Life keeps moving ahead, and by now, you should know that. I wait for my moment, but in the meantime, I make the most of each day. Life moves on. This morning, I ran a 5K in under 30 minutes. My focus is shifting towards speed training, hoping to shed some pounds and stay healthy. Life keeps moving onward.
Closure came today as we said our final goodbye and laid our beloved Queen to rest. The procession of vehicles, moving in a single line to the cemetery, left me in awe. It dawned on me that we were all here—descendants, relatives, grandchildren, cousins—because of her. She brought us together, even in death. Grandma’s journey began when she left her home in Aguascalientes at the young age of 19, making her way to El Paso, Texas. She was incredibly brave to embark on that path alone.
The services began yesterday, and I was honored to deliver the eulogy. My memories of her are vivid and cherished—she was a central figure in my upbringing. Even after her Alzheimer’s diagnosis and the slow decline that followed, I made it a point to stay connected, to continue communicating with her. Throughout it all, she remained resilient.
Today, we laid her to rest. It feels surreal to think that her presence is no longer with us. The finality of death is, without a doubt, the hardest thing to process.
Below is the eulogy I shared in her honor:
Grandma is one of the toughest women I’ve ever known. Grandma faced and overcame countless challenges in life, living to the ripe age of 93.
The way our family home acreage was divided Grandma and Grandpa lived in the front lot, while Aunt and Uncle lived in the back lot. So, yes, Grandma was a central figure in my upbringing.
Whenever mom needed a break from me, she’d send me next door to hang out with Grandma, Aunt Irene or Uncle Frank and I loved it because there I was treated like royalty. I enjoyed messing around with the white guitar that Grandpa kept in the living room and grandma never hushed me. Ok, maybe once when she was trying to watch an interesting segment of that show “Christina”.
Grandma never learned how to drive, so whenever Mom needed to go out and Grandma needed something, we’d always make sure to take her with us. I remember thrift store shopping with Mom and Grandma—it was a favorite pastime of ours. I’d be in the phase of hunting for cool vintage clothes, while Mom and Grandma could spend hours sifting through piles of rags and fabrics.
I also remember long drives across the border with Mom and Grandma after visiting Tia Olga or stopping by the doctor. I’d sit in the back seat and have my headphones on, listening to music, while Mom and Grandma chatted as we idled in the long border lines to get back into El Paso. This is where I would often witness Grandma’s kind heart as she gave pesos to people selling chicklets or those simply begging on the streets. Despite not having much herself, she always stopped to give, and that made a lasting impression on me.
We grew up going to church, and since Grandma couldn’t drive, we would always stop to pick her up to give her a ride to church service. Grandma would get in the vehicle and always sat in the front seat, and I’d be relegated to the back. We would get to church, and I’d often listen to her talk to all her church friends, whom we all affectionately called “Hermanas.”
I was quite the tomboy back then, and Grandma would always correct my posture at church and encouraged me to act more like a lady. I remember once sitting slouched in church, probably wearing a dress Mom had made for me. Grandma gently guided me to sit up straight. She was stern but caring.
Grandma made the best tamales, hands down. No argument there. There came a time when it became too difficult for her to make them, but I’ll never forget how she used to test the “masa” by dropping a small piece into a glass of water to see if it floated. As a kid, I thought it was a clever trick. As an adult, I now understand that the buoyancy of the “masa” is what makes the tamales so delicious. Yep, Grandma made the best tamales.
I also remember visiting Grandma’s house and often helping her with the dishes. I’m not sure why I enjoyed the chore, but I did. Grandma would always have a pot on the left side of the sink, filled with a mixture of water, Clorox, and dish soap for cleaning and scrubbing. She didn’t like to waste water, and she taught me that running water was only for rinsing. Another memory that sticks with me is when I would help her wash clothes by hand outside at the “tendedero.” She used a big blue bar of soap to scrub Grandpa’s SNA Nut Company shirts.
I also recall how worried Grandma was when Grandpa cut his finger at work. I was young, so she tried to shield me from the details, but I could see how deeply concerned she was for him.
There are so many lessons, so many memories. Mom and Grandma were inseparable, at least up until I graduated high school. When I left home for college, Mom got a job, and we started noticing that Grandma was exhibiting signs of Alzheimer’s. I’ll spare the details, but I always tried to visit her when I was back in Chaparral, even during the time when Mom and Grandma weren’t getting along.
When I left Chaparral for college up North. I would stop by to visit and on my return, Grandma always liked to bless me with prayer before I made the four-hour drive back up to Albuquerque. I remember her telling me how proud she was of me
I would always joke with Grandma, telling her I was her favorite grandchild, but I knew she loved us all the same. However, she was my favorite grandma.
