Tuesday August 9, 2011
Daniel, Tom and I spent most of the day cleaning the house up and waiting for Carmen's hospice gear to arrive. Late that night she came home in an ambulance from Hopkins. She was extremely tired, but still mentally there and able to talk though it was through quite whispers. We set her up in the living room so that she could be in the midst of all the action downstairs. She had made the brave decision to enjoy the rest of her time here at home with her family. Though she was in pain, she was happy to finally be resting at home. Jose slept beside her on the sofa, attending to her throughout the night.
I was surprised that her condition had deteriorated since we last saw her on Sunday night-- that night she had walked around, sat at upright at a table to have dinner, fed herself easily, willingly ate, and was a bit chatty, but not extremely chatty for Carmen standards. By Tuesday night, it seemed her ability to move was limited, and she was subdued by the pain medications, which was expected.
Wednesday August 10, 2011
Carmen stayed in bed all day, with the exception of being wheel chaired over to the bathroom. She was very sleepy for most of the day and spoke very quietly. Livia, our cleaning lady came by to clean up and Carmen livened a bit to talk to her a little. Carmen was still in pain, saying that her heart hurt, probably from the pressure of the tumors in her abdomen pushing on all of her organs. So, we did some stretches in bed and I put some pressure on her chest, which seemed to help. Despite her pain, she mustered up some energy to see Tom's dad who had dropped off some things for us to take to LA. Eating was a struggle for Carmen, but she managed to eat some melon and yogurt for lunch. She was semi-conscious for most the of the day, slipping in and out of sleep because of the pain meds. Mandy stopped by and Carmen again happily greeted her visitor, telling Mandy it was great to see her again. I spent most of that day running around the house packing up my stuff, getting ready to load my container for the cross-country move. But everyone in a while, I would stop and sit with her, hold her hand, run my fingers through her hair, ask her if she needed anything, just to let her know that she wasn't alone. Later that night we struggled to get her to eat. She was so tired that she would fall asleep mid-bite. She did recognize Tom's mom who had stopped by for a little to see us, which was really nice.
Later that night, I sat with her on her bed hugging her, my head resting on her chest which slowly raised and lowered itself with her deep slow breaths listening to the gentle beat of her heart. I talked to her for atleast half an hour, telling her how much I loved her, how much my dad and brother also loved her, how everything would be ok. I told her I was scared, and asked if she was too. She slowly shook her head and softly whispered no. How brave she was to face death without any fear, while I layed there with her my fearful teardrops trickling down my cheek. As I layed there, she moved her arm around me, hugging me back, comforting me like she had for so many years. I reminded her of her dream she had had of heaven, how happy and calm she had been in the dream. I told her, sabes mama que te quiero mucho? In her soft voice she said, Y yo tambien tesoro. At that moment I remember wanting to record that, her telling me that she loved me, so that I could hear it over and over again whenever I was scared, and thought I would do that tomorrow. I gave her a kiss, and wished her sweet dreams until tomorrow morning. Little did I know those would be the last few moments I shared with my mother. Looking back, I am thankful for having those last few touching moments with her. I had been able to let her know how much I loved her, and despite her weakness she had hugged me, told me she wasn't afraid, and that she loved me very much too. It comforted me then, and now comforts me knowing that nothing was left unsaid between us.
Thursday August 11, 2011
I woke up at 6:40ish to the sound of my dad knocking on my door, telling me to come downstairs. I had this feeling that something was wrong, and hoped that he just needed help changing her or something. I rushed downstairs to her, as I walked into the room I saw my brother and my dad. He told me, la mama ha muerto. I saw the tears in his eyes, something I had never seen before, I looked to my brother also teary eyed. I stood there before her, looking at her, her eyes closed hands by her side, waiting for to see her chest rise with her breath, waiting for her to breath again. I stood there in shock trying to process everything, trying to do something to make things right. Suddenly tears flooded my eyes, and it was like I had forgotten to breath. This emptiness filled me, a black hole like something had been stolen from me and was missing. I hugged my brother and dad and went upstairs to put on clothes before the priest came. Upstairs I told Tom that Carmen had passed as he held me tightly in his arms. I stood in my room, unable to move, unable to process what I was supposed to do. The priest came soon after. We said some prayers and at the end each made the mark of the cross on her forehead. As I blessed her, I kissed her forehead and whispered to her, sigue la luz.
