family

THE NIGHT MY MOTHER DIED

/ Brianda Domecq / 11 Comments

 My mother called one day when she was in her late 70’s or early 80`s and told me straight out that she was losing her mind. I can’t remember how I answered her, but I don’t think -at the time- I gave her fear much importance. However, she was right… and the transition was not as slow as one might imagine. By the age of 83, my mother had all but lost her conscious mind to a rapidly progressing dementia… she turned into ‘my little girl’.

Naturally, I was in the prime of my life and not about to saddle myself with my mother’s dementia, so I got her a keeper who moved in to live with her and whom she hated from the word ‘go’. It wasn’t cruel… it was necessary. If I had attempted to take on the care of my mother -apart from the fact that it would have been impossible in the long run or even in the short one- I would have sacrificed my life and hated her for it. I feel no guilt, I did what had to be done and provided my mother with the best care available in her situation.

Seeing as my brother lived in Spain (my mother and I lived in Mexico at the time) and I wanted to move there with my second husband, I asked him to find me a residence where we could put out mother and have her properly cared for. He did, and I arrived some time later and deposited her in a very nice -and expensive- residence for the elderly. Seeing as she was by that time reduced to and aged infancy, I also hired two Ecuadorian girls to take care of her for 16 hours a day as I knew that in these types of residences, the help is scarce and usually overworked. So my mother was never alone while she was awake and always kept clean and pretty. I lived relatively nearby and visited her at least three times a week taking her out for a stroll in her wheel chair when possible and as long as she enjoyed it. At the end, she was terrified of going out so I would arrive to visit with a cup of ice-cream which was her favorite. She weighed next to nothing and would run over and sit on my lap the moment I arrived, so it was as if the roles had been reversed and she was my little “old” child. I had but one prayer which I often voiced to the Universe: “Please, don’t let my mother die alone; I want to be with her when she goes, please.”

Then, one day, one of the girls I had hired to watch over my mother, asked me what the word “Daddy” meant and said that my mother kept repeating it and reaching up with her both hands towards the ceiling. It made me wonder -agnostic that I am- if my grandfather was appearing to my mother. I remembered that my grandmother -whose father had died when she was two years old so she couldn’t remember what he looked like- a few days before her death said that she heard his voice coming from a deep well, telling her that he was coming.

One evening I had just exited a restaurant where I had had my dinner, and was driving home when I felt a sharp pain on the left side of my chest, and the words “My mother is dying” appeared in my mind. Instead of going home, I drove straight to the residence where she was. It was 11 o’clock in the evening, but strangely enough the street door to the residence where my mother was, was not locked and I walked in unannounced without even having to ring a bell. The desk where the night guard always sat was also empty… not a soul saw me open the door, enter, cross the lobby, walk down the hallway and go into my mother’s room. She was dying, that was obvious. She lay on her side, a slight thread of blood coming from her mouth and staining the sheet on the bed. Her eyes were open. I sat her up gently, placed a pillow behind her for support and then sat on the bed next to her, holding her hand. She lay her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes. I began talking in a soft, gently voice, telling her how wonderful her life had been, how she had been loved by my father, how happy she had been always and how there was nothing at all to fear. I talked for a while and then fell silent, sitting beside my mother, holding her hand and looking up at the ceiling. We sat there together for about 20 minutes and then she sighed and stopped breathing. I was sitting beside her, looking up at the corner of the room and the ceiling above so that my line of vision was between my mother’s body and the ceiling and that was when I saw it… My mother’s ‘ghost’, a transparent figure of my mother and someone else (looked like my grandfather) floating up towards the corner of the room and ceiling, and disappearing through the wall. I didn’t dream it, I saw it. I guess that is what they call the “ghost”, but the marvel was she wasn’t alone. I was flooded by the most incredible feeling of euphoria I have ever experienced and could do no more than call out over and over again: “¡You made it Mommy, you made it!” I did not imagine this, it was more than I could have imagined given that I do not believe in ghosts, the after-life or even God for that matter. I saw it. Of course, when I turned to my mother, she was dead… she had to be, I had seen her leave.

