During the past year, we’ve all been separated from our normal lives, from our workplaces and colleagues, and worst of all, from the people we love. In this week’s episode, we’re sharing two stories on the theme of separation.
Part 1: When Nestor Gomez is separated from his mother during the pandemic, it brings back painful memories of a different kind of separation.
Nestor “the Boss” Gomez was born in Guatemala and came to Chicago undocumented in the mid 80’. He told his first story at a Moth story slam to get over the stuttering that plagued his childhood, and since then he has won 57 Moth Slams and 3 Grand slams. Nestor also created, hosts, produces and curates his own storytelling show 80 Minutes Around the World, which features the stories of immigrants and refugees from different parts of the world, as well as their descendants and allies, in hopes of providing a better understanding of the realities, struggles and dreams related to the Immigrant experience. 80 Minutes Around the World is also available as a Podcast. Nestor also published a collection of stories detailing his experiences driving for ride sharing title “Your Driver Has Arrived.” To listen and subscribe to the podcast, to buy his book and to learn more about Nestor, visit his website Nestorgomezstoryteller.com.
Part 2: Sharon Chandar feels helpless when she find out there’s been a COVID-19 outbreak at her elderly mother’s nursing home.
Sharon Chandar proudly works for a Canadian Aerospace company in Ontario. She spent many years advocating for changes to policies and procedures in the healthcare industry for Alzheimer’s Disease. She is a Reiki certified healer who practices yoga and meditation and spends her time in nature. Sharon has two grown girls that live with their partners, a 7-month-old grand-baby and a 4-year-old Morkie puppy named Kitty.
Story Transcripts
Part 1: Nestor Gomez
When I was a kid living in Guatemala, my parents emigrated to the United States leaving me and my siblings in the care of my grandparents and uncles. After many years, we were finally able to be reunited with our mother here in Chicago.
Nestor Gomez is a champion storyteller. Listen to his previous Story Collider story here.
Ever since the time that we were separated, my mother has made it a point to celebrate any special occasion at her house. If it's a graduation, a birthday, celebrate it at her house with as many family members as possible. And every summer, almost every weekend, she makes some of her famous refried black beans and some of her delicious carne asada tacos.
Nestor and his mother, in pre-COVID times.
Last year, I was looking forward to summertime so I could go to my mom’s house and have some of her delicious carne asadas. Sadly, the coronavirus hit the nation and all kinds of celebrations and gatherings were put on pause. I could not go see my mother but at least I could call her.
“I made some food for you,” my mother said as soon as she answered the phone.
I'm almost 50 years old now but my mother still cooks food for me from time to time. My mother shows her love for me by cooking meals for me and I show my love for my mother by eating the food that she cooks for me.
“I cannot go to your house to have carne asada or to have any meals,” I told my mom, “because due to the dangers of the coronavirus, the government has advised that young people like me should stay away from old people like you.”
I tell this to my mom and as soon as I say this my mom starts laughing. You see comic relief is a survival mechanism for communities at risk. And since we are a low-income immigrant family, we often joke among our misery and troubles.
But not everything has been fun and games. The years that we spent away from our mother were a nightmare for us. We spent years without being able to see , kiss or hug our mother. Those years were not fun at all.
Sadly, the coronavirus has managed to keep our family separated and put us on a similar condition as we were before.
“Well, since you don't want to come to my house to pick up the food then I'm going to go to your house to drop it off,” my mother says as she hangs up the phone before I can tell her that it's not a good idea for her to drive to my house and expose herself to COVID-19, just to bring me some food.
A few minutes later I see a car and I see my mother. She is carrying two large plastic bags full of Tupperware. She approaches the door of my house, drops the food on the floor and steps back.
I look at my mom and I think that she is smiling. I can't see her face because of the mask that she is wearing but I can see her eyes and I think that she is smiling in spite of the tears that I see rolling down her face. I want to hug her so badly but I know I can’t, so I don't.
I remember the last time that I felt this need, this extreme need to hug my mother. My siblings and I had just arrived to Chicago and we were about to be reunited with our mother. We were standing on the hallway of her building waiting for our mother to open the door. As soon as she opened the door, my sister, my middle brother and myself, we ran to her side and we clung to her body.
Our youngest five-year-old brother stood by the side not knowing what to do.
“I'm hungry,” he finally said a couple of minutes later.
“Here, have some cookies,” my mother said giving him some cookies.
“Gracias, senora. (Thanks, lady),” my brother responded.
“Don't call me senora. I'm your mother,” my mother said to him.
I understood my brother that day. He was too young when my mother left and he didn't recognize her anymore. I understood my brother because we had been separated from my mom for so long that it took a while for me and my siblings to feel like a family with my mother again.
