Three Roses and a Thorn

By Rebecca M. Elizondo

Three Roses and a Thorn is the stunning debut of an innovative storyteller. It is the story of three generations of Latina women coming to terms with addictive behaviors, dysfunctional traits, and the representational similarities of being fatherless daughters.
Rebecca M. Elizondo writes from the heart with an optimistic sarcasm; Alma, the grandmother, an uncompromising 89-year-old woman battling the final stages of Alzheimer’s who aims to make sure her tribe is taken care of after she dies. Esperanza, a carefree, optimistic force, also known as Hope, has diligently journaled her whole life including the struggles of caring for her and realizing her daughter will soon leave the nest. Gabriella, an outspoken, jovial young woman who brings laughter into everyday life must decide whether to begin a new start on a great opportunity as a journalist.
From the time Hope was a child, Mother's Day was celebrated at the family beach house. In reminiscence, Alma recalls the days when she was raised in Mazatlán, Mexico, before immigrating with her five sons to the United States. Trying to reconcile what she believes about love her whole life with what she doesn’t know about why family secrets exist. Keeping this balance is essential for Hope when she navigates the inevitable of her mom’s illness and letting her daughter go simultaneously. A realization that they are all in this together will ultimately ensure the pain of the past and future.
The turbulent cycle of inherited traits and life complications is dismantled when Rebecca depicts a family of women whose bond is impenetrable and is battling Alzheimer’s. It is through her work she has bridged the old and new, allowing a better understanding of what it means to be a Mexican woman, which is to confront adversity with strength and dignity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665743884

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Copyright © 2023 Rebecca M. Elizondo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4387-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4388-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023908897

Archway Publishing rev. date: 05/23/2023

Contents

Author’s Notes

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Ninteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Three Roses Forever…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

DEDICATED

To my beloved mother,

forever my anchor,

the strength within my soul,

and the voice talking me through life.

I miss you and love you momma.

1932-2022

Author’s Notes

The book is fiction, the timelines, situations, and characters are not factual. These are generalizations, events and experiences which are loosely based on my perspective of what I believe to be important.

Some of the dialogue in this book is in Spanish, which I have not translated. I consider this to be a cultural experience that allows readers to gain an understanding of what I experienced. I believe that this form of storytelling allows readers to authentically engage with the characters and the story more deeply, as they can hear the words and the emotions behind them in their native language. It also helps to generate an understanding of the culture and of the struggles of different people. In my life, I wasn’t given subtitles either because my parents did not want to provide them. The fact that I could not speak fluently was regarded as rude to some of the older generations, did not matter I totally understood what they said. Therefore, it meant I had to learn it or figure out how to respond grammatically correct.

Introduction

One day Hope was cleaning out the garage, hidden behind a dense veil of cobwebs, she found a cardboard box marked in bold letters ‘CONFIDENTIAL-Do Not Touch Or You Will DIE!’ It was her private collection of journals she had written over the years. She recalled when her mother questioned what on earth was the writing about so much that it merited an oversized box duct taped as if it was contraband from overseas. Hope enlightened her on how she felt resolved when writing allowing her to escape into the depths of a peaceful bliss of her journaling. Her mother snorted at her! What the heck!’ Despite the unenthusiastic attitude, Hope was satisfied with the cheaper price of journaling on the $1.99 composition books as a lifelong therapist.

There were moments she needed to vent and write about happy times, problematic issues, or wild adventures, intimate thoughts, or aspirations. Even enter the out of this world stories about her mother growing up in Mexico coping with the crazy family dynamics. Her father, for one, who forsaken her at the age of seven months old dropping her off to his two devoted Catholic sisters to raise her alongside her gay uncle. This laid the foundation for Hope’s mother’s unabated journey through life accompanied by a myriad of dysfunctional and addictive behaviors. She embraced her new life with a tenacity that nothing could be little her goal, refuse to be a victim of her circumstances and instead take control of her destiny.

This is why her cynical mother’s DNA grew up faulty disabling the ability to express emotions openly. Then add Hope’s daughter whose father also abandoned her without a word. It is for this loss in her life that she manifests her fighting spirit attitude. Hope’s father, on the other hand, a kind hardworking man yet was more like a ghost. There but not there. For those generational reasons, she spent her entire life trying to have her mother and daughter be more receptive how therapeutic journaling could be for their soul. Schooling them about writing down your thoughts as self-care was unsuccessful. By persisting with writing, began to recognize her own healing spirit.