Instead of sorrow, I felt a euphoria as I have seldom experienced as I embraced my mother’s small lifeless frame and kept repeating over and over: “You made it Mommy, you made it”. Needless to say, the evening we held the “wake” right there in the home and everyone came to say their ’I’m sorries’… I didn’t cry;foe me it was a celebration. My mother was free, and I had had the most spiritual experience of my entire life. She had allowed me to see her go, undoubtedly it had been her or her spirit that had summoned me with the pain and the thought. She had gifted me with her death, and I am so, so grateful. The most wonderful gift a mother can give you. Thank you, Mommy. I love you always.

OLD AGE IS NOT FOR THE WEAK OF HEART

/ Brianda Domecq / 9 Comments

Yes… Ok, I know… It has been some time since I published on this Blog. Sorry to those who were following it… But, no: no excuses. I have been working on my Memoires, and there are still so many notebooks to be emptied on to the computer, let alone to be corrected and polished up…  But today, I was cooking up my doggie’s meal and the thought occurred to me… ‘Old age is not for the weak of heart’… I should know; I will be 82 this year and I consider that I am now licensed to talk about ‘getting old’ in general and in specific. This is specific… I have not heard anyone mention or write about the courage required to face the latter years as mental and physical capacities decline. Yes, it takes courage, a lot of it, but nobody who has not gotten there yet even suspects that, and once you’ve gotten there, there is no choice: you either face-up and do it, or you cop out and die which is not always a choice unless you are like my grandmother who saved up her sleeping pills exactly for that purpose.

At this age there are, on one hand, the ‘mistakes’ and ‘mess-ups’ that get more and more frequent as time passes and connections by computer and over the internet for everything become the norm (I didn’t even get an electric typewriter till I was in my twenties, or for that matter a typewriter, till I had learned to write by hand ‘properly’, according to my father, which meant neatly and legibly… around 17 or 18).   But I have learned… I do almost everything I need to do either on the computer or on my phone (more difficult on phone because of the screen size and clumsy fingers).

But even with hands-on, daily things like feeding the dog, or taking my meds I keep having to check with my almost non-existent memory: Have I done that yet? Did I just feed the dog and she gobbled it up and that is why the plate is empty, or did I just think about feeding her and get distracted doing something else and that is why the plate is empty?  Have I taken my vitamins and that is why the dish where I put them is empty, or did I forget to put them out this morning and that is why it is empty? Did I remember to ask my son about the deposit that was pending or should I call him today to ask him, risking his growing impatience with my new mindlessness?

When I was in my late 50’s-early 60’s, I watched my mother decline into dementia. I don’t think I am getting dementia nor do I think I will have it (although it is possible as is anything else, like dying tomorrow, for example). My mind works perfectly as long as it is not required to remember things, like times, appointments, dates, etc. which I usually write down. I can perfectly do things required of me on the computer, so it was nothing but laziness that made me slip my gift to my grandson into my son’s checking account (the information of which was readily available on my screen) and ask him to do the transferring to the said grandson’s account (which I did not have on the computer although I had the info on my phone messages)… instead of doing it myself. My son -obviously- realized it immediately and got annoyed with me.  As if I didn’t know how much he has to do with grown children still depending on him for many things, and a wife at home to care for… Ooops.  

I could call it laziness, but no… it’s weakness, but it is also ‘kindness’ for myself: I’m tired and everything, and I mean everything, takes a mental and emotional (and sometimes physical) effort that was never needed before. So if I can pass off a little chore to someone else, well bless my heart, I’m going to do it. No one understands this -nor should they- until they get here… and here is 80+ whatever, and I won’t be around then to say: “See, I could have told you so”…  But I should know…

I watched my great-grandmother decline into oblivion before she slipped away; my grandmother decided to save us all the experience and committed suicide with sleeping pills she had purposely saved up over the years, at the age of 83 (an age I will reach in a year’s time more or less… ) and my mother’s mind went completely by the time she was 70 something and she became the ‘child’ to whom I was the ‘mother’ until she passed at the age of 91.  

