Remembering Her This Mother’s Day

This week I lost a kindred spirit. I met her in college, over 10 years ago now, when I visited a college friend’s home over winter break. She was his mom. And in the decade since I graduated, I lost touch with the friend but never his mother. It was her efforts that kept us connected. In my life she was a cheerleader, frequently offering support and sending messages of encouragement.

In the last decade, she was brave – divorcing, taking on new jobs, moving across the country, and entering seminary – all while being a mom and a middle-aged woman with all the challenges that come with those realities. She was a loud advocate for many people including women and people with disabilities. She was a staunch supporter of her sports teams.

Her death was unexpected. This week my thoughts have been with her children who are without her this Mother’s Day. I have also spent the week reflecting on the positive force she was in my life. I admired her for her fiery spirit and her devotion to the people she loved. As she was a dedicated reader of my blog, I wanted to write a post in her honor.

She believed strongly in God. If the world is what we believe it to be, then she is with her God watching over her children and the others she took under her wing from a new vantage point. May she rest in peace.

Ring Reflection

I held my wedding ring in my palm, feeling the weight of it. I put it on and took it off – making sure it didn’t get stuck and testing the feel of it. It was still months until I’d be able to wear it but, I liked having the opportunity to test it out. It had our favorite mountain range on it; an unassuming range that most overlook. Yet, we’d had many true adventures on that range. By happenchance his favorite mountain was on one end of the range and mine was on the opposite, with a slog of a ridge between them.

Someone asked us recently if we were serious hikers and we laughed. Serious? We’re day hikers who find trails whenever time and the fatigue of busy lives allows. Serious? We like showers, feasts, and fireplaces after miles climbed. Serious? We always seem to be bellowing Star Wars and Mighty Python quotes (between giggles) when those scarce other hikers unexpectedly find us on the trail.

My ring felt light and heavy at the same time. A simple band with so many stories behind it. I didn’t want or have an engagement ring, so the wedding ring was the first tangible reality that we were “getting hitched.” Engagement rings are not for me; though I realize for many they are a joyous aspect of their engagement. A thing I’ve enjoyed about not having an engagement ring is my interactions with people who don’t know me – what does it take for me to tell them I’m engaged? As a medical student I interact with numerous people every day, yet only some of them inspire me to share any part of my story with them. It’s an exercise in exploring exactly how humans create trust and connection during encounters the length of medical office visits. You might be amazed by the number of physicians with whom I worked for weeks yet did not tell I was engaged. Not for fear, but simply for lack of connection or reason to share that tidbit of myself.

I looked at the range as it unfolded as I turned my ring carefully. Ranges represent a journey. My fiancé and I had been on many journeys but, overall, we were on life’s journey together. Our path had thus far been calm yet still varied by ups and downs and mud patches. School had been the overarching limitation, much like a heavy pack, of our life as a couple. I’d been in school our entire relationship, and he’d been in school for most of it. We were friends for years before we started dating. In those years, we weren’t in school and had had a more leisurely approach to hiking and feasting, without the pressure of tests and hard study schedules.

We had in common a love of healthcare, yet our approaches were quite different. To be honest our brains perfectly illustrate the difference between the nursing and physician approach to patients and health. He was the matter of fact, nurturing, and patient human you’d want at your bedside hours upon hours when you’re sick. I was the curious one, driven by a desire to understand and then solve problems. I was not the one you’d want to answer your call bell as you tried to live your life in a hospital. However, I was the one you wanted examining your labs and exploring your history to discover how we might wrestle your health to a stable place. Healthcare is a culture and a lifestyle. It is terrible and amazing at the same time. These days it is more of a tragedy than a comedy, yet there remains in those of us soon to enter the field as newly trained members of the team a sense of hope. Hope that we can help. That, somehow, despite the broken system and so many brands of red tape in our way, we can improve (and maybe even save) lives. Hope is powerful.

