When Alexandra Rosas of Cedarburg, Wisconsin, was growing up, her mother, Leonor Pinzon de Rosas, worked three jobs to provide for her six children. Alexandra wished she could see her more. In her mother’s final months in hospice, Alexandra finally got her wish for them to spend time together. But her mom had a wish, too, and Alexandra had to find the courage to respect that wish.
The following story was told on Oct. 27, 2017 at The Moth during an open-mic StorySLAM in Madison where the theme of the night was “Fish Out of Water.” Here’s Alexandra Rosas live at The Moth.
==
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. We picked her up and it was a beautiful day. The sun was hitting us and I caught the wind blowing my mother’s hair. Not even a cheap phone camera could ruin the moment.
He’s looking through these pictures. My mother is in hospice, which means she has a wheelchair, which means she has to be lifted in and out of places. He says (to me), “How did your mother get there?”
My son says, “Mom did it.”
My husband says, “You’re kidding.”
(My son) says, “Did you forget she’s Colombian?”
That’s the answer my kids give to everything that I do.
Now, growing up Colombian, 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 we’ll have her for three more months. Maybe six.
But he forgets she’s Colombian, too.
So, 18 months later, we are at Lake Michigan sitting on the bluff. I take my mother to these places and we’re enjoying our days together. And on this last day, I take her over to the wishing fountain in front of hospice. In my hand are some coins, and she throws her coins in the fountain and she shouts, “Hawaii!” She does it with such force that I don’t know that if she’s really pissed off because she never got to go to Hawaii. 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.
We make our wishes, and we’re throwing in her coins. 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.
She keeps throwing in her coins. She’s got this innocence and exuberance in her face. She’s talking, and all of a sudden, she looks at me and she says, “Do you sing and dance?” I don’t have the heart to tell her that not only do I not sing and dance, but I’m really bad at both of them.
She wants me to say yes, She looks at me like I have to say yes, and I go, “Yeah. I even do shows.”
She says, “You look like you could.”
Alexandra Rosas on stage at a Moth StorySLAM in Madison, Wisconsin. (Photo by Hedi Lamarr Rudd)
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’m going to take her shopping with my youngest son for back-to-school. I kiss her on the forehead and I tell her, “I’ll be back in the morning, 9:00. Be ready.”
At 8:20, my phone rings and it’s the hospice center. The nurse says, “Your mother is sick. You have to come.”
So I rush over. I go into her room and the nurse says, “Your mother’s kidneys are done. We need to start the comfort procedure.”
Now, months ago, my mother had signed these forms asking for a comfort procedure — meaning when things end, there is to be no hospital. We just let things go. But she signed those papers when she used to be sick. And she’s not sick anymore. We were just at the lake and we’re going to go shopping today. I step in between the nurse and my mother and in our secret language, Spanish, 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 have had my wish for the past 18 months. 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. 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 OK. You can go”.
I asked the nurse how long my mother will have after the morphine starts. She says, “Two days.”
Six days later, my mother is still with us because — why does everyone keep forgetting we’re Colombian?
When she passes away, I’m there and I want to say something, but I become a little 4-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.
Alexandra Rosas on stage at a Moth StorySLAM in Madison, Wisconsin. (Photo by Hedi Lamarr Rudd)
To find more information on The Moth’s live storytelling events in Wisconsin, check out StorySLAMs in Madison and StorySLAMs in Milwaukee.
