My mother passed over when I was 18 after a long bout with breast cancer. She was 49 years old. Her passing will only be remembered by a select few, yet for me, it will always be synonymous with two memorable and celebrated dates in our culture. In 1966, November 22 was Thanksgiving weekend and exactly three years since the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The Thanksgiving holiday would never be the same, and the annual national mourning of our 36th President took on new meaning. For me, it will be eternally etched as the day I lost my mother.
Mama was diagnosed with breast cancer in the summer of 1960. She had been bothered by a lump in her breast for several months prior but made a conscious decision not to go to the doctor until after my grammar school graduation and the planned celebration that followed.
I was an only child and my parents, after consultation with my grandma and other family members, thought it was in my best interest not to share mama's condition with me. They later said that they wanted to spare me - that I was too young - that I wouldn't understand.
In July 1960, mama kept her appointment with the doctor and in August she was scheduled for surgery to remove a lump on her breast. My aunt and uncle lived with grandma in another state. It was a 45-minute drive but they spent at least one weekend a month with us. Our family was very close. Grandma, my aunt and uncle were now at our house every weekend. Suddenly our house was filled with a different energy. I was thrilled to have them with us, but I knew there was more to their visits. I asked questions but only received warm smiles and hugs with fleeting phrases of "nothing's wrong honey", "don't you worry about anything". Yet, I knew something was very wrong. As I lay in bed, I could hear, and sometimes be awakened by, collective sobbing and muffled cries of "why? why?" that were coming from the kitchen.
I naturally thought the worse and my imagination went into overdrive. My fears and anger grew deeper each time I demanded an answer from mama, my father, or my family, and received the usual condescending reply or none at all. The day mama went in for surgery, I had yet to know why.
The next day, my father drove us to the hospital to visit mama simply stating "it's nothing, it's nothing. Stop asking questions". As I approached her room, fear gripped me and the distinct hospital smell was immediately embedded in my senses. She lay exhausted in the bed. She turned her head and smiled to greet me as I rushed to her side, tears streaming down my face, unable to speak. She looked so frail that I was afraid to touch her but she held out her arm and hugged me with the little strength she had. I saw the bandages over her left breast and then I knew what no one would tell me. All she said was, "everything will be all right now honey... I'm fine now." My anger at my family was pushed far in the background for the moment. My only thoughts were of mama and how much I loved her. I didn't want her here
like this.
We were sitting around the dinner table that evening and my family, without any prompting, told me everything. The doctors had to do a mastectomy and they believe the got all the cancer. There would be a five-year waiting period; if the cancer didn't come back by then, it wouldn't come back at all. Mama would have to go for radiation treatment and mama would be home soon. I hung on every word and absorbed each meaning. Five years - a lifetime - not so long - we can do this - mama will be fine. For a variety of reasons, I cried myself to sleep each night for a long time.
The years passed, everything was fine and our lives were normal. On November 22, 1963, I was in the school auditorium waiting for a junior class meeting to commence when our principal come over the loudspeaker - President Kennedy had been assassinated. We were all in shock momentarily. Suddenly, everyone was hugging whoever was closest and crying. The school board let us go home early. The flag was positioned at half-mast and the school was closed in respect of our fallen leader.
Mama and I watched all the coverage of President Kennedy's funeral together. As Jackie walked behind the motorcade, flanked by Robert and Ted Kennedy, mama whispered, "Oh, how she loved him. Oh, how brave she is." Not so much her words, but the way she said them made me uneasy. I looked at her and asked, "Ma, what is it?" She cried and, after a while, she told me the cancer was back. The doctors gave her medicine and she had to go for radiation three times a week. They were sure they caught it in time and the radiation would kill the cancer cells. My father would take her.
In 1964, I got my driver's license, graduated high school and got a job as a receptionist. I left work early on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and took mama to the outpatient clinic for radiation treatment. Her spirits were great
mine were not and I tried to contain my emotions. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I failed. The tension between my father and I ran high and our relationship was strained. He was frightened, tired and I believe, didn't want to face mama's illness or impending outcome. When I wasn't home, my father took care of mama and coddle her. When I came home, I was in charge. The weekends were greatly welcomed when grandma and my aunt would come to help out.
