A Mother's Tears • Ch. 1 of 16

A Mother’s Tears: A Memoir

The News

Two sharp knocks then the oncologist entered the room. He pulled up a small swivel-chair, sat, and started flipping through the chart before getting down to business.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but it’s cervical cancer.” The doctor placed his clipboard down on the counter as my mother’s stomach fell through the floor. That’s it?, she thought. That’s how my story ends? Gabriela hadn’t lived in America half a decade before being given the devastating news. Little did she know that not only her world, but her husband’s would also be turned upside-down as they’d both go on to battle individual cancers while simultaneously raising a nine-year old son—, that through a swirl of illnesses and sadness, she’d eventually find true happiness amid busy downtown streets and sun-drenched beachfronts—, that everything undoubtedly happens for a deeper reason than we can fathom and once we’re far enough back to see the bigger picture, it ultimately tells of something so beautifully grand. No, that’s not how her story would end, it’d barely even begun.

Immense Heartbreak

My mother was born in a place that’d throw someone into a cell shorter than their full-length body for simply speaking out against the government. They wouldn’t be able to stretch their legs or straighten their back. It’d be an incredibly uncomfortable position to be in—, purposely and for long periods of time. Before beginning her fight with cancer, escaping persecution from the secret police, and having the ability to eventually fly around on planes in America, she endured a heavy childhood in her native homeland. Romania was a communist country in 1951 and remained that way until the ‘89 Revolutions of the Eastern Bloc swept across totalitarian European states. President Gheorghe Gheorghiu Dej ruled over the poor nation without any sympathy for the oppressed population. His iron-fist eventually reached my mother’s own family and so, seven year-old Gabriela’s life was never the same.

Under the government’s laws, if a store’s cash register was caught short on money, the manager was to blame—, they alone took on the full responsibility of their employees’ actions. It just so happened that in a small town in the southern region of the country, my grandfather held this very position as the head of a hardware shop. Its drawer turned up less than expected one night. For the next four years, Gabriela came home everyday wishing her father would be released from the jail cell he was kept in for someone else’s crime.

She still remembers going to see him with her mother. The skies were overcast that day with darkened gray clouds. There was tension hanging in the air. My grandmother had brought along a small package filled with food to give to her husband upon seeing him. Getting to the courthouse, there was a strip of metal bars separating the inmates from the rest of the crowd. It was within that room my mother saw her father for the first time since he’d gone away. She sat on a bench and tried not to cry.

“Who are you waiting to see?,” an officer asked Gabriela. He could tell she was clearly distressed.

“My father,” she replied, looking down the long hallway in my grandfather’s direction. They were too far apart from being able to communicate and any talking between them was strictly forbidden. The police officer felt pity for my mom.

“Go drink some water from that fountain,” he advised her, knowing it was right next to the room her dad was housed in. That way, they could at least see each other more clearly. As she walked down toward the other end of the hall, her father ran up to the bars to see her better. Upon reaching the room, she peered inside and saw him standing there waiting for her. My mom was wearing new pants she’d just gotten and couldn’t wait to show them off to him. She tugged at them proudly.

“They’re new,” she said to him with a smile, trying to hold back tears from flowing down her cheeks. She saw him looking back at her with intense sadness, knowing how much he loved her and wanted to come back home to his family. The whole day before he was to go to jail, he’d propped Gabriela up on his bike while he rode around and kissed the top of her head hundreds of times. Of his two daughters, my mother was his favorite. That’s what hurt the most for those four long years. It wasn’t until she’d finally turned eleven that she saw him again. Once home, he never spoke of his time spent in the infamous Jilava Prison though its inmates were well-known for being the intellectuals which communist leaders had been most intimidated by, and so, thrown into cells and locked away like nameless shadows.

A Different World

Many books have been written about the atrocities committed at the hands of brutal dictatorships the world over. Romania is no different. Some of the most shocking examples of what these innocent people had to go through include; having to stand on one foot with weights placed around their shoulders for a couple of days at a time, a Communion involving the prisoners’ waste in place of bread and wine, and being beaten so badly they’d faint from the pain, waking up to fallen teeth and splatters of blood surrounding them. Another of the tortures involved a long hallway with a dozen officers standing on either side, rubber clubs in hand. The prisoners were forced to walk from one end to the other while they were beaten as badly as possible, once reaching the end, they had to turn around and walk back the other way. Those who’d pass out from the pain were revived from the water splashed onto their collapsed bodies. Their only source of hope were the small pieces of ripped paper they’d write Bible verses on and pass around for inspiration to endure another day. When asked what one of the worst things they had to live through was, an ex-prisoner said; “Having to make a cross with our tongues inside our mouths from the fear of being seen making one with our hands.” They suffered dreadful fates at the hands of evil men who marched onward to the ideas of other evil men. All of their captors despised God and anything to do with Him. They’d force unimaginable blasphemies out of their captives’ actions and most don’t even repeat the words they were coerced into saying to this very day. These were the realities of the country my mother was born into on the first day of August in 1951.

