My Mother's Eyes

I look in the mirror

and see my mother's eyes

and remember

a year of pain and suffering

and dashed hopes

for her and for all of us

~ January 8, 1995 ~

Mom has been gone 16 years now.  I got through another Christmas without her.

Today, I was putting on my makeup for New Year's Eve, and I saw her eyes again.

We were so much alike.

It is strange to think in a mere 8 years I will be the same age she was when she died.  I do not know where the last 16 years even went.  Sometimes it is all simply a blur.

I was a Kohl's with my sister before Christmas, and it happened again.  I saw a woman who would have been about the same age as my mother today if she had lived.  I did three "double takes" on her.  Kept looking back and staring secretly.  Wondering if Mom would have looked this way.  She had similar wavy hair as Mom.  And a cute little "Muffin Man" expression on her face like Josh used to call her each time they read the child's book together, and he would point at the sweet, smiling Muffin Man, and say "Ma!"

I wanted that lady to be my mother.  To still be here to celebrate Christmas with us.  I wondered whose mother she was and if they were going to see her on Christmas.  Or maybe she was simply like me ~ someone who actually did turn into a lonely old spinster like I used to joke about in my teen years.

Mama was my best friend, and I find it so hard to make friends without her.  It seems like all the friends I do make always move away, and then my circle of friends has dwindled to just me.

But Mom and Dad taught me to be my own best friend.  From the time we moved to Aptos in 1982, and I had to start my senior year at a new school.  Mama told me to think of that year as like I was already away at college and not worry about making too many friends. And so the three of us became "The Three Muskateers" that year and explored our new town together.

They taught me to go out and eat by myself.  And to go to a movie by myself.  And to not be embarrassed to be alone in public.  Maybe they taught me too well.

The loneliness of the holiday season always hits me on Christmas morning when I have no family to wake up early and open up gifts.  I never had my own children.  My plans are always for later in the day.  Oh, where did the days of waking Randy up first or him waking me up first and running downstairs with those those antique candle holders with unlit candles ~ just like the father carried in "The Night Before Christmas" ~ to check out the Christmas tree at 2 a.m.?

Where did the magic of Christmas go?

I could feel nothing like magic this year.  It's gone.  Did age take it away, or did cancer take it away forever?  Will I ever feel that kind of magic again?

And so, I headed for the Santa Cruz Diner where they know my name, and hugs of Christmas Cheer greeted me at the door.  Maybe I do have some type of community like my sister and my brother do even if I have to pay for a cheap breakfast in order to get it.

But it's a start.  And I will try harder in the new year to start my own traditions.  So Christmas morning is not so lonely.  And maybe, just maybe, Christmas will start to feel like Christmas again.

~ Our Christmas Angel ~

The Anniversary of My Mother's Death

December 25th will always be the anniversary of my mother's death.

Christmas is no longer Christmas anymore in the same way it was for the first 29 years of my life.

Every year, I hope it will feel different, but every year Christmas looms at me in the distance like a big fireball coming toward me ~ as I try to jump out of the way ~ in my attempt to not get depressed and just get through the holiday season.  I usually breath a sigh of relief on December 26th knowing I got through another year and can then enjoy a bit of the rest of the Christmas break before I head back to work.

Just when I think to others this all may seem ridiculous, I find out another relative does not feel like celebrating this year.  And then I start to worry about him and wanting to get him to participate in at least one of the activities planned this year.

Little things like buying a gift or assembling a Christmas Card are often overwhelming for me.  When Nan was alive, I always managed to get one sent to her and also to the whole Sandoval family.  This year, I experienced the victory of sending out my first card in nearly a decade to my longtime pen pals in Australia.  That whole experience wore me out that I have not even sent out any others this year.  But my dear friends in Australia will finally get a card on the actual holiday instead of some belated letter usually sent in October telling them I have moved again.  Seems so bizarre for the girl who once sent out dozens of cards and baked dozens of cookies ~ and the young woman who somehow managed to finish Mom's Christmas list the year she was dying and made sure everyone got the gifts she had bought so many months before she even became sick.

