As soon as we entered the chapel, my sister immediately noticed that Christ was nailed to the cross… and for us, especially in that moment of mourning, it was very important to reaffirm that the cross is empty: beneath that symbol lay, as if merely sleeping, the body of our mother.
Even today it's difficult to explain what I felt at that moment, because I missed someone whose personality had been diluted over the years by Alzheimer's and Parkinson's... and, to my confusion, I also felt relief at the rest, hers and ours, after so much time of struggle, suffering and exhaustion.
That Monday morning, the first, and until then only, person present in the chapel was Maria, my brother Rogério's mother and my father's wife until his last days: the rest of the family took a while to arrive and, in truth, I was functioning in "autopilot mode" and — reliving the procedures from the many deaths I witnessed — I mechanically handled the administrative aspects of that bitter moment, because any awkwardness in the burial process would only worsen the pain of the loss.
Mom had passed away the day before, lying in her own bed in the living room of the house that my sister and I managed to buy precisely to escape the rent that had enslaved us our entire lives and to be able to provide some peace of mind, at least in terms of housing, in her old age: we even tried to call SAMU (the Brazilian emergency medical service) so that there would be some specialized medical assistance at that moment, but despite all my efforts—I went searching for police units from the Adryana neighborhood to the West Shopping mall, in the illusion that a radio call could speed up the ambulance's arrival—that transport never arrived.
But truth be told, I didn't have much hope… Mom had already given up, surrendered many years ago, and her interest in life wasn't a recent loss. She systematically refused all the activities we proposed: from the beginning she didn't want physiotherapy or painting, but then she didn't even want to make the effort of getting from the bed to the wheelchair anymore… we suggested sunbathing, but she wouldn't even force herself to go to the bathroom and take her own bath, leaving all this Herculean effort on my sister, little Gesilda, alone.
I, the son, was unable to cope with the awkwardness of my mother's hygiene routines, but I did my best, for as long as I could, to offer all possible support: my father had not lived with us for ages, my brother He was murdered in 1991, and, having been emancipated at 16 when I joined the Air Force, I was left as the "breadwinner" since I was 18.
Mom was my dependent, and I took that very seriously throughout her life, but an accident in 2014 brought a setback: during surgery for an open fracture, my right hand initially lost motor function when her radial nerve was pinched, and it took me months to regain movement. But her weight-bearing capacity… that became so compromised that I can't even carry my children in my arms on my right side, let alone support my mother's weight of over 100 kilos when transferring her from bed to wheelchair!
The Lesson of Pain
In fact, one of the most important lessons I've ever learned happened precisely during the recovery of my "clueless hand": after months in a sling and already beginning to learn to write with my left hand, one day, in physiotherapy, A sharp pain shot through my forearm, and, stunned, I yelled for her to stop the exercise, thinking the bone would break through the skin and be exposed again, but the wise doctor reassured me with the most important lesson, which I share here:
If it hurts, it's because it's reacting.
If I were dead and hopeless, I would no longer feel pain!
And indeed, from that crucial moment onward, a practically miraculous convalescence process began: first my thumb managed to make small movements, which became larger until the entire hand recovered its motor function… and it is with this hand that I am typing all of this normally!
I was so excited and soon realized that this was also a possible path for my mother, who would scream in pain during her physiotherapy sessions. And we, her loving, concerned, and protective children, would ask our dear friend Elaine, a professional in the field, to stop immediately… and if I feel any guilt today, perhaps it's for never having urged her to endure the pain while there was still time, while we had the resources to pay for the sessions, while her body structure hadn't atrophied so extensively.
My excitement faded as I realized that, even though she still had some ability, my mother deliberately preferred to be completely assisted rather than do things that, with some effort, she could do herself: in her mind, this complete dependence, without considering the extreme exhaustion of the person assisting her, was both a demonstration of affection and an obligation… and, believe me, she even got genuinely offended when we told her to try a little harder!
If she had been willing to make an effort… would she still be with us for a little longer?
“"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom."”
