And We Danced

I dread that time of the year when I have to go to get my multiple mammograms. They were recommended to me earlier than most women, because my mom and aunt got breast cancer. And after, it became mandatory when I got diagnosed in my late 40s. So now a days it’s a ritual that comes around every six months.

The first kind I get is the common mammogram most women get. Then I get the sonogram kind and lastly I get the “no nonsense one”, the worst of them all, the MRI mammogram. I have to remind myself these machines are my allies, after all they saved my life once upon a time.

I will tell you a secret, last time I went for a check up I danced with the mammogram machine, the tall one that squeezes your breasts. We held in intimate ways. So intimate he knows things about me that no one else knows. Please don’t judge me, it wasn’t my fault. While adjusting my breasts the technician kept on instructing me to hold the machine very close and tight. Hold your arm high this way, now on the other side, place your hand here, tilt your head that way, hold your breath, don’t move, now breathe.

Soon, I was dancing with the tower monster, an intimate dance choreographed by the technician, and when she would step out to take pictures of us, he whispered in my ear. No, not the technician, the machine, and he told me about a cemetery of mammogram machines. Where they all go after they are replaced, where they collect dust, rust a little and tell the stories of women that came to them, reluctant, like me. Some had their lives spared and some others, like my aunt and mom, weren’t so lucky. They remember their stories, all of them. mothers, daughters, aunts, wives, grandmothers. I hope he remembers me and our intimate dance. 

I hope he gets to tell others my story, how I once got to escape, survived unharmed and always shines clear, always shines free.

My Old House

I keep on having a recurring dream of my previous house in The Roads neighborhood. "As The Roads turn" we used to say when we lived there. When I say "we lived there" that is many people, my ex-husband and I, my mother lived with us periodically, my daughter was born while we lived there, my sister lived with us and my brother as well at one point. So many memories of guests staying, parties, family reunions, birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries.

These recurring dreams started one day when I couldn't find an item I recalled having once. It happens often, I find myself looking for a piece of clothing, decorative object, or kitchen item. In my mind I can vividly remember where it was in my old home, I remember where I stored it so clearly, I can almost touch it. I gave away so many items when I moved. I sold my house and Mathew and I decided to finally get married, yes, he proposed. But that is a story for another day to tell. Back to my old house.

These dreams were conceived prompted by the frustration of not finding these multiple items and shaking my new little house upside down to no avail. These occurrences crawled to my subconscious and creeped into my inner world. Every time I couldn't find an item, I would have the same dream. I walked into my old home, fully knowing it was not mine anymore, therefore very stressed that the new owners will find me there. What would I tell them? I was trespassing and sure enough they would call the police. I would become a headline, "Florida Woman Breaks into Her Old Home. Police said she was looking for a vase she left behind". That vase, and so many things I know I didn't leave behind, but I gave away, my mind knows I packed them in boxes for Goodwill, but my heart has no recollection of it, and it turns out the heart sometimes rules the streaming channel of dreams more often than the mind.

The last dream of the kind was also of me entering my old home, I walked into the back room, the bedroom that became my mom's permanent room after I got divorced and she came to live with my daughter and I for long periods of time. She was our savior, filling all the left-out space with love, like she knew best. I don't know what I would have done in that big house without her. 

In this last dream, finally all my items were visible in her room. Things I had not seen in so long, and there she was sitting in her favorite chair, watching her favorite show, Jeopardy. Little did I know these lost items were leading me to her all along. I spent time with her and at one point I knew I was dreaming and remembered she is no longer with us. I knew I had the gift of that moment, and I took it with all my soul. I didn't bother explaining this to my heart. I now understand that as much as I have found true happiness in my new home, (the kind I always dreamed of), still the memories in that house, with my mom, my daughter, even with my now husband are still so alive within me. It is that place in my heart where I can always walk to meet her again, hold her tight and love her. I know she is with me always, but when I dream of her in that house I can feel her, touch her warmth, and hear her laughter. It is the special place where we can always find each other, that lives within me for life.

 

The Mind and the Heart

My mind understands. It understands what everyone says to console me. “She led a wonderful life.” “She is resting now.” “She is in a better place.” She now looks over you.” And I know it all to be true and understand it in the creases of my mind.

My heart, not so much. He just doesn’t want to reason and feels a void that punches him at his core daily. The mind is looking for him to present a timeline of events of a disease progression that always ends up like this or an explanation of the afterlife based on spirituality and religion. My mind wants to simply throw some common sense at my heart. But my heart just won’t even see him, he refuses. Might be because it’s too soon, or he might never want to have that appointment with him. I fear he might even make it but won’t show up to it. I don’t know, I’ve never been here before so this is all very new.

I’ve seen my heart broken an unwilling to reason but a part of him always listened to the wise advice of the old mind even in its most painful state.

