Tag Archives: remembering

Dying Twice

20 Oct

dd13I’ve written about Dia de los Muertos many times before in my blog, but today I’m just going to share a photo gallery of our Day of the Dead altar. Last night, when we gathered around the altar and lit the candles, my husband Rene said something that resonated with me and made me realize why setting up the altar each year is such a meaningful tradition. He talked about how all of us really die twice–once when our body physically dies, and then a second time when we are forgotten by others. That is why we arrange the altar and put out the photographs of those we’ve loved and lost–so we don’t let them die twice.

Our complete altar all lit up at night.

Our complete altar all lit up at night.

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My dad, Joseph Winters with his granddaughter, Gillian Winters in front of him.

My dad, Joseph Winters with his granddaughter, Gillian Winters in front of him.

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My grandmother, Martha.

My grandmother, Martha.

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Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead)

1 Nov

Today is the first day of November: All Saints Day or Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). It’s the perfect opportunity to remember those who have left us and reflect upon how much they meant to us.  Just by thinking of them today, we can keep their memories alive in our minds and in our hearts.

Our Dia de los Muertos  Altar 2013

Our Dia de los Muertos Altar 2013

Colorful skulls and pan de muerto

Colorful skulls and pan de muerto

Flor de Muerto (Marigolds)

Flor de Muerto (Marigolds)

Making fun of death

Making fun of death

Cancer took them too soon...Rosie, Jessi, Jeffrey, T.T. and Lexi. R.I.P little ones

Cancer took them too soon…Rosie, Jessi, Jeffrey, T.T. and Lexi. R.I.P little ones

Resting in eternal matrimony; Hermelinda Chimil  and Elias Mireles

Resting in eternal matrimony; Hermelinda Chimil and Elias Mireles

Precious Gillian Winters

Precious Gillian Winters

Skeletons and more skeletons...

Skeletons and more skeletons…

Grandpa Joe

Grandpa Joe

Remembering Grandpa

20 Oct

muertos 4The other day, my eight year-old daughter, Isa said something that stuck with me: “Mommy,” she said, “Isn’t it sad that I’m not used to saying the word Grandpa?”

It’s very sad, indeed. Isa has never had a grandfather, as René’s father and my father both died before she was born. My father has been gone for almost thirty years now and it seems as if I think of him more often as I grow older myself. It’s become a regular occurrence that his memory comes to me when I’m reading or writing and I don’t know the meaning of a particular word. I think to myself, Oh, if only Dad were here—I could ask him—because when I was a young girl, every single time I needed to know what a word meant, he always knew.

My dad still shows up in my dreams sometimes. I’m the first to admit that because of his alcoholism, I’ve carried the weight of a heavy resentment toward him for many years. But now in my dreams, I’m no longer the victimized and martyred little girl as I used to be. I’m just a daughter who’s over the moon to see her daddy again. And as if I’m still half his height, I stretch my arms up high to hug him, the soft cotton material of his Brooks Brothers button up shirt brushing against my skin. I bury my face into his neck, the scent of nicotine and Old Spice coming off of him like a stale and comforting perfume. I always ask him the same question: “Where have you been all this time?”

Lately, I think of my dad every time I walk through the living room. It’s that time of year again when we set up our altar for Dia de los Muertos—Day of the Dead, and his photograph is the focal point of our altar. He’s surrounded by skulls, candles, marigolds, pan de muerto, and most importantly, by the smiling faces of other relatives and friends who have also left this earth.

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I think he would be surprised by the number of faces placed next to his: his two younger brothers; his granddaughter, Gillian; the many faces of Isa’s young friends who’ve all died from cancer. He might be a little bit pleased that on this altar he’s still the patriarch—the grandpa watching over them all—a part of something that we who are still here on this earth have yet to understand.

It feels good to remember that in more ways than not, my dad was a decent man. He was flawed, as I am, but he did the best he knew how to do, just as I’m doing the best I know how to do. And despite his imperfections as a father, he must have done a few things right along the way.

After all, I turned out pretty good.

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Out of the Darkness

9 May

isa and me in hospitalThis morning, I was interviewed on K-Lite Radio for Santa Barbara’s Cottage Children’s Hospital. To most people, I’m sure it was no big deal, just a mother talking about her young daughter’s cancer experience to encourage listeners to donate to the local hospital where she was treated and cured.

And it really wasn’t a big deal, except that it was. Because, almost six years later, after my life has spun itself into a comfortable pattern of normalcy, I’m compelled to remember those dark days by once again sharing my story with others.

Over the past few years I’ve become quite adept at weaving those painful memories into the back of my mind like a skilled seamstress who has managed to hide that dark strand of yarn underneath the clean white stitches. But by reliving those frightening first days in the hospital, I’m obliged to unravel the memories and bring them back to the surface again.

I’m wise enough now to realize those memories are a gift; the surgeries and the blood transfusions; the unimaginable pain of witnessing a two year old suffer through chemotherapy treatments; watching Isa lose her hair until there was nothing left but a smooth dome of skin; seeing her belly bloat from the steroids; waking up in the middle of the night to touch her puffy cheeks to check for a fever; the overwhelming feeling of fear in my stomach that never went away; and all the while wondering if my baby was going to die.

Because if I don’t remember, I will return to the way I was before Isa got sick, when life was not as miraculous as it is today. These memories remind that I have to let go of what is not important.  I have to be thankful that my little girl is healthy and beautiful and that she is still here with me. I have to remember that what I have right now in this very moment is enough, and that my gratitude has the power to disentangle those little worries that I so expertly knit together into a tangled ball of dissatisfaction.

I have to remember the joy of coming out of the darkness and into the light.

Happy and healthy at eight years old.

Happy and healthy at eight years old.