I sat in the living room, with her trying to capture the last few moments I would ever see my mom again. As she was taken away, I could not watch. Everything from that point on was a blur. The trip to the funeral home to pick her viewing coffin, her urn, the trivial paperwork, the meeting at the church picking passages and songs for the ceremony. After that I was home just waiting, as my dad and brother went to go pick up my aunt and cousin from the airport. Tom and I took Carmen's hospital bed apart, put her sheets in the wash, and cleaned up the living room. Erin came over wanting to visit me and Carmen, not knowing what had happened. We sat in the formal living room, tears streaming down our eyes. My aunt and cousin arrived. My aunt has always been so strong, and sat next to me taking my hand telling me, pues ya esta. Soon after they arrived we went to the funeral home for the viewing. It was so strange to see her laying there in this strange cold room. It was not my mother, it was just her physical being, this body strangely positioned with painted lips--her spirit, which was her true essence had long left. We sat there in silence, saying our own prayers. I said the Saint Therese Novena Rose prayer one last time, petitioning for her peace and safety in the kingdom of eternal life. I sent her my love and strength to help her cross into her new world. I knew she was there with us, watching us.
It had been a long day for all of us. We made some food for my aunt and cousin, then Tom and I went to pick up my bike from HTO and get some food for breakfast from WholeFoods. We got back dropped off the food, then Tom and I drove up to Frederick to see Apa before she headed out to Lima the next morning. It was great to see her, I didn't think I would get to see her before she left so I felt lucky. Everything from earlier was still so fresh but seemed so distantly strange and surreal--it hadn't all hit me then, and still probably hasn't. We sat talking for a while about Carmen, about Peru, about life, it was a nice distraction. Apa's father was very sweet and offered me words of encouragement from his own experience of losing his mother to cancer. We got home exhausted from the emotionally trying day and fell asleep.
Friday August 12, 2011
I woke up that morning still drained and still in shock from everything, fortunately I had my move to distract me and keep me busy. We spent the whole day packing and getting my container loaded. Of course Tom did all the hard work of bringing things up from the basement and down from my room into the garage as well as all the packing of the container, as I packed the rest of my boxes and ran around doing random things. I honestly do not know what I would have done without him here this whole time. I know when he told me he was coming, I told him not to, but I am so glad he did not listen to me. He was amazing through these tough weeks--driving with me to Hopkins, helping me keep the house together, helping me move, helping keep me together.
As we packed Ifi and Erin stopped by, they shared my sorrow, though of course they could not fully understand it, their warm embraces soothed my pain even for just a little. Tom managed to pack everything into the container. So after a long day we sat down to a typical Spanish stew for lunch. After lunch Tom and I drove to the airport. It was sad to see him go, after having him with me for so long through these tough weeks. As I drove home my emotions caught up with me as I thought about my mom, and thought about the fact that Tom would not be there to save me. I got home and rested for a little, then started to write my mother's eulogy for the ceremony. I tried to sleep, but stayed up writing and reading and thinking and missing her.
Saturday August 13, 2011
My father woke me up, I was still exhausted. I finished packing up a few things and then finalized the eulogy. I put on this lovely black dress that I had tried on in front of my mother weeks before trying to decide if I should keep it or return it. I had remembered at the time of trying it on in front of her, I had a sad thought pass through my mind--what if the first time I wore this dress was to her funeral. I felt terrible realizing that this was the case. I put on these beautiful earrings she had bought me during the Santiago walk she had done the year before.
We got to the church early and prepared everything. Anna and Emily were there early and gave me big hugs that made me tear up, I pushed back my tears, I had to keep it together for now. I went to get programs and hugged Ifi, and Tom's parents as they came in--I had to get back to my seat before I lost it. There ceremony started, I was strangely calm throughout it. I looked around seeing everyone's teary eye--some strangers, some familiar faces from NIH, and Spanish school, and then my friends. The ceremony was beautiful. I kept it together, trying not to cry, remembering that I had still my invocations and eulogy to say. I remember going through the eulogy, trying to focus on the words until the end looking only briefly at the audience afraid that if I saw people crying I would burst into tears. I remember Anna and Emily's encouraging sad eyes. I thought of my mother looking over me and tried my best to be brave and strong for her. Only at the end did my voice crack and the tears came flooding the corners of my eyes. There was this silence at the end of the eulogy, it was peaceful and daunting at the same time. The end of the ceremony was hard, as everyone passed by us strangers and close friends alike sharing their memories and sympathy with us.
Her funeral seems so far away, it seems like forever ago and yet it seems like only yesterday Carmen and I were happily chatting at home blissfully unaware of the terrible twist of events ahead of us. I miss her terribly, I know I won't ever stop missing her. I talk to her often, it's comforting to think that she is somewhere listening. I also know that this feeling of emptiness may never leave me, for nothing can fill what I shared with my mother, but each day slowly I will fill it with good memories and hope that someday it won't hurt so much. Until then, I will keep being strong and thinking of her.