Not this time. We all know love rules the corridors of the heart and we know there is no age for a heart to accept the loss of a mother. The one who always holds your heart unconditionally, without any judgment. My heart doesn’t want to accept it, if it does then he might lose the place he goes daily and meets the memory of my mom's laughter, her smile, her warmth. So far he has been polite with the mind, now a days he is just hiding from him. Because a heart that hides from the mind feels free to remember, to mourn, to get lost in thoughts and that is exactly what he needs, without any explanations. I suspect in time the mind will get to him and put his pieces back together. But the cracks in between always leave gaps and I know those could never be filled completely again, even the mind knows that.

It’s ok, that’s the definition of a broken heart, the gaps are like hallways left there on purpose. A space where there will always be a void for my heart to meet the memory of my mom, just like he wants.

That void echoing tears will some day turn to smiles with memories of her laughter, sense of humor and kindness. The good old mind can relax because he knows a mom’s joy already lives inside the heart of her children, because a mom and her kids will always share the same heartbeat.

The Road Home

Just like that, with the click of a button, after about 30 years living in a quaint neighborhood called The Roads, my home’s pictures roam somewhere in the For Sale section of cyberspace. This is my home for almost two decades, where I danced carelessly with loved ones on the unfinished, roofless shed of the back of my house, adorned with string patio lights and New Year decorations to welcome Y2K, come what may. 

This old beauty was built in 1919; word of mouth says Desi Arnaz owned a now pink home on my street, an old concrete Mediterranean style, two story house, with inviting arches just like mine. I wonder if the guy that built my home ever met Desi. I don’t know much about this home’s history, when I tried to dig information on my property by visiting The City of Miami building department I was told all plans dating that far burned during a fire. What little I know came from the person that sold us the house, he said the first owner was an electrician and it showed, he equipped the house with state of the art wrought iron ceiling lamps and rustic chandeliers. All of what was still here when my ex-husband and I moved in; together with peeling cloth covered wires that surprisingly still worked but had to be replaced in order to be up to code. 

I often try to imagine how the neighborhood must have looked like back then. Years ago when my now teen daughter was a toddler I met one of the neighbors during our daily walks. From a far I saw a lady leaning on the fence of a corner home, she gave me a warm smile while she waved and we chatted a bit. Well, more like she asked me questions, like, where do you live, what is your baby’s name and so forth. Then it came my turn and I asked her how long she lived here with the curiosity of a teenager. She had been living in that same house with purple bougainvillea for decades. She reminisced of a time when her neighbors would leave their doors open and spend the day switching from house to house in between their daily chores, sharing recipes, coffee and stories. What a contrast I thought from now, with our high gates, bolted doors, alarms and camera systems. Most of her neighbors moved to retirement homes or simply had passed away by then. She seemed eager to paint a picture of a bygone era, she was good at it cause I could almost hear the noise of children playing on the streets, smell the seasoning of rice and beans with pork cooking in her kitchen, while a neighbor would walk into her house to share some tres leches dessert she made, no knock on the door required. 

I will miss these roads where my house sits, where my wonderful daughter grew inch by inch from when she was inside of me, this house that saw me heartbroken, fall out of love and back in love again. My house with all its wonderful architecture and secret spots, whoever built it showed the excitement by the amount of details found in every corner. The iron railings, detailed balconies, and its many wood frame windows back when air conditioning was not common. I’m sure he took his time to pick its glass door knobs, pine wood floors and honey comb tile that graces the bathrooms. All the best an up and coming entrepreneur could afford at the time, showing it off to family coming by train from up north the way Flagler envisioned it. Details of the owner’s life I’ll never know but I can assure you he was a visionary, foreseeing what greatness Miami had to offer and what it would become. Wherever his soul is I’m sure he misses these roads as much as I will.

Memories of a Mango Tree

As summer approached, so did the loud thumps of mangos falling daily in my backyard. People said the area was a mango farm; my whole neighborhood bursted with them. I was the proud friend of a tall, thick mango tree that guarded my home like only a titan could. Every year it gave amazing plump and juicy mangos, so sweet they made my belt expand by a notch during the summer months. During season so many dropped it was hard to even attempt to freeze them all, although my mother and I tried, cutting and storing them one by one, scrubbing our nails to get the staining orange dye out. When my mom would visit during  mango season, she would run out early mornings to get them faster than the wild raccoons and squirrels. One time a huge mango fell right on top of her head, almost giving her a concussion, but it didn’t matter to her. Next time she was on a mission, sporting a construction hard hat. If you know us, you know nothing came between us and our mangos.

I can tell you stories about and around the tree. Like when I came from work one day to find all my mangos gone. The tree was full of them in the morning, ready to drop them one after another. It was about the time they would change color from green to orange, which practically threw me into daily anxiety, drooling to see them ripe once and for all. Mango thieves were a Miami thing, and I learned the hard way. How painful to see the fruit pulled from the branches before their time, but the tree had the last word and hid a few for us to enjoy. Yet another troublemaking thief that took them from us was hurricane Irma. Sadly she took away part of the tree, too, sending it into shock, thus leaving us without mangos for the following season.

