Dear Mom

It’s been a few months since we became aware of what happened to you.  I still can’t believe that you’re gone and will never come back.  I guess with time I will accept it but it doesn’t seem fair.  Why were you taken from us?  Why didn’t we get to have a mother?  How could someone take away your bright light from the world, from our world?  Do you know how much you are loved and how devastating your loss has been?  It is an open wound that may never heal.

Growing up without you was difficult.  I never quite felt like a complete woman. I wasn’t sure how I could be a mother.  I needed your guidance and love.  I had many woman who have stepped up to help mother me.  Rosa tried to give us the hugs and love you would have given me.  But none of them were you.  They were a mom but not MY mom.

Mom, I don’t think you realize how special you were.  You could light up a room by walking into it.  Your smile was magnetic and inviting.  You were not only physically beautiful but also beautiful on the inside.   In these last few months, we’ve begun talking about you more.   Rosa tells us how you were so kind hearted and forgave anyone who crossed you or betrayed you.  That level of compassion is so rare nowadays, although I see it in Brenda all the time.   

You were taken 11 days shy of your 29th birthday.  28 years old and already lived through more trauma and heartache than some will experience in a lifetime.  Did you feel like you were always having to fight to survive?  Hell, it started from when you were living with Wela.  She may have been a wonderful grandmother to me but she sucked as your mom.  She failed to protect you all from harm in your own home.  She often sided with one of your many abusers.  How that must have hurt you.  My heart breaks for the child you were.  You deserved a mother who would fight for you, not against you and you didn’t have that.   It’s no wonder you turned to drugs for escape.  I would want to escape those memories myself.

You tried so hard to protect your kids from the nightmare you lived.  You warned us of strangers and tried to steer us away from danger.  You showed us how much you loved us all the time.  Even at your lowest, you put us first.  There is no doubt in my mind how much you loved us.  

I hope you know that I have never blamed you for what happened to me.   For so many years, I have carried the shame of that day.  I felt responsible for talking to that stranger and starting the domino effect of becoming homeless and you falling deeper into the depths of drug addiction.  But I now know that it wasn’t my fault.  You had already been dabbling with drugs before I was attacked.  The attack just pushed you over the edge.  Rosa said you never forgave yourself for what happened to me.   You sent me, your young child of 7, to the store alone.  But don’t you see, it wasn’t your fault either.  The only person who should carry the shame and guilt of what happened to me is the rapist.  He, like so many other predators, took advantage of the situation.  How many times before that day had I been out alone?   I cannot forgive you for something I never held you responsible for.  You are not to blame. 

Who might have you become if you had been given a chance to change? The chance to stop using drugs and deal with all of your trauma.  You probably would have helped others to overcome their addictions.  You would have been around to laugh with Brenda and I.  You and Rosa would probably see yourselves in us.  We would have been able to comfort one another when Wela died.  There are so many ways your story could have gone.  

You weren’t able to live your life to the fullest because you were taken from us.  I will live mine to the fullest for both of us.  I will work through the trauma to become a woman you would be proud of.  

I love you mom.  I loved you then and I love you more now.  I will love you forever.  

Love, 

Millie

Letter to my younger self

Dear Millie

It’s been a while since I’ve thought of you or talked to you.  You seem so far from me.  I barely remember you.  Glimpses of a smiling little girl pop through but quickly vanish.  I have flashes of the innocent child you were.  I remember the joy we felt when we found money in the hallway and Mami was so happy.  That day we had pizza and pineapple soda.  That little bit of money brought so much happiness on that day.  I remember waking up early during the summers and going outside to play with Lemonuel because the street was closed and we would ride our bikes up and down the street.  I remember being the only girl invited to his party and wearing Mimi’s dress because her clothes were always in better condition than mine.  Memories of being in kindergarten and crying because someone said they didnt want to be my friend.  Even at the young age of 5, wanting to be liked was vital.  Who would you have become if that monster had not violated you?  

