What I lost was not an object, something easily disposable, not something you would lose and be able to replace, because humans are unable to be mocked or recreated. The fruit of my mothers womb, the seed of my father, a creation of love between two people, people very young and naive.
She was finally here, "Aqui esta tu hermana" (Here is your sister) said my parents in harmony. At the time I was 2, thinking they had just bought a perfect baby from the toy store. Maybe I was too young to understand, maybe it was better if I didn't because the whispers and cries that followed did not only mark the start to a new battle but also of memories and opportunities.
She was born on March 3rd with biliary atresia, nothing had prepared our small family of three for the fast paced months ahead of us, but instead of 'us' the word 'them' would be better used to symbolize my parents who suffered more than I am still able to imagine. Being two does not help with remembrance, or having any thought of pain of such things at the time. What I do recall, thanks to my mom and dad , are moments of solitude and feelings of abandonment.
A dad who at the time was twenty-one, juggling two-three jobs to support medical bills for the unhealthy child, an anxious wife, and a growing child in a third world country, and a part time babysitter to me the growing child; is now a story shared by a thirty-three year old man who no longer sees the experience as a time of sadness but counts the moments of pure happiness. We look back now, more than often of moments he recalls. This moment he recalled with tears, "I was on my way to my second job and to drop off food for your mom at the hospital, with your small hands holding tighter onto mine because you knew we were approaching your abuelas house," he said with shortness of breath. "As your sister got sicker, me and your mom began to feel the guilt of leaving you, usually I would drop you off and I would be on my way, but that day as I was leaving you said to me, 'Daddy won't you stay here and play?' and it broke my heart seeing you there and knowing that me and your mom were never around. That day you were mad at me when I came back" he says wiping his eyes, "it was the day our visas had been approved, your sisters, mom and mine. You wouldn't be coming with us but you didn't know that," water works began. "I didn't know that was going to be the last day I spent with you till another year and I hadn't taken the day to spend it with you," said my dad twelve years later. I will never forget this moment, the one moment I saw my father's walls come down, that he let me in, he cried to me, and to me that meant a lot. I never looked at him the same way. I felt the pain and regret he had kept to himself all those years, that had led him to portray a typical 'machista' and that of a man with no feelings.
My mother at the time, I did not see; but she never hesitates to remind me all she did at the time not just for my sister but for me too. Although I can't recall certain instances in which she did this, I am able to know because my mom is a woman of many stories but also a lover of repetition. I do not say this with hate but with love; love that helps me remember, maybe sad remembrance but necessary to characterize my outlook on life but also the way I saw my mother. She's a strong women and if I were her in that situation, I do not think I would do anything she had put herself through at the time. She had put herself through malnutrition, not wanting to leave the side she occupied next to my sisters bed at the hospital. She knocked on doors for help to pay hospital bills setting herself up for feelings of belittlement but never calling them as such. "Haría cualquier cosa por mis hijos," she would say (I would do anything for my kids). One certain instance I can now recall is our mother, daughter time just recently for dinner at a Peruvian restaurant. Of course the atmosphere played a role in the event leading afterward. I asked my mom a question I had been aching to ask but too scared it would trigger too many thoughts and feelings. I asked her, "How did I feel?" Silence. Deep breath. I could see her mind thinking. "You didn't feel anyway, you didn't even know she was gone. To you she was just another toy at the time," sighs," What you were most worried about was the separation from me and your dad. After about a year away, I had gotten a letter telling me that you refused to eat anymore, you were grumpy more often, nothing cheered you up. What me and your dad had originally planned to do after the death of your sister, was to work in the United States for three years, make some money and come back to you and a better life for us in Peru. So I decided to return leaving your father behind, the first week back was the hardest for me. You refused to talk to me and when you did you would ask me where your dad was, you wouldn't let me tuck you into bed. I understood. You had always been daddy's girl," begins to cry. of course this commenced the domino effect. "After experiencing some of America, I wanted more and I wanted more for you. I did everything I could to bring you back with me. Everything. If it weren't for you sister, we wouldn't be here. Not here in this country, not in this state, and not in this cliche Peruvian restaurant." She cried, I cried, bringing unwanted attention to ourselves.
An unknown experience and memory that impacted my life more than I could understand as a child. It gave me a chance. A chance at opportunity. An opportunity at the American Dream. My American Dream.
That was 14 years ago, all I can remember is the way I looked up at my mother on the plane, having no clue where we were going but not expecting anything of it. I can also remember the way she looked at me, she loved me, but she had given everything up for me too.
For the next 14 years she would only hear her relatives through the phone, but not even their voices could take her back. In those 14 years she stood around to hear about the death of her parents, she never got to say her last good bye, she never got to tell them what great parents they had been. During these 14 years my father would miss the birth of over a dozen nieces and nephews. He would miss out on countless Christmas dinners with a family of over 30 people. He would also miss out on the last good bye to his parents.
I missed out. There were no grandparents to turn to when things with my parents went wrong, there were no cousins to keep me company when I was alone. But there is a now, one that I can change. I am not going to let those 14 years become 15.
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