So now it is my turn, I am the next in line and things … living in general… begin to be more and more complicated as my will and my capacities weaken. So far it is mostly my will… Except for having to write everything down or else forget much of what I have to do each day, I am doing pretty well attic-wise. I continue working on my Memoires, and writing an occasional blog such as this one, which makes me very happy.

I am learning to practice patience (which I lacked for many others in my life) with myself and be kind most of the time. I’ll occasionally find myself crying because of some silly thing I have done or not been capable of doing (as well or as fast as I expect myself to do), and I’ll have to sit down with Me and hug myself and tell Me I am doing OK for the age I have and not to worry.  And, I have decided and accepted that I won’t obligate myself to do this to the  bitter end,  for I have chosen a home in Cuernavaca -Mexico- where I will ‘intern’ for the latter years.

This -the internship- was not my idea. I was considering returning to Mexico some time soon about a year ago and announced the pending decision to my children over a group conversation one night. Much to my surprise, in a follow-up mail, I got a list of ‘Residences for the Elderly’ that my daughter had researched in Mexico. When I got over from the shock, I realized that it had been a not very pleasant chore that my daughter had so generously set herself to, and I should be grateful. I went through the list, picked out one I especially liked that would take me with my little dog and, during my last visit to Mexico, my children were kind enough to take me there for lunch and to meet the owners and directors of the Retreat. So I am all set up, and my plan is to intern as of Holy Week next Spring. The name of the Residence: Eden.

Am I doddering? No.  But there is nothing that I can do in my small apartment in Madrid that I can’t do there, so why should I shun all the service (medical and otherwise) that will be offered there, when I am beginning to feel so tired of having to organize even my own very simple life? I`ll have company if I want it, entertainment if I want it (without having to take a taxi to the nearest movie theater), dining room or room service if I wish and I can have my dog. The climate if perfect (for old age), there is a 5000 sq. meter garden, a swimming pool and Cuernavaca holds dear memories for me of my sobering-up process in the Clínica Cantú. So all is well.  If everything goes as planned, I will be in Eden by next summer at the latest.

XMAS, HOLIDAYS, TRAVEL AND NEW YEAR’S EVE

/ Brianda Domecq / 3 Comments

It is January 1, 2018 and I am sitting in my small apartment in Salies de Béarn thinking about writing this piece to begin the year. I am happy. It is pouring rain, the wind is howling around with a tempest called “Carmen” which will continue all through the week; according to the weather man there is no chance we will see the sun until Sunday (how appropriate!) and today is only Monday. And I am happy and peaceful.

cofTwo days ago (that would be the 30th of December, 2017) I awoke at 9:30 in the morning in the small hotel where I always stay in Madrid. It was a beautiful, sunny day so I decided that, in spite of possible jet-lag, I would make the 6 hour drive home that very day. But there was nocof

jet-lag and the drive was easy, and I even went the extra 10 kilometers to pick up Salomé before heading home.

The no-jet-lag was definitely a surprise, but perhaps I should start at the beginning.

This year my son had invited the whole family to spend Christmas at his house in Lake Tahoe. After enjoying two days in Madrid, where I was treated to the most incredible oznorsunset over the city, I flew to Los Angeles on the 19th of December and spent the night in my son’s house in Malibu; the following day, we (my son, his wife, me, three grandchildren and their little dog) drove in two cars to Lake Tahoe (10 hours); it was snowing when we arrived (delightful). To make a long story short, a couple of days later my daughter and two more grandchildren arrived, one of them with his girlfriend. By that time we were 10; one other grandson –who had to work over Xmas- spent three days with us before returning to L.A. My son’s eldest male offspring arrived on the 25th with his girlfriend making us an even dozen.

IMG-20171224-WA0026Now consider that I spend 99 percent of my time living alone in a small apartment with a dog that doesn’t even bark; I hardly ever put on music and the only sound I hear is when I watch a movie or while talking with someone over Skype. I am my own boss: I eat, play and sleep when I want, what I want and with or without whomever I want. So the idea of spending 9 days with 12 other people –no matter how close to my heart they are- was daunting to say the least. Would I be able to stand it? Would I get irritated? Would I find myself running off to hide in my room most of the time? Were there going to be fights, unpleasantness, criticisms… I admit I was, at moments, a bit frazzled.