It’s not your fault.  It never was.  He took advantage of your good heart and your good nature.  He knew that if he offered you money for helping him, you would.  You always had such a good heart and wanted to help in anyway you could.  And a suitcase full of money?  SOLD.  If $20 made everyone happy, imagine what a suitcase full of money would do.  

You knew that you should not have gone with him because she always warned us not to talk to strangers.  You knew what rape was because of what happened to Rosa.  But this wasn’t really talking to strangers.  This was helping someone who needed help with his mother.  And he was going to pay.  This would be ok. 

At 7 years old, there’s no way you could have known what would have happened.  No matter how much you think you should have, you couldn’t have.  You weren’t fully mentally developed yet.  That asshole lied to you when he told you that this is why you shouldn’t talk to strangers.  He made you believe that it was your fault.  After all, hadn’t she told you that repeatedly?  But I’m telling you that you hold no blame or fault in what happened.  You have to forgive yourself.  

Also, the sexual assault was not the reason Mami started doing drugs. She had already started down the path before  you were attacked.  She tried to protect you by making sure that you didnt have to go back to that neighborhood.  But she had already been abusing drugs.  You were not the reason for that.  

I promise not to lock you up in my memory.  I will think about you more.  I want you to see that even though we have been through some shit, we are doing ok.  We are strong.  We are smart.  

I love you little one and I will continue to work on dropping the burden of feeling at fault.  Let’s see if we can free you from the bondage of guilt and shame.

Cheated

“I miss my mom.”   I can’t count how often that single phrase has ran through my mind.   I could be in the middle of the most mundane of tasks, such as cleaning and all of a sudden, I’m missing someone I haven’t seen in over 30 years.  For all of this time, I really only allowed myself to think of my mom in May.  During the month of May, I would allow thoughts of the woman who not only gave birth to me but also raised me for the first 10 1/2 years of my life.  I gave myself permission to miss her and think of her.   It’s not that I didn’t want to think of her, it was too painful to think of her.   There was too much pain, anger, and confusion.  Where was she?  I hope she got off drugs.  If she got off drugs, why hadn’t she looked for us?  She’s living her life and I am going to live mine.  I never doubted that she loved me but still I was angry with her.  Where was she?  When thoughts of her crept up throughout the years,  I shoved them down. 

Finding out that she didn’t walk away but was taken away has caused some of the same feelings: pain, anger and confusion.  Pain that I will never see her again. The hope was snuffed out with that one confirmation.  Anger that she was brutally murdered and unnamed for over 30 years. Confusion because now I have to reconcile the anger I felt for 30+ years at her absence.   Now when thoughts of her creep up, I can’t shove them down.  Immediately I remember that she’s gone.  When I am asked where my mom is, I can no longer say, “I don’t know.  No one has seen in over 30 years.”  Now the answer is, “oh she was murdered 33 years ago but we just learned about it.”  

Since finding out, I’ve also felt cheated.  My family and I have been cheated on so many levels.  We were cheated of having her in our lives today.  She was taken before any of her kids became adults.  She never got to meet any of her grandkids or great grandkids.  They would never know the amazing, caring and loving woman she was. They would never hear her signature whistle or experience the brilliance of her smile.  I would never again feel her arms embrace me or hear her tell me she loves me.  I would never get to tell her how much I love her.

We were also cheated on justice for her.  The likelihood of finding out who murdered her is almost slim to none after all this time.  Maybe if we had known what had happened to her when it happened, the cops could have interviewed people who knew her or that area and get some leads.  But that wasn’t done.  Her case was discarded as carelessly as she was.  We will most likely never know who did this or why.

I also feel cheated on grieving.  I feel the grief of knowing she’s really gone but it was 33 years ago.  I don’t even know how to grieve the woman who I loved with all of my being.  Ive spent so long trying not to think about her to avoid the pain of not knowing where she was.   I know where she is now and I have to catch up with 33 years of grief.

I missed my mom for the last 33 years and I will miss her for the rest of my life.  

Network of Angels

 “Could she be The 1990 Bronx Jane doe?”  A question that ended up providing an answer to a question my family had been asking for over 30 years, what happened to my mother?

