Letting go of my mom’s house

I’ve been putting this off. I wanted to be in a better and stronger head space. I wanted to write this with my head held high. I wanted to make her proud.

The truth is my shoulders are slumped as I write through my tears. I’m riddled with guilt, and I’m overcome with shame.

I let my mom down.

There is no shortage of reasons for the guilt nor the shame.

I shouldn’t have moved out of state… I should’ve visited more often… I should have known she was sick… I should’ve taken her out of that horrible hospital sooner…. I should’ve given her a better memorial service… I should’ve found a way to keep her house.

Yeah, that last one. That last one has me begging her for forgiveness. I find myself mumbling, “I tried, mom, I tried.”  

My mom was so proud of me. Not “a mom is proud of her kid” proud. It was more like “a mom is proud of her rocket scientist kid” proud except that I’m not a rocket scientist.

All this high praise for her daughter must have really sucked for my brother (I’m sorry, bro.) and it must have been incredibly annoying for my cousins.

She recited my resume of accomplishments so often that it made me uncomfortable. I moved out of state seven years ago, but I knew the bragging was constant. I knew this because she told me.   

You see, my mom put me on the highest of all pedestals. So, to fail at this, the one thing she wanted most, the one thing she wanted to leave to family… To say I’m shattered is an understatement of the highest order.

Nana Gloria’s house

This wasn’t the house I grew up in. It was Nana Gloria’s house, the house my kids grew up in. The backyard that my kids played in. The backyard with all the plants from Home Depot and wall hangings from Mexico. The kitchen with all the magnets on the fridge. The pantry with almost every conceivable flavored coffee. The Arizona room where she hosted my baby shower. The Arizona room where I told her I was getting a divorce because my first marriage had fallen apart, and I needed her help.

And there was the fountain in the back patio. When my kids were little, my mom got a kick out of letting them get completely soaked in their diapers from playing in the fountain water and then handing them over to me.

Two days before she died, she told us to make sure to let her “babies” – her great-grandchildren – play in the fountain. Let them get wet in their diapers and take pictures, she instructed. The day after her memorial service, we did just that.

Trying to save my mom’s house made me sick. Literally, sick. I had insomnia. Then came the panic attacks. I started scream-crying when I was alone and silently scream-crying in bed when my husband was asleep. I punished myself with food and guilt.  

This was over the course of six months. Meanwhile, the bills were piling up. The mortgage company wanted an answer. Buy it, sell it, or we take it, they said.

We chose to sell it.

Losing another piece of my mom

We just couldn’t afford it. The loan had to be big enough to pay off the mortgage, pay off all of my mom’s creditors, and pay out equity shares to my stepdad, to me and to my brother. There was also a matter of my mom’s ex-husband who potentially still had a claim to some equity in the house. (This last scenario ended up being moot, but it wasn’t cleared up for months.) And then there was Aqua Finance. They convinced my mom to buy a $12k shower when she was sick (she just didn’t know it yet) and then put a lien on her house after being notified of her death. There was also a chance that the house wouldn’t appraise high enough.  

The morning of Christmas Eve, I got the call. My mom’s house had sold. It was so… final.

I sat there, in my daughter’s home office in Texas, silently scream-crying. The pain of losing another piece of my mom was almost unbearable. I finally composed myself enough to call my brother and then my stepdad to let them know.

I then had to walk into the next room and tell my kids. Nana Gloria’s house was gone.

I don’t think I need to go into details here so let’s just leave it at that.

I tried, mom. I tried. Please forgive me.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

My mom’s house at Christmastime.
The fridge with all the magnets.
The fountain where she encouraged my kids to get wet in their diapers.
My mom loved her back patio and her plants so much.
My mom had these wall hangings throughout her back and side fence.
One of the many metal wall hangings that she picked up in Mexico.
One of my favorites, also from Mexico.

Messages from my mom in my brother’s dreams

My mom visits my brother in his dreams. He says they’re so real, so vivid.

This doesn’t happen to me so I’m envious. So yeah, sucks for me, but the coolest thing happens after my brother has these dreams. He calls me and describes each one in such detail that I can see it like a movie in my head, frame by frame.

Our mom most recently visited him the night of Jan. 8, his birthday. What a gift for my brother! He called me early the next morning to tell me about it.

In his dream, they’re back in our mom’s house, in her home office. “She looked good,” my brother tells me. “Nothing was wrong with her, and she had all this energy.”

