It's Mother's Day
So this is probably as good at time as any to talk about my mother.
I received a call just over a week ago from my sister at 8:30 am. She urged me to make my way home to Dallas because our mother, who had been in the hospital for several days had taken a critical turn for the worse. Within a few hours I had made arrangements with work and was on a plane to Dallas. At the airport I'd called me mother to let her know I was on my way. "It's gotten cold up here," she told me. "Make sure you bring a warm enough coat."
When I arrived at the hospital my mother was talking and chatting with her visitors, mainly people from our church congregation. It was difficult to believe that there was anything seriously wrong with her. However, Jennifer told me in private that the doctors feared the damage to her organs was too severe and her heart was not strong enough to survive an operation that might potentially repair some of the damage. In all likelihood she would die on the table.
I talked to my mother, held her hand, told her how Andrew and I were doing in Austin. She kept telling me things like "I'll be okay, I'm fine," and "the Lord can make it stop, one way or another". I found myself fighting not to cry, a battle that I lost several times over the next few days. I spent nearly 24 hours at the hospital, going back and forth between my mother's room in the ICU and the waiting room which seemed to be overflowing with visitors from our church. Those hours were full of complicated emotions. On the one hand, my mother was very ill and unlikely to recover. On the other, she herself was in good spirits, and the company of our church family provided us with support and much needed levity.
There was only one point during that night that I felt lost- when there were few visitors and my sisters had stepped away to run some errands or pick up family from the airport. My mother, having likely overexerted herself passed out with very low blood pressure. She began to have difficulty breathing and was unresponsive. After receiving some medication and a small flow of oxygen, she was awake and aware again. The nurse who was attending to her was calm and caring, but during those few minutes I felt panicked. I didn't want to be there without my sisters. I didn't want to imagine that I was going to have to make some critical decision. But most of all it hurt so much to see my mother in that state.
She recovered and the next day my sisters and uncle spent the day with her. I was able to go home for a few hours when I was informed of her decision to stop her blood pressure medication, which was the only thing keeping her conscious. That afternoon, my siblings and I were all there, joined by Erikson and the two Andrews. We gathered around her bed and Debbie managed to say a few words from all of us. By the early evening, she was asleep and most of us went home for the night, leaving Debbie behind. Late that night, just before midnight, I got a phone call saying that it was over.
I didn't cry at the time. It was strange to be in a place of acceptance so quickly. They teach you that there are so many steps to grieving, and it felt like cheating to skip to the end. In the following days I met with many family members and friends, and I imagine several of them were surprised to see that I wasn't red-eyed and weepy. I told those who I thought would understand the same thing. My mother was a woman of faith. She hadn't shed a single tear in the hospital, and I didn't want to cry in front of her. In many ways- she didn't see what was happening as a sad thing. She believed that she was going to heaven to be with my father and there was nothing sad about that. I told them that this peace of mind was "something that faith affords you". I'm not big on ramming messages down people's throats (especially when I know that it will drive them further away) but I hoped that in some small way my words could serve as a testimony.
To me, far more sad that my mother's death were those days in the hospital and perhaps the two years since my father's death. I never brought it up with her, but I could tell that his death took a toll on her. I don't mean to say that she gave up after his passing, but it was obvious that something very precious was now missing from her life. I called her about once a week to "check up on her" as I called it, and she frequently told me how much she missed my father and what a special man he had been. I don't think it would be a mistake to say that she drew her (quite considerable) strength from him, and with him gone it was like she slowly ran out of steam. In some ways, it seemed almost like the woman I visited in the hospital was not quite my mother. My mother was a strong, sometimes imposing woman of great conviction and character. The sick woman in bed was so tired and in so much pain. It hurt my heart to see her in that way.
My mother opted for a closed casket during her services. My sisters asked me if I thought that was alright and I agreed without any hesitation. I'd rather remember her as she is in my memories, and I was all right without seeing her body, riddled by infirmity and age. When I was growing up, my mom impressed upon me several times that when we die, the body was of no consequence, and that everything that we are goes to another place. Throughout the following week I heard over and over again that people were sorry for us, my family and I, but that they knew my mother was somewhere better now. Even now, I find it much easier to relive and write down the memories after my mother's death than her last days.
