In loving memory of my Mom, Patricia I. Espinosa, 1941-2024. Dedicated to all those who share the grief of seeing their loved ones departed.
NOTE: This article was written by Alicia D. Baqueroalvarez & Edited by J. Marcelo Baqueroalvarez.
At the conclusion of the last counseling session I had with my psychologist he said, “There’s a saying in Ireland and that’s I’m sorry for your troubles.” It’s a different spin on the more common phrase, “Sorry for your loss.” I really don’t see how either saying will help make anything feel better for, you see, I lost my mother almost two months ago on February 12th.
My Mom, Patricia I. Espinosa
Remembering Mom
It goes without saying that most everyone loves their mother. In my case, my mother and I were particularly close. When my mother told me about my birth, she could tell it in a way that was, both, intriguing and humorous. True story: after I was born, a nurse with a German accent came into my Mom’s room and informed her that my eyes were too far apart and I had Down Syndrome (which, honestly, is absolutely insulting to anyone diagnosed with Down Syndrome).
Furthermore, the nurse told my Mom that I was not expected to live through the night, and on that note, she turned and left. Unsurprisingly, my mother was absolutely stunned and afraid for me all at once. It was early in the morning and a doctor wasn’t expected to come through until the next shift so my Mom said a prayer to God, promising that she would accept me in any way. She just wished for me to survive the night.
When the doctor came to visit Mom later that morning, she told him about what she had learned, and he was shocked. He apologized and told her that no one at the hospital matched her description of this nurse. Back then, in the late 70’s, hospital security wasn’t as top-notch as it is today. Fast forward to the time when Mom retells this story to me and, with wide eyes, I asked her if she believed any of the things that nurse told her and she said, “Oh, Honey. Not at all. And, when the doctor brought you to me you were perfect. But…maybe your eyes did grow back together throughout the night!” This was said while she giggled and winked her eye at me, immediately giving me a huge kiss on my cheek.
My Mom was unique in her own way, and she loved helping her friends and community, not just family. As a young woman, she gave up her dream to pursue a degree in commercial arts to raise five children at home. My oldest sister, Regina, died when she was only five months old from an enlarged heart. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the medical capability we have today to address her cardiomegaly. She loved my Dad—adored him, really—but they turned out to be better friends vice husband and wife.
Her desire to simply love on her children regardless of their age was so heartwarming. Her dedication to volunteer and work school positions to pay for her kids’ tuition was admirable and she enjoyed most of what she did as a teacher assistant, calligraphy teacher, and cafeteria director. The bingo volunteering may have been a bit more challenging since it was under less than desirable conditions, like tobacco smoke and a hot school cafeteria hall. No matter, if it were for the benefit of her children, she would overcome anything.
Destiny is taking Mom away
It really is true when they say that you can’t know or even prepare for when those closest to you will be called to The Beyond. It’s just not for us to say or chose and that is such a frustration for me these days. They would have’s and could have’s, the what if’s and had I knowns are the source for all my anxiety, anger, loss, and sadness these days. What’s worse is that I fight it alone because I think it’s easier to do this by myself than share it with others. Maybe I’m even a little selfish with my thoughts because no one remembers my Mom like I do. What I have truly lost is all trapped within me.
Right now, what I believe is that my mother was taken from me because of COVID but, more than that, I think my Mom gave up on fighting and isn’t that terrible on my part? I wish to go back in time to the last holiday I spent with my Mom on Thanksgiving and tell her that we are going right now to the doctors to make sure she’s all vaccinated and her health checks out because she fought my oldest sister and brother-in-law tooth and nail when it came to going to the doctor.
Did she suspect what was to come and wanted to be allowed the freedom to die? She was making comments about how good of a life she had lived. Knowing that her last living sibling had recently passed may have eventually been too much for her to handle. After all, she was the last sibling alive among six siblings and I’m sure that evoked feelings of loneliness. We love you and are here with you, though, Mom. I’m not even sure that was enough for her anymore. It’s hard to say.