However, once there I began to have the time of my life. Yes, at moments the noise levelIMG-20171223-WA0010 was daunting with no one listening and everyone talking at once in voices that got louder and louder as everyone strove to dominate the general mayhem, and occasionally I found myself going hoarse in my effort to get a message across and finally giving up; I admit that –added to this- the constant musical background without which modern generations seem unable to live seemed absolutely unnecessary as it was never actually listened to. (I am tempted to remember that in my days and those of my parents, we put on music and then sat down and actually listened to it without talking. Music constituted an art form to be enjoyed of and by itself. Today, I’m afraid, people appreciate music the way my mother appreciated the Louvre, a museum she went through in less than 15 cofminutes.) The day everyone went skiing and I stayed home alone, my son asked if I wanted him to put on some music for me (he kindly thought that it might make me feel less lonely, as if being alone ever made me feel lonely) and I said “most certainly not!” and proceeded to enjoy the absolute silence.

Except for that one day, I spent every waking moment with the family: helping in the kitchen, making the gravy for the turkey, washing the dishes, playing table games with my grandchildren, shopping for food, petting or walking the dogs, fixing my own breakfast, mixing granola to share with the grandchildren or just sitting and watching and listening to my cofwonderful, beautiful family. I don’t remember a happier Christmas in my whole life, and it wasn’t at all about presents. Yes, presents were given, but somehow they weren’t the center of attention; they were almost like an afterthought. Much more important were the conversations, the hugs, the caresses, the games we played and all the times I got the giggles with one cofgrandchild or another. Everyone participated in the preparation of meals and I loved just being one more cog in the machinery of cooking and cleaning up.

When the moment my departure came, I realized that I would have loved to stay another four or five days until after New Year’s; I feared I would be terribly sad upon leaving. Apart from separating from the family, I had booked myself 26 hours of travel which made the prospect even less promising. But then I did something I had never done, and everything was perfect. I left without leaving. From the moment I stepped into the Uber car for my drive to the Reno airport, I began documenting my trip by taking photos and then sending them by Whatsapp to the family site so that every moment of the trip I was still with them and they were with me.cof

There was the picture of Lake Tahoe from the mountain top as we drove towards Reno; (below which I wrote “I still see you!!”); then cofan image of sprawling Los Angeles right before landing.

In the terminal, where I had a 7 hour layover, the “I Love L.A.” oznorsign over a store in the airport, the moving belt where I waited for my luggage, my suitcase coming down the chute and then the two matching bags standing side by side were all recorded and duly sent. I kept taking pictures and sending the info of my progress coftowards home, and this way, I realized that I hadn’t really left, I could still imagine each member of my family hearing the ‘ding’ of his or her phone, gazing at the screen and connecting with me upon receiving the photo.

My hours in L.A. airport became pictures of what I ate in the VIP lounge, of a hat on a stand outside a store which read: “I can’t Adult today” which was exactly how I was feeling in my playful mood; there were pictures of other coftravelers crossing my path; of a frozen yoghurt I treated myself to in memory of another time when I had shared one at the same stand with my daughter and granddaughter; of me reclining in a comfy chair; of the moving walkway where I cofstrolled back and forth to get my exercise of the day; of the luminous Iberia sign announcing that the flight would leave on time and that boarding was to begin at 8:50p.m. It became a game in which I was the only player and I was having a great time. I knew the other family members would be looking at different moments and soburst felt connected to them even if there made no comments: they were busy still having their own fun. But I was taking them with me at the same time: there was no way I was letting go.

sdrThere is a picture of the people ahead of me going down the jet way onto the plane; and of me in my seat with my feet up, followed by a shot of L.A. lights on takeoff. mde

