Once, called upon to sit at the table of the fabulous Gilda Cordero Fernando (when the Queen of all Queens summons, one does not dare to not come), as we spread our artichoke dip on our Sky Flakes, I was casually asked about religion. I mentioned that although my siblings and I were raised Catholic, we were not all practicing Catholics. To which the equally fabulous guest to the right of Gilda sighed and said, “Ahh, but that is because you have not yet lost your mother.”
It was perhaps because the artichoke dip was so sinfully delicious (shred some canned artichokes, add 4 cloves of garlic minced well, 1 cup mayonnaise, 1 cup Parmesan or mozzarella cheese, place into small ramekins, sprinkle some Spanish paprika on top and bake for 40 minutes; yes I called Gilda afterwards to get the recipe), that no one pursued the point. Or maybe, like all prophecies, once uttered, it renders everyone mute and dumb.
But it is an interesting nugget of an idea to mull over and think about. Why should the death of one’s mother lead one to religion; and why not one’s father? Wouldn’t any death of any one close to a human being lead the hardest of hearts to a recognition of a much higher power? And why, in heaven’s name, did he have to utter it so capriciously, so truthfully, so matter-of-factly?
This last Christmas holiday, we almost lost our mother. Of course, today I say this out loud just as casually, but there was a real fear there. She had a mild stroke and we were camped out at St. Luke’s for a week. I think my heart kind of suspended itself as its own form of protection. I would go through the days filled with purpose and achieve them with precision but it felt as if nothing could touch me deeply. I did the usual gestures of hospital routine — you know, learning how to manipulate the hospital bed, becoming used to the regular rhythm of being constantly awakened to watch my mother poked and probed. I knew the deal of washing utensils, opening that big tray of food, peeling oranges, placing the nurse emergency button close to her, living on fast food to get through the day.
I would wake up like clockwork and pack the same things over and over again and I wondered, holding yet again the same novel that I packed on the first day, why I held on to the belief that this would be a productive time for me to catch up on my reading. I was a fool. This was a time to simply love my mother.
I would remain suspended like this until someone would utter that terrible “how are you?” line and I would notice myself tear. Once, at the end of my shift at the hospital, I actually had a facial (how absurd is that?) and the pricking on my skin was almost like piercing that protective wall and I cried straight for a good eight hours. I could allow myself this and use the facial as my excuse but I cried even more inwardly at how perfect all these symbols were — the writer in me finding connections in all things. In my heart of hearts, I cried at the possibility that death had finally come to our doorstep and I was unprepared.
I guess we believe that mothers are indestructible. To many of us mortals, our mothers are the next best things to superheroes. Mothers do everything and can defy the regular laws of the world. I hold my mother responsible for all of my first loves — reading and writing (okay, fine, even the dastardly wrong him). Reflecting on the way I view my mother and father, I realize how unfair I was. It did not disappoint me to learn that my father was human. It was almost as if I had expected it and strangely enough felt comfort in his frailty. But from my mother, I expected her to be much, much more. How that came to be I have no idea. I only know now that it has colored everything about our relationship and I feel a weight lifting at the cognizance of my misconception. And I feel such utter gratefulness that I had learned it finally, at a time when I can still mend broken fences.
She lives with me now, while she recovers and every day I am moved by this turn of events. My siblings and I joke all the time that my mother and I are both Roosters in Chinese astrology and so can never live together. But I do not mind sharing my roost and making her rule my life, for now. Every day is like a gift that she is here and although there is stress and tension, there is also much laughter.
At the end of bathing her, my children apply lotion on her legs, giggling the whole time. We play dominoes and Uno cards and she laughs when her grandchildren win. I sit with her at breakfast as she prays her rosary. I turn on her DVD and watch her girlish delight at watching Gidon Kremer play the violin. I peruse the different books on my shelves and wonder which one she might enjoy. At mealtimes, she conspiratorially asks me what her prize is for dessert. I allow her four sips of my coffee. It is our delicious secret.
Something is happening here. As she regains her strength, I regain mine as well, both as mother and daughter. To live in a multi-generational home is to have a chance to live with the past, the present and the future, all at the same time. My son asks me how old Lola is and we count the numbers to reach 75. He counts his own age, which is five and his eyes grow wide. He counts to 95, the age of his great-grandmother, and his eyes are even wider. He is at a loss making sense of all that math and the impact the knowledge has on his life and yet he understands now why in subtraction it’s called difference.
I look at my children, my mother and myself, we who span the centuries. I take a look at the issues I hold in my hands and realize that they are merely creations of my fear. My mother survived, and so will I. My mother is human, and so am I. It is hard to explain but the presence of my mother in our home provides a trajectory of what is essential to a good life — to a definition of what one must pursue because it is worth pursuing.
The five-year-old got it right when he said, “Mom, families are for loving each other and isn’t it awesome!” It is a clearer insight he has learned watching us all accommodate the presence of the grandmother in our home. And yes, I have found religion and it’s even greater gift of faith.
I sit in prayer and recall that line that defines God as someone “from whom all good things come.” I understand this even more now, with my grown-up self.
* * *
You may reach me at Rica.Santos@gmail.com