Well, what can I say? I went to Mexico.
Yeah, pretty much that's what happened.
Two Thursdays ago, I got a video-call from my mom saying that they were leaving to Mexico the day after because the doctor had said that there was nothing else to do for my grandmother, who had been in the hospital for about six weeks.They would drive 23 hours to get to our hometown of Guadalajara hoping to be able to say good-bye to Grandma.
Suddenly, I felt anxiety thickening the walls of my heart and closing up my throat. I had known this was going to be the outcome, and I had made up my mind long ago that I could not afford a trip back home, that this was going to be the same situation as when my other grandmother died and I could not even attend her funeral.
And yet... if my parents were going through all that trouble, surely I--no, I couldn't possibly...
The next day, I was booking plane tickets to go to Guadalajara on Saturday. I could not sleep Friday night knowing that I had just used my student loan money to book a rather expensive trip to Mexico that would surely only bring me more anxiety, anger, and suffering.
Why was I doing this? Probably because I felt bad that everyone else was sacrificing something and I was over here, across the sea, having the time of my life. Probably because I didn't want to feel like nothing had happened--just like when my Abuelita Maru passed away and I wasn't around. Probably because I was afraid of--I don't know what.
What can I say? I am a coward. I avoid suffering at all costs. I avoid sacrifice. I avoid pain. I was terrified of what I would feel, what I would see, how I would react. I was already angry at God--did I really need to go there and see her and trigger that dormant anger? What if I ended up punching an incompetent nurse or doctor? Wasn't I terrified of sickness, hospitals, and death?
Ah, this selfish person, this coward.
But there I was, on a 25 hour journey. On my first flight, I meet a very cool guy, and I thought--at least something good came out of the whole thing! Just because God has a sense of humor: the cool guy asked me to add him on facebook and I couldn't find him. And no, I didn't give him my full name.
The suffering started even before I got there: My body just hates traveling. It shuts down. When I stepped out of my London/L.A. flight, I was SUFFERING. I won't bother you with the details of everything that is wrong with my body. Not to mention, I did not sleep at all.
My LA/GDL flight left just before 2 a.m. on Sunday and I arrived at the Guadalajara airport at 7 a.m.
What was in store for me for the next week?
First, the unexpected joy of seeing mom, dad, Ceci, Andrea, and Danny. I hadn't realized I missed them (I had only see them three weeks before). Then I realized I hadn't been hugged for the past three weeks.
I went to church, had breakfast, and showered. My mom asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. I said no. I wanted to "sleep." Pfff.... sleep. I couldn't sleep, who was I fooling?
"I'll go."
Yet again, for no reason, defiantly challenging my cowardliness, I was being dragged by an unknown inner impulse to do something I dreaded. Everyone warned me that what I was going to see at the hospital was a terrible, ghastly sight--that it was not even the shadow of the woman I had known to be my grandmother. But nothing could prepare me for what I saw:
The run-down hospital. The yellow paint on the walls. The stifling heat. The stained floors. You turn right on a narrow hall and suddenly walk into a room, with no door, that holds three patients, separated from each other by white tarp curtains.
She is in middle partition. I walk towards her bed and see a human being I have never seen before. I see Christ, in the midst of his passion.
A broken body, grey and bony, yet with hands and feet swollen to the point of deformity. An ashy face with sunken eyes, purple lips sucked inside a mouth that has been opened for days. A tongue lacerated by dryness. A forehead forever creased in an expression of excruciating pain. An oxygen mask, massively violent, covering most of the face. A nose beat up and chaffed. A pair of hazel eyes, weak and lightless. A chest painfully and slowly rising and falling.
My aunt motions for me to come by the side of the bed. As I stand right next to the emaciated body, I stroke the forehead gently. She opens her eyes slowly and sees me.
That face. That expression. It is engraved in the back of my eyelids. It is tattooed in my memory forever. She looks at my face and her hazel eyes smile. A heavenly smile, a loving smile, a joyful smile. The most beautiful and heart-breaking moment of my life.
Let me explain: I was the second grand-child of the family, but my older cousin lived in a city very far away from us, so I was the only grandchild around for a while. My grandmother is my Confirmation sponsor. When you walk into my grandparents home, there is a small hallway leading into the living and dinning rooms. In this hallway, there is a table along the wall that is full of photo frames. The centerpiece, the photograph in the middle of it all, is my university graduation photo. When my grandmother was still able to speak, some days before I arrived, she kept asking how I was doing in the UK. Every single one of her relatives, people I have never met before, knows that I am studying in England because she told them.