So I think I just really need to accept the fact that Christmas will never be the same as long as it continues to fall on the anniversary of my mother's death.  And that it does not really matter what people think of me.  I have tried to make it work, and it just does not work anymore.  I really cannot pretend to fully enjoy a holiday that still brings up the saddest of memories for me.

My days of trying to make Christmas special for the boys in the way Mom would have are over.  The boys are grown.  And the second generation of grandchildren never even knew Mom.  Little Rashonda has her own Christmas memories and traditions made special by her own mother who truly seems to enjoy the holiday season.  Thank God she had children to keep Christmas alive. 

I still have hope that one day it will finally get better.  But I need to be gentle on myself knowing that day may never come.  Christmas will still come every year on the anniversary of my mother's death.

~Our Last Family Photo Before Mom Died in 1994~

The Edge of The Bed

During Mom's Cancer Year, our most meaningful moments ~ our most meaningful conversations ~ were spent at the edge of the bed.

Mom only talked about dying once with me during that whole year ~ within 48 hours of diagnosis. 

We were sitting on the edge of the bed in her bedroom, and she started sobbing.

"I never should have had children," she cried to me, "You all are carrying the cancer gene now."

"Oh, Mom," I reassured her, "We are going to be okay.  It's not your fault!"

I instinctively knew the cigarettes were what was about to kill her ~ even though, ironically, the type of cancer she was diagnosed with was the type that non-smokers get.  But how could the 33 years of chain smoking not have had an impact?  There was no point in dwelling on this now as the cancer had likely been growing for up to fifteen years without any symptoms which is why when the symptoms did show up, it was all too late ~ Stage 4 Lung Cancer had arrived.

Later as she grew weaker but was still at home, we would sit on the edge of the bed, and Dad or I would help lace up or take off her shoes.  Sometimes, she like to nap with her shoes on to make the whole routine simpler, but I did not mind helping her ~ she was my mother ~ she gave birth to me ~ of course, she should have had children.  Her destiny was to be our mother.

Once she was admitted to the hospital, I would sit on the edge of the bed and give her little towelettes to refresh herself ~ clean her hands and face ~ after she had to use the bed pan.  Of course, she still wanted to be able to wash her hands even if the nurses were the ones to take care of her bathroom needs.   I remember telling her little details about our daily life in the hospital ~ giving her an update on this or that ~ and she would always respond in an almost lyrical fashion with a faint little "Okay!" ~ as if everything was to her own agreement ~ always being cheerful and sweet ~ even though her daily life was nearly hell and full of so much pain during those last two months.

During the final days of her life ~ the 3 1/2 days of her coma in which she could still hear our every word ~ I would sit on the edge of the bed and long to crawl in beside her as if I were a little girl waking up from a bad dream.  The bed was tiny, and she had tubes for oxygen and morphine ~ and I kept thinking it would not be allowed for a daughter to crawl into bed with a dying mother.

I was only 29 and not nearly as strong as I am today.  Today, I would have not even asked ~ I would have crawled right in and held her tight ~ I would have found my way around all those tubes and trappings of death ~ 

I know she could feel my presence at the edge of the bed as I held her hand and lay my head on the mattress ~ crawling into her bed in the only way I knew how then ~ and remembering what it was like to be her daughter ~ and all the love and protection she gave me on all those nights when I said,

"Mama, I had a bad dream."



 

~ Her Destiny was to be Our Mother ~

 

The Year Without Pictures

1994 was the year without pictures.

I have been obsessed with taking pictures of all of my adult life, and I never took a single picture during Mama's Cancer Year.

January started with me getting terribly sick on my 29th Birthday.  I remember being sprawled out on the couch with the longest bout of stomach flu on my birthday.  We did not celebrate that year, but Mama stopped by the couch and asked if I wanted to still have my picture taken.  

