“I Remember Mama”

Mama around 40 being serenaded by
good family friend Mario Scheel

      There’s a beautiful movie, a true story, based on a book, with this title. My Mama and I watched it together around Mother’s Day or precisely on that very special day that, we all can celebrate in one way or another.

   My Mama, Maria Andrea Adria Lamelas was painstakingly brought into the world on November 30, 1939 around four in the morning. I am told she was born in a sack of thick membrane which had to be torn open in order for her to take life’s first breath.  Being the case, she wasn’t covered with blood or any kind of residues from the womb. Grandma told me many times that, as superstition goes, babies born within such a sack, were rare and brought with them a lot of good luck. Well, that seemed to pinch the wrong nerve in my grandma each time Mama had something go awry; some illness or problem, and, after having had three grand daughters with Muscular Dystrophy, well, it just added salt to the wound and disbelief in superstitious sayings.

   Mama was raised in Havana, Cuba till the age of eight; doted upon by both parents and my grandma’s younger sister, Consuelo.  Mama was an only child until my grandparents adopted my aunt Grace Elenor.  Mama was married at eighteen and had me by 19! They wanted a large family of at least six children which I’m glad to say they stayed on three!

    Describing Mama is somewhat easy since she was never difficult to read or decipher. Her primary virtue was humility.  I like the saying:

“Humility is like underwear, essential, but indecent if it shows.” - Helen Nielsen (1918-2002)    A common trait was she accepted things without anger or hopelessness but to the contrary, her love of God tempered how she absorbed her gall and vinegar. She seldom was what I’d call “rebellious” but rather, slightly tough in decisions that needed to be made whether she liked it or not. Mama had the natural gift of submitting as a child and finding inner strength in trusting God when the road turned dark.

   Second prevalent trait, Mama was a faithful daughter, wife, mother, friend and member of the Church.  She faithfully practiced prayer, attended to her diverse duties happily, generously and without pomp or need of fireworks.  She found joy in her love of interior design—what I mean by this is, she had a flair for decorating her home delicately and tastefully. Personally,  I despised her moving things here to there, repeatedly changing curtains, bed covers etc. {I’m not one for changes.}  Mama couldn’t stand that in my character and would say I was less of a homemaker than my sisters, and she was right.  She also rejoiced in her three girls, husband and friends and family, serving, teaching children, singing, dancing, sweeping, gardening, buying gifts, reading children stories and writing. Her favorite color was green. Her main passion, her children and immaculate kitchen! Weird!  Her pet peeve, lazy people. Her obsession, enjoying good food. Favorite flowers, the Gerber daisy and sunflower. Favorite perfume, Shalimar by Guerlain; song, “Somwhere Over the Rainbow,” and hymn, “How Great Thou Art. Her idol, Elvis Presley—of course! And, her greatest hurt, losing her father.

   My relationship with my Mama was more of a big sister, not only because I was raised by grandma but, whether it was “the first child” theory or I was simply born with an old spirit, Mama and I got along as sisters.  I couldn’t count the times she’d say, slightly jealous but never cruelly, “you’re more of a mother than I am.”  I’d reply, at times, “you just like being pampered by us, ol’ woman.” There was no denying, she’d agree with an impish smile.

     Mama was what we call “normal” until she had her first epileptic attack at the age of thirty-one or so. This brought limitations but never a sense of depression. We were always watching out for her since it would hit her at any time. Once she bit her tongue and lips practically to shreds! Bleeding blisters and sores covered her mouth. But, her spirit was indomitable and she’d say, “Thank God I didn’t swallow my tongue! See! God was with me.” Her good sense of balance amidst adversity was remarkable—in my eyes.

   Turning forty-five or a little after, symptoms of the disease [muscular dystrophy] began to become more prominent, i.e. the weakening in her legs, arms and lungs. By then she began using a wheelchair and requiring extra help and medications . Fifty-five rolled around and, without parents to soothe her fears, she caught a severe pneumonia which brought her only one option besides death, a tracheotomy and respirator.  This she fought, this was one of her biggest fears and, a turning point no one was truly prepared for, especially my dad.

   After many new adjustments and tears mixed with fervent prayers, from all of us, Mama had to “reinvent” her life. She suddenly found herself in her daughters shoes.  And here’s where miracles began filling our lives! This “change” bound us four closer as never before; it wrought a new welding of hearts and minds.  We were all suddenly lifting the same yoke. I saw a burgeoning of deeper faith, love and patience evolving and developing in Mama. I also witnessed momentary and sometimes seasons of depression and frustrations but, never furious anger toward God or life. I often sat by her bedside, stretching my arm as far as it could go so we’d touch again after years of no hugs or kiss or anything physical.  Her blown kisses to me at the end of each visit carried a phrase, “I love you, my first born, my Scarlett O’Hara.”  And, we always had a hearty cry that eased both our hearts.

   Ten years flew by and yet, as it is in most situations, they also crawled. Looking back now, almost five years after her passing, I can now see how very much she was a mother to me. That no matter how much grandma was a mother-figure to me, Mama was my “Mother,” in every sense of the word.  How grateful I am to have recognized this truth.  What she taught me, nobody could’ve taught me, because she was “called” to be my mother! not the other way around.

    I deeply believe we chose who we wanted as our parents before mortality.  I firmly believe and know deeply as well, I chose Adria, (as everyone called her,) to be my mother and endure by my side my distinct trials as only she could and would and DID! With the virtues of faith, hope, long-suffering, fearlessness and trust in God that all this had a wise and grand purpose. 

    Mother’s are given tribute on this day and I’m one that not only gives tribute but rises up and calls my Mama “Blessed!.”(accent on the latter “e”)  One day when I again can embrace my Mama and feel her velvety cheek against mine in a holy kiss, I know I will once more hear her say with her unchanging beautiful warm smile, “I love you my first born, my Scarlett O’Hara!” but with a few new words attached, “I’ve prepared a room just for you!” {And I can betcha it has soft neutral white walls, a big window with lace curtains and French provincial furniture all in a caddy-corner setting}. Now, you tell me, how lucky can a daughter be!? :)