Dying Across State Lines
Attempts to forgive and be forgiven.
When the leaves begin to fall, I remember when we set out to camp out at Mom’s bedside for an undetermined amount of time. She had entered hospice and it was in the midst of covid.
When we arrived, I found my mom’s head had been shaved, hair still fresh on the floor. When I knelt down to sweep, each soft black fiber cried, “This was done in anger and vengeance,” but I refused to listen.
Then one of the nurses said, “So nice to finally meet you. Your family has been looking forward to you coming to bring your mom home.”
I asked the nurse to clarify.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what they’ve been saying. Let me know how I can help.”
I peered into the other room to find mom’s belongings were packed.
“Will you be taking her today or tomorrow? I have paperwork to set into motion, so I’ll need to know.”
We had come under different pretenses. I was not prepared. In retrospect, I don’t know how I could’ve prepared for the moving of my dying mother across state lines.
In other news, the people caring for my mom informed extended family that we had come to abduct my mother. Obscene as this sounded, my family believed them. This triggered all sorts of unnecessary extra drama. The “landlords” had also lied to the social workers on the hospice team, claiming that, yes of course they had informed us of their decision to evict my dying mother, a very, very long time ago. So long ago, we had ample time to prepare.
The social workers didn’t know who to believe, but pleaded for the landlords to change their minds. Unnecessary stress and covid could exacerbate undue suffering. The landlords stood their ground, stoic and cold. They carried my mother out to our car like a crumpled tissue, and that was that.
On the way home, I found that mom’s pain killers were stolen, alongside her beautiful things: jewelry and a cherished Coach purse. Another blow to the heart. Mom endured the trip home without pain killers; three days total. And, I do sincerely hope who ever adorns my mother’s belongings now is haunted by the ugliness in the unkindness of stealing what does not belong to them. I really do. But they’re probably addicted to pain killers and feel nothing, instead.
Perhaps these people just couldn’t handle it anymore. I don’t blame them. I only wish they would’ve had the heart to be open and honest with me and all involved. Stealing my mother’s belongings, especially her pain killers, was another vivid and stinging insight into who was taking care of my mother the past six years.
Money was another aspect of the circumstances I couldn’t get past. My mother’s bank account had drained dry. As much as I want to believe these people loved my mom, the timeliness of the eviction aligns to say otherwise.
My family still believes I kidnapped my mom and I am responsible for her death, the cherry to top my sundae decision to move out of Mom’s home, as an adult, mind you, which triggered her loneliness, depression and then Alzheimer’s. We all know this is not true, well most of us anyway. But, I also understand what it feels like to need someone or something to blame, and in this case, I made for a perfect pin cushion.
I blame the doctors who failed to give us a proper diagnosis, the rice cooker lined in aluminum, the speed my mom used to take to make the honor roll, the people who I used to believe were my family, who told me they loved my mom as much as I do. But in the end, mom was still sick and she died. Her hair never had a chance to grow back. Still, she was beautiful; everyone who came to see her said so.
My cousin’s words posted on Facebook, for all to see: You should’ve left my tita at Kuya’s where she belongs! She might still be alive.
No one defended me except for a distant relative who happened to be a nurse, thankfully. A nurse’s words are highly credible in my family’s culture. She attempted to correct everyone’s misunderstandings. It didn’t work. Still, I was grateful.
When I saw my deleted Facebook friend/cousin a year later, he hugged me and said, “All that is water under the bridge now.”
But, which one of us is the bridge and which one is water?
I failed to ask, and the water still runs red.
I’m not looking for vengeance. I only want to clarify the truth, for myself and the ether or wherever these words and photos land. The trauma of my mom’s final journey, from diagnosis to death, still cling to me. I am here, almost three years in, trying to find footing.
To the people who offered to help:
It was angels who told me to bring my mom to you.
As time passed and the disease strengthened, I knew there was struggle and you hated me for it. I was in the dark through so much, but I could see. I offered to relieve you. You insisted otherwise. I took your word. I wish I would’ve taken my mom, instead. I am sorry. I doubted myself and I placed my faith in others.
I placed my faith in you.
I dreamt of you again last night.
We had ruined your kitchen floor in an attempt to tamper the dust. You were irate. We know this happened in real life, 100 times or more when Mom tried to escape. In the end, she did. She didn’t have the words or the ability, but she made it home. To us. To die.
Your cruelty was miraculous. So was mine.
That’s all that matters now.
I hope this poem finds you.
Eyes of God
The objects she taught me were sacred:
The Good China
Flatware
Ancestral Jewelry
Baby Jesus
I left behind.
It’s the ones she clung to at the end
I can’t let go of.
They carry the worn holes of her wisdom.
Carefully chosen accessories and sweaters.
She found value in fashion.
On sale.
Now on a basement floor
The smell of liniment intact.
All of her discarded once the money was gone.
I looked to the sky
To find answers
And listened as the moon asked her shadow:
What Jesus would do?
He’d probably kick your ass.
I believe in the Karmatic Wisdom of all that is to come.
One time
in a dream
I saw God
His Eyes are like moths’ or butterflies’
Carefully watching our innocent disgrace.
Thank you, Nay!