On the Death of My Mother

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Two years and four months ago I died. A terrible condition struck me, and I was unable to do anything about it. In a matter of less than a year, it crushed down all of my hopes and dreams. This condition was the death of my mother. Even today, when I talk about it, I burst into tears because I feel as though it was yesterday. I desperately tried to forget, and that meant living in denial about what had happened. I never wanted to speak about it whenever anyone would ask me how I felt. To lose my Mom meant losing my life. I felt I died with her. Many times I wished I had given up, but I knew it would break the promise we made years before she passed away. Therefore, I came back from the dead determined and more spirited than before. It was June 6, 2011. I remember taking my mother to the County Hospital’s emergency room. She seemed extremely exhausted; her eyes were half-closed and yellow, and she placed her elbow on the armchair, resting her head on her palm. I remember it was crowded and the wait was long, so she wanted to leave. I was the only one there with her, but I did not allow her to convince me to take her home. I told her in Spanish, “Mom, let’s wait so that we can get this over with and know what’s going on with you. You’ll see everything is okay, and we’ll go home later on.” I wish then and now that would have been the case. Unfortunately, she was diagnosed with colon cancer that had spread to many parts of her body including her lungs and kidneys. The doctor said to me not considering that I was a minor and my mother’s daughter, “Her disease is very advanced and we don’t think she will live longer than a year.” With this devastating news, I did not know what to do. I thought to myself that perhaps I should cry, or try to forget and take care of her as best I could and make her laugh to ease her pain. It is not easy to forget a parent who has been there through the good and the bad.

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