I told her, "No," but 17 years later I really wish I would have said "Yes."

Less than two months later, she was officially diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer.

Her treatments began three weeks later, and her beautiful, thick, wavy hair began falling out after the second round.

For a woman so brave enough to have her eldest daughter shave her head ~ shortly after the horrifying tears that came with clumps of her hair falling out after her shower ~ then pulling off her turban excitedly to show her grandsons that everything would be okay to be around a bald grandma ~ making them giggle ~ to a woman so privately modest that I instinctively knew never to take her picture with her turban, scarf, or bald head showing.

Mom never left home without full make-up ~ gorgeous blue eyes with long Maybelline coated eyelashes ~ frosted Softshell Pink lipstick ~ in case she ever bumped into Robert Redford, she would say.

And so, we did not take any pictures that Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day, birthdays, and ball games in between.

Later, I looked at an old video she managed to take of the boys' little league games in May and saw Mama's reflection behind the camera in a car window perhaps, and I could see a peek of the pre-made scarves we bought in San Jose during the special trip we made to look for a wig.  The wigs were stiff and fake, and Mama could not imagine herself ever wearing one ~ but we spent a tearful afternoon trying them on ~ with Rhonda and Dad by our sides ~ and instead found all these sweet and pure little country-type scarves ~ all pre-tied in the back ~ in bright Easter Egg colors that we would wash every week for her.

There were times when I wanted to take her picture, but I memorized every one of our "Lasts" instead.  For a family that chronicled every event of our lives on film ~ with photo albums stuffed in our bookshelves ~ The Year Without Pictures is one to remember ~ even without a photo album dated 1994.

Later, I remembered that my brave brother had indeed taken one picture ~ the very last picture of Mom with her spunky 83-year-old Mother, Our Beloved Nanny.  And so Randy captured the essence of who she was before cancer stripped us of our memory of what she looked like ~

She, Dad, and Her Precious Youngest Child ~ Her Only Son ~ went to visit Nanny three days after diagnosis ~ March 12, 1994.  He had the courage to get behind the lens and take that last photo in Mama's hometown of Rio Linda in Nan's country home ~ just one block down the road from the Old Chicken Ranch:  

Mom is brave and happy ~ despite the unknown that lay ahead ~

But I see the tears in Nanny's smile as she clung to the daughter who would soon say goodbye.

Mama and Nanny

The Last Picture Taken

March 12, 1994

Do They Even Know?

I had one of those "Do They Even Know?" moments yesterday at the holiday party.

After Mom died on Christmas in 1994, I almost feel like I'm walking around with some type of Scarlet Letter on my forehead or something ~ wondering if anyone can even sense the pain I feel at times throughout this holiday season.

An A Cappella Choir came to sing at our holiday breakfast, and I found myself more than tearing up at one of their songs ~ that familiar wince I know so well ~ almost like stifling a gasp ~ at the sheer raw emotion I can still feel remembering back to 1994 and how we lost her forever.

I have told some of my colleagues about my loss and never mentioned it to others ~ and wonder if the others even remember what I told them a few years ago.

I sit in a cafe and enjoy the Christmas decorations and wonder if people can tell that my expression is weary and lost in thought as I ruffle my newspaper and poke at my eggs, still enjoying the moment despite the sorrow I feel throughout the season.

I remember growing up Mama always telling me how her great grandmother, Grandma Helm, died on Christmas.  She told me how the whole family was celebrating Christmas at Grandma Runyan's home, and then all of a sudden, Grandma Runyan took the phone call and found out that her beloved mother had died on Christmas back home in North Dakota.    The Christmas party came abruptly to an end, and Mama said all of the families with young children left shortly after Grandma Runyan received the news.  Grandma Runyan never again celebrated Christmas on Christmas Day after that heartbreaking news and instead switched to celebrating on Christmas Eve.

