Alexandra Rosas - Call Me The Rock, or Call Me Colombian

 

It really was no big deal. My husband was looking at pictures of our morning. I had taken my mother to sit along the Lake Bluff of Lake Michigan. I had taken my son with me, and we had picked her up and it was a beautiful day. The sun was hitting us, and I caught the wind blowing my mother's hair. And not even a cheap phone camera could ruin the moment. So, he's looking through these pictures, and my mother is in hospice, which means she has a wheelchair, which means she has to be lifted in and out of places. He wants to know who got her there. So, he says, “How did your mother get there?” My son says, “Mom did it.” My husband says, “You're kidding.” He says, “Nope. Did you forget she's Colombian?” [audience laughter]

 

That's the answer my kids give to everything that I do. “She's Colombian.” [audience laughter] Now, growing up Colombian, I got to see what that meant. My mother was an immigrant. She had six children. She was a single mother. She worked three jobs to give us everything. But because of that, she was hardly home, and I missed her and I wanted her and I wished for her. But she was working. My mother is in hospice, because her kidneys are failing. The doctor says that maybe because of her age, we'll have her for three more months, maybe six. But he forgets she's Colombian too. [audience laughter] 

 

So, 18 months later, we are-- [chuckles] we are at Lake Michigan, sitting on the Bluff. I take my mother to these places. We're enjoying our days together. And on this last day, I take her over to the wishing fountain. In front of hospice, there's a fountain. When you're an immigrant, you don't know what's Colombian and you don't know what's American and you think everybody does things the way you do. But we can't pass a fountain without throwing in coins and saying our wishes out loud. 

 

So, we park in front of the fountain before I take her back up to her room, and I hand her some coins and she throws her coins in the fountain and she shouts, “Hawaii.” [audience laughter] She does it with such force that I don't know if she's really pissed off, because she never got to go to Hawaii. [audience laughter] I don't want to get her more pissed off, because she's dying. So, I take my coin and I say, “Hawaii,” just in case. 

 

So, we make our wishes and we're throwing in our coins and we're tossing and we're like maniacs and we're laughing. I look at her and I fall in love with my mom. I have not had a chance to be with her my entire life and I have her. I don't even need to make any more wishes. I have my wish. I've got her. So, I take her back up to her room, and she is doing so good that I decide tomorrow we can have another big day. I kiss her on the forehead, I take her back and I tell her, I'll be back in the morning, “9 o' clock, be ready.” 

 

At 08:20, my phone rings the next morning at my house. And it's the hospice center. I pick up the phone and I don't start breathing until I hear her in the background. She's alive, but she's screaming. “No, no.” The nurse says, “Your mother's sick. You have to come.” The hospice center is only eight minutes away, so I rush over. As soon as the elevator doors open, I can hear her. I go in her room. The nurse says, “Your mother's kidneys are done. We need to start the comfort procedure.” 

 

Now, months ago, my mother has signed these forms asking for a comfort procedure. Meaning, when things end, there is to be no hospital and we just let things go. But she signed those papers when she used to be sick. She's not sick anymore. We were just at the lake and we're going to go shopping today. So, when I see the nurse lean into my mother and say, “Soon Lenore, you will have your relief. Soon.” I do something that I still can't believe. I step in between the nurse and my mother, and in our secret language, Spanish, [audience laughter] so that the nurse can't understand, I say, “Tell her no. Tell her you're going shopping and tell her no. Tell her you want the hospital. Tell her you changed your mind.” 

 

My mother grunts, “Hospital.” I say to the nurse, “You heard that? She wants to go to the hospital.” The nurse says, “You can't.” “This is her wish.” I think how I had my wish for the past 18 months, and I know I was only supposed to have my mother for six months, but I have her for 18, and it has made me greedy and I am ready to beg, borrow and steal for one more minute with her. But I turn and in English this time, I say, “It's okay, you can go.” 

 

I asked the nurse how long my mother will have after the morphine starts. She says, “Two days.” Six days later [audience laughter], my mother is still with us, because why does everyone keep forgetting we're Colombian. [audience laughter] When she passes away, I'm there and I want to say something, but I become a little four-year-old and I'm calling her back, “Mama, mama.” The nurse puts her hand on my arm and she says, “Just think of the life you gave her that she found it so hard to leave.” Thank you.