Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. "Someone is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
— Hans Christian Andersen
All was routine those two first months of school. But then Mamá Ana was hospitalized at the Hospital de Damas on October 3rd or thereabouts. She was to submit to a hypophysectomy - the removal of her pituitary gland. Surgeons do this to remove cancerous tumors already adhering to the gland. I don’t recall saying goodbye before she left for the hospital, but we must’ve.
The surgery didn’t suit her. Papi once told me of his last sight of her, while conscious. While orderlies moved her on a gurney, she waved at him, turned a corner, and then out of his sight. She suffered a brain hemorrhage afterwards and went into a coma. Then, on Wednesday October 6th, 1971, she passed away. Papi’s eyes filled with tears as he recalled his last sight of her beloved Ana. At that time I never thought that elderly adults loved each other as much. I thought older adults were but mere companions to each other, no lovers. Silly me.
I don’t remember if I was sent to school that day or not. I do remember, though, staying at the Peña’s house while everyone else was at the hospital. By late afternoon I’d grown impatient and began importuning Mrs. Peña, asking her when Mom was coming to pick me up.
Mom finally came. She took my hand and began walking north on M Street toward the empty field where we children liked to play. She told me along the way, gently, that Mamá Ana wasn’t returning from the hospital, and that she had gone to heaven.
It was a luminous afternoon. The sky was blue and there were a couple of large, cottony clouds in the eastern horizon. I pictured in my imagination Mamá Ana and Titi Angelita riding one of the clouds. In my mind's eye they were looking my way, waving goodbye.
I asked Mom if Mamá had left some last message for me before her departure. Mom, without missing a beat, told me Mamá had said that I ought to behave well, and to eat everything adults set before me. I say "without missing a beat" because remember, Mamá never awoke after surgery.
Mama's imaginary "last message" racked me with guilt. You see, I was a very finicky eater, and the adults had to cook only a few foods and served just so, or I wouldn’t eat it. My fussiness would lead to severe mistreatment later, as you’ll see. Thank God, October 6th ended on a peaceful note.
The next few days passed in a blur. The funeral was at Alvarez’s Funeral Home in downtown Ponce. They dressed Mamá in a green dress. She held a Rosary and a large crucifix in her hands. I touched her, noticed the taut, rubberlike feeling on her skin.
I asked several questions about death. Was it forever? Could one awake dead people by hitting them or pricking them with needles? What happened to a corpse once underground? Mom had to hold off laughter at some of the innocent questions I was shooting. But she did give me straightforward answers, to her great credit. She didn’t sugarcoat any of the information. Well, she did sugarcoat some.
She answered: “No, nothing can awaken them, not even needle-pricking. Once underground the bodies decompose. Don’t know what that means? They turn into dust. But their souls go to heaven. They go to be with Papá Dios." “What’s a ‘soul’? What’s this ‘heaven’ place? Is this ‘Papá Dios’ the same one they talk about in school?” And on and on. I reckon the ontological (“What are we?”) and epistemological (“How do we know?”) stages of my life started on those days. Little did I know then that I would pursue these questions many times for the rest of my life.
The burial took place on October 9th. I was at the funeral home. Everyone started moving at once. I was at the far end rear of the parlor room. When I saw where things were going, I started bawling and crying for my Mamá Ana. The full weight of her death came upon me.
They buried Mamá at her parents’ grave in Ponce’s Catholic Cemetery. Her remains would rest there until our family gravesite was finished. Then they transferred her remains to the new one a few months later.
My childhood died that day. Why? Because Mamá Ana was the principal obstacle to Mom's more abusive impulses. The beatings started soon thereafter. They increased in frequency and severity. I'll tell you more later.