If that tree could have talked, it would have told you about my daughter building a treehouse with her dad, or when its shade blessed the union of my sister and brother in law during their garden wedding. It stood tall with Brickell and Downtown Miami as a backdrop, with its many modern towers and glass windows standing in contrast to the tree’s connection to nature and our past. That tree witnessed the landscape of the city constantly expanding as its own branches reached high, aiming for the clouds. How many stories it might have watched unfold. The swishing of its leaves when I asked for sweet gossip was more like a hush sound, if you ask me. The only way I could  share its secrets was by sharing its bounty. Each season I would post, “The mango lady is back!” People sent me texts, Facebook posts, calls for a bag or two. I didn’t mind—in fact I loved it! Sharing its deliciousness became a treat as sweet as the fruit itself.

In my backyard, only this tree provided shade on a hot and humid Miami day. I often sat under it while I meditated, smelling its flavor and daydreaming of the pigments of green, bright orange and red that dressed the fruit it bestowed upon us.

That's All

What a lovely Haitian accent, I thought as the technician tried to find my vein. Have you had anything to drink today? She asked. To drink? It’s a little early for happy hour I thought. You mean water? I replied. Yes, she said and added, I’m having a hard time finding your vein. Oh, I had a bit of coconut flavored water, I said. She didn’t reply. Truth is I’m very bad at drinking water. I try to be healthy, a vegan wanna be, but I don’t exercise and I hate drinking water. Coconut flavored infused water didn't seem to impress her. When I received the news, I asked my doctor if this was a result of too much sugar in my diet. I guess she noticed the bit of guilt in my tone and reassured me it’s not my fault. She said, one in every 8 women are diagnosed with cancer, you have done nothing wrong. But I can’t help it, the catholic in me wants to beat on my chest and say, "por mi culpa, por mi culpa por mi gran culpa, I have sinned through my own fault", as I repeated Sundays at church when I was little.

So now I lay face down with my breast hanging down in front of a machine ready to swallow me whole. The kind that has been declared demonic by some. And maybe they are correct or else why would there be so many red warning signs at the door. Caution! Danger! This sophisticated machine that claims would help cure me could also harm me. The technician didn’t mention anything about that. Why would she, we have all sorts of machines now everywhere, placed and designed for our “own good”, even at airports, no disclaimers needed here I guess.

She gives me ear plugs as I lay nervously. The last thing I’ll put on you are the headphones, it will get loud, she says. She hooks me to the IV and off she rolls me inside this monster machine, headphones on and a little pump inside my fist in case of an emergency, all in place.

She was right about her only disclaimer, it was loud in there. But I could hear at times the music through the headphones. 80's songs were playing, fits me perfect since I am a proud 80's girl. In between the loud noises that sounded as if I was trapped in the belly of a moving plane I heard Phil’s voice. “I could leave but I won't go. It'd be easier I know. I can't feel a thing from my head down to my toes.” It made me laugh, it was exactly how I felt. Inside the monster who was ingesting me by loud pieces Phil was with me, as he did so many times when I was a teen. And so I got distracted seeing my life in chapters like a book, realizing how much I want to create more chapters and more stories to tell, even the ones I rather not talk about, like this one. Cause there is no more to life but our stories, that’s all.

The Wave

My mom and dad are in their early eighties and are fortunate to live very active lives. Their children, five of us, range in ages from 45 and up. I always wonder what would feel like to see my daughter, now almost 14 years old as an adult with kids and even grandchildren.

This past weekend my eldest brother was part of a global event called the DGR (Distinguished Gentleman's Ride). Participants worldwide ride the streets of their city celebrating various causes that are meaningful to the riders. My parents were excited to know their son would ride by an intersection not far from their house. Out they went on a sunny winter day, wearing sweaters and leaving their neck scarves behind because it was a bit warm out. They left the house as they often do but this time to see their son ride by. So many riders participate so my brother reassured them he would wave as he passed by. So there they were, standing on the intersection, along with so many other bystanders, waiting with excitement as the riders approached. My dad with his phone in hand attempting to take a snapshot of my brother complained about the sun rays ruining the shot as they reflected off the phone’s glass causing a glare. My mom, smiling with excitement saying "there he is", my brother waiving at them as he had promised rode by. The moment faded quickly as hundreds of other bikers rode away, the noise of all the motor bikes faded slowly. My parents walked back home, mom sporting an even bigger smile and dad still fussing with his phone trying to figure out why he missed the shot.

As kids our parents have sat down in countless of theaters, school rooms, stood up at parades and sport games. All to see us shine doing what we love. As parents we fuss with the camera, we get there early for the best spot, we always feel proud. We did it then, we do it now, no matter our kid's age, they will always feel like our little ones. And when our kids are small we reassure them we will wave at them so they know we are there for them, so they can spot us among a sea of other parents and relatives. And all those times we stood with excitement help build strong children that one day will wave at their parents, finding them in a crowd full of people to reassure them they have someone looking out for them.

Photo by: FB Moteras Peru