Daniel, Tom and I spent most of the day cleaning the house up and waiting for Carmen's hospice gear to arrive. Late that night she came home in an ambulance from Hopkins. She was extremely tired, but still mentally there and able to talk though it was through quite whispers. We set her up in the living room so that she could be in the midst of all the action downstairs. She had made the brave decision to enjoy the rest of her time here at home with her family. Though she was in pain, she was happy to finally be resting at home. Jose slept beside her on the sofa, attending to her throughout the night.
I was surprised that her condition had deteriorated since we last saw her on Sunday night-- that night she had walked around, sat at upright at a table to have dinner, fed herself easily, willingly ate, and was a bit chatty, but not extremely chatty for Carmen standards. By Tuesday night, it seemed her ability to move was limited, and she was subdued by the pain medications, which was expected.
Wednesday August 10, 2011
Carmen stayed in bed all day, with the exception of being wheel chaired over to the bathroom. She was very sleepy for most of the day and spoke very quietly. Livia, our cleaning lady came by to clean up and Carmen livened a bit to talk to her a little. Carmen was still in pain, saying that her heart hurt, probably from the pressure of the tumors in her abdomen pushing on all of her organs. So, we did some stretches in bed and I put some pressure on her chest, which seemed to help. Despite her pain, she mustered up some energy to see Tom's dad who had dropped off some things for us to take to LA. Eating was a struggle for Carmen, but she managed to eat some melon and yogurt for lunch. She was semi-conscious for most the of the day, slipping in and out of sleep because of the pain meds. Mandy stopped by and Carmen again happily greeted her visitor, telling Mandy it was great to see her again. I spent most of that day running around the house packing up my stuff, getting ready to load my container for the cross-country move. But everyone in a while, I would stop and sit with her, hold her hand, run my fingers through her hair, ask her if she needed anything, just to let her know that she wasn't alone. Later that night we struggled to get her to eat. She was so tired that she would fall asleep mid-bite. She did recognize Tom's mom who had stopped by for a little to see us, which was really nice.
Later that night, I sat with her on her bed hugging her, my head resting on her chest which slowly raised and lowered itself with her deep slow breaths listening to the gentle beat of her heart. I talked to her for atleast half an hour, telling her how much I loved her, how much my dad and brother also loved her, how everything would be ok. I told her I was scared, and asked if she was too. She slowly shook her head and softly whispered no. How brave she was to face death without any fear, while I layed there with her my fearful teardrops trickling down my cheek. As I layed there, she moved her arm around me, hugging me back, comforting me like she had for so many years. I reminded her of her dream she had had of heaven, how happy and calm she had been in the dream. I told her, sabes mama que te quiero mucho? In her soft voice she said, Y yo tambien tesoro. At that moment I remember wanting to record that, her telling me that she loved me, so that I could hear it over and over again whenever I was scared, and thought I would do that tomorrow. I gave her a kiss, and wished her sweet dreams until tomorrow morning. Little did I know those would be the last few moments I shared with my mother. Looking back, I am thankful for having those last few touching moments with her. I had been able to let her know how much I loved her, and despite her weakness she had hugged me, told me she wasn't afraid, and that she loved me very much too. It comforted me then, and now comforts me knowing that nothing was left unsaid between us.
Thursday August 11, 2011
I woke up at 6:40ish to the sound of my dad knocking on my door, telling me to come downstairs. I had this feeling that something was wrong, and hoped that he just needed help changing her or something. I rushed downstairs to her, as I walked into the room I saw my brother and my dad. He told me, la mama ha muerto. I saw the tears in his eyes, something I had never seen before, I looked to my brother also teary eyed. I stood there before her, looking at her, her eyes closed hands by her side, waiting for to see her chest rise with her breath, waiting for her to breath again. I stood there in shock trying to process everything, trying to do something to make things right. Suddenly tears flooded my eyes, and it was like I had forgotten to breath. This emptiness filled me, a black hole like something had been stolen from me and was missing. I hugged my brother and dad and went upstairs to put on clothes before the priest came. Upstairs I told Tom that Carmen had passed as he held me tightly in his arms. I stood in my room, unable to move, unable to process what I was supposed to do. The priest came soon after. We said some prayers and at the end each made the mark of the cross on her forehead. As I blessed her, I kissed her forehead and whispered to her, sigue la luz.
