much we kids took a piece of her heart and I’m so sorry I broke it. 

I still want them to let me know how much they miss me, but missing someone is painful sometimes, and in Heaven they don’t suffer from pain anymore. 

The Days Pass Like Vapor:

As time is passing and life is quickly changing, I’m hanging on to Christ, the only one that doesn’t change. 

A Time To Mourn

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It turns out it’s true that mourning is a winding path and not a straight line. We experienced a busy April and May, up and down and all around! Then things quieted down, ya saben, a calm before the storm of wedding planning pelts us. A quiet house is rare for the Greene home, but we’ve had a couple of days of it, bien nice! Pero, every time I slow down, even just a little bit, I start looking back, wrapping up all the events in sweet memories, but somewhere along that wrapping I feel the absence of my loved ones. I get emotional and the void in my life accuses me. If Patty were here, she’d approve of Emery’s choice. My apa wouldn’t be able to make the long trip for the wedding. Y mi ama? What would she say about my hijos? Lupe, my big sister, she’d scare Emery’s girl with her piercing Zepeda gaze. 

It all started on Memorial Day when I counted my amas, 33rd year gone to her rest. Then, that night I read a blog about caregiving, y ahora I was looking for a picture and I got caught up rereading a string of family emails about my apas care.  Tengan paciencia,  I need to go through this process, my therapy, I went back to a time when my apa was a young man of 90.

Following In His Grandfather’s Steps

(This was when my apa was still able to live in his own home with caregivers)

It was my turn to take Dad to the doctor for his neurology visit. I drove into town early and thought that I would pull him out of his adult care program early and go have a treat. I had to wait until his full four hours were complete, the program was not going to bend the rules for Don Manuel! Maybe their funding was on the line?  No choice but to wait. When my apa saw me, he knew the day was over. The ‘junta’ was over and his work was done, ‘la mesa directiva’ had made no decisions in that meeting. Many times he was frustrated with that “board of directors” for wasting his time in these meetings. You see, every weekday when my apa was picked up for his adult care program, he believed that he was going to work. A day full of meetings, like when he was a young man in 1970 working for a program called Campesinos Unidos. Asi es, for a short time my apa didn’t work out in the fields.

He was ready to leave, but we had to wait, so we made small talk. I had to keep redirecting him. He asked about my family, and his usual focus was, “Y tu hija? Valentina, ¿Ya se caso?” For some time dad had been calling my daughter Daniella, Valentina. She must have looked like a Valentina to him, so I quit correcting him. Back to Daniella’s marital status. “Si Apa ya va a cumplir 3 años de casada.”  “Como? Cuando?” He was as always very shocked to hear the news that she had already been married for a short while. I asked about his day and the response was usually, “The director stood up there and talked and talked, but I didn’t know what he was getting at” Then,  “Y tu hija, como esta? Ya se caso?” This time, although he was shocked at my answer,  he remembered, and reminded me very apologetically that he wasn’t remembering things very well anymore.  That’s when he asked again why he was going to the doctor. I explained his dementia issue. He was diagnosed with short term memory loss, the new memories were lost immediately. However, my sister and I suspected that his memory loss was very selective. I explained that his struggle with memory loss  might be helped with medication.  Suddenly he remembered his grand- father who lived to be 101 and also suffered from dementia.  

Don Manuel waiting to see the neurologist

Young Manuel with His Abuelo

His grand-father was old and frail, housebound, confused about his past and present. He lived in the past. One day as his abuelo looked out the window he saw the sky heavy with rain clouds. Manuel knew that it was a beautiful clear day, blue skies and sunshine. He listened as his grand-father worried out loud about the dark heavy rain clouds.  He turned to him and said “those clouds are heavy with rain, it looks like an ugly storm coming in.”  Manuel knew his grand-father was confused and said nothing, it happened often. Gone was his strong grandfather who had sat erect on his horse and gave orders. 