Then I settled into my usual routine on long flights: supper and then a sleeping pill. I awoke 5 hours later perfectly rested, took a picture of the moon over the wing against a beautiful blue skycof and sent it to the family. Still in touch. I followed with a snapshot of the porthole, wing and a bed of clouds below; and finally of the London landing fieldcof at Heathrow the evening of the 29th as I sat in the plane for over 30 minutes waiting for a slot to disembark and fearing I would miss my connection to Madrid. Finally, after the usual race through Heathrow airport convinced that I would never make it, I sent a photo showing my boarding gate as closed (panic) and then one discovering that they had changed the

 

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gate and my flight to Madrid was delayed. Plenty of time to board. Once more, a selfie of me sitting in my seat for the final leg of the

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journey. By the time we took off, I had been travelling for 24 hours although, by clock time, I would lose a total of 9 hours in the transit. I landed in Madrid an hour and a half later (which by the clock was two hours and a half because of the time difference), picked up cofmy car and drove to the hotel, arriving exactly 27 hours after leaving Tahoe; I was –by then- quite tired. The last two pictures I sent were of a bowl of hot soup I had in the restaurant for supper with the caption: “warm soup for good little girls”, and my hotel room. Then I crashed.

And yet, I was not home. The following morning (after sleeping 9 whole hours) I hopped in my car and took off, continuing mysdr

pictorial journal with photos of the fog filled highway, and then the clear skies once leaving the central part of Spain, a photo ofsdr

my luncheon salad and detox juice in a place called Quintalapalla, and finally the picture of little Salomé on the car seat beside me which appears at the beginning of this post, and the sunset from my bedroom window. I was home.

I sent a message of thanks to my family for the wonderful, wonderful holiday and unpacked. Surprisingly enough I have neither suffered from jetlag nor from sadness or solitude. Everything about the trip was so perfect, even the way I ended it; where would sadness fit in? It turns out that nowhere! WHAT A WAY TO END 2017!!!

THE DELICATE FIBER OF LIFE

/ Brianda Domecq / 3 Comments

HURICANE IRMABetween last night and this morning I was shown how delicate, fragile and precious the web of life actually is. Irma (the hurricane) is hurdling towards Florida where two of my grandsons live, one with his girlfriend and the other in college (they are in Tampa now in the house of a friend which is supposed to be very safe). Mexico City, where my daughter and two more grandchildren live, was shaken out of its sleep by an 8.4 earthquake (oscillatory) in the middle of the night (the 1985 earthquake was 8.1 and claimed over 10,000 lives). My son and his wife (in Los Angeles where wildfires raged a few days ago) had to rush their dog to the hospital yesterday to have melon-sized tumor removed and waited most of the night to see if 1) she survived the imagenes NIKON (July 2011-Sept 2011) 014operation and, 2) if there were metastasis in which case the dog would not be woken up from the anesthetic (fortunately the big black labradoodle survived the operation and showed no metastasis). And last night I lost Salomé in the dark. I’ll start with that.

It was 8:30 and it had just gotten dark… I mean dark. The full moon would not come up for a couple of hours and the blackness was left to a couple of feeble stars that managed to shine in spite of the clouds. We left the house and –as usual- I allowed Salomé to pick our evening route. She decided on the ‘around the corner and out towards the vineyards’ way, so I took her leash off. There are very few cars on that route at night and only one street to cross so she goes on her own.

We’d had a very nice walk –lots of smells for Salomé; a gentle breeze and peaceful quiet for me-, had turned around to come back home and were just arriving at the far end of the vineyards when Salomé decided to go into the 2-3 meter wide grassy patch between the grape vines and the corn field. As she often does this and then catches up with me, I continued walking slowly. When I had almost gotten to where the vineyard ends (about 20-30 meters on) I turned to look for Salomé and saw that she was just coming round the last row of grape vines and heading in my direction along the grassy strip between the vines and the road. I continued walking slowly waiting for her to catch up. About a minute or two later I turned again to see how she was progressing and she wasn’t there. My gaze swept the whole grassy strip up to where I was standing and the street down to where we had separated and the sidewalk on the other side of the road. Nothing. The area was well lit, so it was obvious she wasn’t there. I began to walk back calling her name, something that generally gets zero response from her but that I hoped might work this one time. Nothing. I got all the way back to where our ways had separated. Nothing. I OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAwalked into the grassy space a bit turning on my phone flashlight in order to see between the rows of vines. Nothing. I knew she wouldn’t go into the corn field because the stalks are too close together, so I walked back up the whole length of the vineyard. Nothing. Thinking that perhaps she had crossed over and gone around the other way which sometimes we take to go home, I walked back and around. Nothing. I repeated these now desperate steps another three times, calling all the while with a voice every moment more pleading and desperate. Nothing.