I put on my ring, again. I looked at it. It seemed to fit. It felt weird. I was excited. I was hopeful. I looked forward to discovering how the days would unfold after I started wearing it. Like all adventures there was fear in my heart as I stood on the threshold preparing to take the first step. But, also like all adventures, I knew that the first step had to be taken. While never a nomad I’ve always been a wanderer, which inherently means I have stepped from many thresholds. Every first step was filled with anticipation and worry about what would unfold. And, yet, I have never regretted where the road took me. I often reflect on the harsh and beautiful meanders I’ve undertaken. I’ve never wished for a different journey.

I guess there’s something significant about the fact that rings are circles which have no end. A symbol of eternity. I’m a staunch believer that nothing lasts forever. I also believe that the basis of life is change. These beliefs make me curious about what it’ll look like to take some wedding vows and say that this jubilant soul I’ve decided to marry is my forever adventure partner.

My ring felt heavy, but not too heavy. I looked at the mountains depicted there. I wondered what mountains we’d climb in the years to come. What valleys we’d rest in. What ranges we’d prance along taking unruly numbers of selfies because we could. Serious hikers? Perhaps not. We’re just two people who share a deep love of the wild places and exploring them together.

In Her Memory

I’ve been thinking about an old Paraguayan woman, La Abuela, who died this year before I was able to return and see her one last time. Her eyes were cloudy and her knees swollen when I last saw her. She hobbled short distances holding onto chairs and walls. She was from an era I have only glimpsed through stories shared while gazing out at the world passing by and over snacks. She wrapped her hair in a scarf each day and worn simple skirts and shirts. And always worn sandals. She was the mother of one of the señoras who took me as a daughter during my years in her community and with whom I still often speak.

La Abuela was alive during the Chaco War (1930s). It was a particularly deadly war for Paraguayans. My and her community in Paraguay has a jail. When she was younger, she used to cook for the jailguards. That was in the era of the Chaco War when the jail was full of Bolivian war prisoners. I guess during that era the prisoners could leave the jail and she used to cook for them too. When I lived there, the jail was still active, but she had long stopped serving the folks who lived and worked there.

She told me how it used to be. It used to be that the only way to get to Asunción, the capital of Paraguay, was by canoe down the river that ran around our community. It was hard to come and go during those times. When I lived there, it was a simple 2-hour bus ride into the capital—a journey I made frequently.

She told me that later, once the road was constructed, she used to run a bunkhouse for the bus drivers. She would cook for them. She had one rule, no women in the bunkhouse. And if she found out the bus drivers were sneaking in partners, she’d no longer offer them a bed. She was a woman with strict ideas about how things should be.

And there was a period when she worked in Asunción, cleaning homes. That’s how she and the señora who was a mother to me, learned Spanish. Paraguay is bilingual. But the people of rural areas speak more Guarani than Spanish. And the people of the city speak more Spanish than Guarani. And that’s despite the dictator they had for about 35 years during the middle to end of the 1900s who tried to erase Guarani.

La Abuela endured the dictator, her Guarani remained more robust than her Spanish. It was thanks to her time in Asunción that we could communicate reasonably well in Spanish. She’d reminisce of the order that used to exist under the dictator and the chaos of current times. We did not discuss the disappearances and deaths of the dictator’s time. She was a strong woman and she had seen more sadness than I could fathom. But she was more likely to discuss the wind and recent gossip than sadness long past. 

La Abuela and I shared many afternoons sitting on the porch watching the school children walk by and various neighbors run errands. And she had so many stories of getting up early and working hard. Of her garden. Of cooking. Of milking the cows. Of raising children. Of her neighbor’s parrot who spoke so well and was once stolen and then returned. And the hazy day and mango shade would fade to dusk. We’d sit in the evening, still hot but without the beating sun, and we’d have dinner. And the stories would continue interspersed with many long periods of quiet contemplation.

No one knew exactly how old La Abuela was. She was from an era when records were stored in the family’s memory. She had had too many of her own children to remember her exact birth year after her mother died. But the wrinkles of her face and the grayness of her hair and the curvature of her spine spoke of many years of hard work.

I knew La Abuela was fading before she died because her daughter told me. Her daughter told me when her mother became bedbound. In Paraguay families care for the sick. I knew her daughter was caring for La Abuela. La Abuela had 6 children, but only one daughter. It’s almost always daughters who bear the brunt of caring.