My Apa

Then Dad paused and looked at me, “It looks like I might be taking after him.” I said, “Quizas, since you’ve only got 11 years before you’re 101!” Again, shock registered in his voice, “Que tan Viejo estoy?! He didn’t remember that he was 90, he was sticking to 80. Interestingly enough, it was that year that he officially entered the ‘needing care and supervision” stage of his life.  All I could do was ask God to hold back that dementia as much as possible.   As I situated him into the car to go to the doctor, he casually asked “Y tu hija, Valentina? Como esta?”

Daniella aka Valentina 🥰

At The Appointment:

Sitting at the doctor’s office was a sad unveiling. It was crowded. Chairs too close to each other, before covid of course, when all the world stood paralyzed. Men, women, young and old people all with some kind of nerve damage or muscle injuries, looking pained, angry and entirely restless. Hijole! I cringed at what I saw, heard and imagined. Most of them were there just for refills, they needed the temporary relief from the pain. Dad wasn’t in pain, why was I there anyway? And as if dad heard my thoughts he asked “Porque estamos aqui?” 

The appointment was to see the much demanded neurologist in Imperial Valley, in which I hoped the evaluation would determine a solution, a goal… something. After an hour of waiting, dad was called.  We walked slowly to an examining room, when we sat down, my apa was suddenly clear minded and present. As we waited for the doctor to enter, he asked if he was sick? He wanted to know why we were with “this” type of doctor. He looked at me knowingly, “estoy loco.” That’s when the nurse practitioner stepped in, the doctor wasn’t available. He  greeted us, shaking dad’s hand, and both men stared at each other. 

Nurse: ¿Cómo está señor Zepeda?

Apa: Bien, con un poco de dolor en la nuca.

 He was always fine except for the pain in the back of the neck which was his usual complaint. The nurse looked at the back of his neck, determined that it was probably arthritis.

Nurse: What is your name and birthdate? 

I guess if he knew those answers he must be fine verdad? Really, a long term memory, ingrained into him after 90 years.

 Apa: Manuel Zepeda Solano, 12-15-24. 

He stared at the doctor, dismissing him with his eyes. The nurse looked at me.

Nurse: Ok, I’ll  write his prescription for a refill, doesn’t seem like there’s any changes.  Que?! Por supuesto que things were changing! Why were we there? Was the medication helping? How could we help him? And us. When we got in the car dad pulled out the $5 that was always in his wallet and said “Vamos a una nieve.” So we went for an ice cream and I enjoyed hearing more about my strong bis abuelo, Solano.

En Conclusion:

Hijole! I do miss my sisters and my parents, I don’t know when I’ll see them again. It is my prayer and hope for that reunion. Pero mientras, it helps to pull out the memories and enjoy la familia I have here on earth. 

Gracias Te Damos Señor

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Tis the season to be thankful. I take too many things for granted, in these strange and difficult days. Good health and strength is something I’m so grateful for, especially as I’m climbing that mountain. Wait! Or am I…. descending the mountain? A healthy mind to process life does not go unnoticed in my book anymore. I’m recognizing again that we have things for seasons and sometimes we get special one time experiences that a grateful heart will tuck away into the memory, sometimes dormant, until something triggers it. Today was a trigger day. 

Usually when things happen they pile up needing attention ahorita mismo! This entire week has been chaotic, as all hands are on deck to plan a baby shower for our 8th, asi es 8th grandchild. As you can imagine everything is a mess, and with the weather being dry, everything is dusty and dirty. De repente, I get notice that I’ll have guests, que exagerada! It only felt like all of a sudden a grenade was launched and I had to get busy to save my life! The room I had to prepare was my apas room. I call it Tatas room. His room has had use, but not often in these past 11 months. I use it and it is not weird or painful to go in it, no mas que ahora I had to do some deep cleaning, and dusting reaching areas that require moving furniture around, ya saben. I had wiped down photo frames with images of dad and family. These faces look right at me whenever I go in, they’re part of the room. Suddenly I was transported back to those initial transition days of taking care of my apa. It was such a confusing and difficult time for him. He said he could do life alone, and he truly believed he still could. He stood his ground, there was nothing wrong with him he argued, he wasn’t stupid and he certainly wasn’t a baby. Dementia was already present but of course he didn’t know it.

