A New Normal

Exactly one month ago, mom took her last breath.  She was surrounded by her family at her bedside, minus her husband Rafa who left this earth 14 months before.  We were there holding her hands, praying for her, kissing her cheek, rubbing her forehead, touching her face, while at the same time for about 5 days in a row, giving her Morphine almost every hour like clockwork.  Trying to ensure she did not suffer.

Immediately after, we did what we had prepared for, having gone through this process just a year earlier with dad, to make sure that we completed our mission of taking care of her.

For over 12 years, our lives revolved around mom.  Ensuring that we were there with her and for her. To support her and support dad taking care of her.  To capture as many memories as possible before they disappeared due to the Alzheimer’s disease that was working against our family.  Recording everything in logbooks that we noticed during our shifts, or something priceless that all of us should know.

We were "Mom’s Team” because mom needed a team, full time, to be there for her.  The team, consisting of Evelyn, Carmen, Annie, Luisa and myself, captured everything in our Mom’s Team message thread.  The messages flew constantly from every one, during all of the shifts we took throughout the day, every day.

Once a month, we would get together to work out the next shift schedule for the next month but most of the times, the majority of the shifts had a familiar pattern.

For about the last 4 years of her life, mom was bedridden.  Before that, for about a year or two, we took our shifts to help dad by taking care of the heavy lifting of tending to mom, feeding her, bathing her, changing her clothes, putting her on her bed and getting her out of it.  The shifts were broken into breakfast, lunch, dinner and then the evening shift.

It was how we rose up to the occasion to do our part and take care of her when she needed us most, but also when dad needed us most.  To care of her.

When we lost dad, and moved mom to Evelyn and Manny’s house, the pressures and time went from the 4 shifts to a 24 hour clock since we did not have dad to fill the gap between our shifts.  Even then, during the last few months before losing dad, he had lots of hospital and doctor visits that pulled on us from both ends.

There were times when the stress was intense since we had other things to do as well, such as business trips, doctor’s appointments for ourselves or for our kids, baseball games or swimming practices.  However, no matter what we had needing our attention, our first priority was to make sure that someone was available to cover for the other and make sure mom, and dad, got the help they needed.

For 12 years, we made it our priority to focus on them.  We cried out of despair of not being able to do more to stop or slow down her steady decline and prevent the inevitable.  But also from exhaustion of working a full day, going to take care of them, and seeing her enter a new phase of her disease in which she would forget who we were to her, who our kids were but most of all, who she was.

Now, 30 days later, after we said our last goodbyes and laid her to rest, we walk around with an intense feeling of guilt because of all of this "extra time" we now have.  Where we are not rushing to be there just in time for our shift, planning their next meal or the fact that they are not here with us.  That extreme sadness of not being able to say Hi Mom, or Angelita, which is what we would almost always say, because she did not know who Mom was or that she was Our Mom.

The hole in our hearts from the pain of losing them has been overshadowed for so long with our duty to serve them, that it feels strange not being stressed to do what we had to do in order to take care of her, but having some sense of relief that things are more relaxing for us.  The guilt of not having that stress which also means that we don't have them here with us.

It’s a new normal.  This uneasy feeling that in reality, is nothing more than what it was like, back 12 years ago, before we became Mom’s Team.

Not a day goes by that we don’t stop to look at the clock or look at our phone and wonder what messages we have missed in the Mom’s Team thread.  And when a message does appear, it is strange looking at the group title "Mom's Team" when Mom is no longer with us.

Everyone of us, glad that mom is not suffering anymore and is once again, back in the arms of the love of her life, have been overcome with a strange sense of uneasiness thinking we need to be somewhere else, living what has been our routine of the last 12 years.  We miss you dearly Mom.

A New Normal.

Mom's Eulogy - May 15, 2019

Before I begin, I want to thank all of the friends and family who came to pay respect for our mother. 

So where do I begin.

Do I start with the disease that took her life?  That for the last 12+ years was responsible for stealing every bit of her soul, her identity, her inner beauty? The disease that robbed her of her ability to fully enjoy her satisfaction of finally owning a house that she so desperately wanted.  Enjoying the laughter and simple beauty of her grandchildren, great grandchildren and of course her children.  The disease that destroyed her humility and ended up putting her in a position that she would have absolutely been distraught about and ashamed of.

