The Yahoo! inbox, limited
This is not going to be a happy story. I'm warning you now.
My mother is a character. To say the least. Since she and my dad divorced, I've only known of a handful of boyfriends. She is a bit secretive.
To say the least.
Luis Miguel is the first boyfriend she was ready to introduce to my brother and me. This guy was special. She was not going to hide this one.
I was 18 and just embarking on the journey that is Matt and me, so I was a bit distracted. To be honest, I was wary of this new guy who'd swept my mother off her feet and made her...happy.
I first met him at a very calculated dinner. I can't for the life of me remember where it was, but I remember it was nice, with linen napkins and you could smoke in there. My greatest rebellion at the time was smoking, so when I saw that Luis Miguel smoked Parliaments, I said, "hey, can I have one?" I knew it would make my mother uncomfortable, so I bummed one after the other, and commented on the funny hollow filters.
The months went by. He lived in Houston, so I didn't see him much. Just as well. I didn't want to see him. I was in my own world, and still not comfortable with this new man inmy mother's life.
He sent birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, "saludos," whenever he got the chance. I didn't appreciate or aknowledge any of them.
A couple of years into their relationship, I got used to the idea of him. I'd spent some time with him and realized he wasn't that bad of a guy. He loved my mother, and tried really hard to make us like him.
I noticed, after time, that she was natural around him. She was funny, charming, even, especially when seeing her through his eyes, which were always full of adoration. He celebrated her every nuance.
I'd observe little familiar patterns of her around him: they'd make dinner together, we'd have a casual cocktail while dinner is being prepared, sit down to eat in kind of a formal way -- he was old-fashioned in the way that he always told me to serve Matt's food for him -- he'd praise my mom for her cooking, and never failed to mention how her cooking is much like his own mother's; coffee, after-dinner cigarette, then jokes.
They loved their jokes.
One summer, Luis Miguel asked Matt and me if we needed some new couches, as he was getting some new ones. He said we had to come pick them up in Houston, but he'd pay for the U-Haul, and of course we could stay with him, and how fun, we'll make dinner, and have some drinks, etc.
Matt and I were living in San Antonio at the time, and knowing how I am of the "lonesome for family sort," a weekend trip to Houston for some new couches seemed like a nice idea. Luis Miguel was a solidified family member at this point, and I was rooting for him and my mom to somehow make it work: for her to live with him in Houston, or for him to live with her in Brownsville...
It was the first time we'd spent time with him without my mom around. The night we spent there, I remember drinking gin and tonics and we must have opened two or three bottles of wine. At some point, Luis Miguel got very serious and announced that he'd proposed to my mom a couple of times. Both times, she'd declined, saying she didn't want to get married. Fair enough. He showed me the ring -- a gigantic pink diamond in a perfect little box -- and it must have been the wine or something, but I hugged him for what seemed like minutes and wept. He cried, too, and it sounds like a silly drunken emotion-fest, but it was quite real and I felt as if I objectively witnessed a man's sorrow at not having the woman he loves. He didn't have her the way he wanted.
I can tell you of other memorable times with Luis Miguel, but I'm afraid I won't reach my point if I keep going down the proverbial "Memory Lane."
As fate would have it, LM and my mom broke up. The relationship wasn't going to move forward. His job kept sending him to random places like Ancona, Italy and Dubai, and finally Singapore, which is where he is now.
But not for long.
We've kept in contact, Luis Miguel and I. He never had children, and has always said that Matt, my brother and I were like the kids he never had. We talk on the phone once in a while, but the biggest presence he has in my life is through my Yahoo! inbox, where he sends two to seven forwards a day.
I used to see these forwards as a nuisance. Why would I want to see yet another PowerPoint about how Jesus Christ died for our sins, and if you forward to seven of your friends in the next 30 seconds, your life will be blessed, etc.
Now I see it differently.
There was one e-mail from him that had no attachment. There was no "Fwd." in the subject line.
The subject line was "Pragnosis del doctor" or something like that. I knew he'd had some health issues, but nothing like what I was about to read.
Long story short, Luis Miguel has terminal cancer. A tumor in his kidney spread to his left lung, and there's a separate tumor in his brain. He's fucked.
A separate e-mail went out to "undisclosed recipients" saying something to the effect of "I've accepted what is happening to me, I've been given anywhere from 11 months to 4 or 5 years to live, but I've elected to live out the rest of my days at home in Houston, where I will live out my days as if nothing is happening to me, and I will keep you all in my heart and my prayers."