(Ecclesiastes 9:10)
Today, all I have left is the memory of the scene: her lying on the bed, oblivious to her sense of space, asking me (who had no strength in my arm) to adjust her in one way, but five minutes later she wanted it another way…
I would take her hand, lead it to the bed rails, and say:
— Mom, you're lying down and there's no danger of anything happening. So hold onto the railing and get comfortable slowly, because Zilda is very busy and I have to go.
She would get angry, and I would pretend to leave, but I would stay hidden, watching her adjust herself until she could find a position on her own where she wouldn't complain anymore... then I would appear, say something, and everything would be fine.
Please don't judge me, because this was the only way I could get her to make even the slightest physical effort…
Even when she was still with us, I was already moved by seeing any elderly person making an effort, walking (even slowly), but now I ask God to reward that activity with a longer life... and that's why I don't stop!
Eternally Instant
The attendant didn't quite understand our request for an empty crucifix, but she was accommodating in removing the image with a body nailed to the cross... and the chapel was left without any religious icons until the end.
Is it possible that there is no crucifix without a little corpse figurine?
In fact, this religious issue is completely strange when people aren't ready to respect the convictions of others: I, who believe in God and the gloriously resurrected Christ, stopped pressuring people to believe in the same things as me since I understood that it's not my role to convince people of sin, righteousness, and judgment!
I live in such a way that my actions are my testimony and preaching… at most I end up transcribing one or two biblical passages (because genuine faith can only come through the word of God), but I no longer have the patience to argue with anyone and I hope to be understood in my resolution to… I will not bow down before any other god.…not even to be nice: the exemption is my respect for the person, because there are those who do not profess the same faith as I do and behave with much more dignity than some dogs and bitches who present themselves as “brothers and sisters”!
Finally, at my mother's wake, there were people wanting to bring a priest to pray beside the body, people wanting to distribute Jehovah's Witness pamphlets… and it's at times like these that the shock of emotion can lead those who lack knowledge or conviction in their own faith to jump at the discourse that seems most emotionally comforting: I perfectly remember that when my brother died (a year after the resounding release of "Ghost"), I received and read Kardec's Gospel from cover to cover!
An intriguing detail is that between November 10th and 18th, while my mother was still alive, I dreamt several nights that I still had strength in my arms and was guiding her in a wheelchair to the doors of a kind of very white and brightly lit "castle-hospital": while smiling, she said she was insecure about going in there… and, I don't know why, I knew that there she would walk again… that she would become Nair again, my mother, a servant of God, who taught me so much of everything I am!
On Tuesday, November 19, 2019, as soon as I left a doctor's appointment at HAAF, I went straight to her house and, without much explanation or considering that she was asleep because of a sedative, I held her hands and began to speak:
“"Mom, you're still there, right? I know you're listening to me, and I need to tell you about the dream I had: you don't need to be afraid of anything, because there's a very beautiful place where you will be healed of everything!"”
She reacted, and I continued, suddenly filled with a completely unusual, if not inappropriate, certainty:
“"Mom, soon you will be standing before God and you will be able to see Him face to face! I'm not going to give a speech before a corpse in a coffin because I'm giving it to you here and now: I love you, my mother!"
Despite being disappointed and angry when you gave up on doing things and desperately trying to get you to react, I love you because you've always been my best friend and always wanted the best for me.Rest assured, today I am the father of your grandchildren, and I am trying to take care of them and my wife in the best way possible… and my sister too: when you are before God, please tell Him that I try to be honorable and exemplary… and that even when I fail, I love and respect Him more than anything… and that I hope one day to have the honor of completing the “deal” I have with Him.
I know that He hears prayers, but I never had the perspective to send such a personal message… so you can rest, you can be at peace knowing that your mission has been accomplished, that your struggle is over, and that I will stay here and do my best to honor your memory.
I love you, Mom.”
My sister, who heard everything, was astonished and curiously recounted that for a week, at her house, my mother had been having troubled sleep and calling out my name during the early hours of the morning.
I didn't want to keep thinking about it or be there: I turned around, left... and I believe that was the last time I actually spoke to my mother.
