The Fledgling

Photo via Teddy Llovet's Flickr.

A falcon is fledgling on the edge of a dizzying precipice, clumsily flapping its wings. Winds blow hard on the mountaintops, dropping and swirling through the valley below.

As my talons grip the nest, all I see is the infinite sky.

 I'm afraid. Mom’s shrill call echoes in the distance.

And then I woke up.

This morning’s sunrise greeted me with the thought that in two weeks I would celebrate my first birthday without my mother’s living presence on this earth. And although I’ll be 47 years young, it’s perhaps fitting to call it a first birthday.

Every year, she would tell me the story of how I was born. Never why. Just how.



The mundane details: how she packed her hospital bag early to avoid traffic in San Juan; how labor was not as painful as her first three births; how I peed on my brother the first time he held me in his arms; how my ears were pierced; how the delivery doctor told my dad "it's a boy" as a prank.

On the brink of 47, I think I know the “why” now. It’s a why that doesn’t need the clutter of words. It’s a why of soaring through vast open spaces, of being unafraid, of not staying stuck, of peace in the midst of chaos. A why of infinity.

A why of raptor birds perched on cliffs.

“I’m a fledgling too, Maria. I also took a leap into the unknown. Don’t be afraid of living. Don’t be afraid of dying.”

And with those words, my talons let go.

Happy first birthday, mom. It's yours just as much as mine.

My Mother, My Heart

I choose to remember her as she was in this photograph, nearly a decade before I was born. In 1960, she was pregnant with my brother and she already had two daughters from her first marriage. But she knew, even before she married my father, that they'd bring a boy and a girl into this world. She named me Maria de los Angeles while they were dating.

I almost missed the journey in her womb. Or maybe I was biding time elsewhere. Waiting, just waiting. A faint glimmer in her heart until she gave birth to me, three children and three exiles later, when the family finally settled in Miami.

I also missed the political mess of Cuba when my father pressed the shutter. The revolution had just turned in favor of communism. Not long after she paused to capture this pensive moment, she would venture out of the island to an uncertain future.

What was she thinking, I wonder?

Could she foresee the life ahead of her? Could she know, that in spite of some hardships, she would -- by the time she took her last breath -- never lack for anything? Did she know that all four of her children would outlive her? That she would have great-grandchildren? That she would travel? That she would be married to my father nearly sixty years?

Until the specter of Alzheimer's reared its ugly face.

She lost her memory and then, all the good and bad times she experienced -- life's richness -- all slipped away. She died before she died.

The last form of communication I had with my mother was through music. She was breathing, but barely barely conscious in hospice care. I had composed a song for her, which I sang while strumming a small guitar with four strings, about sweet unconditional love -- a love without fear, a love without malice, a love that still overflows out of my heart even though her body returned to the good earth in the form of ashes.

I became a mom to my mom and we were so blessed to have known each other during this lifetime. I'm glad I waited. And I'm glad that the faint glimmer in her heart saw the light of day. Dar a luz -- to give to light -- means giving birth in Spanish.

Caring for you, mamita, was the most challenging yet rewarding blessing.

You took such good care of me and I know you are looking over my shoulder now -- there's a tickle where my angel wings would be attached -- and that you are giving me the strength and courage to open a new chapter in my life, to take care of myself and my father until the two of you meet again.

Of course, I cry. Of course, I miss you. But you left me with a great legacy -- a sense of peace and grace.

You are not far from me, mama. You are forever in my heart.

Happy Parent's Day

Sometimes, life takes you on certain journeys for which you didn't buy a ticket or pack your bags.

My mother is in hospice and my dad fell and broke his hip and has been in a rehabilitation facility for over a month.

My parents, whom have been married for over five decades, had to separate so my father could receive treatment.

I think my mom is clinging on to life because she wants to say "see you on the other side" to dad even though she can't walk or open her eyes or barely speak. He's making a good recovery, but he cries because he wants to be next to his wife.

It's heartbreaking to witness all this even though it's part of life.

When you get that old, succumb to dementia and Alzheimer's over the age of 80, does it really matter anymore what happened in the past when you can't even remember what happened five minutes ago? Does it really matter if the relationship had its dysfunctional moments?

You see, I don't like to use negative language anymore, but as my blog slogan says, I "tell it like it is."

My parents weren't perfect, but in the eyes of G-d, they are. Who is anyone to judge? So what if they made mistakes. They are only human.

They chose each other. And they loved each other with great passion. They still do. And I understand now more than ever why they also fought. Because they couldn't stand to be without each other, no matter what disagreements, behaviors, decisions -- whatever it was -- rocked their boat.

Passion and commitment is a curious thing.  I wasn't even on this mortal coil when they got married -- I was somewhere in the ether waiting for my mommy and daddy to make me -- but I'm sure they probably said the vows.

