Mom, 1949-2022.

Mom, I love you.


December 7, 2022, would be the last day I would have a conversation with my mom.  I remember me holding her hand. I remember giving her a hug and a kiss. I remember both of us saying,  “Te quiero mucho”  before I left.  This would last time I would have this opportunity. I left the hospital so uneasy that day, tearing up as I walked to the elevator, and coming to a realization I never felt before. This was the first time my mom reminded me less of my mom and more of grandma. It was the fragility and tiredness in her eyes and face. They held something I have never seen in my mom before. Her fortitude and strength were depleted. Something I was only reminded akin to my grandma. After that day, she would be in an isolation room, then to the ICU where she would be sedated and intubated. We would lose her on December 26, 2022. We would always say ‘I love you’ to each other. She would always tell me how proud she was of me. I never said it, but I want her to know how proud I am that she was my mother and everything she did in this life. She gave me a world that she couldn’t give to herself. She taught me how to feel and to have compassion. She taught me how to love even when the world doesn’t love you back.  I’m so thankful for her giving me life. Love you, mom. 

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