On Sunday, November 24, 2019, after trying in every way to call an ambulance, I returned to my sister's house and sat on the porch to have a cup of coffee and a piece of bread with butter, because since 6:15 I had been involved in this task and, having undergone gastric bypass surgery, I could get sick on an empty stomach.
Don't ask me why, but I didn't feel comfortable going into the room and, as I usually did, eating next to my mother.
Shortly before 8, I started feeling an unusually cold feeling and, still expecting the ambulance to arrive, I decided to go home to get a jacket and drop my wife and children off at church: I had just stopped the car at my gate when my sister called saying…
“"Mom's Gone": The Final Mourning
I perfectly remember Sergeant Cabral saying, in a first-year regulations class at the Aeronautics Specialist School, that when we become soldiers we are guaranteeing the peace of mind of our wives, daughters, and mothers until the day they die!
How that moment is etched in my memory: from the classroom where the lesson was given to the intonation and facial expression of my then-sergeant.
This is what I remembered when FHE POUPEX refused — legally and based on a sordid administrative maneuver recently implemented — to provide the expected support: the FAB will support me in this painful moment with funeral assistance!
I don't know if any reader would have this understanding, but with my mother's body in the living room, I didn't have the composure to go from funeral home to funeral home getting quotes for removal and coffin: we immediately called the place where we have a burial plot and activated the complete service, from removal to the headstone.
I must thank the First Baptist Church of Campo Grande, which made it possible for the medical examiner to issue the death certificate.
I have to thank my cousin, nurse Louise, who went to the coroner's house so he could correct a filling-out error that occurred due to a misreading of a document… and through this correction, make it possible to remove the body.
I have to thank everyone who was present and showed their condolences, both at home and at the cemetery, but perhaps it's necessary to mention that I greatly appreciated their emotional embraces, but..., deaf, I couldn't understand anything when they spoke softly, so I couldn't see their mouths.
Finally, at 3 pm the body was removed; before 5 pm that metal bed where she had spent the last few years was already out of the house and in some unknown place, never to be seen again; before 8 pm all those clothes and cloths she used were already bagged for donation or any destination that was not near us or within our sight.
The wake began at 10:00 AM on the 25th, and the burial took place at 3:30 PM.
I wish I could end this account here, but on the 26th I saw the greatest abyss that had ever been beneath my feet open up: worried about having exceeded my credit card limit, I spent the morning of the 26th rushing to the Air Force with the documentation to request funeral assistance, but the information I received almost made me faint!
Your mother is your dependent under the heading "AMHC," and the law changed a year ago: only dependents under the heading "AMH" are entitled to funeral assistance.
In other words: WHO CARES!!
For the first time in my life I had to beg, and if it weren't for the kindness of some fellow officers (and a deaf friend in particular), my family and I would have been in need in December 2019!
Finally, I'll end this episode here, because the story continues and, modesty aside, it's quite interesting… however, I really need money and since I became deaf, I haven't had many opportunities at events: perhaps the next story will be about how I came in first place in a public service exam and how, probably once again, my connection with the Air Force will hinder my struggle to get out of this ridiculous financial situation I'm in.
Yes, I miss my mother very much, and desperate because I couldn't inspire her to resist and face the pain and challenges, I continue trying to inspire and uplift others, because in doing so I am also inspired.
This story didn't end in mourning; it evolved into a fight.
If this story touched you, I invite you to follow along as I transform this pain into fuel and silence into a new way of operating. Subscribe to [link/channel name]. my YouTube channel And follow me on social media (links right below, in the footer) to see, in practice, how life goes on — and how we choose to react to it every day.
Yes, my friend, I get emotional reading this account. I know about your difficulties and your struggle in recent years. You've always been a warrior, one of the most upright people I've ever known. Sometimes it's really hard to find explanations for everything that happens in our lives. It's best to keep moving forward, fighting and believing in God's plan. I miss you so much. I always enjoyed talking to you. I know it's difficult now, but there are many ways we can "talk." I hope you're well, surrounded by your beautiful family. Big hug, my friend!!!