Tola’s Last Day
When a phone call from Mexico rings in the middle of the night, Maria’s pulse quickens and her stomach tightens. The call is likely from a tiny town in Jalisco two thousand miles away. The odds are that it is not good news.
Maria is the eldest daughter of her family. The responsible one. The one who everyone depends on - her elderly parents in particular. But also her brother, her sister, her four children, and her husband. She is the first to get the call. The one who decides what is to be done. The one who does it.
Her parents are in their late eighties. Her mother gets around in a wheelchair, with the constant help, attention, and tenderness of her husband of more than 60 years. Victoria and Ezequiel - Mama Tola and Papa Quel - live in the house Papa Quel built. Maria was born in that house. She has a lifetime of memories - enchanting memories of her childhood, as little girl gathering handfuls of tiny frogs into the pockets of her apron after a spring showers. Sweet memories of the smell of fresh gorditas baking on the comal. The memories of snuggling on the lap of her grandfather Papa Valente who covered her with his thick warm sarape and the shade of his huge sombrero.
But there are other memories as well: calls from family who had just lost a beloved aunt, uncle, or cousin. Calls from the hospital after an auto accident, a fall, a diagnosis. Calls that would tear Maria away from her own family for weeks or months at a time.
Her pulse quickens and her stomach tightens. It is her father calling. Her mother is in the hospital, and very ill.
Maria packs her bags, gathers her documents, and says her goodbyes. In fewer than 12 hours she is on the plane to Mexico. It is always a grueling journey, sometimes all day, sometimes all night, sometimes all day and all night. Already beyond exhausted, a cousin picks her up at the airport and drives her to the hospital.
Her father has pneumonia and is quite ill himself. Yet he has been keeping vigil in his wife’s hospital room for days. He also is exhausted. Maria hugs him. Her mother is awake, resting in bed, with an IV tube in her arm.
Maria goes to her, holds her hands. But her mother does not recognize her. Tola is confused.
Maria tells her, “Tola, it is me Luli. Your daughter…” Her voice trails off.
Tola studies her but does not recognize her. “No, tu no eres mi hija, tu no eres Luli.” The sedative that the nurse has given her can have an unexpected stimulant effect, particularly with elderly patients. Tola is quite insistent that the woman at her bedside is not her daughter, but rather an imposter.
Already in a fragile state, exhausted by the grueling journey, Maria stands by the bedside, holding her mothers’ hands. And her mother does not know her. Maria’s heart is at the point of breaking. But she is there holding her mothers’ hands.
After a while, Tola begins to speak. But she is speaking to people who are not present: people who have passed, her parents, her cousins, her sisters, acquaintances from long ago. She speaks to them animatedly, as if they were sitting in the room.
Maria doesn’t quite know what to make of this. Most likely it is the effect of the medication, and yet Maria can’t help but wonder whether there could be more to it than that. In these moments the veil between worlds is so thin as to be transparent.
A young doctor comes by the room, and leads Maria outside into the hallway. In soft, low tones he explains to her that her mother is very ill, and yet in no immediate danger. She has been in the hospital for a week. Tests were done. He believes much of her behavior could be the result the interaction of the drugs and her age. After all, the young doctor states with authority, her brain scan is that of an eighty year old.
Maria respectfully tells the good doctor that her mother is eighty six years old. Tola would have giggled with delight to know that the doctor took her to be in her sixties.
The young doctor feels responsible to advise Maria of the options. They could transfer her to a larger hospital. They could arrange an air evacuation to the States. They could transfer her by ambulance to the border. None of these suggestions would have made any sense even if Maria wasn’t in her utterly empty state. She thanks the doctor.
When she returns, she sees her father slumped in the corner, coughing, and wheezing.
“Daddy, you have to go home and get some rest.”
“No mija, I need to be here with Tola.”
“No Daddy, you need to go home. My cousin is driving back to San Sebas, I need you to go home with him and you need to get some rest.”
Her Daddy was in no shape to argue with her, and he followed her orders. He left for home, leaving her alone with her mother.
By this time, her mother is asleep. The room is silent. As tired as she is, Maria holds vigil.
She awakens with a knock on the door. It is Dr. Isunza, the doctor who had attended to both her parents for many decades. His manner is more than courteous, it is one of sincerity, concern, and kindness. Maria is touched that he has come to see Tola so late in the night.
She explains to him the options she was given. Her heart at the breaking point, she searches for counsel, the right choice, the right thing.
Dr. Isunza speaks in a calm, clear, and gentle voice.
“Maria. Take her home.”
Maria looks into his eyes, which are shining with both compassion and conviction.
“Maria. I have gone through this with my father, just these last few months. You don’t need to do all those things. This is her time. Take her home.”