Over the last 30 years, I have often been asked about my mother.  What happened to her?  Has anyone seen her?  My answers varied but always included, “she disappeared and no one knows,” “she’s like Elvis and there have been sightings over the years,” “I really don’t know,”  Inevitably, the next question would be, “have you ever looked for her?”  That answer was easy, no.  I had never looked for my mom in earnest.  I would the occasional Facebook or Spokeo search but never really looked for her.  Initially, I was angry with her and figured, she was living her life and I would live mine.  When I realized that she may be deceased, I didn’t want to know the answer.  It was like Schrödinger’s cat; she was both alive and deceased as long as there was no confirmation.

One of these conversations took place on March 18th with my sister and a close group of friends.   It’s funny, even though I had been friends with these ladies for well over 10 years, some close to 30 years, we had never really talked about my mom.  I tend to be an open book but if the topic or questions dont come up, I don’t volunteer the information.  The conversation naturally shifted to other topics throughout the night and that was that.  Or so I thought.  

A few days later, as I was scrolling through Facebook, I decided to post a picture of my mom and a small blurb in the “Missing people of NYC” group.  I reached out to my sister and asked if she thought it was a good idea and she agreed.  I didn’t think anything would come of it.  Figured people would look at her picture and if they didn’t recognize her, keep scrolling.   I sent Brenda the pictures I intended to post, along with the blurb and after I got the ok, pressed, “Post.”

Within an hour of posting, one of the admins of the groups, reached out and began asking questions about my mom.  Where had we seen her last?  Was there a NAMUS case? Had we filed a missing person’s report?  Have we provided the Medical Examiner’s office with our DNA to match against possible Jane Does?  It was a little overwhelming but I was touched that she had taken an interest and given so many good leads about how to start the search.  She also offered to create a missing poster to aide in the search.

Not long after that, multiple people were commenting on the post trying to assist in the search.  I mean people were actively doing their own searches on the internet to help.  I couldn’t believe that so many people were spending their time to help someone whom they had no connection to. Eventually someone commented,  “Could she be The 1990 Bronx Jane doe?”   I had no idea who this Jane Doe was and asked for additional information.   An article, published in ourBlackgirls.com, was forwarded to me.   The article contained a picture taken in the morgue of the Jane Doe and the particulars of the case. 

At first, I didn’t think the Jane Doe looked like my mom but I couldn’t deny that she looked like she could be related.  As I stared at the picture, I conceded that it there could be a match.  This factored with when she was found, May 2, 1990, the same timeframe she went missing and the location, Claremont Park, near Webster Ave, where she was living, all pointed to this being my mom.  I reached out to my sister, who agreed that this could be our mother and we started making calls to see about an identification. 

I was flabbergasted that I not only possibly had an answer so quickly after posting about my mother but I was also incredibly grateful that so many people were trying to assist.  People were not only commenting on the post but sharing it as well.  There were also those reaching out to me individually offering their assistance.  When I thanked the original person who asked if she could be the Jane Doe, she mentioned that she been working her case and recognized her based on the pics.  She then stated that she finds John and Jane Does.  I had someone else reach out and offer to assist with the case.  When I explained to this person that I felt the Jane Doe was in fact my mother, she agreed and confirmed that this Jane Doe’s case had been around for awhile.  I had another person reach out and offer to create another missing poster and get the word out.  What?  Who were these people?  How did I not know of their existence? 

These are individuals and small groups who look for unidentified and unclaimed people in an effort to give them their identity and provide answers for the families.  It was comforting that someone was trying to help my mother during the time when we, as her family, were unable to.  Websites like ourblackgirls.com posts articles about these Jane Does to put the faces and stories out there.  The deceased are people who had families and deserve to be identified and brought home.  

One week after my initial post, we received confirmation that yes, Neida Monge, was in fact The 1990 Bronx Jane Doe.  After 33 years, this Jane Doe was identified and Neida Monge was brought back into the light.  When I share the news about my mom with others, the same question always comes up, what made you post in that group?  The truth is that I don’t know what inspired me to post on that day.  I had been a member of that Facebook group since December 2021 and had never thought to post before.  In fact, I joined that group to help another friend out.  But something in me knew to post on that day. 