He described our mom as happy, energetic, and chatty. That’s exactly who our mom was in this world. Maybe more importantly, he said our mom looked healthy. If you’re new here, our mom died of cancer on March 14, 2021.

She told my brother, “Call your sister. Tell her the tamales are on their way to Florida.” Sadly, this isn’t true. There are no tamales on their way to me in Florida… unless someone in my family wants to send some my way. (Hint, hint.)

She told him again, “Call your sister, call your sister!” My brother, who doesn’t know anyone’s phone number by heart (who does nowadays), picked up the phone (in his dream) and dialed my number correctly. He said it felt so real that he was excited for me to answer so he could put me on the phone with our mom.

If only this dream had been real….

If only my brother had been able to really talk to her…

If only he could have really put me on the phone with her…

While my eyes teared up (like they’re doing now) and the sadness of missing my mom draped over me once again, my brother looked at this so differently and in such a positive light.

“Mom’s happy,” he told me. We think that was the message. She’s happy and she wanted her son to call his sister to let her know. Message received.

I was so grateful he shared his dream with me, so grateful for our conversation that morning. Thank you so much, brother. You have no idea how much that meant to me. I love you, brother.

Mom, thank you for visiting my brother in his dreams, especially on his birthday. Please don’t ever stop. Te quiero mucho, mami.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

Phantom smells trigger real memories

After the flour, salt and baking powder have been mixed together, and you’ve mixed in the manteca, and you’ve added in the water, and the dough has come together as you knead it with your hands, there’s a slight but unmistakable scent. La masa.

It was the smell of wet dough that caught my attention. I swear I could smell its stickiness.

I was sitting in my living room when the smell of slightly damp tortilla dough hit me. It was so real, so present. I turned around, half-expecting to see someone making flour tortillas in my kitchen. My heart was hoping to see my mom.  

It wasn’t the smell of flour tortillas on the comal (griddle). It was la masa, the dough. And it reminded me of my mom and grandmother, Nana Carmen.

Suddenly, I was five years old again, standing on a kitchen chair, making tortillas in my Nana’s tiny house on Taylor Street in Tolleson, Arizona. In fact, I can still smell it. As I sit here, typing these words, the aroma is so real that I keep looking back into my kitchen.

I’d give anything to look back and see my mom. Anything in the world.

These phantom smells trigger real memories, and they play tricks on me… on my heart.

For a moment, you think it’s real. For a moment, you forget your mom is gone. For a moment, you turn around, expecting to see her in your kitchen, but she’s not there, and she never will be, ever again.

Maybe someday, these phantom smells, these memories will be received with open arms, even a smile. For now, it just feels like a cruel, cruel joke.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

2014: My mom took this pic as she watched three of her five granddaughters (center) make tortillas for the first time.

First Thanksgiving without mom

The plan was I’d fly in from Florida, and she’d fly in from Phoenix. We’d meet in Houston to be with my daughter and grandchildren – my mom’s granddaughter and great-grandchildren. Or maybe everyone would go to Phoenix and couch-surf at her house.

We were supposed to be together.

That was the point. To be together. For Thanksgiving. In 2021.

Those were the kinds of plans we made last year when we were kept apart by Covid. We’ll be together again. Next Thanksgiving.

But then cancer. Everywhere. Suddenly, our mom was gone.

We were cheated, robbed, from having her with us this Thanksgiving and every Thanksgiving. And every holiday and every birthday and any day of any significance in our family.

And this, I can’t get over. I can’t forgive. At least not yet. Maybe never.

When a piece of wood splinters, you can’t really fix it. You can hold the two pieces together, and they sort of fit, but there are these little pieces of wood that splinter off completely.

The best you can do is wrap some duck tape around it and hope for the best.

My family is now like that piece of wood. Splintered into several uneven pieces. The pieces aren’t even in the same area codes. Arizona. Texas. Florida. New York.

This piece of wood – aka our family – will never be the same. Ever.

On one hand, it’s a testament to who my mom was. She was larger than life. She was the matriarch. La mera mera.

Who are we without her? How does a splintered family stay together? Who has the duct tape?

My brother and I did our best to stay connected over the holiday – our first Thanksgiving without mom. He shared pictures of his bacon-wrapped turkey and we shared funny stories during our video chat about his gravy and my stuffing. (I forgot to make it.)

