Here we are a year after
losing the first person to love me, to teach me to love, and the first person
to have faith in me. A year ago, we lost a wife, mother, grandmother,
god-mother, aunt, daughter, friend, cousin, and sister. It was the toughest
loss I’ve ever had to deal with, but I’m slowly beginning to learn the words of
St. Paul “for when I am weak, then I am strong” – 2 Corinthians 12:10.
Irvin Yalom, a renowned Psychotherapist, mentions in his
book Love’s Executioner that grieving
a death is so hard, especially in the case of a parent or loved one, because
“to lose a parent or lifelong friend is often to lose the past: the person who
died may be the only living witness to golden events of long ago.”
How true is this of my mother? How many the golden moments?
How many laughs? How many tears, meals, late nights, arguments, phone calls,
ups and downs, celebrations, consolations and desolations? And lastly, but
probably most importantly, why?
Some of these “golden moments” include talking to her while
folding laundry down stairs when we lived in Newark. We would talk about
relationships, the newest drama in my life (as a teen), it was there that I
spoke to her about my wanting to go to the seminary, and it was there that I
first picked up an instrument and realized that I might have a talent (my
godmother gave me one of those play pianos and my mom was ironing while
listening to Manuel Gomes’ tape, you know the Manuel that used to play at Epiphany.
I began to play along by listening to the song and finding the tune on the
piano). Another was when my mother dropped me off for the first time at St.
Benedict’s on the first day of the overnight my freshman year. I wiped away
tears as I stepped out of the car on my way to start the first day of high
school, she reluctantly unlocked the doors, only after telling me to wait for
other people my size to walk in because everyone seemed so huge. These golden
moments define who my mother was and is to me. I cannot remember a time where
she wasn’t willing to literally get out of bed and go with me to help a friend.
As a teen, I got a call once at about midnight from a friend to come and help
out her friend because she needed some prayer and to talk. My mother heard the
phone ring and got out of bed. I reluctantly told her what was happening,
expecting her not to believe my story. She turned around, threw on some clothing
and said let’s go. The times that we would go to adoration at 10pm offered a
great way for us to just connect. She knew that I was just in need of presence
and that I wasn’t able to just talk about stuff.
The past year has lent itself to learning to at least ponder
the questions about why, how, and what could have been done. Inevitably, the
loss gapes a large void in our hearts that seeks to, at the very least, find
meaning in the suffering. I think that to suffer without knowledge of the
meaning or cause of the suffering, is to endure a far greater pain. A mother
who bears birth pains is at least consoled in knowing she will soon hold her
child. There is purpose. That does not lessen the pain necessarily, but at
least gives meaning to it. But where can we find meaning in this suffering?
What possible reason could God have had to allow my mother to have cancer for
the second time? Had she not suffered enough? Henri Nouwen, in his book called Intimacy, writes that a relationship
with God in which God is seen as a sort-of “magical pacifier,” is an example of
immature religion. But what of the prayer? For what do we pray and why. We hear
all the time to pray for the sick. Is our prayer in vain? Nouwen goes on to
mention that our religion needs to be a dialogue. Here’s how I’ve been
dialoguing with God:
We hear about the stages of loss and grief and of course,
first-hand experience allows one to grasp more closely the movements in these
stages. I dove into stage one (denial) as a child throne into the pool for the
first time without any knowledge of aquatics. Mario opened the door to his
attic and woke me up with the news that my mother had gone into cardiac arrest.
I remember putting on clothes, getting into the car with Liz, not saying
anything on the way to the hospital, and praying, pleading that she not be
taken from us yet. She could beat this. She’s my mother for God’s sake. We
arrived at the hospital, ran upstairs, and were greeted with the image of
multiple doctors doing chest compressions on my mother. It’s ok, she’ll come
back, she’s strong. Earlier that night, only an hour or so before her heart
stopped, I had told her that she needed to be strong. I didn’t quite realize it
at the time, but I was pleading for her to stay with us. The doctor’s asked us
if they should continue with the chest compressions. I pleaded yes! This is it.
God’s chance for a miracle. We were due for a miracle. How many prayers had my
mom said? How many family members had she brought to church? How many dinners
for priests and seminarians, how many extra hours she worked in order to put us
through catholic school, how many sacrifices, fasts, and (insert extremely
prayerful, faithful, and spiritual work here) did my mother do throughout her
life?
No miracle came. Stage two… anger. People have a tendency
towards cliché messages after someone experiences a loss. “She’s in a better
place, God needed her in heaven, she’s an angel now, now you have someone
praying over you, stay strong, etc.” I remember sitting in the spare bedroom on
the main floor of my parent’s house alone after the funeral. I was holding some
pictures and began to think about some of these messages and the one that stood
out was the “God needed her in Heaven.” I remember thinking that if he needed
her in heaven, then he was a selfish God. He didn’t care about our needs down
here and was proving this by taking away some of the most important people in
my life. 3 years before, he had taken Fr. Bico. Now my mother. Who else?! God has his mother in heaven. I needed my mother.