As a little girl growing up long after my great grandmother died ~ each time I heard this story from my own mother ~ I would try to imagine how Grandma Runyan felt when she received that shocking call of sudden loss ~ and I tried to picture how she managed to cope each Christmas on the anniversary of her own dear mother's death. 

One wonders how one family can actually have two relatives die on Christmas.  How could that happen twice in lifetime?

I remember Grandma Runyan who died when I was only five.  And my precious Nanny, her eldest daughter, who died this past August at the age of 99.  My Beloved Nanny who lived through her own grandmother dying on Christmas and then her own daughter dying on Christmas four decades later.

I think how my own pain is smaller in comparison to a woman endured two of these Christmas losses in her lifetime.  But again, I still have the second half of my life to live, and I, too, will face other losses.

I ask God for a reprieve for now.  We have had too many back-to-back losses for now.  Give me a break before I lose another parent or aunt or uncle or the one remaining great aunt I have on my mother's side of the family.  Let me find a way to enjoy the holidays again before the losses start up again.

Nanny, Grandma Runyan, Sharon,

Mom, and Grandma Helm

Aftermath

Mama chose who would be with her when she took her last breath.

Ten years earlier, we had taken a "Death and Dying" class together at Cabrillo.  And I remembered two things from that class when she entered her coma.

I immediately went into middle child mode ~ trying to control the shock and confusion that her coma had created ~ especially the labored breaths in the beginning that were quite scary.  I shared with my family what we had learned in class so long ago:

1) Let the dying person know it's okay to let go and die.

2) But even if you tell her to let go, she will choose the exact time to take her last breath.  The dying person is either waiting for a loved one to arrive or simply waiting for a loved one to leave.

In our case, it was both.

Randy and I tried to stay awake in the wee hours of Christmas  ~ our tired heads slumped on the edge of Mama's bed ~ listening to the four Christmas tapes we had brought play over and over and over again.

One of the saddest things about this last night together was that Mama was still in such pain when they had to move her to change the sheets. I remember wanting to wait awhile to move her again, and I told Randy at this point the wet sheet was better than her feeling the pain of getting a dry one immediately.  The nurses finally came up with a regimen of adding extra Ativan just before they moved her which helped during the last 10 hours of Mom's life.

Three nights of the grave yard shift ~ plus running around town during the day finishing up all of Mom's year long Christmas preparations for the family ~ had finally taken its toll on me, and I could no longer stay.  I was emotionally and physically spent to the point of near collapse.  Randy and I had taken separate cars, and so I left just before dawn.  Randy joined me back home a few hours later.

In my old room above the garage, I tried to sleep ~ but the sleep was almost drugged-like ~ waiting for the phone to ring ~ knowing I had just left my mother ~ who was most likely going to die on Christmas and knowing that I had made the decision not to be there when she died.  I remember looking at my bedroom window during the few hours I tried to sleep ~ staring at the M & M candy character lights glowing all night long in the shape of a tree ~ the lights gave me comfort as Mom and I had got a kick out of collecting these cute little M & M faces often found as decorations atop a cane full of candy.  I left the radio on playing Christmas music as I did every Christmas and simply waited.

Rhonda had to drop off her young sons at our cousin's house ~ poor kids being whisked away from their beds instead of opening up presents at dawn ~ and then joined Dad back at the hospital.

The morning turned into afternoon.  And just as I was writing about my mother ~ physically half-way through writing the word "mother" ~ the phone rang.  Mama died just after 2 p.m. on Christmas Day.

I do not even remember if I even cried upon hearing the final news.  But my father was crying on the other end.  And then my sister came on the phone and told me not to come back to the hospital, "It's really scary," she warned, referring to the sight of Mom's dead body still in the room.

But whatever fear or exhaustion that had sent me back home to recuperate had given way to being back on automatic pilot again.  And so I had to knock on Randy's door to deliver the news, and together we headed back to the hospital.

