Momma

Friend #1 lost her beautiful mother to breast cancer triggered by a leaky silicon breast implant. Her mom was under forty and my friend about twenty. At age eight, friend #2 watched in agony as her momma physically abused the four daughters and drank her way to an early grave. Friend #3 visits parents who are drug addled and live hidden from the government in the middle of a desert. My cousins witnessed the Alzheimer’s disease erase the personality of their mother—a sweet and gentle parent—and yesterday it took her life.

What the survivors have in common is the open ache from the loss of momma. My octogenarian mother still bemoans the loss of daily conversations with her mom who died in 1962 at the age of fifty. Of my many friends and family who have outlived their parents, all speak of the emptiness that forms when that parent is gone.  It doesn’t seem to matter of if the parent-child relationship was cantankerous, loving, hateful, harmful, abusive, playful, miserable, wonderful, joyous, divine, or non-existent. Everyone misses something about that person and the special tie that is mother.

My much-younger husband buried both his parents and yet my parents remain healthy and active—Dad on a ranch in Missouri and Mom in a Californian townhouse. I love them both.

They drive me crazy—especially Mom whom I reach out and touch on a daily basis. It is said that the reason your mom can push all your buttons is because she installed them. No one can drive you around the bend quicker than the people that created you. Friend #1 loves to have me verbally trash my mom. She says it makes her feel as if her mom was still around bugging her. It is that extremely personal pat on the heart that we miss when the loved one is gone.

I don’t know how my cousins feel today as they plan the final services for their mother. I pray they get through the pain.

We have all suffered loss of someone. As we age, we know there will be more death. We need to find time to reach out to each other and share what made our momma special in our life. Even in the most negative of circumstances, a memory of joy exists that we can hold and share and fill up a bit of the emptiness.

God bless all.

Reaction

          Yesterday, I took off my wedding ring. It was time. No clap of thunder occasioned the event. No comments from a passersby. No external reaction at all. A quiet emptiness filled the ache in my heart. I was prompted to take off the ring by my own deed. I read a part of my blog, Sound the Alarm, “…my late husband, Paul…”and realized that I no longer had the identity of wife. After two and half years, I lightly hold the title of widow. I am not one half of a couple, part of a whole, flesh of one flesh. I am singularly alone.

            Today, after receiving a replacement charger cable from eBay, I managed to play the last tape in our video cam. The film started as a close up of Poindexter, the dog, sleeping on the couch. Zoom in. Zoom out. In the background, Paul spoke, “Dex. Cute dog. Dex.”

I found myself holding my breath. The scene stopped. Next in the film, I was walking outside with the camera in an unsuccessful attempt to film the dog. The scene switched to me playing with the water hose and Dex. Paul filmed me and stopped.

            The next bit started with Vlad hanging a wire creation of a dragon. He made it with his hands.

            “What are you going to name the dragon?” I said that. I held the camera.

            “Bob,” sounded Paul’s voice in the background.

            More video of Vlad, then a glimpse of Dan, Jennifer, Oscar, Brandy. I am leaning against the hospital bed that was provided by hospice. Paul rolls into the room, seated in his wheelchair, and leans forward to see the green-wire artwork hanging from the living room ceiling. It’s not the Paul in my head. Not the Paul that comes to me in my dreams. It’s reality Paul—in the last fourteen days of his life. I stopped the video.

            Tomorrow I get up, go to work, and pretend, as I do every week.

If you are one half of a whole that is gone from your today, then you understand that tomorrow is a fragment of yesterday. A ring, a video, or a piece of art, can trigger what is left of internal reaction in your heart.

Another Widow

An acquaintance of mine became a widow last week. Her husband died on a Friday. The next day she was at work. I was amazed. I did approach her and offer my condolences. Eventually, I told her that I was awe-struck that she could handle going on with life as well as she did. Myself—pretty much a basket case for almost two years.

She said, “I lost three children and my first husband. I guess I am use to death…even if that is possible.”

I don’t know if you can be use to death. I do know that no two people ever handle loss in the same way. Your moccasins will not fit me well enough to walk a mile in them. 

My Houdini

“I’ve been thinking…” I said as I placed my husband’s coffee next to the newspaper. “You need to let me know that you made it to heaven okay.” 

