Monica Ramos

Journalism

September 19, 2002

Growing With My Mother

We are all sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner; I am eleven. The familiar sounds of forks hitting plates, and the ritualistic conversations that usually start with, ≥What did you do at school today?≤ and ≥No more Mom, you know I hate mushrooms!≤ fill our kitchen. The day is usual and as it has always been. I am sifting through my plate trying to look and see if there is one more piece of broccoli hiding somewhere in there, when I heard the words.

≥Kids, we need to talk.≤ It was such a strange tone, one that I had never heard before, but I knew he was serious. I canπt remember exactly how my father told us the news, but I do remember hearing the sound I made when I dropped my fork that was just one minute ago looking desperately for a piece of broccoli. Two words, I only heard two words in all that my father had told us - mom and cancer. I sat in my chair petrified that my father had just used those two words in the same sentence. With those two words echoing over and over in my head, I knew what was going to happen. My mother had breast cancer and she was going to die; I was eleven.

****

I am sitting in my sophomore Spanish class, pretending I understand what my teacher is saying, but I would understand just as well if she were speaking Greek. My mind is definitely not in that room today, none of me is. I have been up all night crying and I can barely open my eyes. We had gone to see my mother in the hospital the night before and my mind is still there. My mother had been in and out of the hospital for over four years now, so we were all used to her getting really sick and then getting better. However, something seems different this time. For some reason, I am exceptionally upset about seeing her the night before. She was so weak and fragile, almost like a different person to me - not like the mother I know.

I am still staring blankly at my teacher and sitting in the back of the room, careful not to let anyone see my swollen eyes. Then I hear the knock at the classroom door. It is strange how those three short knocks startle me to the point where I begin to hear my own heart beat. The teacher tells the visitor to come in as I stare hard at the heavy, wooden door of the classroom.

The headmaster walks in, and the entire class stands, out of respect and habit. She quickly tells us to take our seats as she motions her hands as if sheπs trying to push down on something. The moment that I see her eyes start to scan the room. I know. My heart sinks when her eyes stop at me. I know. She smiles at me and asks me to gather my things and come with her. I know.

As I slowly walk out of the classroom I can feel all of the eyes of my classmates all over me. I do not look at anyone and keep my swollen, red eyes focused on the floor. As I step out of the door I see him standing in the hallway, and he is not wearing a suit. Why isnπt he wearing a suit? He is dressed in jeans, and my father never wears jeans to work, not on a Thursday. My obsession with his outfit keeps my mind occupied as he wraps his arm around me and guides me into a corner that is free from all of my high school friends.

My fatherπs words were simple and soft. He knew that I knew. ≥Monica, sweetheart, God took your mom home today.≤ My head immediately falls into my hands and I begin to cry. I do not open my eyes or take my hands away from my face until my father has finished guiding me to the car and the door has shut behind me. As he puts my backpack into the back seat of the car, my eyes begin to open and I am hit hard with reality. My mother is gone, she is really gone; I am fifteen.

****

My eleven-year-old brother hobbles behind me as we make our way to my Volvo parked outside the ice skating rink. It is about ten oπclock on a Friday night and I am carrying a hockey stick and a bag full of sweaty goalie gear over my shoulder. I try my hardest to discreetly hold my breath as I help my little brother get all his smelly gear into my car. With all of the windows rolled down, I begin to ask my brother how practice went. He lets me know of all his saves and how he is really improving his skating skills, even with all that goalie equipment on. Just like every Friday night at this time he lets me know just how ≥starving≤ he is, and we make our weekly stop at Taco Bell. I hate that place but itπs his favorite. He loves the pintos and cheese.

My friends have simply stopped calling at this point. Whatπs the point in even telling me about the parties when they know I will choose to spend my Friday night wrapped in a blanket watching pee-wee hockey with all the ≥hockey moms.≤ It used to hurt my feelings and make me feel like an alien when they first started questioning why I never went out. ≥Itπs your senior year, why arenπt you out partying with us? I mean, do you really like babysitting your little brother when you know you could be partying with us?≤ However, after a few weeks I stopped feeling hurt and strange because I wanted to watch my brother play hockey. Who else was going to? All the other kids had their moms watching, and it wasnπt fair to him to not have one there too.

****

I pull into the entrance to the Mission Cemetery. Itπs so unfamiliar; I havenπt been here in over a year. I never thought that leaving for college three years ago would cause me to be so distant from this place. My trusty Volvo makes a stop in front of her grave just as it has so many times, since her death 6 years ago. I look out of my side window to catch a look at her tombstone from afar, and I begin to feel guilty. Where did all of the flowers go? Why does it look as though no one has been here in months? Has everyone forgotten her?

As I get out of the car I am overwhelmed with nostalgia because I used to come to her grave every week during my high school years. As I look down I can almost see my feet, dressed in my daily black and white saddle oxfords, walking comfortably towards her grave carrying a bouquet of flowers in my hands. I can almost feel the sun glaring off of my white school uniform as it did every week when I would come for my visit after school. But then I open my eyes and I see that I am not in my school uniform and I am definitely not as comfortable.

I continue walking towards her tombstone and it slowly gets bigger and bigger as I get closer. Itπs slowly becoming real to me all over again as I reach her tombstone and sit on the bench that we bought on the third anniversary of her death. The silk red roses I bought over two years ago are now faded white by the sun. There is a dusty film across the front where her name is written and it does not look as clear as I remember. When I get onto my knees and wipe my hand across the engraved letters of her name, it becomes more real. I sit back down and begin to cry. I feel so guilty for not making more of an effort to come out here and show her how much I remember her. I feel guilty that the flowers are faded. I feel guilty that her name was dusty. How could I let this happen? How could I have been so wrapped up in my new life away at college, that I have neglected her? What kind of daughter am I?

As I sit there with my head in my hands crying and apologizing to her out loud, I realize something. I had been wrapped up in my new life away at college. For three whole years I had lead my own life, a new life. There were no hockey practices on Friday nights, or helping my sister with her homework, or late night runs to the grocery store. I got to do what I wanted to do, whenever I wanted to do it. I was independent from all of the ≥mom-like≤ responsibilities I once had. I had been the ≥mom-like≤ figure for my family for so long, and I finally came to the realization that leaving that role was okay.

All of the responsibilities and sacrifices that I had made in order to fill a void for my siblings and father had molded and developed me into the independent person I am now. Leaving that role was not an act of selfishness; it was an act of maturity ≠ I had grown into my own.

I stop crying after this realization and begin to smile. My guilt has turned into pride and I am certain that my mother is proud too.

Authorπs Afterwords

This is probably the most personal and intimate narrative that I have ever written. Since it is such a personal subject for me, it was also quite difficult for me to get comfortable with the idea of writing about my experience of my motherπs death. However, as I began to write the paper, I just let the experiences speak for themselves. This paper made all of the other papers much easier to write because I had already done an indepth personal narrative. This paper made it easier also to put my own voice into the other papers that were not narratives of me. I think that the more effort and thought that you put into this paper, will help you a great deal when writing narratives on other people.