No. Let me start at the beginning. Angela Gonzalez Nazario, was born in 1942. The daughter of Valentin Gonzalez and Julia Nazario.  Her mother died when she was 6 years old.  Her father, distraught and unable to deal with incredible loss, gave away the children to be cared for by family and friends.  Each of the four, in separate homes, growing up for the next 5 years, until Valentin was able to bring them back together.   Angela, at the age of 11, responsible for the chores of being a homemaker, became the mother she did not know, to her brothers.  Learning to cook at that early age while her father and brothers worked in the fields.

10 years later, she married the love her life, Rafael Heredia Pagan.  6 years her elder, he saw her grow up as a neighbor.  Moving to NJ in 1964, to begin a new life, not speaking the language, knowing the customs, dealing with the harsh winters or really knowing anybody except for the immediate family, and a select number of friends who also made the move there. 

As a teenager, I remember our apartment always full of kids, that mom would take care of, just so that we had extra income coming in.  At times, there would be 3-4 of them, on top of the 4 of us.  She earned the trust of every family that needed a sitter and the love of all of those who she took care of.  She was Mama, or TiTi to dozens, if not more, kids that to this day still talk about her and the impact she had on their lives.  Her love for kids was unmatched.  It was hard work and when the parents came to pick them up, I remember the look of exhaustion that would appear and then the deep sigh of relief that the job for the day was done.  While they were there though, she did not let anybody know how hard it was to do this.  Having two sons of my own, I don’t know how she did it, all of these years with all of these kids.  She was practically a mother to everybody in the town.   For someone who lost her mother at such a young age, she became the best mother anybody could have. 

Never raising her voice, providing comfort when we needed it, as sweet as can be.  An Angel sent down from heaven like her name implies.

This awful disease that she dealt with emphasizes your personality.  With mom, her love for kids and family grew even stronger.  As the disease progressed, she would tell us that she saw a little girl in the house and why could we not see her.   She would wave and talk to the little girl that was completely real in her mind.

The way her grandkids and now great grandkids showed their love for her, is a sight to be seen.  The pure love from a child who can see they were getting unconditional love in return.  Her life was her family and her greatest joy in this world was being a mother.

Oh and was she great.  I remember the simple things like a home baked cake for every one of the birthdays I had growing up.  Looking back, what I never realized, was that the cake had only my name it even though we share birthdays.  After she retired and moved down in 2005, I made it a point to show up at her house with a cake, with both of our names on it so we can celebrate it together.

Mom put everybody first, before her own needs.

The common phrase in a marriage vow “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health; to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part”.  Mom’s marriage was the epitome of that phrase.  Mom struggled with poverty as a child and to be honest, lived a very simple life throughout most of her life deserving of so much more. 

She never went on a vacation, except for the trip to Puerto Rico to visit Dad’s family that we took every 5-6 years.  Mom did not get to live the life we live today going to restaurants, visiting different cities, or taking a week to go to the beach. 

Today we would be bored out of our minds, year after year repeating the same pattern with nothing else to look forward to.  Yet with mom, you would never see the unhappiness in her life.  She always had a smile, even if it was for the simple things we did. I don’t ever remember mom wallowing in her sorrows, or even being too sick to get out of bed to do what she had to do.

Mom and dad had enough “to get by”.  But what she did not have in money, was more than made up for, with the richness of love and family.

Eventually she did get that house, that she had always asked me to buy her when I was growing up.  But she and dad did that all by themselves upon retirement.   She worked in the evenings, as a store clerk, saving up everything she earned, and buying tons stuff for the dream home she was going to get when she retired.  Within a year of getting that house, we started to see signs of her forgetting things and eventually she even forgot it was her house.  I had never seen mom more happy than when she moved into her “casita”.  Only to have that happiness robbed when she forgot it was hers.  During one of her episodes, she complained and cried that she wanted to go home, even though she was in the home that she had always dreamed about.  We had to take walks with her outside, around the block, so that we can end up back at “her house.”

It was because of mom that we would go to church every Sunday. As she was advancing in her late stages of Alzheimer’s, I remember asking her, after she had already forgotten who I was, if she believed in God, and her answer was an emphatic “Oh Yes”.  But she was not able to say more than that.  She once saw herself in a video my sister recorded and she made the sign of the cross and blew a kiss at herself.  Her faith was unwavering.

