Knots
Abstract
Stuck between being a daughter and a mother, Maria’s story highlights the sacrifices and gains in the caregiving experience. Her story explores what exactly is lost in becoming a caregiver. As she learns what caregiving is and teaches it to her daughter, the physical and emotional toll of being a caregiver is illustrated. Maria’s story is told in third person from Maria’s point of view and dispersed within her narrative is the first point of view of her daughter, who first hand witnesses and experiences Maria’s turmoil.
I purposely chose to illustrate the toxic and enriching side of caregiving through a narrative. This short story is prominently inspired by three pieces. Ricardo Nuila’s “I am a Rock”served as inspiration as I also wrote about a family and the internal struggles they might face when faced with health misfortune. Authur Kleinman’s “Caregiving-The Odyssey of Becoming More Human” also discusses caregiving and goes deeper into the emotional and human impact it has on the caregiver, which was of great interest to me and this piece. I was also further inspired by Lan Li’s “The edge of expertise: Representing barefoot doctors in Cultural Revolution China.” I adopted Li’s concepts of self-cultivation and self-annihilation and used it to explain the good and bad of caregiving in my piece of work. Furthermore, I researched methods of expressing emotions caregivers feel and family dynamics, all of which can be found in the reference section.
“Knots” also takes elements from my own family, as the main character takes after my mother. However, the piece remains a fictional piece as I have altered some events and changed the name of the characters. My goal is to make the readers aware of the emotional, physical, and mental toll caregiving can have on a person, but also to show the different types of self-annihilation a caregiver experiences. Additionally, with this piece I wanted to show what caregiving looked like within a Mexican household, in hopes to diversify the existing pool of narratives covering this topic.
Knots
She came into the world wailing.
In 1962, Maria Bela was born in a small town two hours away from Monterrey, México, to the Cruz family. A family built on the shoulders of a lanky farmer’s boy and an impoverished ambitious girl, who eloped at the age of 13 and 16 respectively. Maria, their third born child would find herself with all the responsibilities of the first born. Maria welcomed her eight younger siblings in this small town of dirt roads and lively people. The Cruz children’s skin tones ranged from porcelain white to tawny to chestnut, a testament to their indegenious and spanish blood. With so many siblings, Maria’s mother’s attention remained fixated on her younger siblings. The attention Maria didn’t get from her mother she found in her grandmother, Mama Concha whom she shared a bed with. Needless to say, Maria’s relationship with her mom was a strained one but not for the lack of love.
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I see my mom rub vaseline into my grandma’s legs, legs that to me at the age of six appear as a map of bulging purplish, greenish highways. Later I learn that they’re not scars at all, but varicose veins. A few years later, I noticed them on my own mom, but not that day. That day I stood outside the restroom, waiting for my grandpa to come out. I am to look out for him, although I am sure that if he falls my 3 foot frame would not hold his 6 foot frame. Still my mom teaches me to stand behind him, ready to act if he so slightly loses balance. Everyday it’s the same routine. Everyday my grandma showers first, then while my grandpa showers, I wait for him and my mom tends to my grandma. It’s been this way for the past three weeks.
I look forward to our every night movie nights. I sit on the rug while the adults sit on the couches, and my little brother plays with his toy cars across the room in the kitchen area. My house is small and with my grandparents here, it feels even cozier. It is why I am so startled when they mention they must leave soon. When they do leave, I let my mom know I wish they had never come. I get slapped that day. “Son mí sangre, Ale!” my mom shouts at me while I hold my cheek. They’re my blood, Ale.