We brought my dad’s pictures from his home into his new room.

The straw that broke the camel’s back, was yet another fall in his daycare facility, a blow to the head that sent him to the hospital. My sister and I scrambled. One of his caregivers was with him in the ER waiting for test results and for me to arrive. I already had a room ready for him in my home.

I’m going to attempt to describe what it is to battle Dementia, or mejor dicho, what me and my sister experienced with our apa. Dementia refers to memory loss and the loss of other reasoning abilities. It  is a progressive disease, which when severe enough will alter a person’s ability to function daily. Our apa dealt with dementia of the Alzhemiers kind.  It gets into the brain and squashes out memory and spreads until it reaches across the mind. Many sundown experiences put us into a twilight zone episode where we spun around in circles getting nowhere. “Redirect him,” the nurse would tell us, and when we weren’t bound up in frustration and angry emotions, we could manage that. Some of the more successful evening battles against dementia usually involved dad telling a childhood story from his long term memory archives. I tried to always be prepared with my writing  tools. 

Sometimes the skirmishes at  sundown left me confused! Today, deep cleaning this room, triggered a night time conversation I’d had with my apa. That first night in his new surroundings he was uncomfortable and awkward. We had settled him into bed and he wondered where I was going to sleep since he had taken my bed.

Me: No apa, es su cama

Apa: No, mi cama esta en mi casa

Me: Esta es su casa

He chuckled, like I was being polite, you know how we latinos open our home up, “mi casa es su casa.”  Que casualidad that he remembered that he wasn’t home. Sometimes dementia made me suspicious that perhaps he wasn’t confused, could he be faking it? Apa was worried about where I would sleep. I assured him that I was going to my room but if he needed anything I would hear him call and come check on him. I had a good monitor that picked up even the sound of his breathing.

Apa: Y Ben donde esta?

Me: Apa, Ben esta en nuestro cuarto.

He chuckled again, looking at me sideways. 

Apa: Ese no es Ben! Hijole! Dads long term memory only remembered the young Ben not the… hmmm… mature one 😀

Of course I was offended, dementia or no dementia mi apa was insinuating that another man would be in my bed! Imaginate! I stood up for myself of course and explained and explained again, four or five times, that Ben was the only man for me. I eventually resorted to the redirection trick and it worked. We survived our first night, apenas!  Another thing to be grateful for is my flaco who was patient and kind even though his suegro many times thought he was a stranger in the house.

Dementia torments it’s victims and their caregivers. Y por supuesto, my outlet has been my writing. It cages you up sometimes. At times I felt sorry for my apa and other times I was right in the cage with him. We experimented with him living part time in my home and part time in his, but we realized after a few months that it had only confused him more.

dementia is a humbling experience for both the patient and the caregiver.

I wrote this after a long evening of confusion for him and fatigue for me.

Caged

When are you taking me home?

Dad, you are home.

This is my home?

I must be losing my mind.

Where’s Lupe?

Your wife died last year.

What? I saw her last night.

I must be losing my mind.

Is my mother alive?

She died a long time ago.

Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I must be losing my mind.

Where’s my wallet?

In your pocket.

Where’s my keys?

I must be losing my mind.

Is my car outside?

It’s right outside.

I can’t see it.

I must be losing my mind.

Tell me about your family?

Your husband repairs tires?

That’s my sisters husband,

My husband paints houses.

I must be losing my mind.

When are you taking me home?

You are home Dad.

Don’t you recognize the pictures?

I must be losing my mind.

Dad voiced those words many times when he couldn’t remember and then he would get confused and plenty of times angry because we didn’t understand him. It was a vicious cycle.

Today, I was sad for a moment about that trigger that led me down to that memory, but then I was glad for the opportunity to have lived it.

I am thankful for those years with my dad and for all the years I’ve had with family and friends. I’m grateful for every year that I have a healthy mind, to cherish, understand and appreciate my loved ones.

