I am my mother’s daughter

No, this isn’t a kinky post. But it is my life, my blog and I will write about whatever the fuck I want.

I don’t want to ever have to talk about my mom in the past tense. But things won’t work that way and eventually that is what will happen. So for now I’d rather tell you all about her while I still have her.

She loves orchids and how delicately beautiful they look. She regrets having kicked her cat out of bed because someone told her that sleeping with cats messes with your reproductive system. All she ever talks about is holding a kitten or a baby chick. If she could have anything to eat right now, it would be lasagna. She likes helping people and does everything possible to put everyone before herself. She is an eternal optimist and believes we need to see the positive in everything and everyone. She and I have been making tamales together since I was a kid. She taught me how to cross-stitch and sew when I was a kid. Her favorite story to tell about me is how when she was pregnant with me, she was told on several occasions to have an abortion. She was told she was too old to have more kids (she was 38). They said I would have developmental problems and she said she would love me just the same no matter what. Now she boasts that I’m the smartest. One of my favorite anecdotes is how she got stopped at the border with my sister and I in tow because they didn’t believe she was our mother (my sister and I could easily pass for white girls).

She talks about my dad in a loving way that has survived so much. Together, they’ve had seven of us. They’ve been married for 47 years. She tells me he was the catch of the town and felt like the luckiest girl in the world when he picked her.

She taught me the difference between vacuuming in a half-assed manner and doing the job right. She always said, clean where you think people won’t look.

This morning I translated the latest news from the doctor. The cancer is becoming a sticky substance around her intestines and her stomach bile has nowhere to go except up. The tube going down her nasal passage and into her stomach is the only thing that is keeping her from vomiting constantly. Her doctor wonders why she isn’t in hospice yet. But she’s scared. She doesn’t want to die and, in her eyes, hospice means dying. There is a lot more to this than I’m describing but I just can’t regurgitate it anymore.

I love her and she is my best friend. I promised her that I’d be her advocate until the very end. I plan to make good on that.

While writing this, I’ve been playing her favorite music for her. Artists from her youth. She says its perfect because we’re celebrating Mother’s Day (it is celebrated on May 10th in Mexico). The hospital’s cleaning lady is in here and I can see my mom looking at all the spots she missed disapprovingly. She’d probably give anything to be the one cleaning just to make sure it was done right.

I know where this is going. She is going to die. And I will want to die with her.

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