She came home from the hospital to a family of both parents and a three-year old sister. They lived in a countryside-town about forty minutes outside of the capital. It was a quiet place to grow up, where all of the neighbors knew each other and traded goods whenever they’d have them—, eggs, bread, foods they’d grown themselves. Everyone went to church on Easter after eating lamb, and on Christmas after killing and eating the pig each family had for themselves. Traditions went a long way in those small towns. Life was slower and things seemed to be simpler than they are today.

An Aunt’s Love

Some of Gabriela’s earliest memories include time spent with Ioana, her aunt. She was my mother’s favorite relative. She’d go to work with her when Gabriela was just a few years old—, her aunt’s pet lamb in tow. While the woman worked, my mom would take a baby bottle filled with milk and feed the small animal. He was like a child for Ioana, as she couldn’t bare children herself. Gabriela kept to him quite a bit, but she kept to her aunt even more. My mother could say that she was practically raised by her. The woman was always there for her niece no matter the circumstance.

On an evening after her father had already been taken away from Gabriela, she was on her way to visit her aunt. She was almost to the front doors when she began hearing music coming from inside the house. The closer she got the louder the music became. It was a common theme of Ioana’s husband, to blare their radio that way whenever things got out of hand, but none of that crossed my mom’s seven-year old mind at the time. She slowly turned the doorknob and entered the dimly-lit home. Through the loudness of the speakers, she could make out a sort of whimpering coming from the bedroom. She walked in and saw her aunt sitting on the ground, crying—, her face was bruised and beaten, a bloodied nose dripped heavily onto the carpet below.

“He’s at it again,” she said through the tears. Her husband was your typical abusive-type; always angry, short-tempered, and liked the bottle more than he did his own wife. The scene was a tough one for my mom to process. Her father—, who was her closest friend—, was in jail for something he had nothing to do with and though her mother loved her and was always present, Gabriela felt more affection from her aunt. Now Ioana was sitting on the bedroom floor with broken bones in her face and a shattered heart in her chest. My mom always wanted to mend it back together, to fill the hollowness her aunt had deep inside for not being able to have her own son or daughter.

She remembers going to buy strawberries with her aunt, spreading out a blanket, and sitting down beneath the trees. Both began ripping off the stems so they could put them in a bowl and pour sugar on top of them later on. They played cards while eating them together at Ioana’s house just minutes away from Gabriela’s own home. These were just some of the memories my mom had made before the night she heard her aunt had suddenly passed away.

Two policemen came to my mom’s house and told them the tragic story; on the side of the road coming back into town, Ioana was hitchhiking and eventually picked up by what seemed to be the sole car out that night. The man driving was acting strangely enough that she knew to grasp the door handle once they were already moving and try to jump out. He quickly grabbed ahold of her leg and she was dragged for yards amongst the gravel and dirt before being let go. While she lay there helplessly, the man drove away with her boot still in his hand. This news went on to devastate my mother for the rest of her life. She never forgot the feelings upon hearing what had happened and kept them hidden away inside herself for decades to come. Having to go through something like that as a child would be rough on anyone, but Gabriela didn’t have her father to go to either. She didn’t have his comforting embrace or his soft voice telling her that everything was going to be alright, and that Ioana was in a better place now, looking down upon her niece. Gabriela had to feel these things alone and deal with the pain all by herself. Many years afterwards, my mother and I would pass by the winding curb where her aunt had jumped out of the moving vehicle and she showed me the wooden cross still standing there in the ground, marking the exact spot of Ioana’s final breath. Life continued onward for Gabriela and not until a few years later did anything dire happen again.

Historical Tragedy

It was an average day when my mom of twelve years old decided to go to the local grocery store right down the street from her house. She walked the short distance and entered inside with the rest of the shoppers. Nothing was out of the ordinary. The date was November 22, 1963.

As Gabriela strolled through the aisles, she listened to the soft music coming from a small radio in the corner of the store. Suddenly, an announcer cut in on the air, interrupting the normally scheduled program. The volume was too low for anyone to hear what he had to say so the store manager came around to turn it up. My mother couldn’t make out much but did hear the most important words clearly.

“The President of the United States has died in a hospital...,” the announcer went on, so full of emotion that everyone around Gabriela—, herself included—, began tearing up. They didn’t know all the details yet, but it was obvious the world would soon change. My mom went home with tears in her eyes. She had no idea where she’d end up decades later—, that she’d ever come to America much less become a United States citizen, that she’d ever travel from city to city and get to see so many of the wonderful things the country had to offer. All she knew at that moment was the USA had lost its leader, and that was enough of a reason to break down.