I sat in the living room, with her trying to capture the last few moments I would ever see my mom again. As she was taken away, I could not watch. Everything from that point on was a blur. The trip to the funeral home to pick her viewing coffin, her urn, the trivial paperwork, the meeting at the church picking passages and songs for the ceremony. After that I was home just waiting, as my dad and brother went to go pick up my aunt and cousin from the airport. Tom and I took Carmen's hospital bed apart, put her sheets in the wash, and cleaned up the living room. Erin came over wanting to visit me and Carmen, not knowing what had happened. We sat in the formal living room, tears streaming down our eyes. My aunt and cousin arrived. My aunt has always been so strong, and sat next to me taking my hand telling me, pues ya esta. Soon after they arrived we went to the funeral home for the viewing. It was so strange to see her laying there in this strange cold room. It was not my mother, it was just her physical being, this body strangely positioned with painted lips--her spirit, which was her true essence had long left. We sat there in silence, saying our own prayers. I said the Saint Therese Novena Rose prayer one last time, petitioning for her peace and safety in the kingdom of eternal life. I sent her my love and strength to help her cross into her new world. I knew she was there with us, watching us.
It had been a long day for all of us. We made some food for my aunt and cousin, then Tom and I went to pick up my bike from HTO and get some food for breakfast from WholeFoods. We got back dropped off the food, then Tom and I drove up to Frederick to see Apa before she headed out to Lima the next morning. It was great to see her, I didn't think I would get to see her before she left so I felt lucky. Everything from earlier was still so fresh but seemed so distantly strange and surreal--it hadn't all hit me then, and still probably hasn't. We sat talking for a while about Carmen, about Peru, about life, it was a nice distraction. Apa's father was very sweet and offered me words of encouragement from his own experience of losing his mother to cancer. We got home exhausted from the emotionally trying day and fell asleep.
Friday August 12, 2011
I woke up that morning still drained and still in shock from everything, fortunately I had my move to distract me and keep me busy. We spent the whole day packing and getting my container loaded. Of course Tom did all the hard work of bringing things up from the basement and down from my room into the garage as well as all the packing of the container, as I packed the rest of my boxes and ran around doing random things. I honestly do not know what I would have done without him here this whole time. I know when he told me he was coming, I told him not to, but I am so glad he did not listen to me. He was amazing through these tough weeks--driving with me to Hopkins, helping me keep the house together, helping me move, helping keep me together.
As we packed Ifi and Erin stopped by, they shared my sorrow, though of course they could not fully understand it, their warm embraces soothed my pain even for just a little. Tom managed to pack everything into the container. So after a long day we sat down to a typical Spanish stew for lunch. After lunch Tom and I drove to the airport. It was sad to see him go, after having him with me for so long through these tough weeks. As I drove home my emotions caught up with me as I thought about my mom, and thought about the fact that Tom would not be there to save me. I got home and rested for a little, then started to write my mother's eulogy for the ceremony. I tried to sleep, but stayed up writing and reading and thinking and missing her.
Saturday August 13, 2011
My father woke me up, I was still exhausted. I finished packing up a few things and then finalized the eulogy. I put on this lovely black dress that I had tried on in front of my mother weeks before trying to decide if I should keep it or return it. I had remembered at the time of trying it on in front of her, I had a sad thought pass through my mind--what if the first time I wore this dress was to her funeral. I felt terrible realizing that this was the case. I put on these beautiful earrings she had bought me during the Santiago walk she had done the year before.
We got to the church early and prepared everything. Anna and Emily were there early and gave me big hugs that made me tear up, I pushed back my tears, I had to keep it together for now. I went to get programs and hugged Ifi, and Tom's parents as they came in--I had to get back to my seat before I lost it. There ceremony started, I was strangely calm throughout it. I looked around seeing everyone's teary eye--some strangers, some familiar faces from NIH, and Spanish school, and then my friends. The ceremony was beautiful. I kept it together, trying not to cry, remembering that I had still my invocations and eulogy to say. I remember going through the eulogy, trying to focus on the words until the end looking only briefly at the audience afraid that if I saw people crying I would burst into tears. I remember Anna and Emily's encouraging sad eyes. I thought of my mother looking over me and tried my best to be brave and strong for her. Only at the end did my voice crack and the tears came flooding the corners of my eyes. There was this silence at the end of the eulogy, it was peaceful and daunting at the same time. The end of the ceremony was hard, as everyone passed by us strangers and close friends alike sharing their memories and sympathy with us.
Her funeral seems so far away, it seems like forever ago and yet it seems like only yesterday Carmen and I were happily chatting at home blissfully unaware of the terrible twist of events ahead of us. I miss her terribly, I know I won't ever stop missing her. I talk to her often, it's comforting to think that she is somewhere listening. I also know that this feeling of emptiness may never leave me, for nothing can fill what I shared with my mother, but each day slowly I will fill it with good memories and hope that someday it won't hurt so much. Until then, I will keep being strong and thinking of her.
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