Chametla is a special medical facility near La Paz. They treat patients with afflictions of the body and the mind.
Chametla
I hate that place. Every time I go to La Paz, to Chametla to see my mama, Delia, I come away feeling lost and ashamed and useless. This last time was
worse because my brother, Augustine, who said he would go, cancelled at the last minute, said he had to work. Who doesn’t have to work? It’s a long
day. A long hot drive to El Centenario to the hospital where she stays. I leave Santiago when it’s still dark so I can get back the same day.
When I say “I hate that place” I mean I hate going there. They are good people there. They take good care of her; better than I could. They make her
walk and exercise a little. I know she would never do that for me and I would probably never think of trying it. They explained to us that the food
sometimes can’t taste as good as people want but because of the high diabetes rate for Mexicans, they have to balance the good for you food with the
food that tastes good. I’ve seen some of the food and it doesn’t look bad. They keep her clean and quiet – she wears my new robe when I come. I have
to call to let them know I’m coming so I don’t know if she puts on the robe or if they put it on before I show up. I brought her my old radio and they
turn it on for her, find a station with old, old music. I keep forgetting to stop at El Segundo to replace it – I miss it sometimes in the dark on the
patio and Flora and the kids like to listen all day.
Sometimes she knows me. I can feel it, the way she pats my hand, smiles at me. I know there’s some kind of connection there. They say her silence
might be because she has forgotten parts of language, of speech. It is impossible to tell what she has forgotten, what she still remembers. After the
old man died, Augustine and I seemed to be even more wrapped up in our own worlds, our own problems, families, jobs. We didn’t do much. We could have
done a lot more. Maybe for mama this is a good time to be forgetting how things were. I try to forget. But I can’t. Now I think of the things we
should have done for her.
At Chametla, when I last signed in, the book showed my sobrina, Carla, had come down from Loreto a month ago to visit with mama. I wonder if mama
remembers her nieces. I will drag Augustin’s butt up here on my next trip no matter what he says. Maybe, maybe with both of us here again it might
make a little spark of memory for her – to see us together again, side by side. Just a little spark. Just a little glimpse. It might mean the world to
her. I’ll get some flowers. Maybe they’ll allow her a little candy from San Bartolo.
It’s her own fault. All of this. She should have had girls like her sister.
woody with a view - 5-16-2015 at 07:04 AM
Chametla=Cool name!MMc - 5-16-2015 at 10:07 AM
Good story as always. I am going through something like that now, it is very on point. Thank You,MMcBajahowodd - 5-16-2015 at 04:57 PM
