Billy Joel

This day started out uneventful. I mean, if you take out the fact that my mother was in the hospital after just being diagnosed with cancer. It was October, and my head never swirled so much. Everything I depended on at that point became fragile. Everything I knew to be true became gray. Adam and I both didn’t work that morning so we both went to the hospital to visit mom. She was there but she wasn’t there. A very different version of my mother.

She was watching “You’re Life, AtoZ” or something like that. They were holding a contest that day. Call in and be the 3rd caller and get tickets to the Billy Joel musical, Movin Out. Cooli,  I thought to myself, if I win Mom would love to go.

I grabbed the phone and with no luck hurling my way in that particular time of year I heard on the other line, “Congratulations, you’re the third caller.” Um what...that isn’t supposed to happen. But there you have it. I won the contest. I took a chance and I was the lucky caller.

I gave them my details, I picked up the tickets. I planned for my mom and I to go together, to enjoy this show. God had different plans.

“I am just too tired, Ria,” my mother said to me the night of the show. I knew my stubborn mom. She was not going. There was no amount of coaxing I could do to get her to come.

So I did the thing I knew to do. I phoned a friend.  A friend whom I met in college and was a great sounding board for me. A friend who showed up without reservation and kept me sane that night.

Driving into Phoenix I was anxious. I hate driving in Phoenix. Too many one-way roads. Too many possibilities for car accidents. Marissa and I pulled in and realized almost too late we were on the wrong side of town. I stood in the middle of Phoenix with Marissa sobbing, “We missed it...its like the omen of my mom’s cancer. We didn’t make it to the show and I don’t see her making it out too.

Amazing to think that friends that I made at ASU defined me. Shaped me. Enabled me to grow.

Again, I never took the time to tell you all what it meant to me. So I am saying it now. Thank you. Thank you for showing me how adult friends behave. Thank you for unapologetically being there for me. It was innate for you. It was pure. I hope to someday return the favor. I hope that I can be there for you all in your darkest times. Before this, all of us had happy times. Dancing at school, enjoying each other's company. We grew together because of the real life happening in front of us. I am who I am because of you. Aaron, Cerrin, Marissa and Rachel. It is you all who showed me compassion as an adult. Again, I say, thank you. My dance family.

As the night went on, we found the theater. Marissa and I enjoyed a memorable presentation of  Moving Out. I clapped, I sobbed and I was transformed into a place where Mom wasn't sick and I was happy again. Theater did its due diligence. It floated me away from my reality.

October 16, 2010

18th Annual Walk to Remember

Saturday, November 17, 2007

“Maria, are you ready?” Who could ever be ready for this? I sigh and drink the last of my Lord-knows-how-many-this-is-now-coffee. My head was so swollen. The air conditioning in the waiting room had turned my fingers to just the right amount of cold where if I were to hit them on the chair, the pain would be inexplicable.

We all made the last walk to her ICU room. I walked past the staff break room which had that heart wrenching poster that explained what to look for in immediate death.

Could this all really be happening?

We got closer to the room and I’m greeted by the familiar sound of the exhausted breathing machine and heart monitor. I started to float away to a time when this wasn’t the reality in my life. A time when I was happy and pregnant and my mother was excited to be a grandmother for the first time. And then I’m interrupted by none other than myself clearing my throat, holding back the tears. “Hi Mom.We’re all here.” Each of her four children grabbed a part of her hands. My father stood by her side, just as he always did. My mother’s last tear rolled hesitantly down her cheek.

That smell of a sterile environment continued to bloat my head. I got up and leaned right into my mother’s left ear, “Mommy, I am so proud of you. Don’t worry about the family.I will take care of them. Dio la benedice.” The doctor who had been trying not to watch this entire time walked in to the machine, looked at my father; who nodded at her, and she turned down the medicine. Mom’s heart went from 80, 20, 120, 4, gone. I let out a scream I thought I abandoned when I was a toddler. Right then and there I became not only a mother without a child but a child without a mother.  My mother died.