My Dads daily prayer was a reminder to cling to gratitude and remember that our life is in His hands.

Holding on to My Dad’s Prayer

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These past few weeks have been trying times. Sickness hovers over our lives trying to scare us into a corner of not living but existing. Hard times and bad news, make us desperate por tener un momento de tranquilidad. As we hold our breath not knowing what to expect, tears wash out and my heart aches for those loved ones I will not see again until eternity. Not knowing the appointed time, the wait feels endless. 

 I will not lie and say I’ve sat and “waited” for the day I see my ama again, she’s been gone for over 30 years, but I have longed through the years for that mother/daughter relationship & connection. I have a sister in Christ, my  friend who has five beautiful daughters, and oh, I can tell those girls have connected with their momma. Me acuerdo, when I was a new homemaker, “building” my own home. I was barely a few weeks on the journey, I was given a chance to call my ama. I was having a cooking crisis and she rescued me, the stroke she had (a post for another time) didn’t hinder her from coming to my aid.

In her cooking stilo, como todas las mexicanas she set me straight: 

Me: “Ama, ¿cuáles son los chiles que se usan para la carne con chile?”

Ama: “Pues ¿cuales son los que tienes? “

I had forgotten those cooking lessons with my ama! The main lesson was work with what you have, but make it work! I wonder if I’ll be able to share with her my mothering experience with my one daughter? Aguanten me por favor, Un poco culeca. Mi ama would see my daughter and fall in love with her immediately.

Y mis hermanas, Patty and Lupe, se adelantaron! They rushed ahead of me and Marina almost 13 years ago and beat us to heavens gates. I won’t pretend that I wasn’t angry. I had quite a few things to teach my “older” sisters and they me. In the middle of my busy life, while we 4 sisters were enjoying and sharing the episodes of life,  they finished  their race within 3 months of each other. In shock I had to say goodbye for now. Pero sabes, death always feels like that, when you expect it, and while you wait for your loved one to pass, you’re still shocked by it, when you don’t expect it, it knocks you down and takes your breath away.

My apa, no tenia prisa, gracias a Dios , almost took him a century to walk this road on earth. Geographically he was in very small places, almost insignificant, but he broke up much fallow ground and planted many seeds of experience and left quite a legacy of children and grandchildren to carry his name on. Eso! Don Manuel!

 He has only just gone home 8 months ago and the void of his departure esta muy tierno aun. In our home our backroom is still “Tatas room”

I will say that I’ve occupied myself with a goal, a hope or God’s plan to see them again.

My Dad’s Prayer of Gratitude

This long season of pestilence has caused me to examine life.  What are the things that I’m grateful for? The big things and the minute details of my life that I tend to take for granted sometimes, like my daily bread and the very air I breathe that God gives. It was a solidifying reminder to finds my dads prayer.

For as long as  I could remember my apa prayed this prayer at meal times. I can picture him now at our table, ready and waiting to see if he would be called upon to pray. 

“Gracias te damos Senor por estos alimentos que no nos hacen falta.  También  Señor te pedimos por todos aquellos que no tienen alimentos. Ayúdalos y dales la mano, no los desampares. Perdónanos nuestros pecados , pero  siempre que se haga tu santa voluntad. Amén”

Sometimes a line or two was switched up, but it had the same meaning:  

“Gracias te damos Senor por estos alimentos que no nos pones en la mesa.  También  Señor te pedimos por todos aquellos que no tienen alimentos. Ayúdalos y dales la mano, no los desampares. Perdóna nuestros ofensas, pero  siempre que se haga tu santa voluntad. Amén”

 As if someone switched on the lights,  I have truly paid close attention to my apas prayer and realized how profound it truly was. Too many times we throw our prayers out to God without any real conviction, especially at mealtimes, were hungry and we’ve been waiting for that good food so were in a hurry. Hijole! Imaginate, as God sits down to eat with us and hears our “Thank you Jesus, bless this food” my fork halfway to my mouth already, I say “amen”. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a good morning in my prayer already  that I am careless when I thank God for his provision. Whatever the reason, prayer at mealtimes in my life has been lackadaisical. Once in a while, I whisper in my mind, I really am grateful Lord, y si estoy agradecida! despite my mouthful.  My apas prayer has reminded me to be grateful for my life, for the blessings and most importantly grateful for the Blesser.  

