My Grandma (Mi Mama Aurita)

Last week, my grandmother passed away.

And it's difficult to explain the type of sadness I feel. I cried when I found out she passed that morning, and repeatedly had to hold back tears throughout that day. However and perhaps it's strange to admit, there seems to lack a certain level of grief. I almost feel guilty for not feeling sad enough. And this is something I feel I have to attribute to the distance that existed between us. I love her dearly and will always have many fond memories of her and be grateful for what she has done for me and my family, especially in my younger years, but, other than a few brief moments that I saw her on Skype a few months back, our interactions had been extremely limited over the past 6 years. I'd say hello to her every few months whenever I was home and my mom was on the phone with family, but the last time I spent any significant time with her was when I was in Colombia during the winter break of my sophomore year in college.

This distance isn't to say that I loved her any less for all she has done for me, or even for being my grandma, but I think it perhaps cushioned the blow a lot more. She wasn't directly in my life for a long time, and so there is that disconnect that does not really allow me to miss her more than I normally do, but of course, now when I do think of her, I am saddened by the fact that I know she is no longer around, even if it is for a quick hello.

I perhaps have also been prepared for the fact that she will pass because we knew her time was coming from the cancer she had. My grandmother was a fighter. She always denied any symptoms and downplayed the severity of anything she had. Just days after an operation, she would be trying to walk around, clean, and cook back home. She was tough, but cancer is one of those things that will break down the strongest of spirits. It did, however, happen, very suddenly which was shocking. I think everyone thought they'd get a chance to say goodbye, at least I know my mom did. Again, perhaps because of that distance, it's that I felt more at ease to understand that her time was coming, and she would eventually pass, and find peace and comfort. I also don't know how much to attribute my reactions to having been in the hospital and seeing patients die. Sometimes it'd happen overnight, so when I would come in the next morning; the resident would tell me my patient had passed away. Again, something I knew was bound to happen for whatever reason, but even for that man who I'd only known for a few days, and even if it was for a short moment, there was just an emptiness in the world. There was a need for me to take a moment and acknowledge the fact that this man didn't just walk out of the hospital to continue with his life, he came here, and it ended... right where I last saw him.

The first time I had to see a patient pronounced dead, the resident and I walked into the room, closed the door behind us, and examined the patient. It felt surreal. It felt fake and staged, and out of this world. It was only the two of us and the deceased, and it was as if I was looking at a model. It was a tiny, elderly woman, with frail wrinkled skin, and wisps of gray hair. But, there was no color--no life--in her skin. The eyes were vacant, the lips pale. It felt completely unnatural to not hear heart sounds, to not hear her breathing. To touch the skin, looking for a pulse, but knowing I would not find one, and to know there was no one there to feel my fingers. To hear my voice. It was like looking at an empty vessel, and it made me uncomfortable. It made me empty.

I think its extremely hard to know how to voice comfort and understanding in the face of death. On one hand, words never seem enough. I held my mother after we found out as she cried, as she told me she didn't get to make it back to Colombia to say goodbye. That her mom didn't wait for her. And I had no words. The clichés seemed cheesy and scripted. "She's in a better place. She left fast enough so she didn't feel pain. She didn't suffer. It was for the best. You'll get to say your goodbye tomorrow." Perhaps we say them because they need to be said. Perhaps they are clichés because they are the best we can do. No one has thought of better words, at least not when you're in the spur of things. There is truth to them. She, as we believe, is now in heaven in a much better place because as I heard, you get to bounce on clouds. She left us suddenly--12 hours prior, she had been video chatting with my older brother. She didn't suffer, because the pain from cancer can sometimes be unbearable. And the funeral services were stalled for an extra day so my mom could be there in time. So perhaps the clichés are the best we can do to help bring comfort. But of course I feel it's always more important to be there for the people, listen to them, absorb their tears, and even distract them, make them laugh.