You know those grandmas that are really embarrassing? Mine is not like that. My grandmother is the epitome of a lady. With a stately presence, tall and strong, she conducts herself always with great dignity and kindness. She is a doting grandmother yet knows how to discipline. She is respected and admired, and many of my childhood friends call her "grandma," too. She is a wonderful wife, a wonderful mother, and a wonderful Christian. She is the older lady you look at and say--I want to be just like her when I get to that age. I have never seen such a lady, in the full extent of the word.
The contrast, is, therefore, heartbreaking.
Yet she's still all that--just in a weakened body. I sit by her bed and start telling her about all my adventures, the stuff you've been reading on this blog. She laughs with her eyes and forehead at the tragic fact that I have not met a single decent British guy and that I have an Indian neighbor who eats my food and that I am always hungry because I walk so much. Her face shows awe, joy, fun, wit, incredulity. For a few minutes, we have a conversation like the old days: I talk; she listens and smiles. She holds my hand, our fingers intertwine.
When they remove the oxygen mask for a while so she could rest her face a little, she attempts to speak. I put my ear to her mouth to hear the raspy whisper: Te Amo.
My heart hurts so much. Hot tears stream down my cheeks. I tell her I love her too. I tell her I am really grateful to have her. I thank her for being who she is. All of this I say while choking on tears and heartache. It is my grandma dying-- the lovely lady from whom I take my height and heavy bones, my paralyzing fear of dying, my passion for writing. I ask her if I can have her poems. She nods. It is my grandma, lying here, dying. And she will never get to see me obtain my masters. She will not be present at my wedding. She will not hold my newborn babies. A future without her in it seems so surreal and unimaginable. My grandmother, lying here, dying.
But it is also Christ being crucified.
This is the only day I get to have this conversation with grandma. The following days, she's too weak to open her eyes for more than five seconds. I come and talk to her, though, because I know she can hear me. I stroke her arm, I hold her hand, I kiss her forehead, I massage her feet.
On Thursday night, I sleep over at the hospital--another moment of inexplicable bravery.
At first it looks like she's leaving us, then her breath normalizes and she falls asleep. It's ironic how we all beg God to take her because she is suffering too much, yet the moment she seems to be leaving, we all hold our breath hoping she will breathe again.
In the morning, when we change her, I get to see the terrible ulcer on her back--about 8 inches in diameter, deep, and never ceasing to bleed. Stigmatta, almost. She has sores such as this one all over her body: 55 days laying in a hospital bed.
The nurses and the doctors don't seem to care anymore--rather, they seem to be trying hard to accelerate the process. They have stopped feeding her because "her stomach can't take it anymore." That's right, they are killing her of starvation. Your darling grandma, who prepared grand feasts for Christmas, New Years, and birthdays, dying for lack of food. A horrendous death.
I try not to be angry with God. But I am just a coward with a weak faith. I believe that what He does is for the best, that all this suffering will help a lot of people (as it already has), and that the reward for this will be great indeed.I see the love with which her children take care of her and their father, the fervor with which dozens of people pray for her, the effect she and her family (I don't include myself) have had on other patients and their families: hope, faith, love.
And yet... I feel so angry. Why? Why her? Why so long? I don't think I'll ever understand. My prayer was for healing until the day I saw her. Then it became a prayer for mercy, to stop it all. Neither of them has been granted. What then? Thy will be done. Just give me strength to accept it and give her strength to bear it and the peace and courage to remain faithful.
I returned to Durham on Sunday, not before having a seven hour layover at L.A., which I used to hop on a bus, by myself (plus my luggage) and go to Santa Monica, CA, a place I have never been to before.
I know--this trip has been a lot about overcoming my cowardliness. I see that. There's something else to thank granny for. And Santa Monica was beautiful.
I find it so hard to keep believing You, Lord, and yet... I do. Hesitantly and forcibly and begrudgingly, but I do.
Update: a day after writing this, my grandmother passed away. Thank you to all the people that have kept us in their thoughts and prayers. I can say that I am heartbroken yet absolutely sure that she is in a better place. Now I had two amazing, holy women advocating for me so that God will send me a great man one of these days.
Abuelita, I love you. See you in the Eucharist.
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