So was her love for dad.  Growing up, I could not really see or witness the love for each other.  I knew they loved each other but besides a tap kiss on the lips, they were not ones to show affection to each other.  However, after their retirement, and us seeing them almost every day over the past 14 years since they moved down, it was so evident.  Especially when dad went into caregiver mode.  Holding hands as they walked, the constant kissing or even the attempt by dad to get a kiss when mom was no longer giving them.  The caress of the hair, the constant nagging from dad about how we were not doing a good job taking care of her was unbearable at times.  But she was the love of his life and he was hers.  I remember the day that I mom forgot who I was. I walked in to their house on Father’s day and everybody was outside in the back of the house for the barbeque and mom was hovering around the kitchen/breakfast area.  I greeted her with my usual “Hello Lady”, and immediately saw her back up, unsure of who I was.  It had already happened to my sisters and brother in laws and I knew it was just a matter of time it would happen to me, though I prayed it would not. 

I leaned against the couch and said “You know I love you right?”  Very simply, and soft spoken.

She continued to look at me, then said “Yes, but my husband is right there.” As she pointed to the backyard. 

While I will miss taking care of her every Saturday, crying while listening to the old school music that she and dad grew up with, especially the ones that spoke about how much love they had for each other, I am at peace that she is no longer suffering through this dreadful disease that took away her identify and her happiness but in the end, gave us the opportunity to come together as a family, to give back just a portion of the love and care she gave to us.

My wife Luisa, once shared something with us that read: 

“There is much pain to endure when watching a loved one suffer with Alzheimer’s Disease.  There is the pain of perpetual grief.  There is the raw wound of continual loss.  There is the struggle to preserve dignity and the desire to respect the present and cling to the past. 

However, in the midst of the heartache there is a small glimmer of light that exists to remind us of the things that Alzheimer’s can’t take away…the warmth of a touch, the importance of smiles and laughter, and the knowledge of what it truly means to experience unconditional love and acceptance.”

That was exactly what we experienced with mom.  Unconditional love in its truest form in the midst of an indescribable pain that was so undeserving.

We have been grieving for 12 years since first finding out about her disease but the disease did not define who mom was.  It helped us see her true inner beauty.

Until we meet again my birthday buddy, my beautiful mother, my dear Angelita.

*************************************************************************
Here is the Memorial video we did for her as well.

My sisters (Evelyn and Carmen) and wife (Luisa) also eulogized mom today.  Here are all of the Eulogies.

Remembering "Rafa"

Exactly one year ago today, I received a call from my sister that something was wrong with dad. She was crying on the phone, telling me she was on her way to the house. That she had received a call from her son Tony, who had busted the back door to find my father, not breathing, sitting in the recliner, toothpick in one hand, remote control in the other, with the TV on full blast.

I’ve been thinking about this day, in light of all of the loss of family this year, how would I feel? What would I say? Would I still remember what happened that dreadful day? Would I still feel the incredible pain of guilt of not having closure. From not saying goodbye to him when I had the chance and seeing his smile one last time. 

The regrets are long gone and the tears have slowed down. But the desire to hear his voice, his laughter, smell the cooking as I walked into his house, and basically, just get back the norm that once was, is still there.

As he lay on the ground I whispered to him that I was sorry I let him down but I promised him that we would take care of mom and do as he expected. It’s been a year and we have kept that promise.  There are times that Mom takes a turn for the worse, but she bounces back with the extra TLC we give her and God saying, "not yet".  We have lost a lot of people but Mom continues to show strength despite her delicate condition and this gut wrenching disease.

There are so many things to say, without knowing where to begin.  Dad was a simple but complex person.  You knew right away what his values were.  Family, Faith, Strong work ethics, Responsibility, Food, Heritage, Baseball - especially his Amazing Mets, his Garden, playing dominoes and his special type of music.

Dad would have been proud of us. Family was everything for him and all he ever wanted was for us to be together, be good to each other, and to do our best taking care of the love of his life.  I do believe that the primary reason he had the strength, along with his faith, to beat cancer twice was so that he could stick around to take care of his wife, Angela.  He prayed daily for a miracle without realizing that the miracle was how close we are as a family and our common goal of taking care of Mom. 

He was a very faithful man, never missing a Sunday to go to church, unless he was in really bad shape. When Mom went with us to church, he would hold her hand and then eventually, he would grab her by the shoulder to bring her up for communion, even though she was past the point where she understood what was going on at church or that she should even be going there. Seeing him in his Sunday routine, from how every Sunday he would go early to church and would kneel to pray the rosary before mass, and then afterwards, mention how much his knees hurt for being in that position so long, to the way he walked up to get communion, was something to see.
 