And how to explain death? How do you make someone believe something you do? Especially in the light of losing someone? I believe in a heaven, and I believe that we are both soul and spirit-- the soul being our essence, and the spirit a gift from the Big Guy upstairs. I believe the spirit returns to God where it belongs, and the soul.... I'm not sure. I believe the soul is everything that we are, and I believe that we share it with everyone. It is how we live through others, how we live on through our children, through the ones we love, through the actions we do, and the things we create. It is enriched by our lives, by love and laughter. Perhaps it is the part that we say never leaves this world, and perhaps it goes to being one with all of us. But, this is what I believe. It is what brings me understanding and comfort in the face of death. But it is what I believe on no basis of scientific truth--only faith. Is my answer enough to bring anyone some understanding when they cannot understand the finality of death? We can't force our beliefs on them. I just think of when I will have to deal with talking to patients and their families about death. I just hope to be a source of comfort and empathy. I can't say I would know what more to give, but I guess it depends on every individual person. What they believe in, their religion. I mean, we have religion to explain death... and in turn, provide meaning to life. In order to be rewarded in the afterlife, we have to behave in such ways while we are alive.

But what if we don't have faith in religion? Or in anything? I'd have to admit, I believe I have to question the existence of God in the face of death. Or at least, in the face of my grandmother's death and my mother's suffering. I think it's something all reasonable people should do. And I don't feel it necessarily has to break your faith in anything, but it can only lead to a deeper understanding of what your faith is. I, personally, find it foolish to say things like "God does good things" when good things happen, and say "God works in mysterious ways" when bad things happen and believe it blindly. To just comfort yourself with "God has a plan" when things are down. Not to say any of that is untrue, but I think truly believing in something involves understanding it, which is why leads in religious institutions pray often, meditate, and read their scriptures frequently. Questioning intangible things like this leads you to examine your own life in light of what you believe is important, and it gives you a better understanding of your own ideals.

And I say this, because in light of my mother's suffering, I have to wonder what God’s ultimate plan is for her. I have seen her sacrifice and endure hardships all her life, and as I have stood mostly powerless to change the situation, I have to wonder when she will catch a break. It broke my heart to tell her that her mom only had at most a week to live (sadly, it turned out to be less than 12 hours). She cried and cried and she knew it would be for the best, but would not accept the loss of her mother. She would also not forgive herself for mistakes long in the past. But she also talked about the death of an older brother I had who died shortly after birth 30 years ago. And even though my parents decided to pull life support because it was the best decision, she never accepted his death.

In all honestly, most of my tears were for my mother. I cried when I heard my aunt’s voice through the speakerphone telling me of my grandmothers passing, of her last moments. But it was nothing compared to the pain I saw in my mother. How vulnerable she looked. How she shook. Even the next day, how scared and nervous she was to get on the flight and have this nightmare become reality. And so I wonder... what benevolent being would allow so much trouble for a woman who has given her life to her sons, who works day in and day out to get by, who never denies anyone, and rarely asks? Who finds herself with more bills than friends? With more headaches that joys? As I look into my own future in the coming months, I must still be grateful to that enigma in the sky that the rest of my family and friends are healthy, with food on the table, and a roof on their head. And for now I am happy she is with the rest of her family and she does not have to grieve alone. She can spend a few weeks with loved ones, sharing stories, and celebrating grandma's life.

I, for one, remember..
- the soup (sancocho) she would always make for lunch... even when I go to Colombian cafe's here, she's who I think of.
- the way she never seemed to age... for the life of me, I always thought she was like 80, ever since I was 5 up until now that I'm 25.
- the way she always looked tiny and her skin looked fragile
- the way she'd scoff and storm off when my mom and her started to get at each other.
- the way she could just sit on a chair and knit for hours.. and for someone who was 80 for a long time, her dexterity was impressive.
- the stories I would hear as she would parade me around the city when i was a baby cause I had beautiful gray eyes (now they're boringly brown).
- her glasses hanging from her neck whenever she would look up from reading her little books
- the way she'd say my name and grab my face to say hello
- how she'd turn away from the camera because she hated how she looked in photos (like mother like daughter)
- the way she comforted me after my father passed away... how she calmed me down from the rage that was building inside.. and brought me tea.
- the way she took care of my father as he was dying from cancer.
- the little birdie she hid in her carry-on which she had to fly back to Colombia after a visit.
- the bed of hers which I now sleep on when I stay at my moms.

One could say I'm lucky that as much as I loved her, her death didn't...break me, I guess as much as say my mom or my cousins who live with her, but I think I would've been luckier if it did, because that would have meant she was a much more important part of my life, and I'd have more recent memories of her rather than just those from when I was young.

La bendicion Mama Aurita. Cuidanos desde el cielo con papi y christian y carlos.