*The following was my mother's obituary*

Dio la Benedice, Mom

Amelia MacDonald, 60, of Gilbert AZ passed away on November 17, 2007 surrounded by her loving family. She is survived by her husband, William John MacDonald and her four children, William MacDonald Jr. and his wife Ashlee, Maria Hanson and her husband Adam, Rebecca MacDonald and Michael MacDonald, her sister Angela Eager of Connecticut, niece Laura Newman, and nephews Joseph Altman and Daniel Rouleau, also from Connecticut, and several cousins and aunts from New York.
Amelia was born on December 22, 1946 in Potenza, Italy to the late Attilio and Teresa Saltarelli. She moved to the United States in October 1954 and grew up in Brooklyn, New York where she attended Eastern District High School. She moved to Bridgeport, Connecticut in 1977 and attended Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, CT, earning her Associates Degree in Accounting. In 1979 she met her husband William and married in 1981. Shortly after, they moved to Huntington, CT where they began their family, and moved to Gilbert, AZ in 1997.

Known to her friends as Amy, she was actively involved in and dedicated to all of her children’s activities, and followed their pursuits with passion. She was the principal of religious education for St. Lawrence Church in Huntington, CT for several years, and was active in the Hamilton High Band Booster and Shumway Elementary School PTO. She loved to knit and crochet afghans, doilies, and crafts for her children. She cherished Italian family traditions, cooking her “mean” sauce every Sunday, and maintained Italian customs for herself and her family.

She was a strong believer in family, education, the Catholic religion and standing up for what you believe in, even if you’re standing alone. She follows her first grandchild, Aryn Hanson into heaven who pre-deceased her on November 7, 2007. An inspiration to her children and pillar to her family, she will be remembered and missed dearly.

A memorial service and viewing will be held on Friday, November 23, from 6-9pm at Allen Funeral Home, 1130 S. Horne, Mesa. The funeral service will be held on Saturday, 11am November 24, at St. Anne Catholic Church, 440 E. Elliot Road, Gilbert. Interment will follow the service at Queen of Heaven cemetery, 1500 E. Baseline Road, Mesa.

I need to take a moment to pause...

My purpose for this blog has many reasons.  To have all that I've written about 2007 collected in one spot...to give others out there a story to see how life can continue after death...to work through some more healing that is left to be done on me...but then I remember the last reason.  I called this blog, "Walk With Me".  I was and am still in awe at how quickly things changed in my life.  I wanted those that knew me then but couldn't quite get the full story of what was happening because I was still trying to figure out what was happening to finally see what my family endured.  I wanted those of you that either met met after 2007 or have never met me at all to hear my story because it is my story and makes me who I am today.  I wanted those of you who read this to take a step in time and see how sometimes, life is a train that keeps going; not allowing you to take the time needed to adjust to a new situation.  I wanted this ability to pause what was happening in my life so I could take it all in, delay the inevitable, and make the right choices where needed.  I didn't get that pause 8 years ago.  

I have another post that was complete and supposed to be posted for today.  But as I clicked on "On This Day" on my Facebook, I was taken aback by how quickly things can change in a year:

9 years ago I was giddy and eagerly counting down the days until my wedding, and a year later my world was upside-down.  So I need to take this moment and pause.  I need to take this all in.  Because I fear if I post my original post first without saying what else I need to say, I let time win again and I can't let that happen again.  I will post this other post later today when I am ready.  

So let's all take a moment to pause on this flashback journey.  I want to write about different times.  Those of you who knew my mother prior would appreciate that and those of you who never met her can hear the wonderful and funny things about my mother that made her my inspiration.

My mother was amazing.  She was from Italy; and she beamed with Italian pride.  As a child, I remember listening to her, my aunt and my grandmother speak to each other in Italian.  I would never know what was being said (minus the swear words!) but it was just so normal for me to hear during times spent with family.  Gathering together meant eating pasta and sitting on furniture that was wrapped in plastic.  This was our normal.  While everyone was having just turkey and stuffing for Thanksgiving, we were having all that AND manicotti and sausage and peppers and meatballs.  The same went for Christmas and Easter.  Sure, there were only 6 of us in our celebrations when we first moved to Arizona in 1997, but Mom cooked it all anyway.  We would eat leftovers for what seemed like an eternity after.  But I never grew tired of it.  It was Mom's manicotti and it was delicious.  This was our normal. 

My mother loved decorating for the holidays.  I think that's why I love it now as an adult.  She had boxes upon boxes of crocheted items, little figurines, her huge manger set (because...Italian, ya know?), and what seemed like EVERY SINGLE CRAFT we as kids brought home from school with our  hand prints on it or the crazy amount of crafted ornaments for the tree.  It took FOREVER to decorate.  Because we couldn't have a single Christmas without the red bells that would hang on the stairs and chime "jingle bells".