Maria believes in angels. It is not a fluffy, wishful, sentimental belief. Angels are as real as the fingers of her hand. She knows her guardian angel by name. In this very moment she knows it is her angel speaking to her, lighting her way, and lightening her load
The next day, -Tola’s last -is an eventful one. All the family had been informed. It is a miracle that so many came and from so far away. Tola’s son Pepe and his wife Alicia arrive, along with Tola’s youngest daughter and namesake Vicki. The next generations come as well - Vicki’s daughter Lucia, Tola’s grandsons Dario, Armando, Albert and his wife Nancy with Tola’s great grandson Josue.
All of these flew in from California, the same long, arduous trip Maria had made. But there are many relatives in the town, nieces and nephews, cousins and children. Tola’s sisters Pancha and Maria came early in the morning to visit. Tola is very excited to see her sisters, and they chatter happily like birds chirping together. Lucia, Tola’s first and very dear grandchild sits with her. Tola tells her about all the girls in town that she had to fight off, the one’s that were after her handsome novio, Ezequiel. She had never told that to anyone, certainly never to Maria.
Her grandchildren and her great grandchildren gather in her room.. She so loves them all, and they love her. A steady stream of family and friends come to see her all day long. Tola is alert and happy.
Later in the afternoon Maria comes into the room and brings a fresh blouse for her mother.
Tola looks at the blouse, and shakes her head. “No, Luli, I can’t wear that blouse!”
“Why not?”
“It is too colorful, too bright to wear.”
“But why Tola?”
“Porque ya estamos de luto mija.”
She says that it is too colorful to wear during this time of mourning.
Maria is puzzled. Tola continues.
“Ay Mija, it is too bad Ezequiel isn’t here. It is so sad.”
“What do you mean, Mama?”
“He’s gone, and I miss him so very much!”
“Mom, he’s in the kitchen.”
“What?”
“He’s in the kitchen eating chilaquiles.”
“You mean he’s not dead? De veras?”
“Mom, he’s in the kitchen, I’ll go get him.”
Maria brings her dad to Tola, and she lights up as if he has been raised from the dead. It is a beautiful, glorious reunion for Tola. Papaquel is a bit confused, but he has a lifetime of learning to go with it. That has always served him well. Papaquel goes with it.
When Papaquel leaves the room Tola confides to Maria: “Yo estaba entre dos rios.”
She had been between two rivers. Maria wonders about what she is saying, what it means.
Later, in the evening Tola sleeps peacefully. Everyone has come and been with her. At a certain point Maria, sitting next to her, gently rubs her shoulder. “Tola, how are you doing?” Tola continues sleeping. Maria is concerned, and shakes her a little more forcefully. No response, Tola is too deep to be awakened.
Maria sends for the town’s priest. Surrounded by her family, Tola receives the last rites. In the outer room her relatives and neighbors gather.
Tola’s breathing becomes erratic. Instead of moving air, her breaths merely rattle. After a few minutes they stop.
A relative who happens to be a nurse puts a small mirror to Tola’s mouth and nose. There is no fog to be seen, and no pulse. With great respect she blesses Tola and offers her condolences.
The women go about the tasks they know to do. Tola has a drawer with the dress, stockings, and shoes she wanted to be buried in. The women clean her, dress her, brush her hair with gentleness and reverence. Maria does her make-up, just a tiny amount. He mother is radiant, beautiful even without the make-up. It is as if a light shines on her. People remark about that to this day - just how beautiful and peaceful she was. She lies on her bed, for the last time, for the last night.
The prayers in the outer room continue the entire night. The home is filled with the sound of voices chanting the rosary and the fragrance of candles. Relatives take turns in vigil as others go back to their homes to sleep.
Maria asks her brother Pepe to find the casket for the funeral, one that is light blue as Tola had wished. Mass is at 10 o’clock the next morning.
Maria’s cousin, a priest from a neighboring town, was able to come to say Tola’s Mass. She was lying in her pink dress, in her light blue casket, as she had wished. During the entire Mass four people stood by her, one at each corner. Friends and family rotated and took their turns to honor and pray for their beloved Tola.
Sadly, the priest cannot accompany Tola to the Campo Santo, as he has a wedding in another town that day.
The family accompanies her to the Campo Santo on foot. She is lowered into her grave, which she had chosen years ago. She lies between her son Victor on one side, and her parents on the other. Since there is no priest to lead the prayers, a relative steps in. Tola, a stickler for details, would not have been very happy that a priest is not available at the very end.
But life does not always happen the way we want it to happen. That’s life. Death, also, does not always happen the way we want it to happen. That’s death.
When my time comes to cross the river, I hope I cross it like Tola.