What about what we need down here? Why had he taken her, 5 months before my
wedding? Not only was God selfish, but he truly did not answer prayers. Not my
prayers…
But what if… Stage three bargaining. What if I had prayed more? What if I hadn’t caused so much stress in my mother’s life years before? Would she have been healthier? What if I had spent the night at the hospital that night, surely she would’ve felt my presence longer and had more strength to keep fighting? The search for meaning and blame began and God was the easy culprit.
But what if… Stage three bargaining. What if I had prayed more? What if I hadn’t caused so much stress in my mother’s life years before? Would she have been healthier? What if I had spent the night at the hospital that night, surely she would’ve felt my presence longer and had more strength to keep fighting? The search for meaning and blame began and God was the easy culprit.
Many have described depression as “the great sadness” Stage
Four and Five, Depression and Acceptance… These last two steps I feel embody
the spiritual fight proclaimed by Saint Paul earlier in this letter. It is in
weakness that we are made stronger. I didn’t feel the depression common with a
clinical diagnosis, but definitely a “great sadness.” Every time I reached for
my phone to call my mother and for a brief moment forgot that she had passed
away; a great sadness. Every time I visited NJ and entered her house that had
been ransacked in an attempt to clean it up in order to put it on the market; a
great sadness. Every time I yelled at God for his absence and couldn’t find the
strength to pray; a great sadness. Every I thought about the fact that my
children would never meet my mother; a great sadness.
Acceptance. What does acceptance even mean? Being ok with
the fact that she’s gone? Finding meaning in that suffering? Not crying?
For me so far it has been this. It still seems unreal that
my mother will never be able to play with my children and tell them the story
of the “Carochinha.” It is unreal that they will never see her try everything to
make them laugh, they will never hear her laugh, feel her hugs, and see
first-hand why I have the quirks I have. But I have learned this. When you know
darkness like the “great sadness” you appreciate the light a little more. When
you hurt this bad, you feel you wife’s hugs a little tighter. When you hear
about stories of spouses losing spouses, you appreciate your spouse that much
more. Losing my mother has encouraged my calling to help those most in need in
the most difficult of times and a mental health clinician. And the Carochinha? I
can tell that story. I may not have my mother, but I have many people to call
upon for tips on planting tulips in the Fall, how to buy Christmas presents,
how to best prepare bacalhau… etc. God may have taken my mom, but he didn’t
leave me empty-handed.
The dialogue with God has moved to being mindful of
blessings and graces. If those golden moments are alive only in my memory and
my mother’s, than it’s up to me to keep them alive by telling them, living,
them, and passing them on. Let’s keep her memory alive by doing the things she
has taught us, the things we loved about her, and the things made her unique.
Let’s pray even if it is just yelling at God in the most difficult of moments.
Let’s open our doors to anyone especially those most in need. Let’s fight for
what is right and not accept mediocrity. Let’s remember to be joyful and to
love those most dear to us. It’s our job now to keep her alive in our hearts.
One year has come and gone quickly. But what of the next 30 years? Let’s keep
her alive with how we live and by living what she taught us.
With that my house will always be stocked with “cha, café, laranjada” and the doors will always be open to any family or friend that is in need, wants to eat, or just wants to come by because they were on their way to the bank and just figured they would stop in, I will pass on the remedies my mother taught me (rezar ao aberto anyone?), I’ll go to church every Sunday, I’ll hide things in every book in the house, I’ll learn her famed arroz doce recipe, I will give my family all of me, and for God’s sake, I’ll call home a few times a week (lest someone think I’m dead in a ditch). Let’s make this anniversary not of sadness due to remembering that we have been without my mother for a year, but an acceptance of the responsibility to keep her alive.
Okay?!! Okay. I love you… Bye, bye, bye, ok… I love you… okay… Hey drive carefully. Okay. Lot’s of malucos out there. I heard this story the other day of this accident on 21. Ai meu Deus…
With that my house will always be stocked with “cha, café, laranjada” and the doors will always be open to any family or friend that is in need, wants to eat, or just wants to come by because they were on their way to the bank and just figured they would stop in, I will pass on the remedies my mother taught me (rezar ao aberto anyone?), I’ll go to church every Sunday, I’ll hide things in every book in the house, I’ll learn her famed arroz doce recipe, I will give my family all of me, and for God’s sake, I’ll call home a few times a week (lest someone think I’m dead in a ditch). Let’s make this anniversary not of sadness due to remembering that we have been without my mother for a year, but an acceptance of the responsibility to keep her alive.
Okay?!! Okay. I love you… Bye, bye, bye, ok… I love you… okay… Hey drive carefully. Okay. Lot’s of malucos out there. I heard this story the other day of this accident on 21. Ai meu Deus…
(half an hour later)
Okay bye, I love you, bye… bye… bye… bye…
Mom Memorial from Duarte on Vimeo.
Mae, I love you…