And every year on Thanksgiving, our alarm clock was the smell of meatballs being cooked and my mother excitingly yelling up to us, "OOhh look the parade is on!!"  We would get down quickly, as to "help" Mom taste-test the fresh meatballs and watch the rest of the parade.  Even one year, we all took a train from Connecticut to New York and watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in person.  It was a wonderful memory.  I think that's why I now get excited about the parade all the way here in Arizona.  Its like my mom is joining my little family for the holidays now.  

  

 My mother, above all things, loved being a mother most.  I look back and see how she was so devoted to all of her kids.  I aspire to be like that.  Yes, I see my "mother" coming out when I guilt trip-erhm- I mean deal with my own kids.  I don't mind it at all.

In 2006, I was preparing for my wedding.  I wore my mother's wedding dress.  I tried my best to incorporate Italian themes into our wedding.  Candy covered almonds and party favors, playing Italian-American music during the reception, and having the full Catholic mass.  My mother and my sister threw me an amazing bridal shower.  There was so much food, but this was our normal.   Think "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", but Italian.  

My mom loved country things.  There were rooster and pig figurines all over her house.  And clowns.  She loved clowns.  And I think that's why I enjoy having some of her figurines in my house.  To bring me back to the years before.  To the times where we were just a family with an Italian mother who gagged at the sight of ketchup and would lovingly say that wooden spoons made good sauces and good kids.  I make a sauce now every Sunday just like she did.  This was our normal.  And with all this, my children are getting a chance to know my mom.  

November 15, 2007

It was a hectic day. Adam and I didn’t waste any time going to the ICU to visit Mom. Just a quick shower, a stop at a gas station for coffee, and we were on our way. Without looking at me, Adam asks, “Did you call the church for the funeral for Aryn?” I hadn’t. I look at him, sigh, and flip open my Motorola Razor. “Hi, this is Maria Hanson and I needed to talk to someone about the music for my baby Aryn’s funeral on Wednesday. If you could call me back that’d be great.”

We’re in the parking lot now, greeting our family that traveled from Connecticut to visit Mom. As we walk towards the entrance of the hospital, my phone rings with an unknown number. “Hello?”

“Hi Maria, this is Aaron. I wanted to call and let you know I’ll be doing the music for the funeral tomorrow. Once I saw it was for you, I didn’t even hesitate.”

“Oh, hi! Thanks so much for doing this!” Aaron was the musician that not only did my wedding earlier that January, but also my brother’s wedding that June. I stepped into the elevator. We spent the remainder of the phone call discussing songs that I would want played.

“No problem," Aaron replied, "And I want you to know that you are in my prayers.” I smile and I close my phone and look at my husband.

“Aaron will be doing the music for the funeral.” He looks back at me, raises an eyebrow and clearly states, “Well that’ll be a trick.”

I shoot back, “No I mean Aaron! Not our Aryn!” Adam smiles. And I laughed with my husband.

Adam and I had just returned to the hospital after going to the funeral home to pick up Aryn once we received a phone call saying his cremation was complete. I was greeted by the somber faces of my family in the familiar waiting room. There weren’t any changes, and Mom was still just as sedated as before. She was a lifeless body with tubes and monitors all over her to indicate otherwise.

Adam and my aching body got out of the chair and walked down the hall with the velvet box in hand. I picked up the ICU phone and the nurse answered. I muttered…something…and the doors opened. We walked to Mom’s room. Mom’s favorite show, House was playing in the background on the TV. I looked down at her hand which has swollen to more than twice its normal size by now. How can this be happening to her? Her long fingernails that had once had the frosty white nail polish I had painted only a week before are bare. The nurse mentioned that they removed it to gage the modeling in her hands.

“Mommy, we brought Aryn in the urn we had picked out last week. It’s pretty and blue with the doves.” I touched her cold hand and turned it around and placed my son’s salt shaker sized urn in her palm. She began to squeeze and her thumb began exploring the intricate grooves on her grandchild that no one had met.

By this time, my sister and brothers joined us in the room. My mother’s face began to express. As we talked and soothed her, we were caught off guard by her beautiful brown eyes opening for the first time in 3 days. My older brother, Billy, took a breath and so purely proclaimed, “There you are, Mom. You’re eyes look so pretty.”

