i wanna talk about my books

 so let's try this out. 

i was always a GirlWhoReads(tm). starting around middle school, throughout high school during my ~v edgy and emo phase~, and then in college and after. i for sure spent a lot of time reading when i would substitute teach. 

something about the combination and teaching really yanks out all of your free time tho, seriously. 

19 year old me

i stopped reading for fun for a long time. it felt like years? like actually, i don't think i read a book between 2015-2022? maybe one for work but definitely not for fun. I blame social media. 

anyway, thanks to tiktok, i, similar to many of us, stumbled upon MANY accounts all talking about the books they've read. my neighbor bestie K also was an avid reader and would take frequent trips to the library and for her birthday, I wanted recommendations for books to buy her. I asked my Suegra (who also readsd for fun) and she gave like 3 good recs of popular/moving books at the time. I bought K like 5? and when I gifted her them, one of them was a book she already read. instead of returning the book, i read it. what could it hurt?

the book itself turned out to be only okay. but picking up the first book I've read for fun since 2015 was a big deal. 6 years without reading kind of sucked. a hobby i really enjoyed and relied on suddenly disappeared from my life and I didn't even really notice. It was very slowly replaced by short-form video entertainment via Instagram and eventually tiktok and doomscrolling. 

anyway, in the last 34 months (2 years and 10 months) I've now read 295 books. that's awesome! I hope to get to 300 by the time my "readiversary" comes up in March. 

I just wanna place where I can type out my thoughts and feelings and favorite quotes on some corner of the internet even if it's just for me. blogging was once so easy and came as a second nature for me, and somewhere along the way I lost that regularity and I've always missed it. trying and trying again to find that groove and failing all along the way. hopefully since reading has become a hobby i haven't quit, that maintaining this space as a way to talk about the books I've read will also be easy. 

xo-dani

To My Mother....

[i started writing this in May 2018, when my mom was incredibly sick, & we all thought it was 'any day now'. it is now the end of november 2018. she's still alive but in hospice care...i wanted to revisit this, and continue writing as i long as i can]

Hey Ma, 

We said goodbye yesterday, probably for the last time ever. You're sick with a terminal prognosis, and I live over 1000 miles away. A is almost 3 & X will be born in about 2 months. 

You got your first diagnosis while I was still recovering from delivering A a little less than 3 years ago. Back then, we thought it was regular smegular ol' breast cancer that you get once and never again. The same kind that your mom had in the 90s, the same kind that your sister had in the 00s. You found the tumor. You had chemo, surgery, radiation. Your hair fell out, and you were better. All of the pictures I have of you with Auri show you rocking your short hair. You looked *good* with your short cancer hair growing out. It suited you. In that time, you went back to the gym, you flipped tires, you jumped on boxes, you were a goddamn rock star.

2 years + 3 months later, you started getting headaches. BAD headaches. You became irritable and anxious. You kept complaining and telling your doctors, but the scans that you JUST had a few weeks ago showed that you were cancer-free. The pain remained. No amount of excedrin or tylenol or marijuana helped. 

My 30th birthday came & it was hard for a lot of reasons. I was upset you hadn't called me. I called you and you didn't answer. Then your sisters called me to wish me a happy birthday, They told me you were in the ER because of your headache. I felt terrible. An hour later, your team of doctors found a tumor the size of a golf ball in your brain. You were right. Something was wrong. You were smart to go to the ER and demand another scan, even though your insurance might not cover it. The next couple of days were a whirlwind (I presume; I was in New Jersey, and you were in Texas) of scans, surgeries, and diagnoses. 

After your surgery, you were loopy as hell. You had to stay in the hospital for a couple weeks to recover. You do not like the steroids (which you NEED to keep the brain swelling down) or the painkillers (they make you hallucinate and relive your most painful memories). Apparently, you were put on suicide watch.

I flew home with my family 2 weeks later to see you. You were SO MUCH BETTER. You were Angie. You were so excited to see us, to see your granddaughter. It was then, that very first night, that I found out I was pregnant. 3 weeks after you went to the hospital for a headache, found out you had a brain tumor, had brain surgery, got diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer that had spread to your brain, and began radiation treatment. I couldn't even balance out the joy of being pregnant with the fear and anxiety of your sickness. It was a tough time. 