It was strange, in some ways. When my father died everything happened so quickly. I got a phone call early in the morning telling me what had happened and I was soon on my way home to take part in the services. However with my mother we had time. We were able to talk with her, share with her, ask her questions about how she wanted things handled. She dealt with everything with great composure and even a sense of humor. However, I found myself feeling so strange so much of the time. I didn't know how to feel. I didn't know what to say. I felt like I was being presented with this great opportunity that so many people don't get, and I was worried about wasting it. What can you say to the woman who raised you, disciplined you, argued with you but loved you no matter what?
In the end, I could only whisper a few words to her. I felt perhaps like I'd failed in some way, but my uncle Jorge said something later that made me feel better (in the way that only he can). He wasn't speaking just to me, but to a group of us, about how awkward things could get. He told us that people in these sorts of situations often expect a movie-worthy ending with grand sweeping music and inspiring words. But that's just not the way it really works, he told us. Death is rarely graceful and sometimes it's just... awkward. I that's how I felt. I was overcome with feelings, too the point I couldn't possibly sort them out.
Some time after that Andrew and I made our way home. I had some time to myself, but some of my close friends came over for some social therapy. In many ways returning to a sense of normalcy made me feel better about everything. It's good to be reminded that the earth is still spinning and your life will continue and your friends will be there to make you smile. Sometimes with puppies. I also had time to start thinking about what I might like to say about my mother. I imagined we'd have some time to share, and even though I'd had difficulty putting my feelings in to words at the hospital, I could be prepared for the days to come.
So I started thinking about my mother. I started to think about the way she'd impacted my life. I like to think that my father provided a grounded anchor in my family, or perhaps he was the compass that directed us. If that's the case, my mother provided the fire that got us where we were going.
Many people that spoke of my mother over the weekend spoke of her service within the church, and her years as a teacher. I myself referenced this in the short speech I gave at her memorial service. I have very fond memories of helping her in the summers with her pre-k class, and I can't deny that my remarkable (and I mean this in the literal sense in that people have remarked on it) skills with children were born from those experiences. I think a lot about how she handled her classes. She really got to know and love each of her students, and she challenged them even at that early age. My mother never once thought that a student of hers was "too young" to be taught anything. I remember one day when I was in grade school, I asked if I couldn't teach the 4 year olds about multiplication. She told me to go ahead, and they definitely grasped the basic idea. She also thought it was paramount that children leave her classroom with a love of reading. She took her class to the public library as often as she could, and they were always filled with excitement on the bus ride there. Her own classroom had an entire storage closet dedicated to books, and every week she chose an assortment to display on the main shelf, generally related to whatever subject the class would be exploring that week.
A lot of people spoke jokingly about how strict my mother had been. More than one fully grown person came to one of my sisters and confessed how much "Hermana Ramos" had scared them when they were young. This was somewhat true at home as well. I grew to fear a toungue lashing from my mother more than a spanking from when I was very young. As I grew older I often thought I was being punished unfairly or that she was being unreasonable. I often had to fight to get my point across and labored to explain my feelings on an issue. Standing more than a decade beyond my high school years, however I see things from a different perspective. I see how many of my friends have struggled over the years. I haven't traveled the easiest or most direct path to where I am now, but at the very least I have the peace of mind that if I made a choice to get where I am now, it is because I thought it to be the right one. I can thank my mother for making sure that I would be the sort of person who strives to make the right choice, even if it's a difficult one.
There were some unexpected words that came up during the services. My sister, Jennifer read a letter sent to her by the current pastor at First Baptist Church of Carrollton. In it, he expressed his condolences, but the part that stuck out to me was when he described my parents' work as "legendary". It took a moment for that to sink in. It was a bit of a surprise, but I felt myself feeling proud as I realized it was entirely apt. When my father died, the church was filled with people from across the state, some out of state- people whose lives had been touched by his work in the church. My mother's passing was much the same. So many people, many whom I had never met had come to celebrate their lives and a job well done.
When I rose to speak at my mother's memorial service, I felt a sudden and unexpected anxiety. Only moments before I had been calm and collected, ready to share a few words. It seemed that as I walked to the microphone I was suddenly overcome with emotion and again I could feel my eyes beginning to water. My nephew rose to join me, and as I spoke I was able to look out into the audience of people and as I spoke I could see some of them nodding along with me, as though silently agreeing with what I had to say. The words came more easily, and at that moment I felt as though everyone in the room was speaking with me, joining me in the words I had to share then, so similar to the words I'd whispered to my mother at her bedside. Quite simply, they were the only words I could think of to say- the only ones that seemed appropriate to a woman who had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, and given so willingly to her children, her church, and her community.