What I remember most about seeing my mother laying there so peacefully in the room was how much she looked like herself again ~ all twelve months of pain had been drained from her delicate face ~ she was absolutely beautiful ~ with brilliant cheekbones and even a light glossing of hair that had started to regrow.  I looked at her as if she were alive and said, "We are packing up the Christmas decorations, Mom."

The packing took over an hour and soon it was time to leave.  My most vivid memory was the sun ~ shining so bright ~ that I truly believe the brilliant sun was Mom's spirit soaring and shining down on us.  

Dad suggested, "Let's open the curtains and leave the sun shining on her."

And then he gave us the chance to be a family together for one last time.  He told us, "Let's all pick a part of her face and kiss her goodbye all at the same time."  We spontaneously chose a part of her face ~ almost like the sign of the cross ~ and kissed her loving face all together.  I picked her forehead just like she used to kiss me on the forehead to see if I had a temperature when I was a little girl.

Our family went in different directions in the hospital parking lot.  Randy opted to go over to Barbi and Gregg's house to see the boys and have Christmas dinner.  But I did not want to leave my dear father alone, and so I accompanied him back home.

As we pulled up in the driveway, we saw our neighbors, Fran and Nancy, greeting their relatives.  Everyone seemed so happy.  Their lives seem so normal.  I certainly could not shout out that Mom had just died.  And then I remembered that they had lost their dear Louie, beloved husband and father, to cancer the year before.  And I wondered if we could ever be that happy again.

Looking back, I now know that Mama spared her youngest children from the fear and pain of seeing her die before their eyes.  She had so many opportunities to let go during all the grave yard shifts we shared with her.  Mama knew best.  She knew her precious husband and her beloved first born ~ the little family she created in their early years together ~ long before her little ones came along ~ needed to be there during her last moments here on Earth ~ She came full circle ~ back to the beginning of the life she created for all of us ~ the beautiful life we were so blessed to have shared with her ~

The Last Best Christmas

Returned to a room that frightened me ~

Lights dimmed like candles ~

Labored breaths softened like whispers ~ 

I crouched beside her bed, longing desperately to crawl inside and snuggle up beside her just like I used to do after I had a bad dream.

But this time the dream was real.  There would be no moment to escape ~ to shake myself awake.  I had to wait for the ending.  To wait for my mother to die.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," I whispered through my tears, "It's Christmas."

She wanted to come home for Christmas.  But Christmas came to Room 314B.  Nothing ~ not even cancer spread thick between her lungs and bones ~ could stop her from celebrating with us ~ spending one last Christmas with us ~ The Last Best Christmas ~

Mama loved Christmas.  She planned for it all year.  From the day after Christmas sales to the mail order catalog packages arriving each month to our doorstep, she toiled merrily like an elf, stacking each brown box in the corner of her room and scribbling down the hidden contents onto her Christmas list with her red and green Christmas pens.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, I suggested, "We could wrap your presents together ~ right here on your beside table."

"Oh, no," she insisted, "I'll be home for Christmas."

But Christmas snuck past the hospital security guard and swept through the hospital corridors.  Christmas wallpapered the walls with wall-to-wall greeting cards.  Christmas glistened from the branches of the little tree my sister spray painted white because she could not afford to have it flocked.

Christmas flowed through bittersweet tears trickling down Mama's cheeks as her youngest child ~ her precious son ~ sang his favorite song for her ~

Christmas spoke to us with each blink of Mama's sea-colored eyes ~ once for "Yes", twice for "No" ~ as we each shared our favorite Christmas memories with her ~

Christmas embraced us as we each chose a part of her face to kiss goodbye all at the same time ~

Christmas warmed us as we opened the curtains and left the sun shining on her ~

Christmas comforted us when she left us that Sunny Christmas Day ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Originally Published in the Santa Cruz Sentinel ~ December 24, 2000 ~

I Remember Mama