One time, Grandma asked me if I ever thought about getting married. I told her no, that I hadn’t found anyone. She replied, “Well, you better hurry up, or ‘Se te va ir el tren,’” which translates to, “You’d better find someone, or the train is going to leave you.” Then, I met Mike and brought him home to meet Grandma. She was happy for me, I could tell. Her way of showing it? She looked at Mike and said, “¡Qué narizon!” which means, “What a big nose!” That’s how I knew she approved.
Grandma’s bluntness was just part of her endearing, strong character. She always made me laugh, even if most people didn’t understand her humor.
If Grandma ever offered you food or drink and you kindly turned it down, she would always say, “¡Ay, pues chulo!”
Goodbye, Grandma. I will always carry the Christian values you instilled in me. You were strong and courageous, but underneath all that toughness, you had the kindest heart. Please know Mom misses you, and in her own struggle, she still calls out for you.
We will always Love You Grandma.
I won’t go into all the details, but I’m proud of myself for making it to a screening assessment today. I’m really focusing on not ignoring the early signs of potential health issues that could affect me later. I left work early to make it to a diagnostic imaging procedure, and I have to say, I’m amazed at how technology can help detect future problems. The test is done now, but the radiologist wasn’t available to review the results right away. I’ll be waiting to hear more on how to proceed. I’m optimistic it is nothing serious.
I attended the Lady Gators basketball game against Mississippi State, and it was an electrifying finish that ended with a buzzer-beater. The crowd erupted into cheers, and everyone was on their feet.
The game was entertaining, especially since we were seated right on the sideline behind the west hoop. This gave us a perfect view of the Mississippi State bench and their coaching staff, adding to the intensity of the experience.
One of my biggest takeaways from the game was observing the fans’ reactions when they appeared on the jumbo-tron. It’s fascinating to watch the sequence unfold. The camera typically zooms in on someone, and as soon as they notice, they point to their neighbor and tap them on the shoulder, signaling to look up. The neighbor’s reaction is priceless—eyes widen in surprise, followed by a big smile, applause, and spontaneous laughter. Then a quick search for the camera operator, as if they’ve just experienced a fleeting moment of fame among the crowd. It’s a heartwarming sight that always brings a smile to my face, and I can’t help but eagerly wait for my own moment on that screen!
I discovered Germaine Dulac’s work after watching La Souriante Madame Beudet last night, and I’m fascinated. This 1923 French Impressionist silent film left a poignant impression with its portrayal of a troubled marriage. The symbolic elements throughout the flick sparked my curiosity about Dulac’s cinematic style. The mise-en-scène, along with the juxtaposition of the visual and narrative elements, transformed the film into a vivid exploration of the protagonist’s inner world—her daydreams and her quiet despair. The powerful closing scene encapsulates the disillusioned continuance of the marriage with the haunting line “United by Habit.”
I’m reaching out to share that I’m shifting my perspective. I’ve realized that my words have been filled with negativity, often reflecting my frustration with the situations in life. But I’ve come to understand that it’s not what happens to us, but how we respond, that shapes who we become. I choose to embrace a more stoic approach, accepting life as it is while focusing on growth through challenges. While I may never fully make sense of everything, I’m determined to keep trying, as no one really has all the answers. What matters to me now is making the most of my existence—overcoming challenges but also transforming them into something positive, a source of light to uplift those around me. I want to bring joy, make a positive impact, and connect with you in a meaningful way. Above all, I want you to truly understand me.
Today, during my lunch break, I called Robin. I’m not entirely sure if it’s spelled “Robin” or “Robyn,” but she’s mom’s hospice case nurse.
Yesterday as I was flying back to Florida from Southern New Mexico, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we might be missing something. “Maybe there’s some treatment we haven’t explored yet, or perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation for this whole situation that I just haven’t grasped.” I thought.
I didn’t arrange for hospice care—my brother did that when he was still speaking to us. But after the transition, he stopped communicating with either me or my father. I don’t even know how it went from a memory care facility to hospice care. I always thought hospice was just for the very end, but I’ve since learned it’s about making someone with a terminal illness as comfortable as possible and can go on for over a year.
Over the weekend, while I was caring for mom and giving dad a break, it felt like we were just giving up. It didn’t seem like we were doing anything to help her—it was just about managing pain and trying to calm her agitation.
Today, during my lunch break, I called Robyn. I needed to hear directly from someone who could give me a clear answer. I asked her, “Is there no hope? Can we not try anything else?”
She was kind but firm. “Your mom is in the final stages of dementia.” She read through a list of evaluation metrics that would classify her under the hospice treatment. Can she do this..…… Can she do that……… Does she know……… all answers were “No.”
“I know it’s hard.” Robin said.