Thank you.
I received a call just over a week ago from my sister at 8:30 am. She urged me to make my way home to Dallas because our mother, who had been in the hospital for several days had taken a critical turn for the worse. Within a few hours I had made arrangements with work and was on a plane to Dallas. At the airport I'd called me mother to let her know I was on my way. "It's gotten cold up here," she told me. "Make sure you bring a warm enough coat."
When I arrived at the hospital my mother was talking and chatting with her visitors, mainly people from our church congregation. It was difficult to believe that there was anything seriously wrong with her. However, Jennifer told me in private that the doctors feared the damage to her organs was too severe and her heart was not strong enough to survive an operation that might potentially repair some of the damage. In all likelihood she would die on the table.
I talked to my mother, held her hand, told her how Andrew and I were doing in Austin. She kept telling me things like "I'll be okay, I'm fine," and "the Lord can make it stop, one way or another". I found myself fighting not to cry, a battle that I lost several times over the next few days. I spent nearly 24 hours at the hospital, going back and forth between my mother's room in the ICU and the waiting room which seemed to be overflowing with visitors from our church. Those hours were full of complicated emotions. On the one hand, my mother was very ill and unlikely to recover. On the other, she herself was in good spirits, and the company of our church family provided us with support and much needed levity.
There was only one point during that night that I felt lost- when there were few visitors and my sisters had stepped away to run some errands or pick up family from the airport. My mother, having likely overexerted herself passed out with very low blood pressure. She began to have difficulty breathing and was unresponsive. After receiving some medication and a small flow of oxygen, she was awake and aware again. The nurse who was attending to her was calm and caring, but during those few minutes I felt panicked. I didn't want to be there without my sisters. I didn't want to imagine that I was going to have to make some critical decision. But most of all it hurt so much to see my mother in that state.
She recovered and the next day my sisters and uncle spent the day with her. I was able to go home for a few hours when I was informed of her decision to stop her blood pressure medication, which was the only thing keeping her conscious. That afternoon, my siblings and I were all there, joined by Erikson and the two Andrews. We gathered around her bed and Debbie managed to say a few words from all of us. By the early evening, she was asleep and most of us went home for the night, leaving Debbie behind. Late that night, just before midnight, I got a phone call saying that it was over.
I didn't cry at the time. It was strange to be in a place of acceptance so quickly. They teach you that there are so many steps to grieving, and it felt like cheating to skip to the end. In the following days I met with many family members and friends, and I imagine several of them were surprised to see that I wasn't red-eyed and weepy. I told those who I thought would understand the same thing. My mother was a woman of faith. She hadn't shed a single tear in the hospital, and I didn't want to cry in front of her. In many ways- she didn't see what was happening as a sad thing. She believed that she was going to heaven to be with my father and there was nothing sad about that. I told them that this peace of mind was "something that faith affords you". I'm not big on ramming messages down people's throats (especially when I know that it will drive them further away) but I hoped that in some small way my words could serve as a testimony.
To me, far more sad that my mother's death were those days in the hospital and perhaps the two years since my father's death. I never brought it up with her, but I could tell that his death took a toll on her. I don't mean to say that she gave up after his passing, but it was obvious that something very precious was now missing from her life. I called her about once a week to "check up on her" as I called it, and she frequently told me how much she missed my father and what a special man he had been. I don't think it would be a mistake to say that she drew her (quite considerable) strength from him, and with him gone it was like she slowly ran out of steam. In some ways, it seemed almost like the woman I visited in the hospital was not quite my mother. My mother was a strong, sometimes imposing woman of great conviction and character. The sick woman in bed was so tired and in so much pain. It hurt my heart to see her in that way.
My mother opted for a closed casket during her services. My sisters asked me if I thought that was alright and I agreed without any hesitation. I'd rather remember her as she is in my memories, and I was all right without seeing her body, riddled by infirmity and age. When I was growing up, my mom impressed upon me several times that when we die, the body was of no consequence, and that everything that we are goes to another place. Throughout the following week I heard over and over again that people were sorry for us, my family and I, but that they knew my mother was somewhere better now. Even now, I find it much easier to relive and write down the memories after my mother's death than her last days.