Today, I recognize my mother in spite of the masks that she is wearing. She is no longer the young lady that left Guatemala in search of a better life in the United States. Neither the strange lady that opened the door when we were reunited. She spent her whole life working so hard to provide for me and my brothers and it shows.
“I want to hug you so badly,” I tell my mother.
“I want to hug you too,” she says, approaching me. She gets close to me and she extends her elbow. I extend my elbow. We bump elbows in this strange COVID-19 greeting that we all have been forced to adopt.
“Make sure that you eat all your food,” my mother says as she gets into her car.
“I wish that we could eat this meal together,” I tell my mother.
“Soon we are going to be together again,” my mother says.
I heard this and I swear that those are the same words that my mother said as she left Guatemala and left us in the care of our grandparents and uncle. It took a long time, but in the end we managed to be reunited.
I know that it's going to be the same way this time around. I know that we are going to live through this COVID-19 pandemic. And once this COVID-19 pandemic is over, I'm going to run to my mother’s house and I'm going to give her the longest, the biggest, the most loving hug ever. And then I'm going to tell my mom, “How about some tacos, Mom?”
Part 2: Sharon Chandar
When I was a little girl, I was always getting into my mother's makeup, dressing up in her clothes, drowning myself in her perfume and walking around in her high heels. I wanted to be just like her, a lady.
My mother loves to laugh. She has the softest voice that always sings and hums. She has a twinkle in her eyes and a delicate smile. She reminds me of a peony so gentle and beautiful.
Sharon Chandar with her mother, Glory.
Her nieces and nephews would all gather around her at events like she was a movie star. One of her nieces once said to me, “There's something about your mother. She loves to love. She has a mystique about her that makes everything in my world good again.”
I once asked her when she knew she loved me. She gently replied, “I loved you even before you knew yourself.”
She gifted me with the most precious of commodities, her time.
My mother Glory is my world. She made my childhood so magical. Her melody molded me from a child into an adult where she shared in my many first life experiences. We held hands and would sing our song Happy Together by Turtles through anything that life sent our way. We were best friends.
When Glory was 55 years old, I noticed things weren't right. She repeated herself several times in our conversations and made excuses when I brought it to her attention. One time, I followed her in my car and she drove over the speed limit which was out of character for her. She became forgetful and confused, like when she called to tell me all her money was gone but it was because she paid each bill three times.
The doctor diagnosed Glory with early onset Alzheimer's disease. I brought her home to live with me and I took time off work and became her primary caregiver.
After two years, it became too much. I didn't have the necessary support and I felt forced to put my mother into long-term care. For two years my mother was in long-term care and despite them saying that they will take care of her, I hired caregivers, my family and I went in daily to look after her.
Then the COVID-19 pandemic came and I couldn't be there for her. To contain the COVID‑19 outbreak, all the nursing homes are closed to the public, and in doing so my mom was left vulnerable and alone. I was scared and worried about my mother. If the nursing home had issues before COVID, what was going to happen now?
Three weeks later, my brother, sister and I Facetimed with my mother. I see Glory. She's lying in bed. We all begin shouting, “Hi, Glory. We love you, baby. Glory? Glory?”
We're so excited to see her and to talk to her, but she just laid there.
“Wake up, Ma. It's me, Sharon. I'm here. Ma, wake up. Please wake up.” Then we go silent.
The words form in my mind but I don't dare say it. My brother asked what I'm dreadfully thinking. “Why does she look so pale?”
My mother looks white as a ghost. There's no color in her skin. She lost so much weight. It looked as if… I can't bring myself to finish the thought.
Glory didn't wake up during the call and a few minutes later we hang up. The words finally find a way to push through. I begin to cry. My mother is dying.
Two days later the nursing home calls to tell me that they have a COVID-19 outbreak. My mother was throwing up and has a fever. She's tested for COVID and her results come back negative. Yet Glory's fever persists.
She was tested a second time with the same results. No further test was taken to find the source of her fever. She was left undiagnosed and untreated.
I know my mother. I'm not there so I can't tell them what's wrong with her. I feel helpless.
A week later, the nursing home calls to tell me Glory stopped eating. They will allow me to come in and try to feed her. I'm so thankful and appreciative. I feel so fortunate that they will allow me to go in. I don't care about the risk of catching the virus. I'm scared and all I can think about is that I need to get to Ma. My emotions take over me.
I walk in through the front doors. What once was a piazza filled with furniture is now turned into a PPE assembly line. There are boxes piled high with PPE, plastic bags to seal items, hand sanitization bottles and wipes everywhere. It was very well organized.
The staff is decked out in personal protective equipment, face shields, disposable blue masks worn over N95 masks, front and back yellow gowns and gloves. There is no shortage of PPE here.
My temperature is taken. I take off my coat and nervously sealed it in a plastic bag. My hands are shaking.