I got the tearful message that La Abuela had died from her daughter not long before I had a huge exam. At the time, I didn’t have much left in me to think about death. But these days I see lots of people La Abuela’s age in the hospital. Recently my team helped several families put loved ones on hospice (care for those likely to die in 6 months, usually less). And while medicine can cure many things, it cannot stop death. And I think about La Abuela’s daughter caring for her in her last days. And I know that the care La Abuela received at the end of her life was equal or better than any hospice care the US has to offer.

I think about the thatched roof and the dirt floor of her home, the wood fire on which she and her daughter cooked with smoke billowing around them, and the stories of the ants and mice that sometimes passed through the house. I find myself smiling. Because as complex and sophisticated as medicine becomes, hope isn’t found in the hospital. It’s found at home and in our hearts.

La Abuela built a home large enough for all her children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren, and me to visit peacefully; a home where the mango pits she planted so many years ago were now towering trees offering shade to whoever might need protection from the sun. And as summer slips away I think about that shade waiting for me whenever I can once again visit our community. She won’t be there when I return, but I know her daughter and I will share stories of her life.

Engaged

This year I got engaged. It wasn’t a surprise as it came about after countless dialogues while driving between mountains and feasting spots, while plodding along trails below tree line, while standing next to rivers, and while gazing out at the horizon from mountain tops. Like most aspects of my fiancé and my relationship, the timing of engagement was mutually agreed upon and, once decided, a joint undertaking of finding rings, figuring out the legality of things, and planning a wedding unfolded.

It’s funny to me that I’m planning my wedding as I also undertake my third year of medical school. I am a person of action, but usually my time is spent on professional endeavors. I’ve only chosen careers that are consuming, where even when the day is done the puzzles of work linger, tossing and turning in my mind as I go about the rest of my life. I’ve never considered relationships beyond friendship as required or even goals. I’ve always seen marriage as something I’d consider only if someone fell into my life who made me think of it. “Fell” being the key word. I’ve known for many years that happiness and loneliness come from within. The loneliest years of my life I was in a long-term relationship. My happiest times correlate only with my internal state. I fought hard on many occasions when I was single to be allowed to go about my business as I saw fit. And as I think about marriage, the annoyance of having to explain that I am whole without a partner remains somewhere in my skin. But, yet, as I undertake one of the hardest years of becoming a doctor, I am also signing away singleness.

My fiancé and I have discussed marriage and dreamed about growing old together since months after we started dating. There are people who bring out your happiness, who make you laugh more than most, and who force you to think about the world differently. My fiancé is that person for me. And in our short time together, we’ve weathered many storms. There was the first years of medical school – torturous as the hours of study dragged to the future. There was COVID. There were those times when we could have died in the mountains. Where we literally talked each down the cliffs, teetering on an all-to-real edge. There is this current stretch of doing the “long distance relationship thing.” There were the times we shared with family and friends, where it was so easy to feel connected. How seamlessly he fit in with my people (including when my sister and her partner lived with us for a month starting days after he and I moved in together) and how his people made me feel like family from the beginning (starting with the Thanksgiving dinner where I met his parents and everyone in the extended family all at once).

I knew it was time for us to finally start planning our wedding for two reasons. First, since our first marriage conversation we’ve wanted to get married before he follows me to residency and the clock is ticking until that time comes. Second, the realization popped into my head that I couldn’t imagine being happier with another person.

Engagement is neat in the sense that it brings people together. Our families and friends have offered advice and help as my fiancé and I embark on wedding planning. It’s such a fun thing to have a joyous project to work on. Engagement is as odd as it is neat. There are many norms about engagement and marriage which have stood out to me because I rejected them. I didn’t want an engagement ring. My wedding dress will be red. I prefer small, intimate gatherings. My ceremony must be outside. There will be no registry. There will be no escorting down an aisle.

And as I often do for my career, I’ve spent some time reflecting on marriage. I like to ponder why things are important and worth doing. My younger self often thought marriage was giving up something of yourself for someone else. I’m glad to report that that isn’t the case. Marriage is about two very different people taking on a shared adventure, where there are lots of side adventures together and apart. Marriage is just a formal way of saying “I trust you and want you to be my life-long co-hiker no matter how boggy the trail or how craggy the mountainside.”