Since his retirement in 2005 and move to SC, we got to really know a different person than what we knew in NJ.  Time changes people.  Dad was a changed person, but at his core, he was the same.  We just never really understood that.

Dad would work during the week and after work and dinner, would hangout mostly in the living room but many times in his bedroom, watching TV.  He worked hard and it showed.  On weekends, he would hang out, every weekend, in the Spanish Club, playing dominoes, pool, having a few beers - much to our resentment. When he wasn't doing that, he was working in his garden tending to his tomatoes and other stuff he grew.  That was probably his biggest struggle, to leave his routine, his friends, the club and move to SC.  But once he made up his mind, it was done.  He looked forward, not back.

Dad was taken out of school when he had completed his 2nd grade so that he could take care of the animals and bring lunch to his father who worked in the field.  Work was so important for him but at the same time, his regret. Besides our family trip to Puerto Rico every 5-7 years or so, primarily to see family, he never really had what we would call "a vacation".  Many a times, he would cry because he felt like any opportunity he had to do something with his life, was taken away from him, at a young age.  Mostly, his desire to finish school.  So he put all of his energy in his work, and he was serious about it. Something he instilled in all of us.  For most of his life, he was a landscaper and I remember growing up and going with him to cut the grass at one of the places he had to take care of.  Towards the later years, he was a factory worker, and worked to the point where he became the union rep at the factory.

When the time came, he retired and moved down to be with us.  He worked every day until he retired at 69, saving up his social security checks so he could put his down payment on the house they could finally afford.   At 70 years of age with his wife at 63, they not only bought their first house, it was a brand new house that had just been completed in a new neighborhood.  The ultimate dream home. Throughout my entire life, mom would constantly ask me if one day, I would be able to buy a house for her, but in the end, they did it themselves.  I still cry just thinking about how happy they were, and how proud we were, that day.

He did an amazing job taking care of his lawn and his garden.  He had years of practice and took it very seriously. We encouraged him to start walking and even about 5 months before he passed, he would go walk, and come back and cut the grass.  It did get to the point when he had to rely on us to cut his grass because he could not do that anymore.  However, when I would do it, he would only want me to cut the grass and would tell me that Manny, my brother-in-law, would be coming to edge and weed whack it.  Little did I know, he had made arrangements with him to do that because apparently I sucked at it.  He would complain that I was in a rush and would do a horrible job :)  He would not tell me that though.  What I heard was the Manny had offered to do that.

His garden though, that was something.  Every year, he would grow watermelons, beans, pumpkins and other stuff, primarily from seeds he would get from his brother in Puerto Rico.  His tomatoes never had a chance, due to the horrible dirt and the constant beating of the sun, because according to dad, he lived on top of a hill in a desert, "en esta loma, no crece nada".  I finally picked up his habits and started my own garden.  This year, we are planting his seeds that he had stored in the refrigerator and will be growing all of his items, in various places, including the back of his house.

At one point, I mentioned to him that we were going to start making meals for him because he was struggling with his health.  His response to me was, "Rafy, don't take that away from me.  Let me cook.  It's ok if you want to help with the yard and you guys are already taking care of Angelita, but I have nothing else to do.  I can continue to cook".  And cook he did.  Dad was known for cooking and boasted about he was even a better cook that mom and he had taught her how to cook.  We never really knew for sure if that was true as mom would not really push back.  Dad was always cooking and making things for us.  For every holiday, dad would make the rice, we would make everything else.  Whenever we had out of town family visitors, dad would prepare the meals and make his famous rice.  We would be responsible for lunch and taking them out but dinner was at dad's house.  He showed his love through his cooking and amazing food.  We continue to try to replicate his meals but they are not the same.   I miss walking in seeing the spices ready, about an hour before he would start to actually cook, smelling the food that was cooked or getting his voicemails saying he was done, but a bit too early because it got ahead of him.  Which frankly, was every time he cooked.

         

Dad first left Jayuya around 1955 or 1956. Trying to find a decent job in Puerto Rico that paid a good wage was impossible.  In NJ, he would work during the spring, summer and fall as a landscaper, but then winters would head back to Puerto Rico.  He never really wanted to leave and his heart was still back "home" in Jayuya.  That's actually why he never really bought a house in NJ.  He always thought he would go back and build a home on his "parcela" but that never came about.  This would be the routine every year until he and mom got married.  He and mom made the decision when mom was pregnant with me that they would move finally and the back and forth trips stopped.