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At 7 years old, Mama Concha took Maria to the doctor after she developed multiple fevers and chills. The fevers persisted on and off for days, not an uncommon thing for children of her age in her town at the time. However, after Mama Concha noticed the stillness that descended on Maria’s shoulder and dullness that filled her gaze, grandma had enough and took her to see the local doctor. Diagnosed with rheumatic fever, Maria soon found herself bed ridden. No longer was she able to run through those dirt roads. As the days turned to weeks and weeks into months, Maria’s eyes grew more and more despondent. But she kept heart because her grandma stayed with her day in and day out. Who was she to feel pity on herself when she did nothing? Her grandma washed her, fed her, and tucked her in beside herself every night. So when Maria’s family afforded the money necessary to pay for her treatment, Maria forced herself to walk. With her grandma’s help, she woke up two hours before school to wash and eat. Then she started her walk on those dirt roads. She saw the sun rise before she felt its warmth on her cheeks. The walk that usually took 15 minutes, now took an hour to complete. Step after step, she saw her classmates run past her, step after step, she felt the familiar pat on her shoulder from her siblings hurried pass to school. But she kept at it, step after step. She wanted to study, numbers thrilled her. She dreamt of one day working at a bank or firm. She thought, “If my father can drive across the country for 18 hours a day and my mom can wake up long before dawn to start on her daily orders of tortillas and laundry cleaning, then I can walk for an hour.” And she did. Soon the hour became 40 minutes, 30 minutes, and finally 15 minutes.
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A knot formed in my throat the day I told my mom I wished her parents never came to visit. It grew in coarseness after I learned my grandparents had left to take care of my great grandmother, who had recently fallen. Why wasn’t someone standing behind her? My great grandmother, Mama Concha as my mother affectionately called her, had recently begun to lose her memory and they feared that this fall would exacerbate her condition. That night in dreams, I chased my mother down the sidewalk, begging her to recognize, “Mamí, it’s me. Ale, your daughter. Let’s go home.” But she’d pull her arm from my grip and walk away again and again and again and…
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Two years later, after the family established their daily routines, Papa would come home and request the children wash el niño, his nickname for his 18 wheeler, and Ama would rotate between who would deliver her orders, the second oldest child of the Cruz family fell sick. No one could have noticed it earlier, not with how skinny they all were. But soon Pepito developed pulsating headaches and frequent nosebleeds, both of which they attributed to his lack of sleep. It wasn’t until his persistent fevers and pale skin caught the attention of Ama, their mother, that he was taken to Monterrey to get diagnosed since the local doctors, insisted he only had an infection and kept prescribing antibiotics without much relief. There, a doctor diagnosed him with leukemia and stressed Pepito’s need for immediate dialysis. The family asked for loans to pay for his dialysis. At the time there was no cure for his type of leukemia, so the family was left to do whatever they could to keep him comfortable. Maria made him tomato smoothies, something she had heard would help his red blood cell count, whatever that was. But to no avail, Pepito died of leukemia in Monterrey a few weeks later. Many of the family blamed the lack of money for their brother’s death, including Ama. Maria was left to look after the children as her Ama fell into depression.
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…again my mom left me, but this time when I woke up she’s actually gone. I make my way to the living room and start cleaning up after my father. I go to put the coffee back on the top shelf, but can’t quite make it. I hope that I don’t stay this height forever. I shouldn’t, I’m only 13. The house, lacking a central AC system, is bitterly cold. Why did mom pick January as her first month to take care of grandpa? Because she’s the “oldest” and must set the example for the rest of her siblings. I pour a package of instant oatmeal into a bowl, setting in the microwave for two minutes while I wake my brother. I am not allowed to turn on the stove yet. As my brother and I set out for school, I make a mental note of the places that need cleaning and stuff my bag with the household bills to check between classes. After school, I call my mom and she sounds distracted. I am quickly drowned out by the noise in the background. She tells me she’ll call back.
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For many years after Pepito’s death, the family lived in peace without another disease wreaking havoc on their members. There were still smaller inconveniences by comparison, such as developing diabetes that made daily tasks a lot more taxing on the body. But diabetes, while not curable, was manageable. First, Ama then Papa developed diabetes, then one of their younger boys. It was a confusing time since the young boy, Emmanuel, developed both hepatitis and diabetes, and the doctors kept ordering him to consume high volumes of sweets to combat hepatitis. Still none of these instances came close to Pepito’s death. Not until the road accident with Papa, and even that only came close.
