I was Mamá Ana’s Little Boy
In which Teófilo remembers his grandmother and the beginnings of the cancer that would one day take her away.
“There is no other love that’s as special as the love of a grandma.
So warm and fuzzy, so calm and sweet, so cheerful and joyful.
Grandmas are definitely a special gift from God.
A treasure you must always keep.
Memories that are never fading but always alive and well in our minds.
Forever in my heart, Grandma…” – Hopal Green
It’s difficult for me to describe the love I felt for Mamá Ana back then. I was unable to conceptualize love in words and terms when I was between 3 and 15 years old. I experienced feelings of safety, security, joy, and attachment. I would love her and kiss her and feel her warmth and kitchen smells emanating from her bata.
I loved Mom in a different way, but she wasn’t the principal adult in my life back then. I felt an instinctive attachment to Mom and the corresponding, undefined joy when I saw her. But Mamá Ana was the one I loved at the time with filial love. Transferring that love to Mom later would be traumatic, for lack of a better adjective. I know for a fact I was the light in her eyes.
Titi Gloria told me that one day in 1966 Mamá Ana showed her a lump on her right breast.
“You have to get that checked!”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps it’ll go away.”
My family back then and even now believe that by thinking about something they make it happen. In other words, they engage in a lot of wishful or magical thinking. I would face their thinking many times as I grew up in stature and skepticism. This time, praised God, Titi Gloria knew better.
Titi Gloria joined Mamá Ana in her next medical check. When Mamá Ana didn’t bring up the lump in her breast, Titi Gloria did. Mamá Ana stared at her with angry, hurt eyes. The doctor checked her out and then started what I can only think were X-rays and a biopsy routine. Their verdict was metastatic breast cancer.
Mamá Ana underwent a radical mastectomy of her right breast. I have a vague memory of visiting her at the old “Santo Asilo de Damas” (“Holy Sanatorium for Ladies”) building. After her surgery, I recall looking at her post op wound and bruising. I didn't get understand what I was seeing until much later, when someone close to me faced her own cancer.
Mamá Ana started wearing a spongy prosthesis I found funny. I took to throwing it around as if it were a frisbee, or playing with it as it resembled a spaceship. It was fun at times, but it turned into an ambient of pain and worry that I began to absorb without realizing it.
What I didn’t know, though, was that the doctors had given Mamá Ana five years of life. They may have subjected her to radiation therapy, but no one explained it to me. I do remember visits to her room at the city’s Oncological Clinic. I suppose radiation therapy was the reason. She had no chemotherapy, as she didn’t lose her hair.
A nurse practitioner began to visit our home to inject her with medicines. The illness began to add more lines to her face. Without me noticing much, I spent less time with her as she began withdrawing and staying more time in her room. Day-long getaways to visit relatives were a cause for celebration. They stand as good, happy moments in my childhood.
But the doctors were right. She would last five years. I’ll address those events later. For now, I'll tell you this: Mamá Ana was the first person in my life I remember with conscious clarity. I still speak about her in the present tense though she’s been dead almost 51 years. I haven’t stopped loving her and I know love is never unrequited. True love always has a living subject and since God isn’t the God of the dead, but of the living (cfr. Mark 12:27 and parallels). I know she’s alive. She isn’t beyond my love, and she still loves me.