He was a very proud Puerto Rican.  Not the standoffish kind that has never really been there and understands what it really means to be Puerto Rican, but the kind that has more like a spiritual connection with that island like he had.  His Jibaro Music was always playing at home or in his car.

His car had a ton of Puerto Rican stickers on it, including the necessary "el Gallo" (the rooster) emblazoned with the PR flag, several flags and one of the island shape.  We called it the Puerto Rican Mobile and when we decided to hand it off to Evelyn, because that is what he would have wanted, the condition was that she could not remove the stickers.

My ringtone for him was Lamento Borincano, and specifically the Marc Anthony version.  In it, he says:

"La mañana entera sin que nadie pueda su carga comprar

Su carga comprar

Todo.

Todo está desierto, el pueblo está muerto de necesidad

De necesidad

Se oye este lamento por doquier

De mi desdichado Borinquen

Y triste.

El jibarito va pensando así, diciendo así, llorando así por el camino

Que será de Borinquen mi Dios querido?

Que será de mis hijos y de mi hogar?

Borinquen.

La tierra del Edén, la que al cantar el gran Gautier llamo la perla de los mares

Ahora que tu te mueres con tus pesares

Déjame que te cante yo también.

Borinquen, de mi amor..."

He represented everything in that song. Worried about his wife, his family, his home and his Puerto Rico.  Whenever I play the song, I immediately begin to cry.  However, the lack of the ringtone going off every week, is even more painful.  Dad was and forever will be, my Jibarito.  My desire to learn more about Puerto Rico, the culture, the people, my family and especially my ancestors is at its core, because of my dad and the fact that deep in his heart, that is who he was.  Proud to be un Jibaro from Jayuya.

I pay more attention to the lyrics of those older songs to understand the meaning of them in relation to him.

His favorite time though, was Christmas when the aguinaldos and memories of the parrandas would come out in full force.  We gave him one years ago and the look on his face when we showed up, how he sang and how happy he was, will be forever etched in our minds.  I still listen to all of that music, especially when taking care of mom, every Saturday.  I play it to help remind her, and of course myself, of our Jibarito.

Growing up I remember the Puerto Ricans from the town I grew up in, always using the phrase Jibaro in a demeaning way, implying a country person instead of someone "from the city".  Which was supposedly better, according to them.  As I got older though, I realized they were completely wrong because of my dad, the family back in Jayuya and what I came to really understand about what that really means.

From the website El Boricua, "Jíbaro is a term used to refer to mountain people, who lived "in-land" in the heart of the island, and are the backbone of the Puerto Rican culture."  To me, it is probably the best description of what dad represented.  Honor, Honesty, Bravery, Tenacity, Hospitality, and as the website continues to describe, Self Sufficiency, Stubbornness and Mucho Orgullo!

The stubbornness especially came out when he was playing dominoes, which besides watching baseball on TV, was the only thing he ever really wanted to do. He was amazing at it too.  Before the first hand had gone around, he had already figured out what everybody had and was trying to put us in a position where he would take advantage of that and get as many points as possible.  It got so frustrating at times that it felt like entrapment.

It was also painful to listen to the "Rafy, why did you not go here when you had the chance...etc..." comments.  I would piss me off to no end since I had no clue what the heck I did wrong or what play, 3-4 plays back he was referring to.

Looking back at those moments, I am not sure if he was trying to "teach" us how to play by pointing out what we did wrong, or just making sure we understood how much he knew.  It was especially hard to tell when he would say that he won, when you consider that this is a partner based game.

What I would give to play another round, despite knowing that I was definitely going to get yelled at.

When it came to sports though, Baseball was it.  Nothing else mattered and it was his pastime. A die hard Mets fan, dad would prefer to watch the Mets on TV than go to a local baseball game.  We tried multiple times to get him to go to the Greenville Drive games, and while once in a blue moon he would go, most of the times he would just say no, that he was just going to stay home.  We knew immediately that it was because the Mets were playing.  It did not matter if they were in a complete losing streak or not and in last place.  He was not a fair weather fan.

The only exception to that norm was when the Big or Senior League World Series tournament was underway and the Puerto Rican team was here.

The games are always the end of July or first week of August and it did not matter how hot it was going to be, Dad would show up about 30 minutes before the game started to get the best seat at the bleachers, with his cushioned seats and umbrella in tow.