But we were missing the most important ingredient: Our mom.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

Me and my brother with our mom on Thanksgiving in 1977 (I think).
My brother’s bacon-wrapped turkey.

Mom’s red Altima

The email from the probate folks looked like just another email on the surface. It was anything but. It was a punch in the gut, informing us that yet another piece of my mom is gone.

My mom’s car has been sold. With that, a piece of her identity is gone.

It’s as if more proof that she existed is slowly being erased because the pain we’ve endured since she died isn’t enough. It’s fucking torture.

Everyone who knew my mom knew her car: the red Altima. She loved that car. It’s the car she used to deliver Avon orders. It’s the car she showed up in to countless family get togethers (at least an hour early and always the first one there). She listened to her favorite radio station in that car, Mega 104.3, and danced in her seat while doing her signature shoulder shimmy.

It’s just a car. Why does it hurt so much? Memories. That’s why.

Memories of her picking me up from the airport. Driving us to breakfast at one of our favorite spots. ¿Que quieres, mija? Menudo. Chilequilles. Machaca.

But my best memories of my mom in that car? Our convos. Forever our convos.

My mom’s red Altima.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

Día de los Muertos: Honoring My Mom

Growing up, I remember grief being expressed very privately in our family. My grandmother, mi Nana Carmen, kept private niches of loved ones on her dresser. When I asked about them, she refused to talk to about it.

That’s not who I am. I talk about it. I express it. I write about it.

I’ve been tangled up in all these feelings over the last eight months – the loss, the grief, the leftover love. I’ve needed a way to express these feelings. More importantly, I needed a way to honor my mom. It led to me creating my first altar, una ofrenda, during Día de los Muertos.

My mom with her feet kicked up, drinking her cafecito in Rocky Point, Mexico. This is mom in her element.

During the process, I talked to my mom and listened to her favorite songs. I even kicked my feet up on my desk and enjoyed some cafecito just like she used to do. I burned a candle that smelled like arroz con leche.

It’s believed that the souls of the our loved ones return to visit us during this time. I think that’s why I played the music and burned the candle. If it’s true, and I hope it is, I wanted those familiar smells and sounds to lead my mom’s soul back to me.

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Oct. 28: “The first candle is lit to help guide and receive lost souls.”

I started the altar with some photos and her favorite coffee mug. Yes, that’s my mom dressed up as Elvira for Halloween. I was 15 and she used my teeny-bopper bra to create that cleavage. The bra was ruined after that, I had to toss it.

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Oct. 29: “The next candle is lit and water is placed in honor of the abandoned and forgotten souls.”

The center photo is a framed memorial card that we passed out at her service. It reads, “My mind still talks to you. My heart still looks for you. My soul knows you’re at peace.” It was written by my oldest daughter.

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Oct. 30: “White bread is placed for those who passed without eating.”

On this day, I added a photo of my Nana Carmen and my Tía Lupe. There was something about the bread. My earliest childhood memories of our food, nuestra comida, come from their kitchens.

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Oct. 31: “Pan de Muerto and fruit is added for our ancestors. “

On this day, I added more family photos: my grandfather, my great-grandparents and my uncle. Why the pear? My mom loved pears.

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Nov. 1: “More food is put on the altar as we remember the spirits of our loved ones and prepare to welcome them.”

On this day, I added a concha, Mexican sweet bread, some chocolates and more fruit.

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Nov. 2: “Souls of our loved ones come to visit us and eat the offering placed on the altar.”

Here’s a look at the ofrenda in its entirety. On the last day, I added a signature piece: a shadow box with a photo of my mom from her last birthday. At the bottom, it says, “Recuérdame.” And the Cherry Coke? That was her favorite and it’s the one thing she kept asking for near the end.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

It was never a fair fight

Writing my mom’s obituary is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I wasn’t ready to exist without her; I sure as hell wasn’t ready for this.

The obituary. It’s a big deal, right? It tells the story of your loved one’s life. It also announces to the world that your mom — the woman who gave you life — is gone.

So, I opened up my laptop, created a new Word doc and started crying.

Just Breathe…

I was about to summarize my mom’s life in a few lines of text. It felt like an impossible task… and it felt wrong.

“I can’t do this,” I whispered to her. In my head, I heard her voice, “Yes you can, mija. Just breathe.”

My mom’s obituary.

As my tears hit the keyboard, I took a deep breath and started typing. I started with her hometown and moved on to her career and volunteer work. I ended it by listing her family.

