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Hey, so I'm Hector and I'm here, mostly to vent. Sometimes, there are just things I have to get off my chest and the best outlet for me is just to write it out.
My views may be extremist to an extent, bu bear with me. I'm pretty open-minded. So if I post something you don't necessarily disagree with, let me know and I'll do my best to correct the problem.
Other than that, feel free to laugh at my expense.
Enjoy. (:
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Although it is often said that a mother’s love is the most important and unconditional out there, how do you learn to get along without it? What’s worse is when the child doesn’t have the opportunity to officially say goodbye and gain that sense of closure. I would know, I wasn’t there when my mom passed. The result is an especially long time to come to terms with the reality of the situation and a perpetual sorrow and guilt, going on through life, knowing that I easily could have been there during her final moments. It’s been especially hard
Although it is often said that a mother’s love in incomparable on multiple levels, No one ever stops to realize how hard it really is. Why is it that everyone fails to mention the fact that whole families can be transformed by the loss of such an important figure in the family? Or maybe they do. Maybe I just ignored it. I wasn’t there when my mother passed, and as a result, it was painstakingly difficult for me to gain that sense of closure that does the soul good following such a loss. Another effect was the obvious:to value the important things in life before it’s too late.
My mom had been sick for some time, she was a victim of Multiple Sclerosis. It is a disease that, slowly but surely, does away with all the nerves, damaging them to the point to which they can no longer pass on the action potential. It became apparent in my mother’s condition over time. She soon had to use a walking stick, then a walker, and finally a wheel chair. My mother needed constant attention, not being able to perform any of the daily functions a healthy person could. At age nine, I joined my sister in having to help. I no longer had a childhood where I could run, play, jump, and any other things kids do. From helping her to and out of bed, I developed persisting lower back problems. Not knowing any better, I blamed her.
As school became tougher for my sister and I, my dad was forced to hire someone to look after my mom while my sister and I were at school. Soon enough, though, my father could no longer afford to pay these extra helpers. A decision was made for my mother, my sister, my brother, and me to move to Mexico, where my mother could be cared for by her sisters, while my dad stayed back to work and send us money. A little less than a year after, my mother began to present signs that her declining health were bringing her near the end.
On the night of May 16th, something had caused her to come face to face with death. Precautions were taken. Being strict practitioners of Roman Catholicism, my grandparents called in the local priest to take her confessions and a doctor for obvious reasons. I left the room, crying, imagining how different life would be without her. Frankly, it seemed tempting to not have to care for her. My sister joined me outside. We cried intensely, confiding in each other our deepest fears. We both did our best to hide our tears, though to no avail. It didn’t work, considering the starry night sky joined by the resplendent moon. Our trails of tears were clearly illuminated by the natural light. Soon, the doctor and priest left. Thankfully, she survived.
The next night, Monday, May 17th, I went to school, trying to conceal any hint of distress. I wasn’t very good at it. I went home and tried to distract myself with my friends. At night, I sat outside the house, talking to my friends as my aunts looked after my mom. The front door was wide open, allowing the cool breeze in, but also allowing sounds from within to escape. That’s when I heard it. An eerie sound, like some sort of cackling, coming from my living room. I ran across the narrow street and saw my sister, visibly agonizing, on the couch. I cringed at the sound of her guttural protest. I feared the worst. I ran across the living room and into my mothers room. The familiar smells of natural remedies hit me in the face. I saw her there. She just lay on her bed, motionless. She, who was celebrated collectively with all other mothers just a week ago, had died. She was gone.
I looked to my aunts’ faces, as if expecting some sort of confirmation of what I knew was true. They looked at me, holding back their tears, trying their hardest to be strong for me. It didn’t work in the least. Without thinking, I immediately began to sob out loud. At 11 years of age, I wasn’t too sure as to what was to happen. Images of the previous night rushed through my head with dizzying velocity, giving me a feeling of vertigo. I collapsed, momentarily, before getting right back up and rushing to the bedside to hold her still-warm hand. I called aloud to her. Nothing. No response. I never got to say goodbye.
That was what hurt most. I never got to apologize for becoming impatient with her countless times. To this day, it hurts. So what do you do going through life, having to cope with that guilt by yourself? And especially when you never got to formally excuse yourself for what ever it is that you feel worst about. It weighs you down. I learned from that night that the best way to avoid this kind of regret in life is to truly value what you have, regardless of how much it depends on you..
