Intertwine

Can you ever imagine watching your mother die or, maybe, slowly decay in her own shadow? Seeing her give up, evading hope because her body was filled with the only thing she knew: pain. How can you cope with it? How can you live with it? That is something no one ever teaches you. It is something no one can comfort you out of it, except your own mother. It’s hard when you can’t find the one thing that made your day a little better, the bright smile that’s always followed by “how’s your day?”. Missing out on the moments where you would laugh for hours, mocking an ugly laugh and lame jokes about you.

Well, I went through it, changed me forever.

My mother, Isabel, a woman in her early-30’s whose eyes sparkled even more than a clear night sky and whose head was filled hair that fell down ever so gracefully. It seemed to me that each strand of hair had waves that were coordinated to mere perfection. Her skin had the sweetest scent, the one babies seek when born; that one. Her hands were as soft was her emotions and, even though she spent hours doing a thousand chores with her hands, it felt like they would never lose their delicate touch. She married Enrique, a man who learnt how to love things just as they are, even though the only thing he knew was abandonment. A man who rose from poverty, violence and abuse; a man who never experienced what true love was and who, sadly, had seen it all at such a young age. He spent nights sleeping in the streets, running away from the constant abuse of his father, in a quest for a better life. With a very worn out set of clothes and an empty stomach, he flew away from his father at midnight. It took him two days to reach the city because he walked barefoot to it.

They complimented each other perfectly, their love grew like no other. This type of love is depicted as the one that hits rock bottom and rises from it. It’s the kind of relationship where you develop a seventh sense exclusively for your spouse; where you learn how to work as a team and, as result, you become one. Both were involved with their first child but, as a mother, she was the constant participant. Nicholas, their first son, was the ultimate reason for my father to feel like he could accomplish the impossible and conquer the world. His first born was something to be proud of since it’s what every man wants, a boy! Giulietta, his second born child whose hair showed tiny curls, was the reason he fell in love with every future flaw and virtue she was destined to have. He vowed and sought to protect me from any danger there was, leaving me in a bubble that was to be popped sooner or later. I was born a year after my brother, making a perfect pair of brothers based on the age gap. At that point, it felt as if something was missing, so they finally made up their minds and had the last kid four years after I was born.

Yes, she had three because it felt like a balanced number.

She poured her heart and soul into our eyes, glazing at us with an ethereal type of love and enchantment that only a mother can provide. Her under-eyes grew at the same pace as we did, meaning that she would sacrifice precious hours of sleep to spend time with us. Each of us grew with a very fond memory of what love looked like and how we were directly involved with it. I fell in love with my parents. I fell in love with the way they spared themselves to us. We were happy, for now.

Years passed, rough patches were constantly on the table; my parents contemplated divorce. The love and appreciation that I once knew was fading away, they wanted to go their own way. To this day, I still do not know how they managed to get out of it. The love that I once knew as a child was no longer there, it exceeded with something far out of every expectation from my mother and father. Their devotion to each other was admired and praised by other people, mostly strangers to our family and situation. I questioned it often, the drastic sudden change of heart and feelings were not rational to my brain.

And then lighting struck. Hard.

My mom started with an unusual throat pain, which she blatantly ignored, since she mistook it as a “normal” thing to go through. As days passed, the pain got worse; she couldn’t swallow solid foods because it inflicted a lot of discomfort in her body and, occasionally, caused herself to suffocate. A week went by, multiple doctors saw her, various lab results came back and not one of them could point out where and what caused this.

Day by day, she got worse; the pain consumed her happiness, the big comforting glare faded into despair, her tenderness turned cold, distant and the beautiful eyes I once knew, sank to the very inside of her. Her body reeked of death, her breath smelled rancid; it was like her affable soul was turning putrescent. The skin that I once knew, touched and smelled, was filled with sores that grew bigger each day. The lips that always offered me a smile were chapped, swelled and lacerated. She couldn’t eat or breathe, her body had turned against her. She was a slave to her bed, condemned to be in it since she had lost so much and had very few willingness to stand up.

I was in my senior year when all of this happened. I left every morning thinking that it would be the last one. The school was my haven, it made me forget for a moment what was going on; it made me seek something better, a future without having to endure pain. I didn’t let my mother ever see my cry out of despair. I couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough. She told me she was ready to die.

I couldn’t let her.

I wouldn’t.

I tried so hard to bring back the happy memories beneath her pain, I opted to make a fool of myself just to make my mother grin. And even that silly grin caused her tears of pain, the grimace in her face every time she tried to move, it caused me a wave of desperation.

How could you?

Our conversations were very limited. The jokes that I once knew faded into something surreal, almost like a dream that you remember vividly but isn’t part of your reality. Just like that. I witnessed my fathers’ eyes filled with tears, and each drop yelled a thousand words, asking the same question over and over. How can we fix this? How much is it going to take? Why her? Why now?

I remember once, entering the room, seeking advice from my mother; the kind of advice you need to hear from the human being that spared a part of her body to you. That kind.

Walking rapidly through the hallway, I, gently, knock on the door, push it and, with a smile, ask:

- Hi kid! How was your day?

Coincidentally, just as I finished saying this, my mother turns around and bursts into tears.

And my world fell.

She tried explaining to me the pain inflicted, her tears were more than enough to suffice.

How could I be so selfish and think about college at this point?

I didn’t even dare.

I started to doubt the existence of God, its miracles and the ways he works with humans. My mother lost her faith; well, most of it, at a certain point. There was a day where she would try and talk to me about the ways of God and her sickness.

- “How can God put me through such pain? I did suffer Giulietta, I suffered a lot when young… why now? Why me?” she said, with a crackling voice.

- “Maybe he tests the strongest ones’ mom. That’s what life is about, or at least, that’s what you told me” I replied with a cocky tone.

And in that moment, her eyes weren’t so sad.

I can’t quite remember at what point she started to regain faith or how she managed to turn this into a lesson. After 8 months of uncertainty, a good doctor appeared. Turns out he was our neighbour. The treatments were injected for faster results and more effective diagnosis. Day by day, she got better and better. She started to speak again.

I think I’ve never missed my mom scolding as much as I did in this moment. The transformation she had in 2 weeks was almost unbelievable, my mom was coming back stronger than ever, she was my miracle.

From this point on, things just get better and a lot happier.

But the question remains, how did she intertwine the side that gave her so much pain to the radiant, magnificent woman that helps and cherishes each dull moment? My mother always tells me that the lesson that hurt the most are the ones that truly make you see your defaults and virtues. I couldn’t imagine my mothers’ flaws being this serious… but then again, who am I to know?

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