Tio Ignacio

A week ago today, Nacho's uncle Ignacio passed away. He was the first close relative of Elisa and Carolina's to die since my Grandma Mitchell the summer I was pregnant with C. But since she wasn't really cognizant of it at two, I didn't make much mention of what it meant to die. I've written about him here--about what he meant to me as a part of his family. And I'm not sure there's much more to add. He was a character and his absence from the table and summers in Encinar will be duly noted. My birthday will always make me think of him and the years he won't be celebrating with us. 

I suppose there's no good way to introduce kids to the concepts of loss, but I had my chance this week when I told Elisa of Tio's passing. Nacho returned from Spain the night before he died and was working all day long the next day, so it was up to me to share this news. I kept it brief and simple. "You know how Tio has been in the hospital and Papa went to see him?" I asked Elisa. "Yeah." "Well, he died today and we're all kind of sad. It means his body got really old and quit working." A look of surprise followed by "Was he the one who called me bicho?" And my laugh, "Yes. Tio loved you very much and he called you that because he was teasing you." I told her we could always talk about him and if she wanted to look at photos of him we could. She said yes, so we spent a few minutes looking at photos of him before she lost interest. 

She didn't have many more questions, so I let the subject fade. We would talk again of Tio a few times over the next few days. Elisa asked if he was Papa's dad which brought up another conversation about loss. Elisa knows that Nacho's dad died when he was a baby, but since he rarely mentions this, I think she often forgets. I suppose thinking of Tio as his dad made a lot of sense. He was his godfather who helped pay for college and took Nacho along on many vacations with Aunt Pauli. For us, Tio was much like a grandfather figure for the girls during their trips to visit, offering candies and playing with them during long sits around the table. We will miss him most of all when we return to Spain and realize he's not there. For us, a continent away, his absence is an illusion for now. So we will hold on to the memories and the photos and keep talking about him. That's how he lives on, and that's what matters most. 

Losing the mundane

Today there was a shooting. Twenty-seven people killed at an elementary school in Newtown, CT about an hour's drive from New York City. Twenty of those killed were children. My mind tries to understand how that could happen, but there is no way to really comprehend how someone could murder innocent children. I heard on the news tonight that there were doctors and trauma centers around the area mobilized and ready for the rush of victims. Only three showed up. Of those, two later died.  The rest--all children--were already dead. They were killed in hallways and classrooms where they stood and sat, played and learned. They didn't stand a chance.  Even as I write this and think of how quickly it must have all happened, I cannot stop the tears. I am a mother now.  I have been rewired to grieve differently--to feel more deeply the pain of other parents and of the families these deaths destroyed. I picture Elisa in Kindergarten next fall and the joy I hope to feel when she begins her scholastic journey. And then I imagine it all ending. How?  How could life be so unfair? 

So this afternoon as I tried to keep the news off and my mind distracted by the endless cycle of clean/cook/clean again, I obliged all requests from my little girls. You want to get out all the Playdoh containers, mix the colors and let Carolina lick them too? Sure. You want some cookies and jellybeans for a snack? Why not?  Life is short. Oh so short. And there is no guarantee that we get more of it, so let's try to enjoy today. As a stay at home mom, I often get caught up in the drudgery that my daily tasks present. There are bottles of milk to make, kids to get dressed and off to school.  Naps must be scheduled and bedtimes enforced.  With toys strewn all around, the apartment always looks messy.  There are always more clothes to wash, and kids to bathe.  Buying, cooking, and cleaning up three meals a day for four people is no small feat either when you fret over the nutrition you're providing and how the food will be received.  Yes, it can feel overwhelming and sometimes depressing to spend every day doing the same things with little rest and knowing there are several more years ahead of the same.  But today I was struck by how a tragedy like this robs the victims and their families of these mundane tasks.  There is such comfort in the routine.  And yet by nightfall today, we know there will never be another rush to get ready for school like this morning's. The drop off or bus ride will not end with a simple wave of the hand.  Those last kisses and hugs keep playing out in my mind and I wonder if this had happened to us, would I remember those last moments I spent with my kids?  What must it feel like to know that tonight no dinner is needed.  There will be no bath and bedtime routine.   

Elisa began asking questions recently about a small makeshift memorial we pass for a man who was killed in front of an apartment building 2 blocks away from our home.  I attended the vigil without her mainly because I didn't know how to explain it.  But when she passed by one day and began asking questions, I did my best to answer them. There was his photo. Yes, he was hurt really bad by some mean people. They hit him on the head. He fell. He went to the hospital. "Awww, poor man," she said.  "And he's still there? "  "No, he died. Do you know what it means to die?"  A blank stare.  "Well, it's kind of like sleeping, but you can never wake up and never talk to your family or friends again."  It might not have been the best description, but I hadn't been expecting to have the conversation so I went with something resembling the truth.  Elisa seemed to repeat it all back, but later on she started jumbling up ideas and thought he had perhaps burned himself on the candles at the site.  No, I explained, those candles were put there after he died. It's a way for people to remember him. And this is when I realized just how hard it is for a 4 year old to grasp the severity and finality of death. Day after day, Elisa has managed to invent a new outcome for this man.  Yes, yes, he's dead, but....he somehow manages to have a very busy life.  And there is no need for me to keep drilling it in her head. He's dead. He can't do that, Elisa. I just try to steer things back to reality and then move on. 