Paul leaned forward in the wheelchair and stabilized himself enough to pick up the steaming cup. He looked at the headlines of the newspaper and not at me.

“I’m serious.” I slammed cupboard doors and the refrigerator to jar my interest into preparing breakfast. “Houdini and his wife worked out an elaborate code so when he came back to haunt her she would recognize him.”

 “I don’t think he wanted to haunt her,” Paul mumbled from behind the Sunday comics.

“You know. Communicate with her…What do you want for breakfast?”

One month and two days after our palliative care meeting with the specialist, we became chatty about Paul’s impending death. Three years before, brittle diabetes brought on five carvings of his left leg to a final below-the-knee amputation. After two surgeries to his right foot and the breakdown of the skin all over his body, he cried, “Enough.” My husband then stopped the drugs that held his fragile life together.

We planned a good-bye weekend for our friends and family—a time to visit our home Memorial Weekend. Only God knew how I would handle those days.

 “I don’t care.” Paul moved his foot and winced as in pain. My heart twisted like a salted pretzel.

“What?”

“I don’t care what I have for breakfast,” he said and flipped the paper from his face as if to emphasize his indifference.

“Okay, eggs or biscuits or a fat lip.”

Paul smiled the wide toothy grin that made my knees weak. “I’ll take the fat lip.”

I scampered across the floor, grabbed his boney shoulders, and planted a kiss on his lips. “Take that.”

“Any day. Any day.”

“So biscuits it is.” I pulled my favorite mixing bowl from the cupboard. “About Houdini…”

“I don’t see a code working. Do you?”

“Well, it didn’t for the Houdinis. We need something simple that will not be mistaken for the wind or earthquake or Chinese Ninjas.”

“Were you expecting Ninjas?” Paul dropped the paper on the table and fussed with his coffee creamer.

“Could be possible, if you are not here to stop them.” I threw Bisquick and nonfat sour cream into the bowl and stirred frantically. “But let’s set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules to a haunting?” Paul half laughed.

“Yes, I think it is necessary, given the parties involved.” I paused to give proper emphasis. “No haunting, visiting, or inhabiting any electronic gadgets. I know how you are. I will not call a priest to exorcise my computer. Thank you very much.”

“Okay. I won’t haunt your gadgets.”

“Swear.”

Paul held up his translucent right hand. “I solemnly swear to NOT haunt or inhabit any electronics including the notebooks, servers, and iPods.”

“And cell phones,” I added.

“And your cell phone. So help me God.”

June 13, 2011, Paul died of natural causes—blood poisoning from the infection of multiple skin wounds—the result of diabetes. He was forty-seven years old. Before my eyes, his body jerked and his breathing turned to deep gasps. I caressed his shaking body. He screamed one drawn-out sentence. “I loo-ve you.” I had the chance to say it back.

I sat with him and held his hand until it became icy cold. Paramedics arranged the removal of my husband’s body. I cried so hard the muscles in my abdomen felt as if I had been doing sit-ups for hours.

Loved ones came to me throughout the day. My mom—before the firemen—came first and stayed three days. She did not want me to be alone. Late in the evening, Momma kissed me good-night and took the guest room.

I wandered around the house for a while, sipped some water, and petted his dog. With a bit of courage, I entered the bedroom where he died and took my place next to the open window. The smell of a recently mowed lawn floated into the room. I tried to form a prayer but could not think of a thing to say to God. Sitting up against the headboard, I touched the fresh sheets in a hope of finding Paul’s warmth.

Closest to the window-side of our bed, my left hand felt his. I caught my breath as if surprised. So gentle, Paul held my hand, gave it a squeeze, then no more. Peering into the dark, I hoped to see something but the dimness exposed nothing.

Paul satisfied his promise. I knew he made it to heaven. I thought of a prayer. “Thank you, God.”