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. As I pulled away, there were beeps and flashing lights on her monitors. As we’re all freaking out, Billy sees the problem. One of her breathing tube connections was disconnected. He quickly sprung into action and put everything back together. Oh my God! I pulled apart her breathing tube! Mom always said I’d be the death of her! We laughed, I apologized, and we moved on.

The next day was Aryn’s funeral. We had priest that had never met any of us before that day. I felt it was distant, or routine. Until half way through, when he made mention of family and turn to me. He started speaking in Italian. My eyes welled up. “Tua madre (Your mother),” he said. I nodded. 

My mother never taught me her Italian language growing up, but for some reason, I felt so connected with what the priest was saying.

He said a prayer for my sick mother in Italian and I never felt so vulnerable.

The next few days had their ups and downs. My mother opened her eyes a few times, and I connected with my out-of-town family once again. The doctors explained how things had been turning for the worse. That Mom was basically drowning in her own body from the pneumonia. By Saturday morning, we knew what we had to do.

November 12, 2007

I woke up from the obnoxious ring tone of my husband’s cell phone at 4 am early Monday morning, November 12^th. I pushed Adam and he grudgingly got out of bed and stumbled to his phone. He was muttering. The phone call only took about a minute. My brain was on this disillusioned high of melatonin in my body. Half awake…half asleep. Adam closed his phone and took in a huge breath.

“Your mom is not doing well and there is an ambulance at the house that will take her to the hospital.”

Without knowing how I got there, I was standing next to my bed looking at the blurred image of my husband.Finding my glasses was not top priority at the time.

“What do you mean, not doing well?”

At this point, I heard the ambulance siren getting farther away. It’s times like these that you regret you and your husband living only 2 minutes from your parents.

“Oh my God! That’s the ambulance taking Mommy away! I can’t do this! That’s my mommy! Where's Rebecca and Michael?”

“At home.”

“Well, we gotta go there!”

We arrived at my parent’s house, reluctantly greeted by my younger brother and sister. It was at this moment I realized Adam and I are in our pajamas still. My hair is in the sloppiest of pony tails. I wiped a crust from my eye and I asked them what happened. Rebecca starts explaining.

“Dad went to check on Mom a little bit ago. She was really gargling in her sleep. Daddy called the ambulance and told Mom she was going to the hospital.”

“What did Mom say?”

“She said, ‘Okay, Sweetie, where are my glasses?’”

I decided that the hospital is where we should all be.We piled into my Hyundai and drove the ten agonizing minutes to the hospital.

Hours go by. As the morning horizon is covered in sunlight, my head begins to feel dizzy. The doctor finally allowed us to see our mother. As we opened the cold curtain I tell myself that Michael and Rebecca needed me to be strong and I walked in.

I couldn’t believe it. There she was, connected to tubes and monitors, and still it didn’t feel like her. At that point, I couldn’t feel my legs and I collapsed into a chair.

They explained that she had gotten pneumonia in her good lung and was going on a breathing machine. They were going to move her up to the ICU. Suddenly, this became our norm in our family.

November 5, 2007

I checked into the hospital on Monday, and got settled in my room. I had an amazing support system of friends and family, flowers and cards.  One in particular, which has always stuck out to me, was a card that stated, "When life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade.  But if life hands you a load of crap, well, don't make anything."  I smiled.  And laughed.  And the laughing, it felt good.  

"I smiled.  And laughed.  And the laughing, it felt good."

Much to my surprise, as I obviously had no expertise in this area, it was taking longer than just a day. All our family visited throughout the next two days. I pushed my mother around the maternity ward in the hospital’s wheelchair to try to get some contractions. (They knew she had cancer and was a fall risk, so they made her use a wheel chair).

We dealt with a lot of ups and downs during my stay at the hospital.  The hospital was very generous with visiting friends and family considering the situation.  They offered tea at noon which my family and in-laws seems to enjoy.  However, our first nurse, which was supposed to be a special "bereavement" nurse was something else.  From the constant hugging to the complaining of her own child to me, I was relieved when she was no longer my nurse soon after arriving.

The first night, the nurses insisted I take an Ambien, which is a pill that would help me sleep. I hesitantly agreed. Now, with this medication, it made me a little… different. Through my vague memory and my family’s experience from that night, the Ambien made me very silly. After winning a hand of the card game 500 (a 10-no trump bid, mind you), I sang the theme song to the musical Oklahoma! and passed out.