I would always see him there with mom, and when mom became bedridden, the girls would make arrangements to stay with her so that dad could go to the games.

In 2018, when the tournament started again, just three months after dad's passing, during the entire first game while I was in the dugout where I usually am with the team, I could not stop crying almost the entire game because I was in my usual spot but he was not in his.  I kept looking over to an empty bleacher while at the same time feeling like I had the worst sore throat I have ever had due to the gigantic lump in my throat.  It was 3 months after my team's number one fan was gone, forever.  It will never be the same.

He was so happy one year that Puerto Rico came and they were doing great, that he even made his famous rice for them.







Lastly, how we remember dad, was how much he adored his family, especially his grandchildren and great grandchildren, how much they adored him and miss him so much.  From Adrian asking why Papa's heart was bad while taking out a plastic screwdriver and saying that he could fix it, to Brielle bringing flowers regularly to his gravesite, to Lexi holding on to one of the overly used plastic bowls that Papa used to send her food in, to Angela who feels honored to be living in Papa's house, to Joshua who wanted one thing only, the recliner he took his last breath in, to Dan who wanted his Jibaro Music, to Tony who broke the door down and had to call 911, to Michael who is constantly reminded about how he looks like you, to Mom who I am sure, deep in her heart knows that a piece is missing, to everyone of us who lost the patriarch of our family.

We have missed you everyone of these 365 days since you left us, but we will never forget you.

When you are at a loss for words

Today marks the 1 year anniversary of the passing of my brother in law, Miguel. 365 days to the day when we saw him take his last breath and could not believe what was happening.

In the last year, since then, our family has lost my dad - Rafael, my wife’s aunt - Tia Onelia, my aunt - Tia Margot, my uncle - Tio Jovino and just least week, 10 days ago to be exact, my father in law - Miguel Humberto.

2 days shy of his 81st birthday and 10 days shy of the anniversary of losing Miguel.

They say that it comes in 3’s but for us it has been twice that. 6 people that we have known, loved and dearly miss.

The pain and sorrow on our family places a shroud over the joys of birthdays, anniversaries, celebrations and what would be otherwise joyous occasions.

Life continues for us with a numbness and a state of disbelief.

While we take some comfort in the thought that they are all celebrating with each other in Heaven and in the presence of God, the thought of us continuing to be covered by this shroud and wondering if we will ever be able to truly be happy again is painful.

With each death we experience directly or hear about over the phone, the pain of what we experienced a year ago comes back roaring but in a different way. We immediately think about that day and how it started a pattern of pain, grief and loss that we still have not been able to recover from. We were knocked down a year ago and every time we try to get up, we fall.

To my wonderful brother-in-law, along with my own father and now my father-in-law, whom we all miss dearly, may we get to laugh one day with all of you. I hope that all of us begin to feel more comforted by your place in heaven than by the lack of your presence here with us on earth.

I look forward to the day we are all together, playing dominoes.

Two Twenty-three, Nineteen Thirty Six

That’s how I remember dad saying his birthday when asked. It was always cute to hear him say that at Walmart when picking up his medicines. One day, when I was there, I had to say it and the person behind the counter asked if my dad was ok. He was not. He was feeling really bad and needed for me to pick up the medicine. Little did I know that just a few months later I would lose him.

The lady behind the counter, roughly late 40’s, early 50’s, told me that she loved his accent. She loved how proudly he stood when he would say his name and his birthday. It was so romantic she said. It was. He was a proud hispanic person and at 81, was still going strong until one day, he wasn’t.

Today is dad’s birthday. It is the first birthday we celebrate without him. It’s a rainy day and has been raining all week. Including at his house where he would always complain that it doesn’t rain and that it was like a desert. Dry, hot… It never rains. Especially when he had planted stuff outside.

In the past 5 days, it has rained almost 5 inches. I can see dad up there trying to fix the problem. Probably opened up the big garden hose and said "let it rain, have to water the garden. It’s too hot down there".  Um, Dad - That’s enough rain for now. Please stop.

It’s the simple things we miss about him. The way he would swing back and then forth to get momentum, push the leg rest on the recliner until it clicked, and stand up in fell swoop. Just so he can give me a hug and a kiss when I walked in.

The way that he would call me to tell me not to rush about lunch but that it was ready. It was also 10:30am by the way. The way that we chit-chatted about this and that. Nothing too complex where it would require a lot of thought or deep conversations, but we would cover a lot of topics in our conversations.