As I reflect this certainly progressed quickly—what was Stage 3 is now Stage 6, all in less than a year. “We’re doing everything we can to keep her comfortable.” Robyn said.
I sat with that for a moment. “Ok” I told her. “Thank you.” I think I just needed to hear it out loud from a reliable source.
As I sit here reflecting, a part of me—the part that’s always been relentless or perhaps just stubborn—refuses to believe this is the end. Maybe I’m in denial, and I just don’t want to accept it.
This weekend, while sitting next to mom in a rare moment of stillness, she turned to me and asked, “You’re not scared of anything, are you?”
I replied, “No, mom. I’m not. Are you?”
She paused and simply said, “No.”
Today, I’ve reached 42. I’m filled with gratitude, as not everyone is fortunate enough to make it this far, and in decent health too. This year has been a tough one, watching both myself and those around me age. As time passes, I find myself longing for youthfulness, vitality, and longevity. If there’s one thing I truly struggle with, it’s the process of aging.
While my cognitive abilities remain sharp, family members have become forgetful of things—like my birthday. I’ve also started spotting some white hairs on my scalp, thankfully there is an easy solution for that as I’ll continue to mask them with dye as long as I can. Thankfully there are not many wrinkles yet, and I’ll work to stave those off with whatever measures possible.
Some health metrics are beginning to show signs of decline, as expected, but I remain committed to attempting to eat well and staying active. I’m especially thankful that I can still run—it’s my stress reliever and my key to staying vibrant for years to come.
Here’s to another year, filled with hope and the potential for more life ahead.
Today at work, I needed to rely on my teammate to be my guide as I scaled up to 257 feet of the tower. The change came gradually, but I now experience a sense of vertigo whenever I climb an open grid metal stairwell where I can see hundreds of feet beneath me.
At times the fear creeps in as I tilt my head down, and I worry that I might black out from the sensation. It was my turn to scale up for safety checks, but there I stood, questioning what had shifted within me as I faced this fear.
Looking down from 257 feet in an industrial setting, I peered through the platform levels, my gaze passing over scaffolding, air cannons, and machinery. Despite the surroundings, the beauty of the sunset overhead was undeniable.
There were three stages of observation, and although I had the confidence to face them, I felt the familiar wariness creeping in as I made my way up the tower.
“Be strong,” I reminded myself as I climbed up an 8 ft. ladder toward the second observation point, between two levels, at 200 feet above the ground. From this height, everything at ground level appeared minuscule—yet, the vast view of Florida’s trees and a pristine blue lake to the west, untouched by the industrial environment, felt strangely calming.
When I finished the tasks and descended, I left work feeling a sense of accomplishment, having conquered one of my biggest fears of the day. What made it even easier to face was knowing I had a reliable teammate by my side, ready to act in case anything went wrong.
“Excuse me, what book is that?” A man pointed at the paperback tucked under my arm as I sipped my hot grande caramel macchiato and browsed through Moleskine journals.
“Oh, it’s Infinite Possibilities,” I replied.
“May I take a look?” he asked.
“Certainly.” I said, handing it over.
As he flipped through the pages, I couldn’t help but wonder about his intentions. I’m a regular at Barnes & Noble, but no one had ever approached me for a conversation before. Could this be one of those movie moments where a guy strikes up a chat, hoping to get a girl’s number? I doubted it—He must notice that I’m much older than he is, and I certainly wasn’t dressed to impress. Still, the thought lingered.
It was just past 5:45 p.m., nearing the 6 pm closing time on New Year’s Eve.
“Mike Dooley, I’ve never heard of him,” he said.
“I think he was on Mel Robbins’ latest podcast,” I responded.
I later realized I was wrong—it was a neuroscientist with the last name of Dotty, not Dooley, who had been on the episode.
The young man, casually dressed in a blue sweater, button-down shirt, and slacks, seemed to know about Mel Robbins. He mentioned reading about her 5 Second Rule, and we quickly found common ground, exchanging titles of self-help books which lead to discussing our professions.
At this point, I still wasn’t sure what his intentions were, but the conversation was pleasant and easy. He talked about building wealth with his wife, and they now had intentions to focus on giving back to others.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “after you’ve amassed riches and achieved your desires, it’s all about giving back.”
Interesting, I thought. Was this some sign, divine intervention? Could this be the serendipitous answer I’d been seeking? Maybe this was the direction I needed for 2025.
“Contributions,” I said, feeling a spark of realization.
“Exactly!” he replied.
We ended our conversation with a warm exchange of “Happy New Year” and “Take care.” I returned to browsing the journals, still reflecting on the strange nature of our encounter. These unexpected moments often seem to appear when I’m actively seeking spiritual guidance
As I waited in line at the register, I watched the man walk out the front entrance, empty-handed.
Journaling was Recommended 