My Second Mother

          Avian Martinez

Aivan Martinez is 19 year old 1^st year student at FIU who is majoring in English and History. He enjoys writing short stories, writing about technology, the internet, and playing video games. On his free time, he codes Web sites and loves to play with his iPhone. He runs a blog called yummypinata.com which is a blog of tech and geekery. He also has a twitter: @aivan if you wish to follow him.

MY SECOND MOTHER

Avian Martinez

   My grandma is 83 years old. I remember when I was in elementary school and she would pick me up. Every day she would walk from our small townhouse in South Florida that my mom worked feverishly to afford, all the way to my school, an umbrella in hand to cover herself from the scorching heat, ready to walk me home. We’d have a wonderful time together along the way. She would ask me how my day had gone. She would take me by the hand and asked if I had a girlfriend yet, half jokingly. I would laugh and always tell her I thought girls were icky.

       When my family moved from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, the place where my mother and father had met, my grandma was the first to come with my mother to this country. She had always been like a second mother to me – a guardian angel of sorts. I wasn’t born, and yet, she was taking care of me, watching over me. I was born in the beginning of October in Harlem on a cold night. My mom tells me that grandma wouldn’t sleep; she wouldn’t even let the nurses do their jobs to take care of me – she was always the protector. I remember, when I had a bad habit of wetting the bed, I would always be so embarrassed. My bed would usually end up soaked and I would have to sleep somewhere else. I didn't want to wake my mom up because she would always be mad. So I would sneak into my grandma’s room and sleep in her bed with her, she always comforted me with welcome arms.

          My grandma doesn’t remember much anymore. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease when I was ten. I didn’t really know what that meant, but all I remember was sitting in the hospital waiting room playing games with my brother. They told me that grandma was going to forget things soon, little things at first. Things like making coffee in the morning. Things like how to put her shoes and clothes on. The little things. They said that maybe if we helped her along, she would get it, she would recover. They were lying, just trying to make us feel better. I never noticed though. The years passed by me like a blur. I had a lot of growing to do. Now-a-days, she doesn’t remember who I am anymore. She looks at me, everyday, with lost eyes. Always begging the question: who are you? And it hurts – it hurts like hell.

            I remember one night, I think I was 13, I found her in her room. She was crying, crying because she couldn’t remember anymore. Crying because she knew that she was losing it. She was self-aware. She just sort of sat there, staring at her own hands. I didn’t really know what to do. I called my mom. You know, she calls for her mom sometimes? She’s forgotten that she died. Do you want to know what helpless looks like? It looks like an old woman, staring at you, asking for her mother like a lost child.

            I cry sometimes. My dad says that men shouldn’t cry but I don’t agree with him. I think emotion is healthy. I cry because I know that one day, probably soon, she is going to die. I worry about her death. I fear it. I fear it for the same reasons for anyone to fear death but sometimes I feel like dammit, I have already lost her once! I lost her when I was ten. I lost her the moment she forgot my name. I lost her the years that she believed that I was still only a little boy. I lost her and I don’t want to have to lose her again.

           I wish I could tell her how much I have grown. I wish I could tell her how I am a big boy now. I wish I could tell her how much I miss her, the old her, and eventually the new her too. When I was younger, I used to dream that when I woke up the next morning, she would be back to normal. Everything would go back to normal. But it never was. I keep wishing for the past but what I have is the present. It makes me sort of lose track of things, take things for granted. Every morning, every day, I miss an opportunity to tell her the most important thing that any human being can tell another. That I love her. So, I want take this opportunity now, and forever.

Grandma, I love you.