The papers that he would receive or voice calls on the answering machines that he wanted me to review. So I can help interpret what it was all about and if we had to do anything.

The constant videos he would show us on his tablet that would come across. Which towards the end, was a video we had already seen. He also showed it to all of us and we would all warn each other through text messages that Dad had come across a new video that someone posted. So, watch out, he’s waiting for you so he can show you. We would say to each other.

One day, I walked in and he was livid, practically screaming at someone on the phone, cursing at the person on the other side, saying to the person that he wished very bad things for him. It was so unlike his character. Finally when he hung up, I asked who was that and what was that about. He said it was a crank call and he was just having fun with him. However dad was definitely bothered by the whole thing as it was the 3rd time this person had called. I ordered a call blocker and that solved the problem from that point on.

I would always walk in, assess the situation, and deal with it. Such as the leaky faucet, running toilet, water filter in the fridge… Every Saturday, it was may day to do that.

On his birthday, I would walk in with a birthday card and a gift. Usually a shirt, since most of his were stained by his cooking, or bleached because he would mix the colors and whites in his wash resulting in a white chlorine streak on a blue shirt.

Every Saturday, I would have lunch with him. Most of the times he would make it but towards the end, I was making it. I would make him lunch and take out the dinner to unfreeze it so that one of my sisters that would come later in the evening, could cook it for him.

Today is Saturday and the first birthday after losing him. Later this afternoon, two of my sisters and I will go to the cemetery to say happy birthday. To listen to his voicemail messages that I recorded to my phone so we can hear his voice.

The Mollejitas are ready.

To feel the sadness overcome us that we do not have those simple moments. Moments that we have had for about 10 years since he moved down to be with us. Moments that are starting to fade in our memories until something triggers them. Like his birthday, today.

Dad, I miss you more than I would have imagined. The pain in my throat, that feels like a sore throat is of this sadness of not having you around to talk. To do the simple things we did every Saturday.

Yes I know that you are not suffering anymore and yes I know that you are with your parents and other loved ones that left this earth before you did, or after. But I struggle to overcome the sadness I feel of you not being here so I could wish you a happy birthday and have lunch with you.

Today, on Two Twenty-Three, Two Thousand-Nineteen. What would have been your 83rd birthday.

Happy Birthday dad.

Here are the links to his voicemail and his 81st birthday. 

https://1drv.ms/u/s!AiRrLD9nwgZrhuNK9f6XTsv8yZoZrA

https://1drv.ms/v/s!AiRrLD9nwgZrhuNLGx5jjOyfkaYv1A

If it’s not the same it is different

Every year, for as long as I can remember, the routine was the same. Celebrate Christmas home with my family and then New Years with my wife’s family.

Likewise, being Hispanic, the obligatory Lechón para la despedida del año, the annual pig roast to bring in the new year. That was a routine that I had the honor of doing with my brother in law, Miguel. While there were others that participated, including my son’s Dan and Nick, or Miguel’s son in law Mike and others, the privilege of arguing with Miguel about not burning the pig, watch the flames, you let the fire die,... fell entirely on my shoulders and was something he and I shared.  And I looked forward to every year.

Every year it was the same routine but with something different. First we used whole garlic cloves that we spent at least 20-30 minutes peeling until after several years later, we discovered pre-pealed cloves!

Also, sometimes we would mix things up, especially at Miguel’s whim, when he wanted to use bitter orange this year or Spanish mojo next year.

Even where we would get the pig, would change multiple times over the course of our annual tradition with the hopes of getting the right one. We would take trips to Miami from Cape Coral, roughly 1.5 hours, to stand in line, tell stories about various things, talk about work, and listen to the new tracks we both discovered with the hopes of showing one up over each other.

Over the past several years, Miguel even discovered minced garlic. Which I would strongly disagree with but he swore it was the same and pure, like fresh squeezed orange juice. To me it was more concentrated juice watered down with something that reflected garlic at one time.

Every year it was the same. We would prepare the pig the night before, and next morning, on the 31st, would start the charcoal and set up La Caja China.  Even that would evolve over time as  Miguel got a new one, that was “better”.

Once the pig was on the charcoal, we would start the dominoes game with some new beer Miguel got just for the event. Have you ever tried mats labatt's beer? Overrated. However, his Rum and Coke (Cuba Libre) was something else.

We would play nonstop until it was time to check the pig. There were times that Miguel would disappear to the store for an ice run or something and come back hours later asking if if I ruined his pig. Ok, that occured every year.

