Marking Mother's Day after losing a child

How does one celebrate Mother’s Day after losing a child? I am still a mother to another son, a stepmother to three young men and their wives, a grandmother, and a daughter who has lost a mother but all that seems to be in the background. Only one role mattered that first year after my son’s death — being Adam’s mother.

At 4 years old, Adam announced he was going off to join the military. No adventure was too big for him. He wanted it all and in a hurry. He joined the U.S. Navy on his 17th birthday, graduated from high school, and left us.

Once caller ID became part of our lives, I could no longer ignore a call from “Restricted.” When I answered, I would usually hear “Hello, Mother” in his deepest, let-me-pretend-I’m-a-serious-grown-up voice. One Saturday afternoon in 2019, I got repeated calls from a number I didn’t recognize and ignored them, until I heard a woman’s voice speaking Spanish on the recording. Then I noticed country code 57 for Colombia, where Adam lived. I answered and heard his son Nico’s babysitter telling me that Adam was “muerto.” Dead.

Within minutes, a cascade of calls came from a Veterans Services officer, an officer from the U.S. Embassy in Bogota, a friend of Adam’s offering us a place to stay there, a friend overseas offering his condolences. News had spread around the world but I was still processing the words of that first gut-wrenching call. Everything was now forever changed.

Adam was 37 when he died and had temporary custody of Nico, then 13 months old. My husband and I flew down the next day not knowing what to expect. Six months later, on my first Mother’s Day without Adam, we were still there, waiting for the government to resolve Nico’s custody case. That night, I looked up at the sky. As I did most nights, I imagined that I saw Adam looking down at me. Venus was out, burning brightly, so I believed my son did check in, but there would not be a call when I’d hear him say, “Hello, Mother.” This is the voice that I miss the most. The one that indicated he really thought he was too cool for a corny holiday like Mother’s Day but made the call anyway.

I have survived with the support and love of family, friends and prayer. They gave me comfort during the most difficult days. The most insane, endless, irrational mind-boggling days of confusing events and details. Days when nothing made sense in Spanish or English. Days with seemingly no distinction other than the X mark on the calendar. Days which lasted almost a year until the custody case was resolved, when Nico was placed back in his mother’s care and I assumed the distinguished title of “Abuela.” Grandma.

Today Nico is 5. I have a warm and loving relationship with Nico’s mother. I can hold Nico in my arms and see my Adam from years ago. I show him pictures of his dad; his favorites are the ones of him in a military uniform. When I look at Nico, I know we are moving forward, but memories of his father are planted firmly in my heart. It all ended too soon. His contract with his soul expired. Adam left us to watch over his boy, and with my every breath I will love this little guy.

Whenever I visit him, we look up at the stars at night. He believes his Papi is in “el cielo,” in heaven, so we blow kisses to him. I tell Nico to ask his daddy to take care of him. God speed, my sailor. I will love you forever, Mom.

Paula Magdalena Vidal lives in Lindenhurst.