It was strange, in some ways. When my father died everything happened so quickly. I got a phone call early in the morning telling me what had happened and I was soon on my way home to take part in the services. However with my mother we had time. We were able to talk with her, share with her, ask her questions about how she wanted things handled. She dealt with everything with great composure and even a sense of humor. However, I found myself feeling so strange so much of the time. I didn't know how to feel. I didn't know what to say. I felt like I was being presented with this great opportunity that so many people don't get, and I was worried about wasting it. What can you say to the woman who raised you, disciplined you, argued with you but loved you no matter what?
In the end, I could only whisper a few words to her. I felt perhaps like I'd failed in some way, but my uncle Jorge said something later that made me feel better (in the way that only he can). He wasn't speaking just to me, but to a group of us, about how awkward things could get. He told us that people in these sorts of situations often expect a movie-worthy ending with grand sweeping music and inspiring words. But that's just not the way it really works, he told us. Death is rarely graceful and sometimes it's just... awkward. I that's how I felt. I was overcome with feelings, too the point I couldn't possibly sort them out.
Some time after that Andrew and I made our way home. I had some time to myself, but some of my close friends came over for some social therapy. In many ways returning to a sense of normalcy made me feel better about everything. It's good to be reminded that the earth is still spinning and your life will continue and your friends will be there to make you smile. Sometimes with puppies. I also had time to start thinking about what I might like to say about my mother. I imagined we'd have some time to share, and even though I'd had difficulty putting my feelings in to words at the hospital, I could be prepared for the days to come.
So I started thinking about my mother. I started to think about the way she'd impacted my life. I like to think that my father provided a grounded anchor in my family, or perhaps he was the compass that directed us. If that's the case, my mother provided the fire that got us where we were going.
Many people that spoke of my mother over the weekend spoke of her service within the church, and her years as a teacher. I myself referenced this in the short speech I gave at her memorial service. I have very fond memories of helping her in the summers with her pre-k class, and I can't deny that my remarkable (and I mean this in the literal sense in that people have remarked on it) skills with children were born from those experiences. I think a lot about how she handled her classes. She really got to know and love each of her students, and she challenged them even at that early age. My mother never once thought that a student of hers was "too young" to be taught anything. I remember one day when I was in grade school, I asked if I couldn't teach the 4 year olds about multiplication. She told me to go ahead, and they definitely grasped the basic idea. She also thought it was paramount that children leave her classroom with a love of reading. She took her class to the public library as often as she could, and they were always filled with excitement on the bus ride there. Her own classroom had an entire storage closet dedicated to books, and every week she chose an assortment to display on the main shelf, generally related to whatever subject the class would be exploring that week.
A lot of people spoke jokingly about how strict my mother had been. More than one fully grown person came to one of my sisters and confessed how much "Hermana Ramos" had scared them when they were young. This was somewhat true at home as well. I grew to fear a toungue lashing from my mother more than a spanking from when I was very young. As I grew older I often thought I was being punished unfairly or that she was being unreasonable. I often had to fight to get my point across and labored to explain my feelings on an issue. Standing more than a decade beyond my high school years, however I see things from a different perspective. I see how many of my friends have struggled over the years. I haven't traveled the easiest or most direct path to where I am now, but at the very least I have the peace of mind that if I made a choice to get where I am now, it is because I thought it to be the right one. I can thank my mother for making sure that I would be the sort of person who strives to make the right choice, even if it's a difficult one.
There were some unexpected words that came up during the services. My sister, Jennifer read a letter sent to her by the current pastor at First Baptist Church of Carrollton. In it, he expressed his condolences, but the part that stuck out to me was when he described my parents' work as "legendary". It took a moment for that to sink in. It was a bit of a surprise, but I felt myself feeling proud as I realized it was entirely apt. When my father died, the church was filled with people from across the state, some out of state- people whose lives had been touched by his work in the church. My mother's passing was much the same. So many people, many whom I had never met had come to celebrate their lives and a job well done.
When I rose to speak at my mother's memorial service, I felt a sudden and unexpected anxiety. Only moments before I had been calm and collected, ready to share a few words. It seemed that as I walked to the microphone I was suddenly overcome with emotion and again I could feel my eyes beginning to water. My nephew rose to join me, and as I spoke I was able to look out into the audience of people and as I spoke I could see some of them nodding along with me, as though silently agreeing with what I had to say. The words came more easily, and at that moment I felt as though everyone in the room was speaking with me, joining me in the words I had to share then, so similar to the words I'd whispered to my mother at her bedside. Quite simply, they were the only words I could think of to say- the only ones that seemed appropriate to a woman who had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, and given so willingly to her children, her church, and her community.
Thank you.