At the time Maria was already working in Los Estados Unidos as a maid. She had dropped out of highschool after Emmanuel fell sick and money became scarce. Her bosses, a senior caucasian couple, in the US had just submitted the adoption papers in hopes to adopt Maria. It wasn’t because she wanted to leave her biological family behind, but because it provided security. Upon hearing the news that her 44 year old father had completely shattered his right leg in a car accident, she asked the elderly couple to terminate the process. After finding a doctor who promised to save Papa’s leg by inserting metal to replace the shattered bone, Maria devoted night and day to her father. His mother, Mama Concha was too old to properly take care of her son by herself and his wife, Ama, worked to continue to provide for the family. As Maria performed his daily leg exercises on him, she thought of how long gone were the days when she would stay up until 3am to complete homework and wake her father up for his driving shifts.Idling around didn’t suit her father and it showed in the way every little thing irritated him. His foul moods were contagious. So the family established a small store connected to the house. It allowed him to sit when he needed to and kept his mind busy. His anger subsided.
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I don’t like taking my mother’s calls when she’s away. Something about hearing her voice makes the knot in my throat considerably difficult to talk through. I must miss her, I do miss her. But when she arrives home, after a month of being away, I’m always so angry at her. “And what do you want me to do Ale? They’re my blood!” she’ll shout at me. All I can see when she shouts that is how financially burdensome her trips are on the family. I know because I control everything in our home. It consumes my life. All I can think of is the financial and physical state of the house. Whether its taken care of and whether its occupants are too. I’m 15, and I want to worry about crushes, clothes, and friends but I find all that deeply irrelevant. I feel the knot again.“I’m your sangre too! I need you too! And you leave me!” I’ll yell back. “Ale, you know I have to take care of them!” Before the tears fall, I turn and walk away.
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After twelve years, Maria married and moved to the Los Estados Unidos. She did not return to México for another twelve years until she became a permanent resident. Finally, when returns to México, she does so with two children of her own and diabetes. As she walked down the narrow hallway through her parents home, her childhood home, she passed a familiar room. A room where she slept with her Mama Concha, her caregiver, her mentor, her bestfriend, her second mother. Now a vacant room. In Maria’s life, this would prove to be her biggest guilt and regret – that she wasn’t there in her grandma’s final days. That she couldn’t return the favor to care for abuelita, as she had done for her many years back. Her siblings told Maria that Mama Concha wouldn’t have recognized her anyways and that she saved herself some pain. Instead of comforting her, the revelation only distressed her more. There was an ache and tug in her chest that as much as she beated her chest it failed to disappear.
Two years later, Ama could not sleep and eat properly. After months of traveling back and forth from the United States and México, Maria attended her mother’s funeral. The siblings grew concern for their father after hearing his prayer request. Maria, considered the oldest even when she was only second oldest, was forced to come up with a plan that would have all the siblings to look after their father. Her Mama Concha had taken care of her parents, Papa had taken care of Mama Concha, and now she’d be damned if she didn’t do the same for Papa. So, every month a new sibling would take care of Papa, whether it meant moving into their childhood home or bringing Papa to theirs was up to the sibling. It was then that Maria started leaving her home in the US a month at a time to take care of her father.