The moon was coming up, but it wasn’t the lack of light that was causing the problem; the problem was that Salomé was nowhere to be found. ‘Maybe I missed her when I was going around the other way and she is waiting for me in front of the house’ I thought, trying to give myself hope. I walked all the way back to our building. Nothing. I did the whole tour twice more and then scoured one of the streets leading into town that we take sometimes at night when I need to put the extra steps on my phone’s Health App. Nothing. I was beginning to feel panicky: my little dog doesn’t just disappear into thin air! But she had.oznor

I was becoming quite tired from walking as quickly as possible back and forth, and there was a hollow feeling in my chest and stomach. How could she have just vanished? By this time I had been searching for over an hour. I went back to the house and took out the car. Now I drove, slowly, going down the wrong way on the one way street we had been on, searching both sides and the middle. Nothing. She was gone. My mind kept saying over and over: ‘How could she have just disappeared like that?’

I kept telling myself that everyone in town and nearby areas knew her and would definitely bring her back if they found her, but the thought of little Salomé spending the night alone wandering around and me spending the night alone looking for her with all the terrible images my mind could produce weighed like lead in my chest. It was getting near 11 o’clock. I decided to do another round with the car.

dic 31 2011 027Just as I was entering the one way stretch of road the wrong way again, I saw her. She was trotting rather rapidly (she probably noticed I was nowhere to be seen) in the direction of home so it seemed that she knew where she was even if I didn’t and it was a relief to see that she would have gone to the front gate of the building where we live if I hadn’t found her.

I stopped the car, opened the door and said her name as if we had just spent months apart. She came towards me as I unbuckled the seat belt and I just scooped her up into my arms. I don’t know if she was trembling or it was just my own trembling but in order to not add insult to injury, I imagined that she had been just as frightened as I had been and held her tightly for the next ten minutes.P1010581[1]

When we got home, she went straight to the cupboard asking for a treat. I couldn’t help myself rewarding her despite my hour and a half of emotional torture, so she got her treat. On the positive side, however, thanks to her I racked up over 14,000 steps on my health App (around 9 kms) for the day instead of my usual 9-10,000. Salomé went to bed immediately and fell fast asleep; I took a while to finally put the dread of loss to rest and find my own path to dream world.

And all the rest… well, that was this morning. I awoke to find 42 messages on the family WhatsApp group. My daughter-in-law wrote about Zuka’s tumor and operation; pictures and lamentations went back and forth until Zuka came successfully out of surgery. Everyone relieved. Then my eldest grandson announced that he and his brother (both actually living on the Atlantic coast of Florida) were in Tampa to wait out the storm; again messages back and forth urging them to stay safe and sending lots of love. Then my grandson in Mexico informing everyone that they had just had an earthquake and everyone was fine, although he had been very scared. Apparently it was oscillatory (side to side) and not trepidatory (up and down) which was why damage in Mexico City was at a minimum. I found my daughter still awake and we messaged back and forth a couple of times more (it was past 2am in Mexico City and she gets up at 5) and then I sent her a goodnight kiss.

oznorSooo, now it is past midday and I am wondering at life which can produce so many near disasters in one night without anything really serious happening. For the moment, my world seems to have survived lost dogs, dogs with tumors, hurricanes and earthquakes and –as the song goes- the sun is shining/ oh happy day/ no skies are cloudy/ and no skies are grey/ oh happy day/ oh, oh, oh, oh lucky me.