Aguanta otro ratito while I unpack his prayer. 

“Estos alimentos que no nos hacen falta”

Thankful for his provision. These days as many fight for their lives, the very air we breathe is a gift from God. ALL our basic needs are remembered in this simple line.

“También  Señor te pedimos por todos aquellos que no tienen alimentos. Ayúdalos y dales la mano, no los desampares”

Thankful that we can approach the very throne of God for our needs and our loved ones. They’re too weak, too tired, too much in pain to ask for themselves, but we can stand in the gap for them. A thoughtful prayer that remembers those that are struggling and asks God to also help them in their time of need. Orita mismo, I can think of several friends, loved ones, and friends of friends that are in desperate need.

“Perdóna nuestros ofensas”

Thankful that God, the creator of heaven and earth graciously forgives our trespasses. I find it interesting that this line for forgiveness is after asking for the basic needs for ourselves and others. Asking forgiveness of our daily trespasses, my apa knew that even while our needs are endless so is God’s  comfort and grace. A prayer that humbly acknowledges our sinful state that without God in our lives we would be wretched and lost. 

I’m so glad that finally my heart has grabbed ahold of this prayer and I agree with Dad in it and say yes and amen!

 Today let these words  provoke you into true thanksgiving.

Remembering Mi Ama

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Today marks 32 years that me and my siblings have walked this earth without our ama. Que dramatica! Everytime a memorial day comes out of the closet I think I must be sad and well, and I am. That’s when I have to choose not to be a chillona and I must make a conscious choice to turn my sadness into something better. I’m gonna text my sis in a while and remember with her our ama.

Mothering Techniques

I miss her, she is a feisty latina woman! She had to be, with 4 strapping boys that had plans of their own and 4 feisty latina daughters! If her command and tone didn’t get the job done, she pulled out her secret weapon: “Vas a ver! Cuando venga tu Padre” Yikes! We never wanted my apa to get involved. Just writing this makes me sit up straight. 

In her house the rule was “Aqui van hablar espanol” and we did… our version, el Spanglish.

She wanted us well versed in spanish for when we went to visit la familia en Guadalajara. Ama wanted to prove that we were indeed Mexicanos to the bone. In our opinion, we were the best spanish speakers in the barrio, but when we were in the colonias of Guadalajara…and the primos laughed at our spanish, we showed them. We loosened our tongue into english mode, accent and all, they didn’t know any better. Hay si, muy muy is what they judged us with. We weren’t trying to seem songrones, stuck up, acting like we were better. But hey! Who wants to be laughed at? For our ama we stayed in spanish mode as needed and I’m glad I did, because today I’m muy bilingue, by my own assessment of course.

Mexican American

My ama worried that we’d lose our spanish and Mexican but because of her we didn’t even here in America. She was happy to know that even with my gringo I wouldn’t take off my Mexican. 

Hijole! I do regret not appreciating her enough. But, I am comforted to know that as long as I “stay saved” Christianese for stay connected to Jesus, allowing him to cover me over my Mexican American Heritage I’ll see her again and I’ll talk to her in spanish and maybe in Gods heavenly language.

I love you mi Ama!

The Mourning Process

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Mourning has seven stages. The mourning process is a difficult passage that requires time and grace. Mourning will take you to sweet memories and then cast you into darkness. You plan your day, it’s going to be a good one. Then one thing, anything, will trigger a memory. If you’re all alone you’ll find yourself crumbled up in a heap of tears. I’ve walked this road three other times and I still don’t know what stage I’m in today.

Triggers

This afternoon at the grocery store I saw a man walking with his elderly father. A frail old man who was being led by his son (at least that’s what I imagine). The son impatiently prodded him from behind to make his father walk faster. The viejito took those tiny steps as quickly as he could. I held my breath as I watched him, ready to run and catch him if he fell. Every step, every movement was a victory for him. I was happy and I was sad for him.