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I speed pass cars faster than I should. University is not too far from home, but today it feels especially far. I can’t get out of my head the way my friends looked at me when I announced I’d be going home to help my mom with my grandfather instead of joining them for a movie. It was the same gaze they gave me, when I told them I would not be continuing my studies post undergraduate. That, I would need to work and look after my own parents. Their stares take residency in my mind, as I park and walk the dirt path into my home. I walk around the recliner, take my grandpa’s bony hand in mine and kneel in front of him. “¿Quién eres?” Who are you? “Ale!” I shout. His hand squeezes mine as he looks at me but doesn’t see me. Later, while I wait for him outside the restroom, my stomach clenches with disgust as I finally recognize the emotion that filled my friends’ gaze: pity…
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Papa outlived Ama by eight years. In those eight years so much disease plagued the family. Five years after Ama’s death, the youngest of the girls, Dolores, died of breast cancer. Two years after, the eldest, Jose, who was already half paralyzed by a stroke passed away. Both of these deaths tugged at Papa’s heart. It was not until after Dolores, that Papa chose to follow Maria to her home in the US, rather than to make Maria come to him. Maria thought he did it to get away from a house that reminded him so starkly of the loved ones he had lost. At the end, when Papa passed Maria was satisfied that she had cared for him until his last day. She bathed him and put his socks on for him. She slept next to him and got up as many times as he needed to help him relieve himself. She cut up his food and fed it to him. She kept him company by talking to him even if it meant having her voice go hoarse from all the yelling. She did good by him until the end.
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As I walk backwards in front of my grandpa, holding his outstretched arms to guide him, I am pleasantly surprised by the disgust I felt at the pity directed at me. I understand my friends’ pity is not ill-intended, but is born from a place of love for me. They want me to chase my dreams and live my life. I understand because I felt that way about myself once. I felt I had to give up myself to adequately support my mom’s caregiving and one day, I, myself, take care of her. And part of that still hasn’t changed since. I know I have to make sacrifices and it feels heavy to do so, but I do not pity myself or my mom. It’s true caregiving promotes self-cultivation and self-annihilation. You are a better listener, more patient and selfless. However, self annihilation when it comes to caregiving is such an odd thing. My mom lost her opportunity at an education. I lost years of my adolescence to rage. Rage at my mom and my family for expecting so much from my mom. We both had to sacrifice our emotions by bottling them in. Yet this type of self-annihilation does not stand alone. When you’re a caregiver, you give pieces of yourself to that person and them to you. You give in the moments of physical, mental and emotional toil. When they leave they take a piece of you with them. They take the self that you were with them. It’s as if your life line and theirs create a knot, and when they die, they pull at it, sometimes ripping their line with yours, leaving you with a tighter knot that’s all yours to carry. And sometimes they rip out the knot you’ve created with them, and you’re left with the ghost of it.
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As I look up at my mother sitting across from me, I feel so tired. The dark circles under her eyes tell me she’s past tired and I have to force myself to look away. I ask myself, will I be able to be a caregiver like her? I think yes, I am used to the self-annihilation that requires me to sacrifice my time, emotions and life by now. But I am filled with fear, because as much as my soul squirms and reaches out for my mom’s, for the person I am caregiving for, I know it won’t be enough. So yes there are times when I distance myself from her because I need to focus on my life but also because if I don’t she will take more of me when she goes. I walk outside and stare at the setting sun, its colors vibrant as always and I look away again. Will she forget me someday? Will I lead her as I did grandpa? Will I feed her as she did her tiny brother? Still, I don’t pity myself, because amidst all that grief and pain are some of the most joy filled moments of my life. So I look back at the vibrant colors and let the tears fall and the knot at my throat finally come undone.
References
Kleinman, Arthur. “Caregiving: the odyssey of becoming more human.” Lancet (London, England) vol. 373,9660 (2009): 292-3. doi:10.1016/s0140-6736(09)60087-8
Li, Lan Angela. “The edge of expertise: Representing barefoot doctors in Cultural Revolution China.” Endeavour vol. 39,3-4 (2015): 160-7. doi:10.1016/j.endeavour.2015.05.007
Nuila, Ricardo. “I am a Rock.” Guernica. (2016).
ObjectifsFilmsSG. “Personally Speaking: The Art of Caregiving.” Youtube. (2018). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrEkq-JCVmI
Schulz, Richard. “Family Caregiving Roles and Impacts.” Families Caring for an Aging America., U.S. National Library of Medicine, 8 Nov. 2016, www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK396398/.