Apologies for the delay; we got married in Mexico City a couple of weeks ago, and I’m still recovering from all the emotions and Montezuma’s revenge. Everybody talks about the day of the wedding, but nobody talks about what happens after the wedding. I'm beginning to understand why—those were days I wish I could erase from my memory. Hangovers are not the same at 34!
Creating this two-part piece was particularly challenging because I couldn't sit still for more than five minutes without rushing to the bathroom (it was brutal). I'm also a firm believer that important things can't be rushed, so thank you for your patience.
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So, let’s go back to it: After surviving the chaotic lines of immigration at the Miami airport, I called my friend Maria, who kindly offered to pick me up at the airport and invited me to stay at her place while we handled my mother's crisis in Bonaire.
When I arrived at her apartment, there were balloons and a cake from Publix on the kitchen counter. It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture, but no amount of sugar or dopamine could ease my mind or distract me from what was happening.
My mom had been unconscious for eight hours, and the prognosis was grim.
My family moved mountains and did the impossible until finally, one hospital in Bogotá agreed to take my mom in. We arranged for her transfer, and I flew out of Miami at dawn. I hadn’t slept or eaten, and by the time I got to Colombia, I was a walking zombie.
When I arrived at the hospital, it had been almost 24 hours since I last exchanged words with my mom, but it felt like a lifetime ago. I reunited with my family—my godmother, grandmother, and aunt—the closest thing to the mafia, and they did their best to update me in simple Spanish on what was happening.
Elena had a brain aneurysm that exploded and caused massive injury to her brain, putting her in a coma - there was nothing to be done. The doctors explained that what happened was inevitable, and the outcome would’ve been the same if she had been in that tiny nurse’s office or at the most sophisticated OR.
As I saw the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth, I could barely comprehend what he explained. The incandescent white lights were blinding, and I struggled to breathe, feeling as if I had been hit in the head. I was about to faint, so I sat down, covered my ears, and closed my eyes.
How the f*ck did this happen? She was absolutely fine. Now she’s breathing through a tube? This was like a bad episode from Grey’s Anatomy.
I had to find the courage that I didn't have to step into her room and face her. Seeing her was something I needed to do alone, and for the first time in my life, I experienced fear in the rawest of forms.
When I stepped in, it was quiet—just some beeps and hums coming from the machines, but it was like the energy was sucked out of the room. My body was paralyzed when I first saw her silhouette on the bed, and I didn’t want to come any closer, but I had to touch her to register what was happening. Just like fresh paint on the wall, you know you shouldn’t, but you touch it anyway.
When I approached her, she looked surprisingly peaceful; she still had a little bit of her tan from the beach, and even though her hair was tucked in under a bandana, I could still see some of her golden locks. She looked familiar, but she felt like a stranger to me.
The only consolation in this mess was that the doctors described what happened to Elena as a “Perfect Storm.” It was clean, massive, flawless. She didn’t feel any pain, and more importantly, she never knew what hit her. She was going to fade away like a candle burning out. Slowly but surely - and just as it happened, she surrendered during her deep sleep.
If you ask me how I want to go, in all honesty, I would say just like my mom: painless and quick.
I can’t say that the last time I saw my mom was in that sterile hospital room. Whoever was in that bed wasn’t her. My mom was where she wanted to be: by the ocean in our favorite place in the world. Her last memories on earth were at E’horizon, not during her short residency at that hospital room in Bogotá.
Elena is survived by her mother, sister, and daughter, who will later spend years forging the relationship they never had before her departure. She left a gigantic compilation of recipes and a stunning collection of size 0 jeans that I had to give away because, I could never. But apart from the material baggage, as she was a world-class hoarder, my mother left a legacy you will discover in future letters, as I am still trying to detangle it.
It took me years to understand and come to terms with the void she left. For a long time, I felt completely unprepared for the life ahead of me. My safety net vanished overnight, leaving me feeling exposed and powerless in the face of crucial decisions. Yet, her influence shaped who I am today and helped me take ownership of every little piece of my life.
Speaking of crucial decisions, she missed a big one last week: my wedding.
And I think it was for the best; otherwise, she might have been an unbearable momzilla, and I probably would have handled the whole situation terribly (I'm proud to say that witnesses can confirm I was the most composed, chill bride, and nobody had more fun than me - maybe Tomás iykyk.)
Even though she wasn't there, her presence was ubiquitous. A hailstorm struck during our ceremony, and thunder punctuated my brother-in-law’s sassy speech. It was the perfect atmosphere for the most unforgettable night of my life. While many brides say that, I assure you everyone felt the electricity, too.
It was pure magic.
💌 Thank you for sticking around during these emotional letters. The next ones will be a tad lighter, fun, and (maybe) useful. It would’ve been weird not to address Elena in some way, as she’s a big part of the origin story 💌
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