Once upon a time that son was being led by his father. We never think that it’ll happen to us. My dad was too strong to have his body weakened by age. His back was not supposed to give out at eighty years old!

I Don’t Want To Get Old

Once, when I was fifteen I overheard him say, “I don’t want to live to be an old man.” My snotty teenage self thought, “Dad you’re already an old man!” He was fifty-five, didn’t he realize that was more than half-way to one hundred?! Yikes! That’s my age now.

My father hated the humiliation of a weakened body. I hated it too! Every time I lifted his arms to dress him, his skin hung on him, I was sorry for him, I did not like that either. I realize now that I was already mourning.

La Tercera Edad

The english word for a person over 65 is “senior”. My apa was a newlywed for the second time at his senior age of 65! In spanish, it’s called la tercera edad. Think about it. We carry a baby into the third trimester and at the end of that tercer tremestre that baby passes that birth canal and takes his first breath, a very difficult passage. La tercera edad is like that. Not everyone gets to live on that stage and my dad didn’t even want to be on it. Many times he murmured his frustration that he was done living. I got to the point that I would say “Dad, you need to bring that complaint to God” 

Dementia

As difficult as that stage was, I thank God so much that he gave us these years. Despite the cloud of dementia we managed to get through the  difficult conversations and confront past violations. We faced that terrible pride looking kind of haughty as we took it on.  It has destroyed relationships and deceived us into a corner of fear and rejection. Many times we were able to push the dementia aside and make sweet memories. Of course the many years of  “no relationship” wants to accuse me at times.  I do find myself wondering if my apa loved me. He didn’t say those actual words to me, and when I finally said them to him I’m not sure if he heard me. 

His tercera edad affected us so much. I cringed every time my big sister called him “daddy”. It made her so vulnerable. We couldn’t be vulnerable, we had to be strong as we  helped him get through that dark and scary valley. When we were little and the  earthquakes would wake us up at night we would run to my apa and amas bed. There in their bed he would protect us. 

Caregiving

Toward the end of last year,  I grumbled a lot about the constant repeated conversation  “AAYY!” I’d go down the hallway, no longer running because I knew the routine. “Que Paso Apa?” He thought I left him again. It was wearing me down. “Cuando nos vamos a la casa?” “You are home Dad.” He knew he wasn’t home. “Donde esta Lupe?” “Your wife died Dad.”

Why didn’t he ever ask for Chuy? My mom was forgotten to him and it hurt so much to know it. I cried many times over, so conflicted with emotions. I was angry that he did know what he was saying! I mourned my shut up life. I felt guilty that I felt so much, what a selfish daughter I was!  I was exhausted. 

Final Stages

Then, he turned ninety-six. By this point in his life, his last month he was spending all his days in bed. He was shocked to know he was so old and when he said again for the millionth and one time “ya estoy listo para el arrastre” My usual response was “Well only God knows when you’ll be ready to be buried Dad” But this time, he was. It’s what we were expecting, yet it was so shockingly unexpected. We were barely able to warn our brothers. 

Just like that! In a few days, he breathed his last breath and was gone. My nephews drove up from the Valley and missed him by fifteen minutes. He could no longer wait for them.

Death

Suddenly, his cluttered room with all his equipment and endless supplies was empty of him. He couldn’t be gone! Wasn’t it supposed to be dramatic? Shouldn’t my sister and brother have seen that last breath leave his body? How could he slip quietly away, I wasn’t even in the room. He never listened. I had specifically told him that morning “Apa, por favor. I want to be right here with you when you leave.”

Packing It All Up

Hospice took his bed and oxygen tank. Any supplies that they lent us were swept away. My sis and I kept ourselves busy with clearing things out. But now, all the little things that are left fill his room and it feels like he’s there again. I have to finish up his room. I have to move forward. Things are going back to normal, whatever that is. Business as usual.