On Tuesday night, my OB/GYN switched me to a much stronger medication to induce labor. The side effects, which are flu-like symptoms, were so horrendous that I didn’t sleep all night. There were chills, a fever, throwing up, instant diarrhea, and the confusion.

Wednesday morning I felt the need to push. Right away everything fell in place. My OB/GYN was already at the hospital, visiting another woman. My mother and mother-in-law were both at my side. And my husband, I felt his strength in him holding my hand the entire time.

Right there I got a speed course on delivery.  Ignorant me didn't think to prepare for this and at the time in my pregnancy it was too early to take classes for it.  My mother, mother-in-law, nurse and doctor gave me advice right there as it was time. "You need to bear down and push"  "Don't forget to breathe!"  "Sit up more."  "You can do it!"  And then my doctor said, "The baby is breech."

In a pit of fatigue, depression and inability to actually comprehend what was happening, I lashed out, "I can't!  I can't push anymore!  I wanna give up!"  What is the point?  I thought to myself.  Its not like this is going to be a miraculous birth or anything.  Adam demanded I look into his eyes and concentrate.  And with that, my husband, my best friend, my everything was exactly what I needed to pull it together and deliver our child.  

In a room that would normally be filled with baby cries and well wishes, there was silence.  There was slight sobbing.  And there was heavy hearts.  And then the priest entered.  For us it was important that our baby be baptized.  

"What is the baby's name?"  The priest asked.  We had chosen names for our baby before all this was happening.  Teresa, if it was a girl; and Marshall, if it was a boy.  Sadly, with the lack of development happening because of all the issues, we couldn't tell one way or the other.  "How about a name that works for a boy and a girl?"  Someone mentioned.  And then my mother-in-law shared that she was considering naming one of her kids Aaron or Erin.  And it seemed perfect.  The only issue was how to spell it.  And it seemed only so perfect to spell it; A-R-Y-N.  

Today is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day

Everyone is invited to light a candle on October 15th at 7pm in ALL Time Zones, ALL over the world.

If everyone lights a candle at 7pm and keeps it burning for at least one hour, there will be a continuous WAVE OF LIGHT over the entire world on October 15th, Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

17th Annual Walk to Remember in Mesa, AZ

October 19, 2007

Life as I knew it became a shit storm.  And then my OB/GYN called about a week after my mother's diagnosis in regards to my recent blood work I just had done. Even then, I knew there was something wrong. He explained to me on the phone that my AFP level was low, and they couldn’t rule out Trisomy 21 in my baby. He suggested a Level 2 ultra sound. The next day, his nurse from the office called me and said that if I was available, they had an appointment for me at a genetics office that day. I confirmed and Adam and I drove into Tempe.

After an intense interview with the geneticist, I was still a little unsure of what to expect at the ultrasound. I climbed into the lonely chair, laid back, and exposed my stomach. The technician asked us the typical protocol questions and we answered. No, we didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, yes we brought a blank DVD to record the ultrasound.

She squirted the gel on my stomach and it is magically transformed into the gateway that connected us to our baby. I looked into the tell-all monitor. Why wasn’t he moving? The technician’s smile escaped her face. “I can’t see a bladder or kidney…” After carrying this baby for 20 weeks, my mother’s intuition kicked in. I knew there wasn’t a happy ending for this.

"They must be drawing straws to see who has to give us the bad news," Adam nervously joked.

She grabbed the tissue box and handed it off to me as if to give me a hug in some other way. She emotionally excused herself, and shut the door. All I could do was hold Adam’s hand and tried to burn a hole through the stubborn door with my eyes as to see through it. "They must be drawing straws to see who has to give us the bad news," Adam nervously joked.  

The doctor, who had such a serious face, walked in and explained why my baby was going to die. There was indication of Trisomy 21 and Trisomy 18 and fluid building up around our baby's heart.  I couldn’t even look at the doctor. Instead, I was distracted by the sink. There was nothing special about the sink. It was just there in the corner, like an eraser for these doctors and technicians to wash away all the pain they had bestowed upon me. But this sink, for a minute, kept me from looking at my husband and crying. He finished and it was final. My baby would die of a heart attack…and soon.

Driving home from the ultrasound was a hectic ride.  We were busy calling our parents, our bosses; anyone that we felt needed to know that our little baby would not be one of this world. Adam asked me where I want to go, and I can only think of one place. Mom and Dad’s.