The most difficult things that I experienced with my Mom was those last two months with her—from the hospital to hospice care—and I struggled to remain unafraid of what was to come. For her sake, I thought, but was it really for her? Or me? It would pain me every time she would ask if she could go home but was told that she would need to put some effort into getting well. Once the doctor told her that she would ask them to give her a pill that didn’t exist to allow her to die. How heartbreaking that was to hear? I wasn’t used to this version of my Mom. It was, both, scary and upsetting. I couldn’t integrate these two sides and see the same mother I had been born to, raised by, and experienced so many wonderful memories with.
Can’t help but feel guilt
There came a time when I was sitting next to Mom’s bedside, glancing through my phone, when she asked me if I would stay overnight and I’m ashamed to say that I made up every excuse to myself as to why I couldn’t. Mom accepted it but I now know why I did that, and it was because I was afraid. The day when Mom made the decision that she wanted to be allowed hospice care with end-of-life medications it was utterly defeating to me. I couldn’t stand it. So much so that I almost stormed out while all her children were around her, saying what would turn out to be our final goodbyes.
Do you know what she said to me? She looked at me with all the love and care she could muster under the circumstances and told me, “It will be alright, Honey.” Why? Why was she saying this to me and putting me in such a position because it wouldn’t be alright. Didn’t she know that? It would never be alright because she was preparing to leave me. Knowing that hurt so much so that I had to leave right away.
I retreated to a nearby conference room that was being used by the family for rest, recovery, whatever… I had set it up, in fact… and there was a man already sitting in the room, along with a woman who would turn out to be his sister-in-law, and I dumbly explained why I was there.
Honestly, I wasn’t just prepared to see anyone in the state I was in, but I called on my military restraint and asked him how he was doing. You see, I had met him earlier in the week and found out that his wife had been admitted in a room on the other side of the Ward from Mom. He told me that his wife had taken a turn for the worse and he was there so he could be by her side when she passed away. It was such a sad moment. Between the two of us, we were a mess.
Eventually, I felt I had calmed down enough that I could finally make it right between me and Mom so I returned to her room and told her that it would be alright because I would just have to make it alright. As if that was ever what it was going to be.
Once Mom was in hospice care it was just a waiting game with days just being with her, just trying to ensure she was as comfortable as she could be. That probably was the scariest time because of the high doses of morphine and anxiety medications she had requested to take. Her condition worsened from moments when you could converse to her to moments where her breathing struggled from the amount of blood clots in her lungs. Upon her wishes, her morphine intake increased until she no longer struggled to breath and slept almost constantly.
My last time with her was the evening of Saturday, February 10th. For four hours I tried to find the part of her—any part that was my Mom—a part left behind that the morphine didn’t take from me. I cannot express… and you cannot imagine… the fear and sadness that mingled within me while I watched this “thing” called COVID take one of the most important people in my life from me.
At one point, Mom was struggling through one of her morphine hazes and, as if something had taken over, she looked right at me and smiled so sweetly. For that one moment, I know that she really saw me, her daughter. If this was going to be the last time with her, what could we do together to remember her by.
So, in an act of desperation, I asked the hospice staff to help me bring a TV into the room so we could enjoy one of our favorite pastimes together and that was by watching something memorable. I didn’t consider how strong her doses had become, and it was useless. I was useless. Everything was useless. I would lose my mother and that was that. I couldn’t do anymore for her. It was 10pm. I leaned over Mom as she started to fall back asleep, kissing her on the forehead with tears in my eyes and told her that I loved her so much. Then I left.
Mom was gone
The next morning, I woke up in a state that I hadn’t been for a long time. Apparently, I was sick with the flu. I knew it from the chills, congestion, coughing, loss of energy so I went down to the living room at my brother and sister-in-law’s house where I was staying since late January and plopped myself on the couch. I tried to encourage their cats, Kersey and Dora, to come and keep me company but soon the medications took effect, and I feel asleep. Deeply, in fact. So deeply that I didn’t wake up until 5am the next morning.