I will forever be grateful to the site, ourblackgirls.com, for posting the article about the Jane Doe.  That article was shared repeatedly and became known in the network of people who search for missing loved ones.   If it weren’t for the article and members of the Facebook group, I don’t know how long it would have taken us to find answers.    They are a network of angels doing amazing work.  

As always, thank you for reading and take care.

Dear Mami,

Mom, Mami, Mommy, Ma… so many ways to address the woman who birthed me and they all sound foreign.  I guess after 33 years of just seeing her in my head or referring to her as simply my mom, it makes sense that I would be lost as to what to call her.  The last time I saw or interacted with my mom, I was 10 years old.  While more than 3 decades have passed, part of me still feels like that 10 year old.  I’ve decided to address her as Mami and keep calling her that until it becomes “normal.”  

Dear Mami,

May has always been a month where you have been at the center of my mind.  Not only is Mother’s Day in May but your birthday also falls in May, around the Same time.  A month and a half ago, we found out that your life also ended in May, adding another day of significance during this month.  

33 years ago today, you were violently snatched from this world.  Taken from your kids, who so desperately loved you and needed you.  First we were removed from your care in March and then you were removed from our life permanently, 2 months later.  I will be honest that I am still a little numb from the news.  Heartbroken because I will never get to see you or talk to you in person.  I am sad that because back then we didn’t have a video camera, I will never hear your voice.  I am even sadder that I don’t recall your voice.  The only sound I remember clearly is your whistle.  I can’t imitate it but i can hear it clearly in my head.   The whistle that meant Mami is home.  So much joy to have you home.  You were the center of our life and having you around meant the world. 

As much as I wish I would have known what happened to you sooner, I am glad that I didn’t know of your death 33 years ago.  Living with Grandma was not a picnic and only the hope of you rescuing me kept me going.  I am devastated that the hope has been extinguished but I am far more prepared to deal with it as an adult than as a 10 year old kid.  Back then, it would have negatively impacted me and I honestly don’t know if I would be here today.  How do you keep going when all hope is gone? Maybe your spirit kept me from knowing to protect me.  Maybe you have been guiding me all along. 

I am sorry that I ever thought or assumed you would abandon us.  I never doubted that you loved us.  That’s why I was so incredulous that you would just disappear.  How could you not come back?  Knowing how horrible living with her was, how could you leave us there?  But looking back, I realize it was easier to get mad than to honestly consider that maybe you couldn’t come back.  Someone had made sure of that. 

As I sit here today, on the 33rd anniversary of your death but the 1st one since we found out, I am filled with sadness, longing, anger and so many other emotions.  But most importantly, I am filled with love for you.  I hope you realize what an impression you left on your youngest child.  Your fierce love and light have not been forgotten.  Even in the midst of the angriest I’ve ever been, my love for you far outweighed any negative feeling.  I remember you and your energy.    I find myself thinking back on the good memories.  Bringing up some story or advice you gave.  It’s comforting to to think of the good times and remember the smile that we all inherited from you.    

While you have never been forgotten, you were kept in the dark.  The thought of you was filled with pain and hope.  Maybe we would see you again.  Now that we know  what happened, the pain is still there but the hope is gone.  The hope may have been extinguished but you were also set free.  You were given your name.  We can talk about you and remember you and honor you.  All of these years since I last saw you in that hallway, I was measuring time until I saw you again.  I always envisioned a reunion where I would fill you in on all of the milestones you missed.  Now, I often talk to you in my head.  I haven’t started reminiscing yet but I will get there.  You will never be kept away like a little secret again.  I love you ❤️ ❤️.

Love,

Millie

Grief

I am struggling.  For the last month, I have been surrounded by grief.  I lost my grandmother, friends have lost parents and the world has lost beloved stars.  Varying degrees of grief have invaded my life.  I feel ill equipped to handle so much at one time.  I want to be there for my loved ones but I am also drowning in my own grief.