Finding out that your cancer came back after a little over 2 years’ worth of clear scans, clean bills of health, and seeing you get your life back together, thrust me deeper into a sadness that I could not, and did not WANT to explain to anyone. I didn’t WANT to talk about my sadness with friends, family, barely even my own spouse. 

------

[nov 2018]

Ma,

It's almost Thanksgiving and you're still alive! X is 4 months old. You haven't met him, but we've Facetimed a lot. We didn't know if you were going to make it to see your 54th birthday in May (AND YOU DID! AND I GOT TO SPEND IT WITH YOU!). You don't remember us visiting you because your brain was a big fat mess. But we did. You smiled for pictures and I got to hold your hand. I was 6 months pregnant and you liked to rub my belly.

THEN YOU GOT BETTER! Your brain/memory came back! You got your legs and body back and you were able to move back to Brownsville. You spent June, July, August, September living in the valley with your husband and your dogs and cats. I think you enjoyed it. I'm sure it was lonely, but I do think you enjoyed the freedom. The autonomy.

Your headaches came back, just as we all knew they would. You had to move back in with your parents in October and by the time November rolled around, your pain had gotten so bad, you went to go spend time in the hospital again. Your ICU psychosis came back, and if you weren't on painkillers, you were in pain and angry. Your cans came back & you had so many lesions on your brain that you were no longer a candidate for chemotherapy and radiation, so, the doctors in Harlingen and MD Anderson in Houston all agreed that it was time for hospice care. Your sister said you didn't want to go. You just wanted to go home. But I think it was because you didn't understand.

You're in hospice care right now. You've been there for about a week. Your sisters & brother have been in and out to spend time with you. Your husband, too. He brings your dog to sleep in your bed with you. I haven't talked to you, because you can't talk. You have words, sometimes, but mostly they're just grunts. You sleep a lot. Your pain is being managed. I hope you're not hallucinating. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you're going through this. I'm sorry you're dying. You shouldn't be sick right now. You were sick for so much of your life. It's so unfair for you to be sick while you've been sober for so long.

I'm writing these letters to you, now that you're dying, and sharing them publicly, so that everyone knows what I already know:
You've been a good mom to us. Regardless of how you chose to "parent" us, regardless of the routes you took or didn't take, you've been a good mom to us. You've loved us despite our faults, despite our differences, despite our failures, despite our choices. Despite the bad, you loved us, supported us, and called us to ask how we were doing. You called for nothin', just to talk. That made you a great mom to us. You never once made any of us feel like a disappointment like so many other parents do with their kids. You never shamed us for drinking or smoking. You never got mad at me for getting so many tattoos.

You see, sometimes the guilt is overwhelming. You hear a lot about "all the things i should have said" when people talk about their loved ones who die. And that's true. There is a lot of that. But with us, at least right now, as I'm typing this, I feel like I've said a lot to you. So you knew exactly how I feel about stressful topics. I've shared with you my regrets and feelings and thoughts. I've told you I love you so many times, especially in these last 3 and a half years. I feel good about that.

So, on these last days with you...

• On this last Mother's Day to you: Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You were a great fucking mother, unconventional and all. You loved us and we felt loved. We absolutely knew we were your world. And we are better fucking people because of it. 
• On this last birthday to you: Happy birthday, ma! You made it another trip around the sun! 54! I'M FIFTY! I CAN KICK! I CAN STRETCH! We all know that if you weren't stick, you'd still be in a disgusting warehouse of a gym flipping tires and jumping on boxes. 
• On the day your grandson was born: I DID IT! Momma, you're a grandma again! We have a beautiful baby boy! Congratulations, Mama! I know you love Auri so so so much and now you have to share your love with Baby Xanti. 
• On Auri's 3rd birthday: Thank you so much for the piano! Auri loves to sit at her little piano and press all the keys. You were so thoughtful to get her this gift. We'll put her in piano lessons soon, don't worry. 
• On my 31st birthday: Aye, mama, you've officially been a mom for 31 years. THATS CRAZY! I don't know how you ever did it. Alone. With the midwives in Weslaco. No pain management. You've always been a true rock star warrior. I'll never be able to match you. Congratulations on having such an amazing daughter. You're welcome. 
• On your last Thanksgiving: Mom. I'm so thankful to you. I'm thankful that you exist. That I belong to you. It's been a wild journey. We made some wild turns. I left your care when I was 8, but I know that it was for a reason. It was because you loved me so so much, that you needed to give me something you couldn't offer. I felt your love, always. I never once doubted your love for me. I never questioned it. And for that, I am endlessly thankful. 

