“Qué Onda” is a Mexican Spanish phrase that translates to “what’s the wave” and is commonly used as a casual greeting meaning “what’s up?” It’s a bi-monthly publication packed with personal essays, guest chats, and curated findings.
When my mom received her diagnosis seven years ago, it felt like she had been handed a life sentence. We didn’t know the exact timing, only that the cancer would prevail.
A part of me built a fortress of denial to shield me from the inevitable reality. I’d defer the thought by telling myself, Yes, yes, she’ll die one day, but not today, much like I often confront my own mortality.
She, on the other hand, remained cognizant of her impending death and lived differently because of it. In her last years, she’d often remark, “Today is a good day to die.” Most of those days weren’t particularly spectacular, but she would find satisfaction in how she lived them. On a normal day, she might have made the Trader Joe’s cashier smile or sang her heart out on the karaoke machine. Whatever it happened to be that day, she made it her mission to find the magic. And when she succeeded, she felt like a winner.
Months before her passing, she had already picked her casket, secured a burial plot, and even wrote a letter to be read at her funeral, which we did on Friday. She had left us a notebook with a list of her pallbearers, guests, and instructions for her ceremony, as if to make it easier for us to celebrate her life without having to wonder if they were according to her wishes. They were simple, but clear:
Not all black.
White flowers.
Not religious.
Not sad.
Music.
This is how she was in life with her instructions, too: clear and practical. Whatever wasn’t mentioned, she’d leave for our own creative interpretation.
My mom lost her parents suddenly, quite opposite to how I lost her. She died peacefully on the eve of a new moon, surrounded by family and Nova (the family dog), just the way she had wanted. Because of her diagnosis, we had more time to prepare, which softened the impact of her departure. Both losses were difficult yet distinctly different.
Her passing feels like a full-circle moment for me. I carry her name, Flor, and now, like her at my age, I no longer have a parent. But the circumstances are different. This time, there's a palpable sense of peace. There isn’t a shadow of a doubt that my mother forgave me, loves me (yes, I’m aware that’s in present tense), and is proud of me. Unlike many, I don’t harbor the same regrets that often accompany the loss of a loved one.
Though I feel the void of her physical absence, I’m also filled with immense gratitude towards her because she did everything in her power to spare her family from unnecessary pain. Others may have regrets about what should or should not have been done, but she gave me permission to close that circle.
And now, her circle is complete.
It pains me to think that if I live past 60, I’ll have lived without her for more than half my life. She won’t be a part of future celebrations like birthdays or weddings. She won’t have a chance to hold future grandchildren. Loss is, after all, unique and multidimensional. Friends who have lost someone say that this grief never leaves, that you just learn to live life around it. I’ve cried at the thought that I’ll never be able to look at her chest rising and falling or feel her hand holding mine.
Still, amidst the waves of emotions, her spirit feels close.
I get to choose to keep her alive through my thoughts and memories, and especially through her love and my love for her. I know firsthand now that love transcends time and space, and I think that’s quite beautiful.
A few hours before her passing, we brought Nova to her bedside. As soon as she saw my mom, she jumped onto the bed to be with her. As we tried to push her off, my mom told us, “Dejenla,” let her be.
Those were her last words.
My mami, I love you to infinity. You’re with me always.
I’ll leave you with a favorite song— how perfect.
Con amor,
Flor
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I have tears in my eyes, thank you for reminding me how beautiful life is.
I'm looking out the window viewing things and people differently. Thank you!
So beautiful, Flor. May peace be with you and your family, always ❤️