It has been almost a month since my little lady has passed and I feel lost.  I’ve never had anyone this close to me pass away and I feel completely unprepared.  Logically, I know that no one can really prepare for grief but I am completely at a loss.

For the last few months of her life, I made sure to pick her up once a week to take her out for the day.  I would pick her up in the morning and bring her back to the home in the afternoon.  Every week, before I left the home, I would make sure to tell her that I love her.  I would then wait for her to say it back.  Sometimes, she was already talking to one of the aides or looking around but I wouldn’t leave until she said it.  As her ability to speak was declining, it would take her a little longer but until I heard her say, I love you in her deep husky thick accent, I would not leave.  I had no idea when I dropped her of on Sunday, 11/28/21, that it would be my last time speaking to her.  I am grateful that my last words to her and from her were “I love you.”   

Before she passed, I would often think about how my life would change when my grandmother was no longer around.  While I am not a morbid person, I think its almost inevitable to have that thought, as we grow older and our loved ones age.  I knew that life would never be the same.  Having had friends and family lose their loved ones, I had said all the worn out cliches:  the memories will comfort you, its ok to be sad, there is no right way to grieve and the list goes on.  Naively, I thought that these words and sayings would help me when my time came to grieve.  But I was wrong.  There is very little anyone can say or do to help me as I navigate through this painful period.  Regardless of how supportive my friends and family are, this is a journey I am on alone.  

Waves of sadness come out of nowhere.  Tears threaten to fall whenever I catch a glimpse of her smiling face.  She is really gone and I cant seem to wrap my head around it.  Since she’s passed, Ive dreamt of her almost every night.  The same theme: it was all a mistake and she was still alive.  I cant even ask her what those dream mean.  It’s like my brain won’t accept the permanence of her absence.  Even though I was only able to see her a couple of times a week and barely talked to her on the phone, I miss my little lady more than I thought possible.  I really did not expect to feel this pain so profoundly.  My heart is broken and it feels like I will never be whole again.  I will never be able to see her again or hug her or tell her that I love her.  

My new therapist said there is no right way to grieve but there is a right way for me.  I wish someone would tell me what that right way is because I cant see or feel it just yet.  

As always, thanks for reading and take care.  

Wela

 October 18, 2019 is day I will never forget.   On that morning, one of my worst fears was realized when I found my grandmother on floor of her bedroom after she had a stroke.  I have no idea how long she had been on the ground, as I hadn’t heard anything from my bedroom upstairs.  This doesn’t surprise me when just a few days before a big tree fell mere inches from my front door and I didn’t hear a thing.  

When my grandmother, my Wela, came to live with Elio and I, I was a bit nervous.  She is one feisty little lady and had some type of conflict everywhere she lived.  I wasn’t sure how having her in our home would impact our lives.  Needless to say, it was a huge impact.  All of a sudden, I had to answer to someone who needed constant attention.  It was also obvious that she was becoming more forgetful.  The more she forgot, the more aggressive she became.  We constantly fought and I always felt I wasn’t doing enough.  She was never happy with anything I did.  I could never win, no matter how hard I tried.  

We had her tested and she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia.  It was official, she was diagnosed with a condition that would only get worse. There would be no magic pill or treatment to cure her.  Once again, I was at a loss as to how this was going to impact our relationship.  Thankfully, it was progressing slowly and I assumed we had time.  You know what they say when you assume.   Not only did the stroke affect her ability to speak clearly but it also seemed to progress the dementia.  

When she was discharged from the hospital, she was sent for a short term stay at a nursing home.  Everyday she would complain about being there and just wanted to come home.  I knew she would be in the home for at least two weeks because she needed PT and ST.  We would have weekly care meetings and the nurse and therapeutic staff would discuss how she was progressing.  After each meeting, it came back to the same thing, she would need 24 hour care in order to be discharged.  24 hour care?!?!  How would I be able to provide that for her?  I didnt ever hear when she fell.  How could I ensure that she was safely taken care of?  