And as he said when I read him this post, “’Fiancé’ is a weird word, let’s get married already.”

On Love

When from out of the blanket burrito you’ve created, like extra salsa, your blue eyes emerge, blinking and dazed as if they’ve never seen light. You seem stunned as if you didn’t expect the sun to rise as it has every other day. I’m glad you’re here.

When we each sit, heads bent over our studies, the sun dancing across your hair and alighting on our plants—we created quite a jungle house when we moved in together—I smile before diving back into the world of medicine.

When you scamper away, a mountain goat of a human, taking off when you see a steep incline with rocks on the trail ahead, I chuckle. I’ll find you at the top of the pitch, eyes glistening, waiting. Maybe a kiss before we forge onward. And when we get to the summit we see the world unfold before us. Each of us thinking our own thoughts, but knowing somehow our thoughts fit together like the parts of an ice cream sundae—dazzling all on their own but grander together.

When I’m sitting on the couch, studying or writing, and you ask “Are you hungry darling?” As I light the candle for the dinner table I’m already full.

It’s those times when love seems like such an obvious thing. And, as happy as I am alone, I’m glad you decided to journey with me.

Climbing Mountains

One year when I was young we celebrated my mom’s birthday by hiking a nearby mountain. Our family has loved mountain adventures since our beginning, so it seemed like a perfect way to celebrate another good year.

The hike was beautiful and challenging and magical in the way hours spent in the woods while climbing a slope always are. When we got to the top we settled on the peak rocks to enjoy the view, eat snacks, and let our heartrates drip back to resting. Us kids sat down, pulling out our normal fare—peanuts, bread, cheese, among other easy-to-pack items.

My mom wore a happy smirk as she opened her backpack. First, she unpack a stack of plates and forks. Then came some bags containing several layers of chocolate cake. Then came the Tupperware with the sauce for between the cake layers. And then the whipped cream…She’d also brought sparkling cider.

My mother had secretly packed and carried an entire black forest cake up the mountain. That’s dedication, determination, and the proper way to start a new era.

I’m turning 30 this year, so I’ve been thinking about birthdays a bit because it seems like ending my twenties might be a big deal. I can’t really think of a better way to nod goodbye to my first complete decade of adulthood than cake on top of a mountain. There is something about icing that makes the horizon seem promising and clarifies the path you’ve already trod.

Q-tips and Time

The road between my father’s house and school had a stretch with small, rolling hills. My father would always speed up the ups so that our stomachs would drop on the downs of the hills. One day, halfway through the hills, we got stuck behind a Q-tip (that’s what we called elderly drivers because all you can see over their car headrest is a white tuft of hair). The elderly driver was going so slowly we didn’t get to enjoy the hills. My sister and I groaned.

My father said, “Do you know why old people drive so slowly?”

“No,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Because time is moving so fast for them that they feel like they’re moving quickly. Think about it. Each second is a smaller fraction of their life than yours or mine,” he said. “Time seems to go faster as you get older.”

I shrugged then. But, a decade and a half later, I find myself wondering why time runs away from me. I sometimes drive slowly because I feel like I’m rushing even when I have nowhere I need to be. I’ve come to understand what he meant—each second that passes makes every subsequent second a smaller fraction of my life. Funny that time, that constant meter we trust to measure and organize our lives, feels so inconsistent.

Peppermint Patties

When we were young, we usually went grocery shopping with our parents. When my mom took us, we were always allowed to pick out a treat at the end to enjoy on the journey home. My sister and I always mixed up what we got—sometime chocolate, sometimes liquorish, sometimes something completely different. My mom always got a peppermint patty.

Since becoming an adult, I usually grocery shop alone. I almost always get myself a treat for the trip home. I still mix it up, but when I can’t decide I get a peppermint patty.

Not so long ago, I visited my sister in New York City. She’s lived there many years. She and I are still very close, but our lives have taken divergent paths. We grow more different as time passes. We went grocery shopping for snacks during my visit. My sister paid. When we checked out, she grabbed little peppermint patties for each of us. I guess she chooses peppermint patties too. It made me smile. We are different and similar, nothing will change that because we have too many shared roots.