But today, I knew there was no chance of explaining this tragedy. I made the conscious decision that TV news is not for the preschool mind, and I limited my reading to only a few basic news stories.  I had to stop myself. It was hard to be peering over a laptop with tears welling in my eyes while answering pleas for more Spongebob and juice refills.  And so I watched my girls play.  Every movement was joyous, every shriek an expression of their love for each other.  It was innocence and the complete antithesis of what I had felt earlier today reading about the school shooting.  So much despair and cruelty in the world turned against its most vulnerable members.  There is no greater horror.  I took a moment to appreciate this completely normal day and the fact that I got to spend it with my children.  I got to greet them after their naps and hug them until they forced me away. It was exactly what I needed. 

For Jaimee

Photo courtesy of Adam Greene

Today I celebrated my 37th birthday and lost a friend to complications from bile duct cancer. Jaimee was also 37 years old and lived here in New York until her cancer took her to Ohio for treatment and recuperation with her family. Just a year ago she found out there was something wrong. She was jaundiced and had sought out some medical advice before the holidays. It was early January when she announced she had cancer and would be staying with her mom until things were stable. She was back in New York last summer which was the last time I saw her and we chatted about my pregnancy and caught up about her new cookbook which had finally been published. It was a happy time and I remember thinking she must be so relieved to be home. Even without family around, for most of us this city is home. It welcomes us back and offers so much for the taking. And I think for Jaimee that was equally true. Strangely, this last encounter was actually a dinner party honoring another friend, Patrick, who had died from cancer the year before. Patrick's death at 25 from testicular cancer was one of those tragedies you just don't get over. He was so young and so full of promise that it still feels like the world was robbed of something great. It just does. Nevertheless, this breezy June evening at our mutual friend Molly's apartment in Astoria was a nice evening with friends and Jaimee was her usual bubbly self even if the physical strain of treatment and multiple surgeries had taken some of her strength. We met a handful of years ago through Molly, a fellow baker and co-worker of Jaimee's from their days at Amy's Bread in Hell's Kitchen. It was really through that network of friends and our Thanksgiving meals at Molly's that I got to know Jaimee. She always entertained the kids so well and had funny little anecdotes as only a single girl in the city can share. Whenever I think of her, that smile is the first thing that registers. She had a glint in her eyes and a beautiful, wide smile. That was Jaimee and I will miss her dearly.

Perhaps it's the flash of my own mortality on this birthday, but I can't help but feel that life is too precious. How do any of us carry on when there is no promise that we get another day? And what does it mean to leave children as your legacy? I used to think that if I could just have kids first before dying that I would feel a sort of relief or complacency about death. But that's not true any more. Now I'm greedy. I want to see these children grow and live full lives, and I want to be the one to help them when they too enter the sacred world of motherhood. I want it all. Just like I wanted that for Jaimee. But that wasn't to be. She is gone and this connection I have to her is engrained on my birthday for years to come. So that's what I will do. I will honor Jaimee every year with the thought that life is short--too short sometimes. And then I'll blow out my candles.

This is hard

Today is just a hard day. We found out yesterday that our friend Patrick lost his battle with cancer. I find myself constantly returning to thoughts of him, of what his life might have been. He was the baby brother of our friend Molly, the best friend of our friend Dan and an all around great kid. I say "kid" because he was. Patrick was the goofiest, sweetest, dreamiest kid. His conversations could take on so many fanciful thoughts and yet, he always seemed well grounded. A guy from Arcadia Valley, MO. A gentle soul who loved his nephews so much that I can't imagine them growing up without him. Reading his Facebook wall has been so tough and yet amazing. Today I think his father summed it up best. I had to share. From Thomas Wessel:

Contradictions: When I read all these messages it makes me both cry and rejoice. Cry because Patrick is no longer with us but rejoice because there has so many people whose lives he touched. And when I say that Patrick will never grow old I am so sad that I'll never see "Adventure in St. Louis" starring Patrick Wessel and for the grandchildren I will never hold. But, on the other hand, he will always be 25. He will forever be at his laptop telling me what I'm doing wrong. He will always be optimistically getting ready for the next interview which will lead to his big break. He will never hurt again. He lives on in our hearts and minds. And that is why it is so important that all of you fine young people must remember--that some day, when you're in your sixties and seventies and eighties you must say to someone, " I once knew a guy who was really nice and I still miss him. His name was Patrick."