And so here we are. 

------

[dec 2018]

Dear Mom,

You died in the wee hours of the morning on December 1st, 2018. I flew down from NJ a few days ago with X (4 months old) and got to spend 2 days with you as you slept away on a morphine drip, surrounded by your parents, sisters, brother, friends, and myself. Jordan was able to say his goodbyes in the days prior. David was around, too. I had X with me and you heard his voice, his cries. I left around 10pm that night to put Xantos to sleep, and you passed between 2-3am. 

I'm so sorry you died. 

This really fucking sucks.

I Don't Want To Talk To You

There isn’t a polite way to say “I don’t want to talk to you”.  

Or better said, "Talking to you exhausts me emotionally and I don't want to put myself in a position where I will be accidentally rude and offend you, so please don't talk to me."

I haven’t found a way to say it. I haven't been brave enough to even try it because no matter how many times I begin to type the text, I end up backtracking and deleting it in fear that I'll be called ‘rude' or 'a bitch'. 

Instead, I consider my options:

1. Just not responding. I think to myself, "I just won't engage and they'll get the hint." But then the anxiety creeps in and I end up caving. 
2. Respond. I end up fumbling my thumbs and say something like, "sorry, just saw this." Even though I didn't JUST see it. I saw it when you sent it, I've just been procrastinating in responding because I didn't have the mental  wherewithal necessary to engage in a conversation with you. 

I don’t have a diagnosed anxiety disorder, but I do feel anxious. I don’t believe that I am truly an introvert, but I do have introvert tendencies. I’m not anti-social, but I really would rather spend my time off from work alone.

I do not appreciate the notion that because I don’t want to talk to someone, because I don’t want to talk about a certain topic, or because I don’t want to talk at all means that I’m an inherently rude person. I’m not. I’m actually quite the polite person. I’m empathetic. I allow my friends to vent to me and offer advice. 

I just put “How to tell someone you don’t want to talk to them politely” into a Google search engine, and while many forum topics came up with the same head, the responses were riddled with answers ranging from “make excuses!” to “just lie”. Even one forum respondent put to lie and say you have a form of Autism. What the actual fuck? 

There’s a WikiHow page dedicated to avoiding people. JennaMarbles made a video titled “How To Avoid People You Don’t Want To Talk To”. 

This isn’t a new phenomenon. Sorry, mom. Or cousin. Or sister. Or friend. Sometimes my brain is heavy and I’d rather avoid coming off as an asshole. I’m looking out for you, really.

So the next time you send out a message or text and it goes unanswered, before assuming that the receiver is ignoring you or being rude or bitchy, take a moment to consider the possibility of them just not being in the mood to talk. It's ok. 

To my daughter on her first Presidential Election

Barack Obama campaigning at UTPA (UTRGV). February 2008. Photo c/o myself.

A,

When you were born, the person who was in office as leader of the United States, a person that theoretically was assumed to represent every single American citizen to the rest of the world, was Barack Obama, the first Black president to ever be elected to hold this position.

Your father and I were on the lawn at the undergraduate university we both attended while he was campaigning back in February of 2008. We listened as he spoke of change, dignity, and honor. We felt proud of the direction this country was going, we felt moved by the notion that finally, nearly 50 years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964, we were finally moving in a direction that said that people of color, not just white people, could do anything. His speech spoke of change, and noted his investment in making higher education an affordable opportunity for all. We chanted with the crowd of nearly 500 people, "Si se puede!", in the hopes that, yes, we can move in a direction of growth and opportunity for all.

To My daughter on My Second Mother's Day:

Last year, I wrote a blog post titled To My Daughter on My First Mother's Day. 

In it, I wrote about my scorn for the plethora of social media and blog posts touting that all a mother could want for Mother's Day is a day away from their children. In it, I described the love and adoration I had for you, Aurora, my 9-month-old daughter, about how much you depend on me for safety, comfort, food, etc. And how I never wanted for a minute for you to think that a gift that I could possible want is for you to leave me alone. 

Well, a year has elapsed and my immobile infant from last year is now a running, climbing, screaming, demanding toddler. You are 21 months old, nearly a 2-year-old, and you hit, yell, scream, cry, climb, jump, leap, balance, roll, and you laugh until you fart.