A Mother's Tears • Ch. 5 of 16

The Big Apple

As the plane’s wheels finally made contact with the ground beneath, the slight bump startled my mom as she realized she was finally in New York. The flight had safely arrived at JFK International Airport and beyond her window stretched out a freedom only she can describe. What kind of existence would she now have? Where would she work? Who would she meet? She was overwhelmed with emotion—, scared to be too happy, too happy to be scared. Not knowing what type of life lay ahead, she took a deep breath and sat up from her seat, ready to exit the plane and enter a new home.

The receiving section of the airport was busier than anything my mom had seen back in Romania. Even though she’d visited the States before, this time her stay would be permanent. She knew a few English words, enough to get by. The line through customs was moving along slowly but she noticed that with each new person called forth, the officer in charge would shout out the same word, over and over. Gabriela gathered that it meant to go up and see him with her passport in hand—, ready to be stamped entry into the country. When it was finally her turn, my mom heard him yell out that word again and she proceeded forward.

“Next!,” he called out, making it the first new English word she learned to start her journey this time around.

She passed through the building’s gigantic lobby and found Marcel’s friend who she’d be staying with while waiting for my dad and I to arrive three months later.

“There you are!,” he said. With that, they left the massive airport and walked through the glass doorway out into a new land. They drove the half hour toward her temporary home. The apartment laid within a concrete maze, full of cars and a beautiful chaos. My mom was finally among her new people. For the next few months, Gabriela worked at a photographer’s studio, much like she used to do when she’d help Marcel develop pictures back in Romania, she was now helping his friend file orders and fix cameras in America. At night, she’d stay awake and write to us back home. She’d look out through the kitchen window and have a perfectly framed view of the Brooklyn Bridge—, lit up and luminous in the darkness around it.

Pent-Up Disappointment

The months passed by one after another. Eventually, my father and I reached stateside and I still have fragments of memory when my mom saw me in the airport and ran towards us with a new stuffed Mickey Mouse in hand. That was the beginning of our journeys together. The three of us moved to a small town in Michigan and there we’d stay for the next few years which were filled with more sorrow than anything else.

Gabriela enrolled me in the local elementary school and began walking me to the bus stop each morning, making sure I’d get on okay—, much like her father used to do with her so many years prior. I’d practice spelling words with my mom the day before my tests and always bring home an A. I couldn’t wait to show her my grades. Those were some of the only times I applied myself and did well in school. Everything seemed to be going along smoothly enough.

Though happy for his new opportunities in America, my father mostly kept to himself. Marcel would smoke two packs of cigarettes a day. He set up a small fan facing the outside screen of the living-room window and would blow out thick streams of smoke like I’d do decades later in my own studio apartments. I rarely saw him drink but knew that when he could, he would, and it’d be a temporary escape for him. The habit was passed down and coiled itself around my DNA which contributed to much of my own personal undoing later in life.

Downtrodden Though Free

My mother picked up the first job she was offered. Gabriela held her newly given dark green polo from a local fast food restaurant down the street from where we lived. She looked at it for a long while without knowing she’d be wearing it for the next three years, five days a week. Better a cheap uniform in a free country than luxurious clothing under communism, she thought. Her hourly wage was three dollars and twenty-five cents —, two hundred and fifty dollars every other week. When payday would finally roll around, my mom and dad would go to the local grocery store to cash the check and get whatever they’d need. Those are some of Gabriela’s happiest memories, being able to buy what we’d want and not feel the pressures of living with little money to our name.

On top of all the normal duties someone in her position was asked to do at work, she was also put in charge of the salad station. For those next few years, not one shred of lettuce, cherry tomato, or olive was out of place. Everything was kept just so. She diligently wiped the stainless steel counter housing all of the vegetables every hour on the hour. The manager took notice. Her coworkers knew she was Romanian, and because of Dracula’s lore, they figured she too had a vampiric soul.

“Hey Gabby,” some would call out as they’d point to their necks in teasing motions, but my mom never cared. She continued to do her job to the best of her abilities. Nothing ever stood between my mother and her perfectionist attitude toward work. She was always early for her shifts, stayed later than she needed to, and was a standout employee from the start. No matter how great her attitude was however, the days would always go so slowly. She couldn’t wait until her break—, the half hour she had to herself when she could finally get off her feet. There was a small wooden bench outside the store that she liked to sit on. She’d place her food tray down and just breathe in the cool air, constantly checking the time before having to go back in. The second half of the workday was always worse than the first. Closing meant deep cleaning and the workers would stay a couple of hours after the restaurant locked up just to finish the job.

“Make Gabby do it,” some would say at day’s end of the trash that’d piled up. So even through the heavy banks of freshly-fallen snow and with ice covering the ground, she’d trudge along with garbage bags in hand toward the outdoor dumpsters in the back. My dad and I would get into our car on nights she worked until close and patiently wait in the parking lot until my mom finally showed up well after midnight. She was tired and wanted to go home, but was so happy to see us just the same.

“Hi Puiule!” she’d say to me excitedly—, a cute name for a baby chick which she still calls me to this day. She’d always bring home the toy they were placing in their kid-meals that week. I had a box full of wind-up cars, plastic figurines, and pens of cartoon characters. My mom always held her family first in her heart, no matter what she did or where she went. I never once felt that I couldn’t get what I wanted or that I went to bed hungry. I was always taken care of so well by my parents. I look back on those years and wonder how she did it. I couldn’t be more blessed to have such a selfless and strong woman as my mother.