I was so happy to see that Kersey and Dora had decided in the middle of the night to take up spots around me where they slept. It was finally something comforting. Pets can do that for us. Take a terrible experience and make it better. I took some more medication after I consumed rice porridge and went right back to sleep. For me, sleep was better than facing the reality that came while I was awake.
It was Monday evening when my brother and sister-in-law returned from a weekend visit with friends. My brother had made a stop at Mom’s hospice care home on the way home to see her and, thankfully, he reported that she had been fast asleep. Snoring, in fact. Somehow that put me at ease. That evening, I had decided to finally pull Mom’s personal items from the hospital out of the storage bag and start washing them.
For some reason, opening that bag was scary to me. It came with terrible memories of Mom in various states of hope mingled with requests to leave this world. I pulled Mom’s fluffy terry cloth robe and—just for a moment—I dared press it to my face, searching for Mom’s special scent. I couldn’t find it because the hospital washed everything before packing it away into the bag. Now, I felt a little cheated. Defeated, I threw it into the washer anyway.
On the bottom of the bag was something I couldn’t quite make out. It looked like a mess of parchment paper, maybe, with string or something like twine. I finally pulled it out and turned it over to reveal the likeness of an angel in my hand. Crudely made, yes, but it was obvious.
Suddenly, my cell phone rang and when I pick it up it was my brother-in-law. A part of me must’ve known that Mom had died because I felt numb as he told me just that. I could hear my big sister crying terribly in the background and I suddenly didn’t want to see anyone, hear anything, but it didn’t matter because I had to see this to the end. I told him thank you and proceeded upstairs to inform my brother. I felt inadequate to the task. All I could do was tell him sorry repeatedly while I hugged him. Is this how I was supposed to act? I didn’t know how to be.
Late into the night, my big sister is crying at the bar in my brother’s basement. My brother-in-law, middle sister, brother, and his wife are all there as well. It felt better for me to support those around me vice being supported. I thought to myself, my feelings are private! I don’t want you to see me falling apart! I don’t want any of you to know how much this has really affected me. After all, if that happened it would look like I thought I deserved to feel this much even though I had abandoned this family 26 years ago for the military. I was simply lost without Mom in the world.
Eventually, we all conglomerated around each other on the couch in the basement. I couldn’t tell you what we were watching because I was just numb to everything. I was still recovering from my illness, so I started to close my eyes. Suddenly, my sister put her hand on me, and I opened my eyes to see my brother smiling sadly up at me. They both helped take me up to the guest room where I was staying and tuck me in—like Mom may have done at one time.
The Lady Bugs that appeared after Mom passed away
Now, this is the magic part. The only thing that keeps me hopeful. What I failed to mention so far is that when Mom made it clear that she wanted to be allowed to die I told her that I wanted her to haunt me if that was possible. Well, she didn’t come back as a spirit or ghost, but I discovered a beautiful ladybug crawling right next to my pillow.
Jeanine, Patrick, and I thought exactly that. It must be Mom and she didn’t seem to want to leave my room, so we left her alone, walking along my bedside lamp. For once, I smiled as I fell asleep.
That night, I had a terrible dream of Mom, standing in shadows on the stairs going down into the basement at our childhood home. She had no features to speak of. Maybe familiar lips and hair but nothing else. She was unmoving and seemingly unable to break free of those shadows. It was so disturbing that I woke up, disorientated, until I remembered what had transpired the night prior. A weight descended on my chest, and I just wanted to go back to sleep. I didn’t sleep but I closed my eyes. The house was so quiet and that was enough for now.
The next few days were a bit of a blur, but I was surprised when I found the ladybug had moved into the sunroom across from mine. I was shocked to see that she had landed on the cat’s litter box, so I immediately gently relocated her back to my room. Two days later, I found the ladybug, dead, on the bathroom floor. It was truly incredible luck that I had even spotted her on the floor, so I figured it was fate.