We applied to various agencies for assistance but it didnt seem that we would be approved for in care home assistance.  Without financial assistance, we wouldn’t be able to hire someone for her.  Even with all this, I figured I had to suck it up and figure out a way to bring her home.  What kind of grand daughter would I be not to??   This lady had done so much for so many and here I was giving up on her.  Was I scared?  YES!  I was terrified but I figured I’d find a way.  

My opinion changed when I went to see my primary doctor and she asked me about how I was doing.  I explained Wela’s situation to her and how I was trying to figure out to bring her home.  Empathetically, she questioned if that was the right call.   She explained that to bring her home would be to give up my life for my Wela.  I wouldn’t be able to do basic things such as run errands because Wela couldn’t be left alone.  I thought, well I could always ask someone to stay with her.  But then I had to really think about it. Before the stroke, I always felt like if I had a child that couldn’t be left alone for too long.  Now she would need even more care.  Would I be able to mentally and physically handle that toll? 

After careful consideration,  I realized that I couldn’t.  The best place for her would be long term care at the home.  I discussed it at length with Brenda, my sister, and she was there when I informed Abuela.  She seemed resigned to the news and eventually, she was moved to the long term unit.  Having her in the home long term was no easy task.  For one, she doesn’t speak English and the little she understood was destroyed by the stroke.  She also refuses to eat the food at the home.  For the last two years, her daughter has prepared her meals for the week and brings them up to her every week.  Initially, I tried to compensate for my decision by visiting her every night.  Yes, every night, after a long day at work, I would go spend 1 -2 hours with her.  This was exhausting but I felt I had to.  

Eventually, I started cutting back my visits from daily to 3 - 4 times a week.  When the world first shut down due to COVID, I am slightly ashamed to say I was relieved.  I could take a break from that task and it wasn’t my fault or doing.  However, after a few days, I was overcomes with guilt.  Talking to Wela on the phone was painful, as she would tell me she missed me and our nightly routine.  There was nothing I could really do to comfort her.  I tried calling her often but as the dementia creeped in, phone calls were increasingly harder to get through.  I was racked with guilt by this point.  I made the painful decision to leave her there and now she was completely isolated from everyone.  

If my own guilt wasn’t enough, she also blamed me.  She has decided that I told the doctor she was “crazy” in order to get rid of her because I didnt want her in my home.  At times she would also promise that she wouldn’t fight so much with me, as if that would change my mind and I would bring her home.  The first day we were finally able to see her, after almost 3 long months, the first words out of her mouth was that she dying to leave the home.  This broke my heart because no matter what I said, I couldn’t get her to see that she was in the home because of her medical needs and not as a punishment.  People often tell me how I’m such a good grand daughter or she is lucky to have me.  While I smile and thank them, I cant say that I agree.  I don’t feel like I deserve any praise or kudos.  After all, aren’t I the one who put her in there?  

It has been almost 2 years that she has been in that home.  Her daughter has continued to cook for her weekly and I visit her at least once a week to take her out for the day.  Usually on Sunday mornings,  I pick her up and take her out of the home.  Sometimes we go shopping or drive her to the Bronx.  I know she enjoys getting out of the home and just being out and about.  She is slowly declining and struggles to speak a little more every day.  Because of this, we don’t talk a lot when we’re together but I’ve come to really enjoy that time.  I put Pandora on a “tropical radio” station and hope that she enjoys it as well.   

Spending these days with her makes me look back at the months she lived with me with a little regret,  Why couldn’t we get a long like this?  Why did I lose my patience so easily?  Why didn’t I realize that her condition was affecting her more than I originally thought and try to be more patient?  Logically, I know that she is in the best place due to all of her medical needs.  Emotionally, I still struggle with the guilt.   Mainly, I struggle because I know that she still thinks that I just dont want her in my home and there is no way for me to convince her other wise. Hopefully, somewhere deep down she knows how much I love her and how I would bring her home if it were possible.  

What is possible, is for me to take her out every week.   We spend the day together and when I drop off, just before I leave, I take a selfie with her.  Brenda recently joked that they’re all starting to look the same but for me, its a way to remember our time.   They also serve as reminder that while I’ve made mistakes, I am doing the best I can. 

As always, thank you for reading and take care!!