Over a short period of time, the radiation treatments had burned a hole in mama's back. Initially, the sore was the size of pea but quickly grew to a 3"x3" circular wound, discharging fluids, in the middle of her back. Daily, I cleaned around the wound and bandaged it, bathed her, washed her hair, fed her and gave her the prescribed medicine.
My social life suffered greatly but I didn't care. Occasionally, she encouraged me to go out and I did. I always felt I was in two different places. My body was out with friends but my mind and spirit were home with mama.
Every so often, I'd get out my makeup and "doll" her up and fix her hair differently. I really did this for both of us and it seemed to make her feel good. A few times, I'd put on some Beatles tunes and danced for her. Other times, I really got silly and put the sound tract to "Gypsy" on and sang and danced in character for her. Mama would smile and muster the strength to applaud and say, "Bravo! A star is in my presence."
Mama was in a great deal of pain from the cancer that was now ravishing her tiny frame and the radiation. On the kitchen counter rested a Lazy Susan filled with Mama's medication, which was not helping in the slightest but given for psychological reasons. The radiation treatments stopped. The cancer had not been in control but had wildly spread throughout her body. She was literally skin and bones. Her skin color was yellow. I had researched and knew this was advanced stages of liver cancer. Time was short.
On November 20, 1966, Mama lapsed into a coma. We all stood vigil in the house, taking turns around her bed, praying, talking to her, making her as comfortable as possible. Our neighbor, Nancy, was a nurse and stayed with us daily, directing us, comforting us and only left in the evenings to return home to her family.
On November 22, at 3PM, with the entire family gathered around her bed, Mama passed over. I was at the foot of the bed and watched Mama take her last breath. I saw the blood pulse through her one last time. I stood frozen, staring at her, tears streaming down my face. My thoughts and emotions vied for dominance, screaming in my head - no more pain! - peace at last! - Mama don't leave me! - November 22 - how brave! no more pain! - Thanksgiving! How could you leave me? - Don't leave me! Grandma was hysterical and my uncle assisted her from the bedroom. My aunt rushed to my father to console him. Someone took hold of me and led me into another room while Nancy attended to mama.
Funeral arrangements had already been made. For three days and nights, family and friends crowded into the parlor where Mama was being viewed. On the last day, moments before her casket was sealed, our immediate family individually and methodically filed by the casket to say our final farewells. She appeared to be dreaming peacefully. I said a quick Hail Mary, touched her hair and kissed her forehead. I gazed at her one last time and a feeling of "I'll never leave you" came over me - sending a chill through me. I stroked her cold, dense hands one last time and turned to join my family in the limo.
They say time heals all wounds and for some events in our lives that is true. Time did not aid in my healing. My pain today is as deep as it was on November 22, 1966 and my tears flow at will when I think of her, and, especially now as I write this. Today, however, I'm more skilled at hiding my pain.
Mama's passing at such an early time in my life altered my course drastically. Had she not passed, I know my life, and that of my children, would have been so different, so full. Mama never met her grandchildren. She never knew my plight of single parenthood, or, how I went to college and pulled myself from the poverty of welfare to moderate middle class. She never saw how I evolved from the "child" that was to be spared bad news, to the woman who acted at pro se counsel to successfully buck the legal system for child support, divorce and a legal malpractice tort. She never knew everything that occurred in between, the trials, the triumphs, the tears, the fears, the joys ... everything that makes me the woman I am today.
I'll never understand why she had to suffer so much, or, why I had to lose her when I needed her most. In my darkest hours, sitting alone, vulnerable, tortured and pained, feeling lost and alone, I silently plead to her, "Mama, please help me". Then, when I least expect it, a thought, a happening, or, a chance meeting is instrumental in aiding the quest I desperately need to conquer. Without hesitation I say, "Thanks Ma" for I remember "feeling" the words in 1966, "I'll never leave you."
All My Love, Siempre
Until We Meet Again