My heart was beating in the pit of my stomach as we pulled up to the place my parents called home for the last ten years. Before we even put the car in park I looked towards the door and my frail, cancer ridden mother briskly stepped out towards her eldest daughter. Only 5’2’’, like me, she had seemed to have lost a little weight from the chemo.

This proud, petite Italian woman had let her guard down for me.

Her feet were in the old flip flops she’s worn a bit too long, scooting along the concrete as she tried to keep them on. Her arms, as soft as my bed’s bamboo sheets, were extended out awaiting my body’s arrival to sooth me into comfort. And then there was her face; oh my God, her face.With the gold hoop earrings she’d worn since I remembered.  And that scar on her face that she still refused to tell me how she got. As I approached her, I looked into those big bifocals which made her sad eyes and tears look even more depressed. This proud, petite Italian woman had let her guard down for me. She pulled me quickly into the house and grabbed a statue of Mary from the kitchen table. “She says it’s okay, you’ll have more later on.” And even though Mom was trying to make me feel better, I was offended. Why not now? At this point I had started an online blog to let everyone know what was going on instead of answering the same questions over and over.

We had two choices about what to do about our baby: we could have a medical abortion or wait for him to pass, be induced and deliver. As a part of a strong Catholic family, we chose the latter. We scheduled weekly visits with my OB/GYN to check the heart beat. It didn’t take long.

October 16, 2007

On October 16, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer.  In 2007, there was no screening process for lung cancer. They had found that any type of regular screening was more of a burden than a benefit. So usually, when someone is diagnosed with lung cancer, it has probably been in them for a while. For my mother, according to her oncologist, she probably had the cancer since December 2006.

I got the news via phone call.  Walking out of my last class at Arizona State University for the day and getting on the "Flash" bus to get to my car, I listen quietly as my mother says the scan she just had revealed a tumor.  I silently cried as I listened to Mom explain that she and Dad were going to the doctor to get more information.

After I got news of my mother’s diagnosis, my head had never pounded so much. As I was sprawled out on my couch, my mother-in-law, who had rushed over to my house to be with me, comes over and re-wets the cloth and placed it back on my head. “Are you sure you want to go?” I had never felt so compelled to be at work than today; after all, my mother was just diagnosed with lung cancer.

My mother-in-law drove me the 22 minutes to work. I walked into my work, The Little Gym, and I am greeted by sad faces and hugs. My boss, who has always been a mentor to me, asked, “Are you sure you want to teach?”“Yes, Holly, I really need this right now. I need something normal in my life.” She nodded in agreement and let me prepare.

For over three years at that time, The Little Gym had been my second family so much that I just drifted there on my saddest day. I called my class, which consisted of 19 months to 2 ½ year olds which we call “Beasts” and their parents into the gym at 6:30 that Tuesday evening with my eyes so foggy from crying all day.

If there is anything that The Little Gym teaches the children who attend, it’s the confidence to do anything, and their instructors also reap the benefits sometimes too. I had dug deep down to be confident enough to walk in the gym that day and teach a parent/child interactive class.

The kids in the class didn’t care if I had a bad day, they were just happy to see me. As I continued for the next 45 minutes sharing with the parents how to spot their children on the beam and bars, letting them in on the emotional, social and other benefits of doing these activities, and singing a mouthful of jingles, I noticed I wasn’t thinking about Mom as much. I smiled for the first time that day.

The next day, before we headed to the hospital, Adam and I stopped by Mom’s house to grab a few things: Mom’s pajamas, her IPod, and her Tickle-me-Elmo…check, check and check.

Once we arrived at the Chandler Hospital, I stepped out of our car and into the crisp October morning. We walked into the main entrance, and get our visitor passes. The nice woman at the front directed us how to get to Mom’s room. Adam pointed out the coffee vendor and mentioned that we should stop there on our way out.

We walked towards the elevator in front of us and my hands trembled as I pushed the “up” button. After we went up 3 floors we stepped out and walked down the curved, beige hall and approached room 302. On her door, was a red sign that said “Fall Risk”.

There I saw mom, in her bed, obviously a little delusional. Dad sat in the chair next to her, watching TV. There was a whiteboard with the names of Mom’s doctor and nurses for the morning shift right next to the door. I tried my best to hold back the tears and to not think about how weak my once strong mother was.I put her Tickle-me-Elmo on her bed tray and pressed his right foot. Elmo proceeded to start giggling, slapping his knee, and rolling on the table. Mom smiled.