Once Distinguished

Meanwhile, my father began feeling worse and worse about his current situation. Gabriela remembered their past attraction. She would listen to him speak all night about politics or God or whatever else crossed his mind. My parents dined in the most elegant restaurants, more often than not shutting the place down before finally getting up to leave. Marcel’s writing was admired by even the most anti-social authors of his day and though completely opposed to communism, the government never realized that they needed to read in-between the lines of my father’s books to grasp his literal dissent. He was esteemed in Romania—, part of an exclusive writers’ circle where everyone respected each other, not knowing that years later he’d become a dishwasher, still happy to be able to provide for his family. He’d spend long hours there behind the sink at a local Coney Island, coming home with wet clothes but also a paycheck nonetheless.

Though Gabriela and Marcel had fallen in love and witnessed their relationship flourish so long ago, once they reached their new home, things cooled down. They began to be something closer to roommates than husband and wife. In all the years of my living with my parents, I never once saw them kiss or at the very least, hold hands. They were courteous with each other and respected one another but they were no longer the couple they’d once been. Either way, they continued to grow together as a team for me if nothing else.

Nearly-Fatal Confidence

Life went on for all three of us. I made friends with a few people here and there. I was seven years old when a neighbor invited me to her birthday get- together. It was a pool party. The fact that I didn’t know how to swim never crossed my mind in making the decision to definitely go. Getting there, I was the only boy present. I didn’t want to be the sole person not in the pool so I slowly climbed in, down the steps, and into the warm water. I remember little of what I did or how the rest unfolded. There were people playing at the shallow end as I made my way into the deep. I must’ve lost traction with the wet floor as I slipped and started to immediately panic. I waved my arms, I screamed, I kept going below and above the water. Nobody heard me. Every time I’d go back under, my screams were muffled and silent. That was it. I probably hit my head on something because the next thing I remember, I was coughing myself awake. Everyone there had gathered around me and some were praying that I’d regain consciousness. My neighbor was in the corner crying, trying to process the situation, hoping she’d have the chance to talk to me again. I heard distant sirens approaching. They got closer and closer until I finally figured out that they were for me. They strapped me onto the stretcher and slid it into the back of the ambulance. I’d never seen so many buttons and lights and switches before in my life. I was captivated.

“What’s this one do?,” I asked the paramedic. He told me and I quickly moved onto the next. “What about this one?” He told me that too. Then he looked at me with a wide smile.

“You’re a tough cookie, you know,” he said. I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but I get it now.

While I was being transported to the nearest hospital, my mom was in the back seat of a police cruiser who’d been sent for her. Please don’t let it be anything serious, she kept praying, over and over.

“Are we far?,” she asked the officers.

“Almost there,” they told her. Upon reaching the hospital, my mom ran right up to my room and saw me laying there in bed with the biggest smile on my face.

“Mom!” I was so happy to see her. I knew she’d be upset at the entire situation but we both kept our composure quite well given the facts. She stayed beside me all day and all night in a chair by the bed.

“Ma’am, you don’t have to sit here,” nurses would tell her, “there’s a couch right next door you can sleep on.” She refused. Nothing could pull her away from her son in a moment she thought she’d almost lost him for good. That’s the kind of mother she’s always been. We finally made our way home as things resumed toward a regular routine once more.

A Sudden Onslaught

Back at her job, Gabriela was working her usual late-night shift the moment she started experiencing what seemed to be a hemorrhage. On the advice of her coworker, she quickly scheduled a doctor’s visit. Once there, he did the tests needed and came back into the room with a serious look on his face.

“You need to go to the hospital immediately,” he sharply said. “Your situation doesn’t look good.”

Upon reaching the University of Michigan Hospital later that night, my mom jumped out of the car and was rushed into the Emergency Room for further testing and analysis. Hour after hour passed by when she was finally given the news;

“It’s cervical cancer,” they said to her. “You need to come back in three days for surgery.” Driving home with her friend by her side, they both stayed quiet and wondered what the upcoming operation would entail. Once reaching the parking spot to our apartment, her friend had already begun saying her goodbyes.

“You’re not coming in?,” my mom asked.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” her friend replied. She’d later tell Gabriela how she couldn’t bear delivering the devastating news they’d just received to Marcel. She knew he’d be beyond distraught. So my mom gathered her things and slowly began the walk upstairs alone and afraid. What would happen now?

Why I Hate Hospitals

Three days slowly drifted by. The moment had finally arrived for her to be picked up by her friend and driven to the hospital once more. On the walk toward the car outside of our apartment, my mom felt a calming sense of peace and looking around her, she saw what can only be described as a divine presence following her every footstep, from the front door to the car and eventually, to the hospital.

Under the bright lights of the operating room, the surgeons got to work. They slowly used their scalpels and surgical scissors until finishing up the procedure. Afterward, Gabriela was transferred to the ICU where she’d stay in recovery for the next few days. I finally visited with my dad and immediately saw her smiling as she looked up at me.

“Hi Puiule,” she affectionately said. Even as a kid, I could feel the emotion beginning to swell up in my eyes but didn’t want to show my mother my true feelings or worry her any further. I excused myself from the room and walked out into the hallway. I let the tears drop down my face and onto the floor below. From my peripheral, I could see a nurse walking my way and didn’t want her to notice I was crying either. I was holding a small portable video game and pretended that it was broken—, a perfect reason for being so upset.

A few days later, my mom came back home. Of course, just as she was beginning to feel like her old self again, she began experiencing awful abdominal pain. Back in the doctor’s office, they let her know that the cancer hadn’t been fully removed and that it’d begun spreading to other organs.