I'm provided with a yellow gown, gloves and a face shield. I'm told to go straight to my mother's room and to stay inside until I leave later that evening. I'm told under no circumstances am I to leave the room.
I can't process everything so I just nod my head and say yes.
I press the elevator button to go up to the second floor to my mother's room. I'm sweating and anxious. I feel like I'm going to throw up.
The elevator opens and I walk in. It closes and I take the short ride up to the second level. I immediately change my gloves, push through the door with my shoulder and I walk into the infected area.
Rooms that once occupied residents are now left empty. A resident's family member walks into a room wearing a white hazmat suit. PPE carts line the hallway. I walk past the television as a reporter says there's a shortage of PPE in nursing homes. I'm confused.
Where residents once ate a three-course meal in the dining room, styrofoam containers are now handed to them to eat in their room. I'm shaking and I become apprehensive. I'm afraid of what I might find when I walk into my mother's room.
A staff member tells me to cover my hair. My heart beats loudly in my ears, like drums deafening me. My breathing is fast and shallow.
Glory's door is slightly open. I push the door and slowly walk into her room. I find her laying on the bed in a fetal position.
Glory wears a blue hospital gown, her arms and legs contorted like a pretzel. She's frail and brittle, dry paper-thin skin covering bones. She lost so much weight. She looks horrific.
I barely hear her moaning. My eyes well up with tears and my heart bursts open from pain. I look at my mother and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Glory is dying.
I go to her. I'm afraid to touch her, scared I'm going to break her. I gently place my hand in her hand but I don't dare to move it. She's stiff.
“Ma? Ma? It's me, Sharon. Ma, I'm here. Ma, I'm here.”
She hears my voice. Her eyes closed with sticky, yellow-crusted fluid. I can see that she has infections in both of her eyes. She's struggling for breath. Her breathing is labored. Something is wrong with her lungs.
She begins to cry. She's hoarse. Something with her voice. She repeatedly says, “No, no, no.”
I’m crying, shedding silent tears. My heart is exploding, but I can't scream in front of her. I need to make sure she feels safe and protected, so I hold my sobs of pain and horror and unleash my rage into my soul.
Glory turns her head away from me and buries it into the pillow crying, “No, no, no.”
She's in pain. She's hurt. She was left in her hospital bed in a hospital gown for weeks alone. My mother hasn't eaten for days. She was only given water. She has infection in both eyes and pneumonia in her lungs. She has severe diarrhea and open wounds. I believe this is the source of her fever, all of which went untreated.
For weeks, every day I go in to feed her. I'm terrified that every evening I leave Glory, that will be the last time I see her. Every morning I wake up, today would be the day the nursing home would stop me from going in to feed her.
I cry all the time. I beg and I plead for answers. I know that she's dying. Glory will either die in the nursing home alone without her family by her side, or she will die at home with her family by her side and surrounded with an abundance of love.
It was as if the universe moved every obstacle to make this a reality for me. A few years later, two days after she first enters the long-term care, I bring Glory home. I promised her I would and I did.
The next day I celebrate my birthday with my mother and a month later Glory celebrates her 74th birthday with her children, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.
I watch as my elder daughter sits on the bed with her grandmother, the matriarch of our family. My daughter is pregnant with her first child and I can't wait for Glory to meet my first grandchild.
One month after I brought Glory home, I awake at 3:36 AM. I sleep on the edge of the rented hospital bed beside Glory. I look at her lovingly. My lips flutter lightly against the soft, flower‑scented skin. I love how all my senses inhale her essence.
I sprinkle little kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, and finally resting in the crook of her neck. I close my eyes drifting back into sleep.
My eyes fly open, my sister asleep on the couch close by. I call up for her to come quickly. As I hold Glory in my arms and take her hand in mine, my sister kneels on the other side of the bed and takes her other hand. My brother and younger daughter joins us as we pray for Glory’s soul to be blessed and find everlasting peace.
At 3:44 AM, Glory takes her last breath. She's surrounded with an abundance of love from her family.
I didn't know the process that the human body goes through before the heart stops beating and the last breath is taken. That the organs shut down one at a time. I now know. I watched Glory die slowly from the moment they let me into the nursing home. I entrusted her care in the hands of the wrong people.
Not many understand the extent of my love for my mother. I love her as a child loves her mother. I love her as a mother loves her child, as my child, as my baby. Yes, I am her daughter but I took care of her as her mother, as her caregiver, as her protector. I fell deeply in love with my mother, with my Glory.
In truth, when my mother became ill with Alzheimer's, I found my life's purpose. To care for her, to protect her and, above all others, to love her and return to her the love she unconditionally gave to me. I needed her more than she needed me.
Life after mom, it's different. I see everything differently. My lens is simplified. There is a hole in my heart. A part of me is missing. I carry a silent sadness.
I came from her and now she's gone and I'm still here, lost in grief.