El Purio: Night Time of Reflection

El Purio-Night Time

 My telephone shows no signal bars in the room but still holds enough of a charge for me to call Fabiana.  

I am spending the night at a training center for mill workers; La Casa del Azucarero. The sleeping quarters of the training center consists of three or four bunk filled rooms strung along a cement walkway. My room has six sets of bunk beds in close quarters jutting out from the walls left and right.  At the far end of the room the only door other than the entrance leads to a bathroom with one shower.

Night has arrived when I finish my shower and step outside to find that magical spot where something that would pass for a signal exists.

I listen intently to Fabiana, trying to get an update of the happenings on the home front. A quick hello and she cuts to the chase. 

"Your mother is going downhill. She’s calling the dog Sasha.” 

Sasha is my daughter’s name. My mother does not have dementia. On the contrary, her lucidity makes her very aware of her body’s decline. At ninety-five, she has stretched thin the resiliency of her body. Walking, painting, reading; all the activities she had once enjoyed daily are now things of the ever growing past, never again to be performed. Her remaining time is a slow crawl to the finish line, but she is doing all within her power to be tortoise-slow about it.  

“I want to stay right here,” she would say, feebly stomping her feet in front of her wheelchair, any time the subject of death and dying came up. She did not want to leave this room, this house, this earthly realm. 

I recognize the irony. For years she over dramatized my trips to Cuba by saying that it would “kill her and my father” if I went. That they both would die of heart attacks if I went to see “my little friends.” She actually meant Fidel and Raul, who took everything away from them. As if I actually knew them. I was killing them. Well, my father died years ago of a heart attack brought on by a particularly delicious portion of “caldo Gallego” (Galician stew). But here was my mother knocking on heaven’s door while I was on the island. Was I killing her? 

The news of her rapid degeneration comes as a shock, and my sister, Fabiana added, is in dire emotional straits trying to cope with the situation. We talk for an hour, Fabiana filling me in on the details, which include information of the Hospice care provider hastily chosen and the planned daily visit schedule of the nurses. I find it hard coming to terms with this recent turn of events. Hell, just a few days ago I had kissed her goodbye, trusting that I would be back in no time. She had gifted me with a big smile. 

I glance towards the cafeteria and see the promotora cultural and a few others waiting for me outside. It is dinner time. Fabiana and I finish our depressing conversation and I walked towards the group. The promotora looks like she is about to tease me for being on the phone for such a long time. I feel tired and overwhelmed, so before she can say a word, I blurt out: “My mother is dying. That’s why I was on the phone.” 

The mood changes immediately; as if I have slapped her. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Once seated and having ordered a light meal of whatever they have on hand, I explain the backstory: how she had not been in great shape when I left her a few days ago; my wife’s assessment that she has taken a turn for the worse in the last couple of days, after I left to embark on this trek.

 “I have to start thinking of Plan B,” I tell them. “I have to start thinking of cutting the trip short,” I explain. “Maybe fly out of Santa Clara.” 

I eat my meal quietly, unhappy on many levels. The thought of having to quit the walk after the first day frustrates me, no end. It’s not wasting the months of planning that I think about but the fact that no one will do this but me. There is no “Plan B” to create the Camino del Cimarron. I reluctantly force my brain to strategize plans for an exit through Santa Clara, the nearest international airport. I had thought long and hard about leaving my mother with my sister on what might end up being her death bed. When I talked to her about my concerns, my mother comforted me by saying “of course you have to go. What are you going to do, wait around for me to die?” 

But now, after talking to Fabiana, I am not so sure of myself, of my choices. Should I stay? What if she died? Could I handle making the choice of not being around for her death? I mean, we were not the closest mother and son, but still. It just didn’t seem right. 

***

Sitting on my bunk bed after dinner, I share my concerns about my mother with my roommate. The doc in him comes out. He asks about my mother's condition. As best as I can, I describe her congenital heart condition. 

“She’s ninety-five,” I say. “Her lungs fill with water slowly. She has them emptied. But other than that, she is strong. Her mind is all there. She’s not sick. She’s just ninety-five years old.” I pause. “She’s dying of nothing, I joke with her.” 

He frowns, “Then, you never know. She might go tonight. Or live to be 100.” 

We talk about the situation somberly as I repacked my bag. I looked at my feet. The first blisters had appeared. Too much weight on my shoulders.