AIDA
When I was young, I used to visit my retired nanny, Aida Mercado, back in her home of Puerto Rico. Every night before bed, I would sit with her in the room she and her husband set aside for me in their small house. Next to my bed on the dresser were these little cherub statuettes and a card she gave me with the image of Jesus Christ on it. Even though I’ m Jewish, I understood that she was teaching me about her beliefs because she wanted me to learn about how she worshipped. She would pray with me and bless me, and then it was time for bed. I’ d lay in the dark and listen to the coquí frogs calling in choruses of thousands as I fell sleep. Towards the end of 2016, I got the chance to travel around Europe for the first time. Just as I was ready to hop on a bus from Belgrade to Bucharest, I received a text message telling me my nanny was in the hospital. I booked a flight the next day and flew back to Puerto Rico. I saw my nanny in the ICU that day. She was heavily sedated and had a tube down her throat. Her mouth was agape, and her lips were so dry that they began to crack around the edges and bleed. Every now and then, she would cough, and it seemed like she was choking on the blood filling her lungs. Her fibromyalgia was at end stage, but her husband wasn’ t ready to give up hope. I held her swollen hand and told her softly that I was there and I was praying for her, but she slept through the visit. I worried that I hadn’ t made it in time. The second day, she was slightly lucid. She opened her eyes and looked at me, and I saw tears trickle slowly down her face. She couldn’ t speak, but she knew I was there. That was the last day she was able to open her eyes. After that, we began to pray that she would be allowed to go. We didn’ t want her to suffer anymore. Since she passed, I haven’ t been able to shake the image of her with the tubes running into her mouth and nose, or the look of pain on her face. Unfortunately, a lot of times our last images of loved ones end up being the distorted, sick versions of them. With time, that image can fade, allowing us to see them how they truly were. And yet, even in the immediate aftermath of loss, even with the image of Aida laying in the hospital bed in my mind, the pain of seeing her in that state is worth being able to visit her in my memories. Angels may not always appear beautiful at first. They may be the sources of our greatest despair and pain and loss, but what makes them our angels is that they somehow make us better.
_________________ Matthew Hershoff, Editor in Chief