My mother is ill, and other lessons

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My mother is ill. Two weeks ago, my cousin found her on the floor convulsing. Thankfully, she is stable now and doctors have ruled out most of the worst-case diagnoses.

But she's had difficulty holding a conversation since this happened. Family members update me on her medical prognosis while she stares off into space, or at the TV. Other times, she speaks to me but fades away mid-sentence.

There could be any number of reversible causes for this, and she could recover completely. But I can't help but think: what if the person I knew doesn't come back?

My mother is a fierce, hard-working, ambitious person who shined in the domestic sphere she was confined to. My mother has survived childhood violence, sexual violence, poverty, migration, and raising a child with no extended family support. Recently, she's held me down emotionally when I've spiraled out with stress and anxiety. She's lifted me up at my most devastated and managed to repair many old wounds with her love.

But these days, when I FaceTime her at the hospital, it's hard to see that person. My mom is drugged, afraid, and in pain. She's quiet, and can't always answer basic questions about how she's feeling.

So I've started to grieve. Because even if she physically and mentally recovers, which is not guaranteed, it feels like the woman I've known all these years is slipping away.

And I know that, over time, I will form a new relationship to her. I have no intention to abandon my mom when she's sick. But right now, I am mourning the relationship that we had when she was well.

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I think if this had happened earlier in my life, I would have been completely beside myself with worry and grief.

Now, I think I've done enough self-excavation and reflection to avoid taking it so personally. It surprises me to write this, but I've acquired a deep-seated sense of perspective. Not the kind you say to make someone "feel better," or worse, invalidate their feelings -- "Look on the bright side!" -- but real, embodied perspective.

It's a natural part of life, to switch roles with your parental figures and become their caretakers.

My mom and I may have had our fights and misunderstandings -- our real pain and the limits of what could be said and shared between us -- but we also have had a warm and loving relationship. She taught me how to show and receive affection. How to make someone feel special. How to discipline a dog (in Spanish). How to listen, how to laugh. How to get excited over the little things, and how never to dampen my enthusiasm. How to sing Marc Anthony songs at the top of my lungs. How to pray. How to clean. How to dream big. How to have hope.

I recently drew a tarot card that told me to lean into the pain of this moment. To feel it physically, in my body -- my heart's painful contraction when I think of her. To live through the process of her current and eventual death, fully.

This only works if you have the emotional capacity for it -- which I barely do right now, given everything else that's going on.

But if I'm going to be on planet Earth for decades to come (I hope), I may as well put my back into it.

I may as well suck all the marrow out of life -- good and bad, heart-warming and devastating.

I'm not sure what I think that'll lead me to, except that it feels right. Although it's hard, it feels right to live through this and everything that happens in my life, awake. And, I somehow feel like it honors my mom and the unsung majesty of her life. To be truly receptive to her, and to myself, in these moments.

It makes the sadness more intense, but also the gratitude. It makes the pain more real, but also the connection.

I guess that's the "payoff" for mindfulness and living awake. You see and experience life in full color, rather than running from its brightness. You live the full spectrum, expanding and expanding what feels possible.

It's devastating, and many days, I'm too pained to reach this bigger perspective.

But I feel hopeful that I can put my heart and soul into being awake to grief, joy, anger, gratitude, and anything else that might come up along the way.

Photo by Wai Siew on Unsplash