This was about two weeks ago.
The heartache I felt was, if anything, confusing. I've never experienced something like this before. I'm grateful that no one especially close to me has passed away. In fact, I've been lucky up until this point.
And when someone dies, it's unexpected, sudden. Not in this case. Luis Miguel knows what's happening to him, at 55 years old, and has the unique position of having a vague idea of when he's going to die. Of when he will cease to exist.
When I first read the e-mail, I went into shock mode. Not in a dramatic way, but disconnected, as if he were already dead. I unwittingly envisioned the last visit, or last phone call, or last e-mail...
I've never been religious. In fact, I've been known to be quite contemptuous of religion in general. Thankfully, I've grown out of that insidious contempt and learned to just calm down and accept that it's a large part of many people's lives, even if it isn't a part of mine. But now, when I see a forwarded e-mail from him, I can't help but relish in that he's here one more day. One more day to send me an inspirational e-mail -- something that touched him enough to pass on. While he's still around.
I can't help but feel at peace when I see my inbox shows three new messages. I know it's him sending out his last messages.
As the weeks have passed, I've grown used to the idea. No more shock or anger. Just deep, fleeting sadness. At first, I thought about him every day. At random times, like when I looked at the new throw pillows we've bought for the couches he gave us, and how we threw the old ratty ones away. Why did we do that? Well, they were old...Etc. Or when I'm in the kitchen and reach for the blender that he bought us when Matt graduated from college, and remember the time he and my mom came to visit us in Dallas and my room mate farted in front of him and my mom, and how they just stayed quiet until he left the room, at which point they laughed about it.
My mom says, "Thank God for sparing me that kind of pain." Of course she means that she's glad that she's not in a relationship with him anymore and, oh my God, what could have been? In a short time, she'd be mourning the loss of her partner, and "thank God that that's not the case!" Her words, not mine.
If we were the kids he never had, then he is the step dad I never had. Even though the relationship between he and my mom has come to an end, I haven't let go. As long as there is a semblance of love and kindness, I don't let go.
And I won't. No matter how much time passes.
My mother is a character. To say the least. Since she and my dad divorced, I've only known of a handful of boyfriends. She is a bit secretive.
To say the least.
Luis Miguel is the first boyfriend she was ready to introduce to my brother and me. This guy was special. She was not going to hide this one.
I was 18 and just embarking on the journey that is Matt and me, so I was a bit distracted. To be honest, I was wary of this new guy who'd swept my mother off her feet and made her...happy.
I first met him at a very calculated dinner. I can't for the life of me remember where it was, but I remember it was nice, with linen napkins and you could smoke in there. My greatest rebellion at the time was smoking, so when I saw that Luis Miguel smoked Parliaments, I said, "hey, can I have one?" I knew it would make my mother uncomfortable, so I bummed one after the other, and commented on the funny hollow filters.
The months went by. He lived in Houston, so I didn't see him much. Just as well. I didn't want to see him. I was in my own world, and still not comfortable with this new man inmy mother's life.
He sent birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, "saludos," whenever he got the chance. I didn't appreciate or aknowledge any of them.
A couple of years into their relationship, I got used to the idea of him. I'd spent some time with him and realized he wasn't that bad of a guy. He loved my mother, and tried really hard to make us like him.
I noticed, after time, that she was natural around him. She was funny, charming, even, especially when seeing her through his eyes, which were always full of adoration. He celebrated her every nuance.
I'd observe little familiar patterns of her around him: they'd make dinner together, we'd have a casual cocktail while dinner is being prepared, sit down to eat in kind of a formal way -- he was old-fashioned in the way that he always told me to serve Matt's food for him -- he'd praise my mom for her cooking, and never failed to mention how her cooking is much like his own mother's; coffee, after-dinner cigarette, then jokes.
They loved their jokes.
One summer, Luis Miguel asked Matt and me if we needed some new couches, as he was getting some new ones. He said we had to come pick them up in Houston, but he'd pay for the U-Haul, and of course we could stay with him, and how fun, we'll make dinner, and have some drinks, etc.
Matt and I were living in San Antonio at the time, and knowing how I am of the "lonesome for family sort," a weekend trip to Houston for some new couches seemed like a nice idea. Luis Miguel was a solidified family member at this point, and I was rooting for him and my mom to somehow make it work: for her to live with him in Houston, or for him to live with her in Brownsville...