For better or worse until death do they part; however, honestly -- I don't think even death will separate these two wonderful oddballs who are my parents.

So today isn't really mother's day exclusively. It's a day to honor all parents, regardless of gender. And a day to honor myself, because I've been a parent to my parents.

If you take care of anyone or anything, you are a parent.

HIATUS

Sex and the Beach will be on hiatus for the time being while I deal with all these end of life issues.

The image you see above is my grandmother's writing. She was an amazing calligrapher.

Well, thanks to growing up in the age of the internet, I can type in the dark but my writing looks like chicken scratch.

I may have inherited the writing gene from her.  She copied poems and wrote racy, passionate ones of her own, which was absolutely naughty in early twentieth century Cuba and I very much admire her courage to "tell it like it is," although her book was shared only with friends whom she trusted.  It was actually a common practice in those days to share writing in leather bound books.  Think of it like a proto-blog.

I never really connected with my maternal grandmother.  She went back to the light when I was just a little baby. And my paternal grandmother passed away when my dad was just a toddler.

In my heart, I still meditate on my grandmothers and all the amazing women who gave me my mitochondrial DNA.

Here's a line from a story I published in a literary anthology a few years ago:

"Women connected by an invisible umbilical chord through blood, flesh, time, and the indifference of centuries; separated by boundaries of clocks, exiles, tribes, and the differences among days."

I leave you with that thought.

And wish me luck ... and a good laugh.  Lord knows I need it.  Only good things from now on ...

Post Not Partum Depression

I never in my wildest dreams figured I’d be a single mom at age 45. My children are in their eighties.  They weigh about 150 pounds each. They poop, pee and need to eat soft foods because of teeth issues. Sometimes, they should be using diapers, although that’s considered an indignity. We go to different doctors for check ups every week and deal with visits from phlebotomists. Instead of writing more blog posts, I’ve become a medical historian and have also “recorded” stool samples.

So yeah, now I’ve got two households, with endless medical, household and financial issues involved; yet no insurance company considers my “children” frail enough for therapy and God forbid the caregiver should get any respite.

I’m so busy taking care of my two “kids,” that I don’t have time or energy to figure it all out and in the meantime, I’ve lost important clients and networking opportunities.  I barely have enough energy to write, although I do get some support from siblings, which I appreciate.

Of course, it’s an honor to take care of my parents, not only because they gave me life, but also because they took care of me. I love them with all my heart and I wouldn’t change a darn thing.



But dear Lord, this country needs to wake up on making elder care a little easier for caregivers, especially when your charge are two eighty-year old folks with Alzheimer’s.



I know we'll be OK.  But my heart breaks a little every day to see these two beautiful people fall apart, no matter how much care I give them and how many sacrifices I make.

Related: an article about caregiving on NPR.

Her Name Was Alba

A broken condom. A broken relationship.

And then, a broken body.

That was the beginning of this journey, which has already ended.

After a few weeks, I just knew.  The weight of it: bloated, rotund, full of water, full of life, tired yet tirelessly tidal, fluctuating.

I named her Alba, which means “morning song” in Spanish. Alba is also the sailor’s light of dawn, the hopeful anticipation of ocean crossings, of anchoring in the peaceful bay of earthly embrace.



After dark nights, mornings are full of blazing orange light -- the course of a child through the birth canal. In Spanish, we say dar a luz, which translates as “give to light.”


There was no lighthouse guiding us to safe anchorage. We shipwrecked in rivers of blood.


And while I mourn the loss of another child -- one that happened by accident (there are no accidents) and who wasn’t viable in my 40-something body -- I am comforted by the thought that motherhood is never lost when unconditional compassion is set as one’s intention in this human passage. Motherhood is heart, pure and simple, and not necessarily delivery of a fetus.

Women are mothers even when we don’t have children. Women connected by an invisible umbilical chord through blood, flesh, time and the indifference of centuries; separated by clocks, exiles, tribes and the mundane differences among days.

Alba, when I brush my elderly mother's hair, I think of you.

Dear girl, wherever you are, you are my lodestar. Make the most of another other vessel, even if I couldn't offer you safe passage through the storms.

Poem: To The Daughter I Never Had

Your name was Alba
You laughed
And the earth erupted, sparkled, shined
Gold flecks dripped down from angels
That I did not even know existed
And clouds parted
Brazen blue skies, defiance of you
You scoffed at the lightening, my child
Like it was nothing, like it was
Fierce storms and you quivered just in jest
Because your blue-eyed gaze knew better
"That's my girl," I said, speaking to a mirage
But know this:
Daughter I never had and never was
You are always trying so hard
To be this thing called a grown up woman
But this story is not just about us, my dear
For every heart that knows
A dawn, a morning song like you,
Alba, you are the light
Even in the darkest moment before the sun rises
And in this place, I know you
Though I will never see your face