As I read her obituary now, I realize there’s something missing: her struggles, her battles, her wins, and her losses.

And then I realize… she lost the biggest battle. The price was her life.

But it was never a fair fight. With cancer, it never is.

That she didn’t see it coming is one of the things that hurts the most. It shakes me to my core. It wakes me up in the middle of the night – in a panic – causing me to silently scream-cry.

And once that passes, it leaves me fucking angry. Angry at the doctors who couldn’t save her. Angry at my mom for skipping her annual check-ups in 2020 due to Covid. Angry at Covid. Angry at myself (for a whole lotta reasons but more on that later).

Goddamn it, she was a fighter! She stood only 4-feet, 11-inches tall, but she took shit from no one.

Ever the warrior…

Even on the day of the diagnosis, after the first group of doctors gave her six months… and after the next group of doctors (minutes later)… gave her a few weeks… and after the next doctor (a few minutes after that)… gave her one week… my mom wanted to fight!

“We’re gearing up for the fight,” she said, fist halfway in the air, my stepdad on his knees, scream-crying. I stood there in front of her, stoic, tears streaming down my face, but stoic. I wanted to fall to my knees and scream-cry with my stepdad, but she gave me this look. Our eyes locked and I knew then what she was telling me: Be strong. Eres una guerrera.

Little did she know that a few minutes prior, just outside her room, the doctors had to pick me up off the floor because my knees buckled as they gave me the news first. I started hyperventilating. My vision, blurry. It was surreal.

The significance of that moment is not lost on me. I replay it in my head every day. It’s the moment I knew that my mom was going to die.

Still, I pleaded with them to find a way to save her. I silently scream-cried because I didn’t want her to hear me.

“I just need to get my strength back so I can fight this,” she announced to the group of eight doctors in the room. The head doctor stood there, shaking his head, knowing she wasn’t a candidate for treatment.

She deserved treatment! She deserved the chance to fight! At the very least, she deserved the chance to decide for herself. I’d like to think that I could have accepted her decision — treatment or no treatment. What I did know is that I couldn’t accept it this way. I still can’t.

But it was never a fair fight. And in all honesty, with cancer, it was never going to be.

Soy hija de Gloria. 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.

Mariachis serenade my mom in her patio the day after coming home from the hospital. A week later, mariachis returned to this patio for her memorial service.

December 2011: This is my favorite photo of us together. We had just finished making tamales for Christmas. Note that her t-shirt says “100% Latina. Strong, beautiful and gifted.” Yes, you were, mom. Yes, you were.

Hija de Gloria | Gloria’s Daughter

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y también mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

“Grief does not change you, it reveals you.” I read that somewhere. Seven months ago, grief exposed me. Inside and out. Shattered my heart into tiny, tiny pieces. The notion that grief does not change you is frankly absurd.

March 14, 2021

That’s the day I lost my mom. Soy hija de Gloria.

The day my mom died of cancer. Hija de guerrera.

I wasn’t ready to lose her. I wasn’t ready to exist in this world without her.

My mom didn’t even know. She had no idea that cancer had been consuming her body or for how long. And then everything happened so fast.

Feb. 19, 2021 – Primary doctor sends my mom to the hospital.

March 5, 2021 – It’s cancer and it’s everywhere. Doctors give her a week.

March 14, 2021 – Around 5:42 a.m., my mom passes away peacefully.

Three weeks and two days

We had three weeks and two days. Not enough. Not even close.

I’m not sure what this will turn into, but I know I need to write. Mi terapia.

I know I need to honor her and share her story. I need to write through the grief. The grief that changed me. The grief that revealed exposed me.

“Keep writing, mija, just keep writing!”

She said this to me so many times over the years. She loved my writing. She used to clip my articles from the newspaper.

Years later when I started a blog during my divorce, she would print out every blog entry, make copies and pass them out at her jazzercise class. I promise you, I’m not making this up.

I eventually stopped keeping up with that blog because, well… life.

“Keep writing, mija!”

I will, mom. Te prometo. I promise.

Soy hija de Gloria. Hija de guerrera. Esta es la historia de mi mamá. Y mi terapia.

I’m Gloria’s daughter. Daughter of a warrior. This is my mom’s story. And my therapy.

1973: A 26-six-year-old Gloria and 4-year-old me pose for a photo in our one bedroom house in Tolleson, Ariz.