My mother died recently in Cuba. The news did not arrive by surprise; her health had deteriorated during the weeks before her passing and I was aware of her condition: complications of advanced age. She met her end in her home, on her bed, and surrounded by family and friends; I was not there.
When I received the news of her death I was sad and stricken by grief, "my mother has died". I told my daughters and they cried; perhaps the death of my mother reminded them of the death of their own mother.
The next day I had time to think about what my mother meant to me. "Did she love me? Of course, I have no doubt! Did I love her back? Yes; in my ways, but I can not ignore that what I am today she helped me forge. Do I feel pity for her?"
What you are about to read, my version, only one other person in the world knows and that is my wife. I dare to write these stories because perhaps my daughters will read them and they will come to understand dad's ways. One obvious reason is that dad comes from a different culture, however, there are other elements to my story, including how my personality was created.
I was Born
My mother and dad met in 1957, in pre-revolutionary Cuba, and married in 1959. In that year, 1959, the nation changed completely after the rebels had taken over the capital and control of the country. I came to the world in 1961 in the "Police Hospital" of the city of Havana, where my father was a professional health worker.
My early years were marked by the absence of my father after he transitioned into the army. I was raised by my mother and, her parents.
Today I understand that my mother had a strong belief that there was something wrong with her little son. I do not know what might have prompted it. Perhaps she had too much time in her hands; she was a young beautiful woman with a son and married to a military man, the father of her child, who was never home and I became her subject of study. She went to extremes to demonstrate her thoughts. To what end? Perhaps she wanted to tell my dad to come home because he had a sick child who needed him.
Psychiatric Visits
During my primary school days, my mother started to take me on weekly visits to the psychiatric hospital where a pediatrician would examine me. I did not understand these visits, what I understood was that on some days of the week my mother would wait for me outside of the school and we would walk across the street where the hospital was.
During those visits, the doctor would show me images that I had to describe to him, and he would ask me about my favorite things. A strong impression from these visits was that on one occasion he asked me to draw something and to take as much care as I wanted and he was going to leave the room. The doctor opened the door to a room next to the one I was seating and I managed to get a glance of my mother. I did not pay attention and went back to my assignment.
"What should I draw? Ah, I know!" In those days I watched the movie "The Vikings", 1958, starring Kirk Douglas. Absolute adventure for me, hence I drew a Viking ship in the wind in a furious sea! Meanwhile, my mother and the doctor were conversing in the room next door and at some point, I overheard the doctor tell my mother "He is a healthy boy, nothing wrong with him!" I had no idea who they were talking about and returned to my drawing. When the doctor returned to the room where I was he congratulated me for the drawing and exclaimed with a smile "The Vikings, right? Can I keep it?" I agreed.
On the final visit, as I recall these events; the doctor took me to a large room with hundreds of toys. I recall the doctor and a nurse watching me play through a glass window. I did not understand the context. At the end of the session, my mother and the doctor were in the doctor's office and I was seating on a bench outside of the office.
When my mother got out of the office, she grab my hand and told me "you do not have to come next week". I looked at the doctor who was standing at the door smiling and waving "goodbye" as I was walking away with my mother. The only thing I had in my mind was "my drawing, he has my drawing!", but no words came out of my mouth and I waved back.
I was a 7 or 8-year-old boy.
This was not an event that I would forget easily. During the course of my life, I went back to these days trying to understand. What the doctor said created an impression.
Next, my mother tries to prove her thesis by herself using the help of family and friends, after the professional failed to prove her concerns. How far should I go? Should things be left where they are? Why am I writing this? Am I writing this for my daughters or for me? I understand that I cannot write these stories in one blow.
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