March 7, 2021
It’s Saturday and I’ve spent most of the night searching for a trio of mariachis who can come to my mom’s house on very short notice (14 hours to be exact). I have to make this happen.
Over the years, I had promised my mom that one day she’d wake up to see mariachis outside her window ready to serenade her. Years have gone by without me fulfilling that promise.
Less than 24 hours ago, her doctors at Mayo Hospital informed me of my mom’s expiration date. “She’s got a week, tops,” one doctor said. This was my last chance.
At the time, I cursed the doctors and the universe for dealing me such a blow. The truth is, that final week was a gift. Most people get a phone call, telling them their loved one has passed. I got a week.
I continued my search for mariachis. By some miracle, the first group I called answered the phone. After explaining my mom’s situation, they agreed to take the gig with less than a day’s notice.
The giving of the flowers
With the trio of mariachis confirmed, I reached out to family members and my mom’s closest friends, and asked them to come to my mom’s house the next day. We needed to celebrate her now while she was still with us. It’s what she wanted. We had talked about this.
“Don’t wait til I’m dead, OK? You wanna give me flowers, give ’em to me now! ¿Que no?”
It was time to give my mom her flowers.
For many, it would be a shock to see her in this condition. She was a pistol, a force of nature! At four feet, 11 inches and three quarters (according to her), my mom stood tall, lighting up every room she entered because she announced her own arrival. Every. Single Time.
“Heeelllooo, I’m heeerrreee!” She had a way of making the word “here” two syllables.
We didn’t tell my mom about the mariachis. We only told her that some family members would be stopping by. I asked her if there was anyone she wanted to see. I wrote down a list of friends to call.
Scheduling her very last visitors… in Outlook
A few of her friends confirmed that they would be there on Sunday, others made arrangements to see her during the week.
This kick-started a running schedule in my Outlook calendar. It was unsettling, scheduling visitors like this. Making appointments for those who would literally be the last to see my mom alive was a bit morbid.
The phone convos sounded ridiculous.
“Monday at 2? Sorry, she’s already booked. Can you do 2:30?”
As ridiculous as it all sounded and as morbid as it all felt, the Calendar was necessary. I needed to space out the visits in order to give family and friends enough time with my mom while also giving my mom enough time to recuperate in between visits.
Las Mañanitas for mom
On Sunday afternoon, we told my mom that her family and friends had arrived. So, she put on a smile and we bundled her up in the wheelchair.
As we wheeled her from her bedroom to the back patio, we could hear the guitars strumming. The mariachis were waiting for her.
I felt a rush of a emotions. I should’ve done this much sooner (when she was healthy). I should’ve never moved out of state (for the second time). I should’ve known she was sick (I don’t know how exactly, but I should have).
Seeing her in that wheelchair was surreal. She looked so frail yet so happy, swaying to the music, singing along, looking around at everyone.
The mariachis welcomed her with Las Mañanitas. Over the years, I had promised my mom, on more than one occasion, that one day she’d wake up to mariachis serenading her with this very song. Today was finally that day.
For an hour, they played her favorites — Las Laureles, Volver, Volver, Por Un Amor. She even made a request on behalf of her husband who’s Puerto Rican — En Mi Viejo San Juan. The song or perhaps the gesture moved him to tears.
When I shared a video on Facebook with an update on my mom, many more of my mom’s friends reached out, including Wyatt. My mom and Wyatt worked together years ago and she always treasured their friendship. He was now living on the East Coast so we set up a time for him to call the next day. Although my mom didn’t have the energy to say too much, she was so happy to hear his voice. Thank you, Wyatt.
For five days, my mom received visitors. While the cancer continued its aggressive attack on her body, she welcomed her family and friends with open arms and a smile. She powered through the fatigue, the swelling and ascites.
When she asked her nephew to make calabacitas with the zucchini from his garden, he delivered. When she asked her niece’s husband to make her favorite enchiladas because she loved his cooking, he delivered. She had very little appetite, but she wanted to taste her favorite foods one last time. Thank you, Anthony. Thank you, Jesse.
Greetings from loved ones passed
During my private time with my mom, I let her talk about whatever she wanted. We also watched “Grace & Frankie” on Netflix. It was one of our favorites.
On Monday, the day after the mariachis, I spent the morning alone with her. She looked towards her closed bedroom door and asked, “Who let my brother in?” I told her that her brother, Ruben, hadn’t arrived.
“No, not that brother. The other one,” she replied. She then pointed at the door again and said, “He’s right there.”
The “other one” was her brother, Manuel. He died when I was five years old.
I remember thinking, “Oh no… This is really it.”
Two days later, she told her sister that their dad was in the room with them. She said he was wearing the tuxedo that he wore when she got married and that he looked so handsome.
While these visions were alarming to the rest of us, they seemed to bring my mom some comfort. She seemed at peace.
More fluid, more problems
The accumulation of fluid in my mom’s abdominal area had become severe and extremely painful. The belly becomes swollen and the fluid creates pressure. The increase in fluid causes the unfiltered toxins to remain in the bloodstream, which damages the brain. This left her in a confused state with some memory loss.
My mom hated this confused feeling. She said it made her feel like she was going crazy.
Knowing she was in the final week of her life, she wanted to be coherent. She said she was having a hard time remembering her memories.
It took three days to convince doctors that despite my mom’s expiration date, she didn’t deserve to be in pain during her final days. The fluid needed to be drained.
The beginning of the end
On Friday, she was transported to a Hospice medical facility to have the fluid drained. She was to spend the night for observation and come home on Saturday.
My mom would never come home again. I should have known. Looking back, I should have known.
I woke up to a phone call from my stepdad early Sunday morning. He said my mom’s blood pressure had dropped significantly and her breathing had changed. I needed to get there right away.
Around 5:30 a.m. on Sunday, March 14, 2021, my mom passed away peacefully with her husband at her side. I was in the car with my husband, at the intersection, about to turn left and into the parking lot when my stepdad called.
She was gone. My mom was gone.
I wanted to be at her side, holding her hand, to witness the last breath of the woman who gave me life.
I have cried oceans of tears over this. I’ll never know why she didn’t wait for me. I was at the intersection, two minutes away.
My husband believes that she didn’t want me there, that she wanted to spare me. He believes that she didn’t want to leave me with that memory. There’s some logic to that, I guess.
If I had to sum up my mom’s final week in one word, I’d like to say it was LOVE and only love, but I have to be honest. At times, it was CHAOS. Other times, it was PAIN. It was ANGER. It was our love for this woman that fueled all of these emotions and it was the reality of living a life without her that brought on the chaos… the pain… the anger.
For months after my mom died, I’d look at her photos and say: “You taught me everything except how to live without you.”
I have said this so many times, but that’s not entirely true. She raised a fighter. Soy chingona because of her. She taught me how to survive at all costs. It was now up to me to figure out how to survive without her… and teach my daughters how to do the same one day.
Soy hija de Gloria. Era una guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá… y mi terapia.
I’m Gloria’s daughter. She was a warrior. This is my mom’s story… and my therapy.
Hija de Gloria | Gloria's Daughter 