At this exact time two years ago, I was in the midst of packing for a trip to Mexico hoping that I would arrive in time to help my mother-in-law who was found in her home unconscious a few days before. As soon as we heard of her condition, we started talking to different people—some neighbors, doctors, friends of Paula. None of the stories were the same. One minute we would learn that she was doing much better, and then the next, it seemed like she might not make it through the night. She was in one hospital and then another—almost without notice—all we knew was that we didn’t really know anything.
By the 23rd of December, the doctor caring for Paula called my husband and said he should get down there; her condition was dire. He hoped he could revive her, but pneumonia, cancer, and her semi-conscious state could not be cured with rounds of heavy antibiotics.
My husband could not make that trip. He didn’t have a current passport, and expediting a passport couldn't happen Christmas Eve or Christmas day (closed). I had a current passport, and so I looked for a flight leaving early Christmas morning. We needed her to hold on so I could arrive, nurse her to health, and look for continuing care or a new home in the event she would need assisted living—at least until she was back on her feet.
The thought of heading to Mexico at short notice was daunting. I had given my family 24-hour notice that I was leaving on a plane Christmas morning. They asked me questions. Where is San Miguel de Allende? I didn’t know (still don’t on a map). Who are you staying with? I didn’t know. Who is meeting you at the airport? I didn’t know. All I knew was this: I was going to arrive at an airport in Leon, Mexico and that a person with a sign with my name on it would be there. The rest, I would figure out on Christmas day. All that mattered was that I needed to go.
Looking back now, I remember that this was such a weird time. We had held our Christmas party a few days before. We were trying to get my daughter a Microsoft Surface, and a good friend was working hard to make sure we had everything in place (long story, but let’s just say up until late Christmas Eve, while I was packing, we were calling back and forth about the delivery of the BIG XMAS GIFT). I still owe that friend a big plate of gratitude for coming through for us. But while we were getting all that squared away, I was most concerned about how I was going to communicate with my family once I left. Sprint (at the time) did not have cell coverage in Mexico, and I was not sure how to acquire some kind of Mexican phone service. I knew that I could use wifi, and a friend told me about wifi calling (Viber)—but I was not confident about this area of my trip; it’s funny how I could book a plane to “somewhere in Mexico” and feel pretty confident that things would work out, but I was a total nervous Nellie because I didn't know how to get my phone to work abroad. I decided in the end that the phone thing was really NOT IN MY CONTROL. And I found out very soon that nothing would be.
Because I was going to leave early Christmas morning for the airport, I told the kids they could have their dream Christmas. I was not going to tell them to wait until a certain time to wake me up. Rather, I told them they could wake me as early as they liked. And early it was when they came in to get me to come down and share in all the glory and wonder that a Christmas morning offers. There was a hush in the a.m., a nervous hush because in the midst of everything, there were presents under the dim colored lights of the Christmas tree. The stockings were full, overflowing. Cookies, milk gone. The wash cloth heavy with soot. Santa had come and gone. What they didn’t know, but Mike and I did know, was that Mema (our name for Paula) had not made it past 11:30 pm the night before. We had missed the call in the middle of the night, but it was on Mike’s voicemail when we got up. It was a very bittersweet morning. I knew then that I was not going to Mexico to nurse Paula back to health. I was going to prepare her funeral.
I can’t help but remember this day as a very sad one, but there is something I celebrate in spite of it all. At this very time two years ago, Mike was able to speak with his mother one last time—the only time she was lucid after her fall. He got to tell his mother he loved her, and she was able to do the same. That truly was a beautiful gift. Rest in Peace Paula. We miss you.
hot Dog! A moving memory for sure! You are a blessing to your family and I know they know it! I remember your struggle then and how awesome you were to accompish so much on such short notice. A beautiful image form then.
I remember so well your story! So moving Daryl to read all about it again! A wonderful tribute to Paula. How lovely your husband was able to speak to his mother that one last time!
