I look in the mirror before I start writing but I can’t hold my own gaze. My nose is red from crying, eyes small. My skin is blotchy, and I am critical of my hair. It seems to get pulled straight by its own weight. I want my curls back.
Dad tells me this morning that Onofre is on — and then Dad can’t find the words. I wait, I’m thinking “life support,” but I don’t want to say it. Surely he’s not on life support.
You know how it is with far-away aunts and uncles, you see them three, four years ago. The time Onofre’s kids drove him to the casino near Española and we drove up from Albuquerque to meet him. We all had casino buffet: deep-fried shrimp and chicken-fried steak, green beans from a can, with canned mushroom soup for sauce and bread crumbs on top. Casino buffet food that we all oohed and aahed over, even me. And then the next year we see Uncle Onofre at his house in Pueblo, and all his kids set out a feast for lunch, white bread and wheat, roast beef, turkey, ham, bologna, three kinds of cheese, mayonnaise in a small bowl, potato salad. Beer.
Hospice. Dad finally says it. He remembers the word, that sounds like “hostile” but means something totally different.
Dad hasn’t lost a sibling since Mabel, and she died young; it’s been years. I don’t even remember how long ago. Onofre is younger than Dad by two years, they called him “Cielito” when they were kids, Little Sky, for his wide, sunny disposition. He whistled and sang, smiled a toothless smile, we called him “Uncle Bear” because he had a barrel chest and even when I was a kid I remember the hair on his chest popping over the top of his shirt. He was in-the-moment, spontaneous, huggable, not as cerebral as his brothers, skinny arms compared to his big chest. I remember the first time we visited them in Pueblo, they had an outhouse for a toilet and after our visit was over, I wished we’d never go back.
Not anymore. Now they live in a regular house, small but nice couch, chairs, just like the rest of us. So how did we get from the casino lunch buffet to the sandwich smorgesborg to the hospice? Via outdoor plumbing and hairy chest and bear hugs. Just like that it’s almost over.
I’m not sure why I’m crying for Onofre. I think I might be crying for me, for not being able to hold on to the girl I once was. For not being able to hold on to Dad, his big hands full of tremor and fear. For having to take Mom to the doctor, to see what’s wrong with her back, to do a Stress Test, to fix the bloody noses. I gently suggest that doctors don’t have all the answers, that maybe she should go see my alternative doctor. Mom gently doesn’t hear what I have to say.
It’s windy again today. I’m agitated and this cup of black tea doesn’t help. I can’t stop the wind, can’t stop time, can’t take away any of the moments lived. Once I remember talking on the phone to Dad, long ago, when I was in my 20s and thought we all had forever left. He said something to me, I can’t even get a taste now of was it Politics or Work or Family? All I remember was my pure and complete response, FUCK YOU! I hung up and sat there, having just told my dad those words, I wasn’t even scared, just angry and relieved, the way you can sometimes get relief from certain actions.
This morning I ask Dad if he wants to go to Pueblo to see Onofre before he dies. No, he says, and he doesn’t offer why. If he dies in Spring, they’ll cremate him now but hold a memorial service this summer, when all the old people can be outside in Colorado.
That’s not the same as seeing him before he dies, I think. I don’t push it. I know it would be hard, but I am kind of surprised. I guess it’s the part of me who refuses to accept that my parents aren’t up for anything anytime.
-related to Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – GROWING OLDER
When you wrote your Dad did not want to go see dying Onofre, “No, he says, and he doesn’t offer why.” it flashed me back to my Mom and how she was before she died. She absolutely refused to go to old friend’s funerals, counted her days of life as if they were a precious hoard, and didn’t want to acknowledge death in any manner. Perhaps your Dad is already grieving that his time to die is sooner than later, and doesn’t want the in-his-face reminder of Onofre’s impending death. I sort of get it, now that i am getting older. G
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That makes sense, G. He used to love visiting his siblings — they went through so much as children, losing both parents while several of them were young. But yes, he’s become frail — it would be hard in a lot of ways for Dad to see his younger brother.
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Such heartfelt writing that it hurts…
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yb: This is a beautifully written writing practice. I can feel your deep pain at the prospect of losing not just Onofre, but your father and mother, also. Impermanence is a much easier lesson to learn with ice cream than it is with our parents. My heart is with you and your family.
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Ybonesy,
Very good piece.
MM
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yb: My mother wanted to be with each of her sisters when they died. She even wanted to be with her youngest sister with whom she hadn’t always gotten along. I think it was important to her because Anna Lee was the last of her siblings and when she died my mother’s birth family was gone. Mom said to me, “When you are alone, when you sister and I die, then you’ll understand. I know how the last dodo must have felt to look around and not see his kind.” Maybe it’s the “Last Dodo” feeling creeping up on your father.
Can I write down breathepeace’s line: Impermanence is a much easier lesson to learn wtih ice cream than it is with our parents. That deserves preservation somewhere and use at some zen retreat or the other.
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This was so very touching yb. I can see all of the people you spoke of…especially your Father.
We are facing some similar challenges with our parents, aunts, and uncles.
The cycle of life…’tis a shame we don’t seem to get it until we are long into the cycle.
Thank you for sharing this.
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YB: beautiful piece
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My deep thanks for all these comments. Yesterday morning they ministered Last Rites. I also spent several hours yesterday with my parents, and we talked about what it’s like to see an elderly sibling die. Mom talked about how hard it was for her to go see her two sisters — one was the eldest, one younger than Mom — when they died, a couple of months apart from one another in late 2006.
Mom cried reflecting back on it, and Dad seemed so sad and so subdued. Both, however, accept that this is life, what it holds.
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ybonesy, how powerful to have spent that time with your parents last Sunday and to talk about death in that way. I remember you talking about what your mom was going through in 2006, too.
I was moved when I read this practice last week. I didn’t know what to say. But when I was reading it, I was right there with you. It is beautiful. In the moment.
One thing that struck me was the raw energy of the time with your dad on the phone when you were in your 20’s. The memory is so strong for you. And it reminded me of a similar memory I have with my grandmother that I always felt guilty about.
It was a time she called me after I moved to Montana in my 20’s. She was worried about me and called often. One morning, I had just woken up, and answered the phone. It was my grandmother calling to see if I was okay.
It was a hard time for me. I wasn’t really okay. But I remember being short with her about calling me so much. I didn’t know how to reach out to family back then. I know I hurt her. And she called me much less after that. Looking back, it makes me a little sad. But that was me back then.
When you say — can’t stop the wind, can’t stop time, can’t take away any of the moments lived — it’s true. The moment has passed and now we live with it. But there is a healing that comes from recognizing the moments we wish we could take back. Owning them. I wanted to tell you how I appreciate you risking that in your writing practice. And reminding me of a moment in my own life, I wish I could take back. There is energy in those moments.
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