I got busy with emptying out my fathers room. My plan was to just get rid of everything my sis didn’t take. It should have been easy to do. Bag it up and designate donations or trash. 

I didn’t realize I was avoiding the chore. I didn’t know I was deeply missing my apa. I mean, my goodness I am now able to leave my house. I can sleep through the night. I am not anxious, nor is my dad. It was the final stage; la tercera edad and he so graciously and quietly crossed the finish line. You know, he was like that always, quiet smiles when he was happy, quiet firm stares when he had to take care of business. He never had to raise his voice at us. My ama on the other hand, let’s put it this way, I was blessed with her vocal chords.

Mourning

My dads keys. The keys to the house I grew up in.

It’s over now. His room is almost empty. I picked up his keys and I went to toss them in the trash. As they dropped into the can I remembered the arguments we would have about him needing his keys. His car and house keys. Wait! It was my house too! The keys to the house on 511 E. Delta street were still on the ring. I had so much to clear out and keys were stopping me?!

Every episode, any little thing that provokes me I share it with my big sis. I miss her too. When dad left, her week long monthly visits to my house ended. Mourning kind of piles up. So with my apa gone, I miss my ama more than ever. With my ama gone I miss my sisters. 

In mourning as you heal, you always water that memory garden, sometimes it is with your tears.

Some Advice

Back to where I left the viejito and his son . I wanted to judge that son and criticize his impatience, then I remembered my recent journey. Trips to the grocery store were a burden to me, but for dad they were his delight. Dementia affected his memory but not his sharp mind. He paid attention to details when we were on the road. He loved to watch all the interesting people almost as much as he enjoyed watching and hearing the birds. I wish I could have told that son to enjoy his apa, because even though you know that last passage is coming, it still catches you off guard.

Mourning comes and goes like the ocean waves. Hope is very key, while they cannot come back to us, I can live my life so that I can go to my apa, ama and my sisters. 

Have you lost a loved one? How are you coping with life?

An Epilogue of a Eulogy

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The Last Page:

So today, it seems like I really turned the last page of Dad in my present. Is it possible to lose a parent at 55 and feel orphaned? I know, that’s weird, coming from a grandmother of 7. Losing dad seemed to unravel each of us (myself and my siblings). Who will keep us connected now? 

In order to stay away from the “should haves” (You know how it is when you look back at something, the “I should haves,” and the, “Porque no lo hice asi mejor? torment”) I’ve been on memory lane, any little thing will trigger a memory, and I’m choosing to bask in the good ones.

A memorial service is a big trigger. We celebrated my dad’s life surrounded by family; my flesh and blood and God’s family.

How do you sum up almost 100 years?

As I prepared for the memorial, I had to figure out what I would stand up and say. I think it’s the unspoken rule that Eulogies must be short and concise. Maybe because people can’t sit for too long, a service over an hour will make people fidgety and they start checking their phones.

I could tell everyone about the bloody grass cutting accident dad had, drama always keeps you listening huh? Ok, I’ll tell you this much. Dad was moving along cutting the grass, I was outside (my favorite place to be, outdoors) the loud noise of the lawn mower chugging along, when all of a sudden! (someone onced teased me, saying that Mexican Americans use the dramatic “all of a sudden!” a lot, when telling their stories, it fits right here) there’s a bang! And a clunk! The machine died, and there’s a wire clear through my dad’s ankle! Yikes! Then, Dad pulled it out, ARGH! with one yank (yes, if you’re grimacing, you should be, it was nasty) blood gushed out like crazy! Then Comadre Chala, who was also outside working on her plants came running, saw the mess and went and brought coffee grounds to stop the bleeding! (I know, leave it to the comadres to come up with the crazy remedies.)

Maybe I would have time to squeeze in some trivia and tell everyone that my dad ran for mayor in our little city of Calipatria! He might have won, not being a politician he wasn’t quite saavy, he was short on campaign funds, regardless,he was a well respected person in the community.

I pulled out memories to share with anyone that would listen, memories are at the tip of my tongue, but, in this moment I had to do it in 5-7 minutes. Which memory would tell the most about my dad? His strength, his good looks, his swag that could easily reveal a twinkle in his eye and a half smile.