It was the first time we'd spent time with him without my mom around. The night we spent there, I remember drinking gin and tonics and we must have opened two or three bottles of wine. At some point, Luis Miguel got very serious and announced that he'd proposed to my mom a couple of times. Both times, she'd declined, saying she didn't want to get married. Fair enough. He showed me the ring -- a gigantic pink diamond in a perfect little box -- and it must have been the wine or something, but I hugged him for what seemed like minutes and wept. He cried, too, and it sounds like a silly drunken emotion-fest, but it was quite real and I felt as if I objectively witnessed a man's sorrow at not having the woman he loves. He didn't have her the way he wanted.
I can tell you of other memorable times with Luis Miguel, but I'm afraid I won't reach my point if I keep going down the proverbial "Memory Lane."
As fate would have it, LM and my mom broke up. The relationship wasn't going to move forward. His job kept sending him to random places like Ancona, Italy and Dubai, and finally Singapore, which is where he is now.
But not for long.
We've kept in contact, Luis Miguel and I. He never had children, and has always said that Matt, my brother and I were like the kids he never had. We talk on the phone once in a while, but the biggest presence he has in my life is through my Yahoo! inbox, where he sends two to seven forwards a day.
I used to see these forwards as a nuisance. Why would I want to see yet another PowerPoint about how Jesus Christ died for our sins, and if you forward to seven of your friends in the next 30 seconds, your life will be blessed, etc.
Now I see it differently.
There was one e-mail from him that had no attachment. There was no "Fwd." in the subject line.
The subject line was "Pragnosis del doctor" or something like that. I knew he'd had some health issues, but nothing like what I was about to read.
Long story short, Luis Miguel has terminal cancer. A tumor in his kidney spread to his left lung, and there's a separate tumor in his brain. He's fucked.
A separate e-mail went out to "undisclosed recipients" saying something to the effect of "I've accepted what is happening to me, I've been given anywhere from 11 months to 4 or 5 years to live, but I've elected to live out the rest of my days at home in Houston, where I will live out my days as if nothing is happening to me, and I will keep you all in my heart and my prayers."
This was about two weeks ago.
The heartache I felt was, if anything, confusing. I've never experienced something like this before. I'm grateful that no one especially close to me has passed away. In fact, I've been lucky up until this point.
And when someone dies, it's unexpected, sudden. Not in this case. Luis Miguel knows what's happening to him, at 55 years old, and has the unique position of having a vague idea of when he's going to die. Of when he will cease to exist.
When I first read the e-mail, I went into shock mode. Not in a dramatic way, but disconnected, as if he were already dead. I unwittingly envisioned the last visit, or last phone call, or last e-mail...
I've never been religious. In fact, I've been known to be quite contemptuous of religion in general. Thankfully, I've grown out of that insidious contempt and learned to just calm down and accept that it's a large part of many people's lives, even if it isn't a part of mine. But now, when I see a forwarded e-mail from him, I can't help but relish in that he's here one more day. One more day to send me an inspirational e-mail -- something that touched him enough to pass on. While he's still around.
I can't help but feel at peace when I see my inbox shows three new messages. I know it's him sending out his last messages.
As the weeks have passed, I've grown used to the idea. No more shock or anger. Just deep, fleeting sadness. At first, I thought about him every day. At random times, like when I looked at the new throw pillows we've bought for the couches he gave us, and how we threw the old ratty ones away. Why did we do that? Well, they were old...Etc. Or when I'm in the kitchen and reach for the blender that he bought us when Matt graduated from college, and remember the time he and my mom came to visit us in Dallas and my room mate farted in front of him and my mom, and how they just stayed quiet until he left the room, at which point they laughed about it.
My mom says, "Thank God for sparing me that kind of pain." Of course she means that she's glad that she's not in a relationship with him anymore and, oh my God, what could have been? In a short time, she'd be mourning the loss of her partner, and "thank God that that's not the case!" Her words, not mine.
If we were the kids he never had, then he is the step dad I never had. Even though the relationship between he and my mom has come to an end, I haven't let go. As long as there is a semblance of love and kindness, I don't let go.
And I won't. No matter how much time passes.
posted by deconstructionist at 8:45 PM
2 Comments:
What a beautiful post. *hug*
Thank you, Les. :)
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