I carefully collected her and placed her in a plastic bag for safekeeping. The next day, two more ladybugs had found their way into my room! One was bigger than the other and bright red. The smaller one was a sweet pale orange. I started to smile as I watched the red one sitting on the ceiling, seemingly just chilling there, while the orange one persistently buzzed about, excitedly.
My research on ladybugs taught me that they are normally in a constant state of flight, searching for various food sources. Personally, I imagined that the red one was my godmother, patronizing my Mom who had reincarnated into another ladybug and had not quite figured out how to move about in her tiny new body. They remained in my room until the next evening.
Mom's Celebration of Life invitation
Mom’s Celebration of Life
Finally, the day of Mom’s Celebration of Life came on Sunday, March 17th (St. Patrick’s Day) and the days of preparing, cleaning, and setting up had finally paid off. It was a day with perfect weather, like Mom had intended it that way. The meeting hall at my big sister’s neighborhood was decorated beautifully by us. An assortment of meats, cheeses, crackers, fruit, and vegetables were laid out on the back tables for guests to enjoy courtesy of my middle sister. Chilled beers, wine bottles, bottled water, and non-alcoholic beverages were sitting in ice on the counter to the serving window to the kitchen.
Mom’s favorite songs were coming from speakers and pictures appeared and faded on a projector screen, both provided by my brother. I can honestly tell you that, that day were moments of healing and happy memories for all of us that attended. So many people that I hadn’t seen for so long were there.
I even scrapped up the courage to tell two stories about Mom to a crowd of family and close friends of Mom’s. I looked around me and saw varying states of tearful smiles to laughter. My cousin, Diane, came up to me with tears in her eyes and told me that she loved my words and for some reason that was the best thing to hear right then, especially coming from her. I was so grateful.
Afterward, as we all finished cleaning up and putting things away, we locked the door to the hall behind us before we all returned to our different domiciles. It felt like a finality, closing that door after everything that had happened over the past two and half months. The night before I went back home, that red ladybug was back! Just like the first time I saw a ladybug it crawled across the bed next to my pillow (maybe saying safe travels?) and within the blink of an eye it was gone. Mom was gone.
Come join me for some tea
Mom’s memory lives on forever
Unfortunately, after I returned home less than a week later, the pain and loss of her passing still festers. That is something I discovered once I had caught up on everything I had missed. That includes reuniting with my husband and our daughter. I missed them. Of course, I missed them. The problem is that I still find myself searching for Mom even though she’s not here.
Her memory comes to me when I least expect it and sometimes when I don’t want it to. There are times when I find myself desperately looking for a ladybug to remind me that she hasn’t gone too far from me but—as of today—I have not seen one ladybug and for some reason that just leaves me feeling empty inside. It probably sounds like nonsense but when someone you love dies nothing really makes sense, right?
I want to conclude my story on a good note so I will share something I recently discovered. When Mom was in the hospital, I asked her if I could take a lock of her hair. Of course, she said yes. Some of that hair was sent to Australia where it was made into two beautiful memorial necklaces for my sisters which they now wear.
I took the rest of the hair back home with me and only recently sent it off to Turkey where it will be made into a unique memorial bracelet that I will wear proudly. Would you like to know what I included in the creation of that bracelet? Guess. You’ll never figure it out. The ladybug that I found on the bathroom floor.
I was even lucky enough to include some of the actual ash from the third eruption of Mt. St. Helens in 1980. I remember me, my brother, and Mom watching the plumes shoot into the sky from the freeway overpass near our home when that happened. My brother had kept those ashes.
These special creations brought to mind a realization, and that realization was that Mom had never had the opportunity to travel anywhere outside the U.S. during her lifetime but now, a piece of her had traveled to Australia and Turkey. So far. Who knows what the future holds. In the meantime, I will keep her close to my heart and wait for the day when it will finally…and truly be all right. HLC