The Eulogy

When I stood up to speak, I wondered out loud, how do you sum up almost one hundred years of living in a few minutes? Not possible. I wanted everyone to know what a strong man my dad was. They had to hear about the “conejos” that bounced up down inside mi apas bicep? He enjoyed watching our eyes get wide with excitement as we saw his muscles flexing. I wanted them to picture his vigor and sharp stance in his Levi jeans, cowboy boots and hat. I wanted everyone to feel the weight of his life experiences and be amazed at his perseverance.

In those short moments as I spoke, the memory of El Cocoy came forward, like he always did for dad, that victory was unforgettable. El Cocoy was the boy from his childhood, I told everyone why dad remembered him so well, then I forgot to circle back as the eulogy went on. I didn’t tell the story! How did I neglect dad’s favorite story? This story represented one of his strongest convictions.

El Cocoy, The Bully Who Pushed Dad To Stand

El Cocoy was the school bully. He was older and bigger and he was king of the school yard. You know the script, what he wanted he got. In that little mining town with those little boys the most he got was a marble or a taco, but for these little boys it was everything, and they couldn’t stop this punk from pushing them around. Dad was scared of him too, he had lost plenty of tacos and a marble or two to this stinking bully. When my dad told the story, he was like a little kid describing an insurmountable foe, his eyebrows coming together as he frowned at the memory. 

One day as the time for break was approaching, Senorita Marcelina (Dad said this teacher was a corajuda, yikes! He didn’t mess with her) assigned clean up of the pizarron to el Cocoy and released the other kids for their break. El Cocoy said “Que me ayude Zepeda” But dad was gone. He had jumped on an opportunity to enjoy the break without Cocoy taking something from him or threatening him, let Cocoy do the work, lazy bum! 

There he was enjoying his break, in perfect position to win a marble. Aiming, when all of a sudden, someone shoved him from behind and he went sprawling to the ground. (Dad usually positioned himself, arms pulled back, to mimic the hard shove he got that day)  He was mad. That’s too mild. He saw red, and without skipping a beat he stood up swinging. The boys were in a tangled mess, punching and grabbing at each other. Dad saw red again, this time for real, he saw blood and that fueled him on. (He never did clarify if his nose or Cocoys nose was bleeding) He went at Cocoy with ferocious strength. The kids in the yard were cheering and yelling until someone said, “Hay viene la maestra” and everyone dispersed. Senorita Marcelina grabbed each boy to separate them and sent them to the creek to wash up and get to class. At the creek dad eyed Cocoy, Cocoy eyed him. Dad said they were like dogs, with the hair on their necks raised, they almost growled, ready to pounce with any sudden move. They made it back to class and dad never again had trouble with El Cocoy.

That story seared a lesson into his brain that he passed on to us. He didn’t want us going around looking for fights, but he also didn’t want us cowering because of fear. He wanted us to fight for what was rightfully ours. Our position, reputation and our peace. 

What Will Hold Us Together Now?

When my mom passed  away 30 years ago the ties that held my family together loosened, now it seems as if they have almost come undone.

The day dad passed, I was right there in his room early in the morning, I didn’t know what else to do, I was losing my grip on family, crying, groaning from the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t fix my family and dad was leaving! 

Thankfully, God’s not easily offended, he put himself right there in the midst of us and  handled my complaint. I was tired and he comforted me as I groaned in sorrow. Then, I felt pressed to make a pact with my dad about my siblings. I was torn and weary, I didn’t want to work so hard  for relationship, I wanted to hide behind the wall of pride. But, I went to his bedside, and as I heard dad struggling to breath, the oxygen failed to give him what he needed.

With Jesus as our witness I told my dad between sobs that I loved my siblings, that I did need them, it was so hard to tell them to their face though and I needed strength that was way beyond my capability. I told my dad not to worry, I promised him that I would never give up. Promising to love, pray and reach out to my siblings just as my ama would want, then dad went home to rest that afternoon.