“This is my daughter…

she’s due in March.”

We chit-chatted and she pointed out the sink by the door at let me know how all the nurses and doctors are supposed to wash their hands there before they treat her. It was nice to know she was well taken care of. A nurse walked in and started adjusting her medication machine.My mom, in her morphine induced state, introduced me to her. “This is my daughter…she’s due in March.” And then Mom cried.

My mother’s life changed dramatically after that diagnosis. Her body was slowly being taken over by the cancer. She acquired a soft and squeaky Minnie Mouse voice. She was on so many pills to counteract the chemotherapy. Anti-nausea pills, pain pills (she had two different types of morphine medications), and even Melatonin, a pharmaceutical type of THC (something found in pot) to increase her hunger. She laughed and cried out, in her infamous Brooklyn accent, “I’m gonna be a pot head!” It was nice to see that she even found the humor in her cancer.

Heartbeats

I’ll just say it. I was a bitch to my mother growing up. I was as stubborn as her; and we fought with each other every step of the way. From what clothes to wear, to whether or not I should go to college, there was a never ending battle. But I think that’s what made our adult relationship much stronger. I spent many years doubting her, and as an adult, I had come to the realization that my mother was always right, and would never steer me in the wrong direction.

After I had my dream wedding on January 6, 2007 at just 21 years old, I just knew my life would be completely different. I turned into a true grown up. There was the upkeep on the house, the dinners I cooked for my husband, and knowing that I truly made my own decisions.

My mother and I were on the phone one June evening that year. “My back hurts so bad,” my mom confessed, “I can hardly move my arm because of it.” I was confused. This is a woman who never complained about being sick or hurt in her life that I knew her. Right before my eyes, my mother was changing.

In July I had a funny feeling. I drove to my grocery store, bought a pregnancy test and went home. I quickly read through the directions, opened the package and prepared to pee on the stick. I counted to 5 in my head as instructed, and looked at the test. Woah! Two lines already?! Wait a minute, I’M PREGNANT! What an amazing feeling, knowing there was a little baby growing inside me. I told anyone who would listen.I was going to have a March baby.

After about a week since my news, my mom shared with me that her doctor diagnosed her pain as a pinched nerve in her back. Never doubting doctors before, we all accepted this and tried to move on. She was prescribed pain killers for her back in the hope that she would get some relief.

This woman took care of me my entire life, and now I got to return the favor.

But the pain did not go away. Stronger the medications got, and still my mother was struggling sleeping, stepping into the shower, and moving around. At this time, I realized how humbling this experience was for our relationship. This woman took care of me my entire life, and now I got to return the favor. I’d lay in bed next to my older mother, softly touching her arm until she drifted off to sleep.

        “Maria, Mom’s face doesn’t look right,” Dad explained to me on a September evening over the phone, “Her entire right side is puffy. What do you think is wrong?” Why did Dad ask me? Was it because I took a human anatomy course?Because I lived the closest? Regardless, I had to answer.“Sounds like it might be a stroke, I’ll be right over.”

I walked into my parent’s house and Mom was trying to convince Dad that she didn’t need to go to the doctor; that she would be better. I slowly poked my head into the kitchen where they were and made myself known. Mom sat at the kitchen table and all I saw was her face. Dad was right, her right side was very swollen…the eye, the cheek, it was remarkable. It was as though my mother’s face was melting on one side. “Ria, what do you think?” I couldn’t answer to my mother; I just looked at my dad. “Dad, why don’t you call the ER down the street and tell them what is happening with her face, and whether we should be concerned?” At this point, my father dialed the phone and went in another room to talk. I heated up some chicken noodle soup for my mom and placed it in two bowls and I sat down with her to eat. Obviously depressed, she struggled to eat and make conversation as dad was still on the phone.

After a few minutes, she broke the silence. She took one more spoonful of soup, put the spoon in the bowl, sighed, and said with tears in her eyes, “I think I’m dying!”

I said the only thing I could think of as I jumped up to give her a hug, “No you’re not! We’re just going to take you to the hospital to make sure everything is okay! You’ll be fine!”

She spent a few hours at the hospital. She went through triage, had chest x-rays, and answered questions.“You better do a good job, because my daughter is having my first grandchild in your hospital in March,” she joked with the ER nurses.

She was sent home being told she is just stressed and that she needed rest, and she agreed.