“Did you let it burn? How’s the pig Ralphie?” He would say. “Did you let the fire die?”

Over time it was as though he was instigating me on purpose by wanting to start the pig face down instead of the skin down which is how we ALWAYS did it! That was the one disagreement with me that led me to get forceful just to make sure he would not ruin it!

We would start that way and after the pig was done, we would take it out of the box, take our pictures and then begin to cut it up for the dinner. We would always say it turned out great and that it was the best pig we had made to date. I do thing it got better every year but then it was just the fantastic memories we created doing this routine.

This year it is different once again. This year, I will not have anyone to argue with. I will not ask an hour into it, when is Miguel coming back? I will not have the opportunity to play dominoes with someone who cheated every time and created new rules in his favor. Though sometimes those rules were in my favor as well as we partnered up against Mike and Spencer.

This year the pig will be done to relive the memories that we have made, year after year, to remember all of those wonderful trips to the supermarket to get the last minute items and make sure the pig was delicious and very well prepared for the family to enjoy.

This year will be different and not the same. It will never be the same. This year we will try to do our best not to cry over the pig as we remember the priceless moments we had every year.

For the past several months I have wondered if we would do this. If we would want to do this. If we could do this.

Years ago, on one of Miguel’s birthday, I posted a picture of he and I along with the masterpiece of the lechón.

Along with the words:

“God gives awesome brothers-in-law to people who don’t have real brothers. And God did that with me too. You are an inspiration to everyone that meets you and bring out the best in people. It’s awesome that you learn from people as well.”

Miguel - I hope you took everything you learned down here, year after year, and are up in heaven teaching them how to prepare the best pig roast they’ve ever had.

Just don’t burn it and we will try to do the same without you.

I love you my brother and will forever miss our thing we did every year.  That was just between us.

The scar of a wound

Back in the early 80’s I was repairing a computer, replacing a video card inside.  The computer slipped off of the desk and when I grabbed it to prevent it from hitting the floor, I sliced my finger due to the very sharp internal computer case. I was rushed to the hospital, where I got some stitches on my finger and they wrapped it up in a bandage.  The person who "patched me up" did something to my figure that left a scar and to me, never healed properly.

Still, almost 40 years later, I can still see the scar on my finger. Normally I forget it is there, though I can see it clearly when I look at my finger.  When I pick up an object with my left hand, it reminds me that it is there because of the pain I feel when something is pressing against the wound. If I rub my other finger across it, it feels tingly until I touch a certain point and then I feel a sharp pain.

The memory of losing my dad and my brother-in-law Miguel, now going on 8 months feels exactly the same as this wound. I don't wake up crying from the constant throbbing pain I once felt. I usually go throughout the day as I go about my life, living in the today moment with everything that is calling my attention until something stops me in my tracks and I think of one of them.

Recently, on this Thanksgiving, it was the memory of dad making his delicious pot of rice for the big gathering.  He would start early in the morning preparing the spices, making the rice and then calling us to let us know it was done. Usually about 2+ hours before it was supposed to be ready and we had planned. To which he would say “se me adelanto” which means it got ahead of me.  This would happen, year after year.

It also was the memory of Miguel, along with Denise and the rest of our Florida family arriving the night before. Usually around 9PM or so, unloading the massive amount of suitcases for the 7-9 people packed in the van.  Immediately complaining about how cold it was, if we had the wood pile stocked for the fireplace and if it was already burning nice and hot. If the turkey was already prepared or if he had to go start doing all of that by himself. "Mira Denise, como me tienen trabajando!" (“Look Denise, At how much work they’ve given me to do!”). "Quick! Take a picture", he would say. Same as my Dad’s rice, this would also be the annual pattern, year after year.

Just like my finger, the sharp pain I feel when memories like I describe come back, the tears immediately start flowing down my face, almost to a gush. The thought that I will not be “whole” anymore and will forever have this wound in my heart, in my soul. Almost seem unbelievable and unbearable.

8 months later, I still feel the sharp pain and wonder if it will be like this from now on. The numbness of my mind thinking “How can this be, that this would happen like this”. That the plans that we had made were completely turned upside down.

Will every Thanksgiving bring back these painful memories or will my wound heal? Leaving just a scar of a distant memory that once robbed me of my ability to breath from the pain I felt.

8 Months and counting.

I miss you dad and Miguel in ways I struggle to describe as I rub my finger over my scar.