AKA Moose 1964-2011

On June 13th 2011, Paul Anthony Michael Fernandez, AKA Moose, age 46, passed away peacefully at home with his wife at his bedside. Paul was born in Saratoga, California to Constantino P. Fernandez and Ann Dwyer Fernandez who have both predeceased him.
He is survived by his wife Pamela Pimental of Sacramento, his sister Ann Fernandez Swan & brother-in-law Phil Swan of Sacramento, his brother Daniel Fernandez & brother-in-law Angel Fernandez of Seattle, WA, his uncle John Dwyer, aunt Corrine Lee, and their two children—his cousins—Katie & Michael Dwyer of San Francisco, his beloved god-daughters, Brandy DiNatale and Ashley Ramos of Fremont, his mother-in-law, Phyllis Eymann of Sacramento, his Staten Island cousins Jinnie Ericksen and Janet Brown, his Cerritos cousins, Patricia & Don Erlandson, and his step-mother Mary Fernandez of Campbell.
He graduated Saratoga High School in 1982 having been a member of the 1980 Central Coast Football Champions where he proudly wore jersey #65. He was a student at De Anza College and became a CAD draftsman after attending DeVry Technical Institute. He went on to work with a Los Gatos architect, and then to work in transportation engineering for Wilbur Smith & Associates, San Jose, Oakland, San Francisco, and then as the information systems manager for Mazzetti Nash Lipsey Burch Architects of San Francisco. Most knew him as a computer geek, a sci-fi and space junkie, who loved all things electronic.
Paul and Pam eloped to Lake Tahoe after twelve years of courtship and remained a loving couple and best friends for twenty-nine years. They were members of Good Shepherd Church of Fremont where Paul served on the budget committee, volunteered as tech support, photographer, and occasional barbecue chef. After their move to Sacramento, they became members of the Lutheran Church of the Ascension in Citrus Heights.
Paul's deep love of history led him to learn fencing and the use of a musket. Paul and his good friend Spyros Stamos (now deceased) served as volunteers in the National Civil War Association. They attended events all over Northern California, often serving as docents at Civil War historical sites and appeared as extras in eight Civil War documentaries including Gettysburg, Civil War Battlefields-Manassas and Antietam, which were filmed on location.
Paul will be remembered by all as a low-key gentleman, deeply philosophical, with an intense love of friends and family. Fiercely loyal, he cheered the San Francisco Giants but loved the San Jose Sharks, attending many games with his father, Connie. His passion included quarterly Uno games with his life-long buddies—Michael Brinkmann, Trent Balalis, Craig Citko, and Spyros Stamos.
He considered the most important moment of his life to be able to walk—six months after his below-the-knee amputation—his god-daughter Brandy DeLara down the aisle at her 2009 wedding to Vlad DiNatale.
Memorial service will be held 1:00 P.M. on Saturday June 25th at Good Shepherd South Asian Ministry, 4211 Carol Ave. Fremont, CA. 94538.

There will also be a wake with an informal service at the Sacramento home of Paul and Pam—Casa de Fernandez on Sunday June 26th at 3:00PM to 5:00PM.
Additional information is available by contacting pamferd@gmail.com.

Sad

My mother approached my great-grandmother, decades ago, on the occasion of the death of GG Mapes’ youngest daughter. Mom asked how she dealt with the loss, having buried two husbands and all but one of her seven children. My great-grandmother turned and gave her the oddest look, paused for a long time, then gave some answer appropriate for a minister’s wife—a response meant to sooth Mom’s soul.

I never believed she spoke what was on her heart.

This morning, I recognized her odd look in the mirror.

Thursday, a dear friend died. He was forty-six years old. Recently, you may have lost someone that was also young. Perhaps you just started your grieving of a sudden death, or you like Spyros’ friends and family have held the grief inside since his November cancer diagnosis. Although the quick end came as a blessing for one suffering with immense pain, it did wrench the hearts of those who loved him.

For me, it seemed to be the last gasp of sadness that I could draw in. My mirror reflected that.

Friday at the memorial service, friends will hold hands, hug, cry, celebrate a short life remembered, and part.

I can only accept the truth that this not the final stage of our lives. I will hold Spyros again. For now, I cannot feel sad anymore. Not about Spyros, others we have lost, or my darling’s ongoing suffering—battling diabetes. The joy must be in touch of my husband’s breath on my cheek. The puppy growling in his sleep. The surprise delivery of flowers from a friend.

The blessings in my life are small and powerful—all I need to end the sadness of everyday living. Maybe that was exactly what my great-grandmother said.

God Bless Your Family