death & healing
My stepmom lost her momma today. Last day of the year. The unspoken cruelty to have such grief hang in the air as everyone outside of our house were lighting fireworks into the sky.
I knew something was off when stepmom, pops, and my little brother Ethan came in from dinner with silence. Stepmom was sniffling, using the last of her strength to hold some measure of composure before disappearing into the bedroom. Pops was quiet. My little brother didn’t seem to understand the mood yet. He merely reflected the tone of everyone else. But I know that silence. I know it intimately.
My pops only knew that Mamita had passed away, nothing in the way of details. The news struck me as off. We had just seen her and Papi earlier in December. Pops was getting baptized, a big moment in his life. Stepmom tragically caught COVID the day after they came. The big day was later that weekend. She spent most of the time isolated or in her own home talking with a mask on. It felt deeply impersonal and I can tell stepmom was feeling extremely isolated.
Saturday evening arrived. I saw pops on the verge of tears, knowing that the woman he’ll spend the rest of eternity with had to stay home as he faced one of the biggest moments of his life. It broke me up. You never see Superman vulnerable like that. In some sense, it was him growing comfortable with that side of his emotions. But in another sense, I can’t imagine how lonely that must have felt.
We traveled to San Antonio and spent the night in the hotel. Mamita & Papi and my stepbrother Josiah in one room, me, Ethan, and pops in the other. The morning of, he showed no sign of nerves. We went to the convention hall, listened to some pretty redundant bible talks (I was reading and following the football scores on my phone), and watched as pops went to the back, prepared to live a new life he had been waiting for over 10 years.
We all stumbled through the large crowd to watch the ceremony, as Mamita scrambled to Facetime Stepmom. I was responsible for the recording, front and center. Pops came out, cool as ever, dazzling for the camera while listening to instructions— as if you can screw up being dipped in the water for a few seconds. I can hear the smile on stepmom’s face, slight tears of joy as sisters of the hall were around clapping and showing support. We waited for the man of the hour to get changed so we can race for lunch and come back for the second half of the convention. Pops was intent on going back home, being with his wife and watching football. I was shocked but it just meant I got to go get Bucee’s and go home.
Mamita & Papi were staying for another week. I was steady at work but I always hung out when I was back home. Mamita’s warm smile and Papi’s quirky humor and musings about cars and science were as cozy and familiar as they were when we all lived with them in Lakeland, Florida. To some degree, I didn’t take enough advantage of the time we had with them. I was certain I’d see them again, the folks would visit them again in Puerto Rico. Once again, I was a fool expecting time to be so generous.
The last day, we went to lunch after the Sunday meeting. Pops had to convince stepmom to get out of the house, mask and all, to fully live and enjoy the last day they were in town. She was wary but it was important to make up for lost time. By the time we were finished, I was called in for work and I had to say goodbye before everyone disappeared to the mall.
I couldn’t imagine ever being the one to break the news of death to someone. How do you look someone in the eyes and tell them someone they love is gone? I met Josiah just as he came home. He needed to sit down and take the news. I couldn’t stand him walking around not knowing. Stubborn as ever, he stood in the kitchen. I could hardly look at him, the slanted eyebrow of concern, bracing for something bad but likely not this bad. I watched the defenses fall, his face and body weaken. All I could do was embrace him. Plenty of ‘I know’s and ‘I’m sorry’s as tears soaked my shoulder. It was never going to be enough.
I knew what this place was. I spent a year and a half in this place. It was all I knew. For a long time, I thought it was the only place I could be after death and grief ravaged me so. I have written extensively about this period. You can read countless pieces on this Substack and on Medium, thousands of words of me grieving, letting the song cry. I tried and tried to make sense of it. I tried faith again. I tried to eat it away. I tried to work it away. Everything left me even emptier than before.
One thing I learned in the mania and grief is that death is senseless and time has no qualms with leaving you. Because there is no sense to any of this, you must come to terms with the pain. It will never leave, not truly. The losses come as often as wins. All you can truly do is embrace it, know that it will come back. But it doesn’t have to be torture. I’ve found that when people I love are gone, they can’t live this life for me. I can’t give them my life even if I wanted to do so. I must live and love life because of that.
All of this is much easier said than done. It took me a year and a half to get here, to find peace with everything I lost in my life. With the loss of Mamita, I now have to be there for everyone in the house. My father lost another mother. My stepmom lost her mother after losing her brother. My brothers lost their grandma. I must learn how to channel the pain of my past and help others grieve through their own loss. No one should have to spiral in order to heal.
To Mamita, all I can do is thank you for accepting me as one of your own grandchildren, never looking at me differently because I wasn’t blood. I will always remember the summer of 2020, when COVID was still new to everyone, we were all on high alert, as pops was setting up the house in LA and we had to wait. Those plates of rice and beans, the desserts, the affection, it was relieving when we knew so little. I will always remember the empanadas I always begged for, the messes we made in the kitchen trying to get everything ready for everyone. I will always remember the tight hugs, the kind of hugs I wouldn’t feel unless I hugged my mom. We love you and we continue with your light ahead of us.