During her mother’s final stage of Alzheimer’s, specifically since it became necessary for hospice care to be provided. Trying to process through the different stages of her illness and the 24-7 need for caregivers, Hope gained a great deal of insight into this dreadful disease. It became obvious to her mind and body were unprepared to handle the challenges of caring for her mother in an environment like this. Feeding, bathing, changing diapers, medication, repeat. she never fathom taking care of an 89-year-old woman whose mind reversed her age as if she was an infant. This left her with no choice other than to turn off the ego, cultivate serenity, enhance emotional strengths plus weaknesses, until now remain forgiving of her needs and wants. This terminal journey Hope’s mother was on certainly was not easy to accept, from the perspective of grief due to her illness lingering to death and finally grieving over her death. The passage now has become a deeper understanding of herself beginning by accepting everything that has happened for a purpose to value and embrace a new life.

All three of them vowed to become awe-inspiring women who overcame three generations of complications. They are bound together forever by an indestructible bond. The unwavering belief in the value of every life drives them to continually educate the mind to heal the wounds of every female they encounter. Whatever the age, the story never fades, whether it began 89 years ago, to 59, or 32 years past. The place they will hold dearest in their hearts is by the ocean, where a significant memory was shared. This is because the ocean can be a powerful symbol of change and renewal, which is often associated with memories. The sound of the waves, the salty air, and the vastness of the sea can all help to create a sense of calm that helps to recall past events.

Chapter One

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I am fifty-plus calendar years into my life, and I have not yet been able to identify the purpose of my existence. I ask myself, Who am I? Why am I here? I look in the mirror and I see me – Lourdes Esperanza Ordaz. Pretty hot for my age! However, I am not sure if it is supposed to be about me. I don’t understand, then. I know it starts with God, but my search has been a selfish one. My head is telling me, I need to consider my struggle is real and, above all, I am not getting any younger. I admit there has been some unmanageable drama in my life. While it constantly reminds me of the troublesome experiences I have endured and have unbalanced my life to where I stop caring. My journey has also led to some discouraging events with a lack of fulfillment. On the flip side, I face the challenges with a positive attitude toward life. Accepting the truth of my journey can be hard to swallow. Let’s leave it to honesty finding me and calling me out like the big bad bully on the school playground. I have been divorced twice from unsuccessful choices of men. In all probability, I do not think it was too much to ask from them to keep it in their pants. Seriously! As the optimistic woman I am deep down, I continue to hold my head up high. My life has been filled with a great deal of pollution brought in by men I truly loved, but I have survived and become a stronger person as a result. Through the process of self-reflection and learning to forgive, I have been able to find the strength to move on and become a better version of myself. I have realized that I am capable of so much more than I ever imagined and that I can find the courage to face as a daily supplement. I stand tall to be independent, without the crutch of any male support. In this stage of my life, all I ask was for no more horseshit. As fleeting it may sound, it might be a good thing to conduct an extensive background check before I decide to get involved with another man and share the genuine commodity of my love.

When I was in my late twenties, I married for the very first time, and I was blessed with a daughter who I adore. Wedding number one lasted a blink of an eye, like most of his sexual attempts. When my life started to settle down and had a promising destination ahead as a single parent, it had taken a drastic turn. Hence, marriage number two. I was in love and seriously thought he was my forever. Although, we survived eighteen years of hard work and sacrifice, it came to a painful erosion. In a manner filled with heartbreak and disappointment, the second ex could not commit to his recovery of his plethora of addictions, along with the moral promise of for better or worse. My vision for marriage was destroyed—so I cried out, FUCK matrimony! After all that matrimonial blissfulness, my oldest brother was diagnosed with colon cancer and had six months to live. That was six months and ten days ago. This loss crushed my soul because he was the backbone of harmony in our family. It had been years since my father had already passed away. My oldest brother became the nucleus. Now what! So, I screamed, FUCK cancer! Last, watching a parent age can be trying in the best of circumstances. My best friend and mother, moved into my home shortly after my brother passed away. Growing old is to be expected, but the conditions became extremely demanding when my mother was diagnosed with final stages of Alzheimer’s. Not wanting anybody else to take care of her it was my choice to do so. It did not matter what stage she was at; a new episode of tragedy produced by unstable direction in both of our lives had already started. For those reasons, now my life truly FUCKIN’ sucks!

Unfortunately, all these catastrophic events took place in the last couple years. It would have been easier to create a more appealing autobiography than the one I offer. I should have packed my bags, taken my dogs, and vanished to a remote island somewhere in the Pacific. It would have been an unequivocal solution to the shitty card’s life dealt me, although not logically. There would be no way for me to take care of my problems if I was not there to do so. My conscience would tear me apart tragically, and my problems would still be mine no matter where I was. The only person responsible was me and only me; I, without a shadow of a doubt, I roared with vengeance, FUCK adulthood! It is the same speech I tell my daughter when preparing her into this crazy world of astronomical delusions: You are the only one who can unfuck the fucked-up shit in your life, so do not stand there staring at it—fuckin’ fix it! But understand my sweet child: Your heart will continue to hurt and slowly mend itself. It’s your mind that needs the extra attention!

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Everything is gorgeous in its way from the perfectly manicured grass length to the design of the landscaping. Cloudview Drive address number one, three, two, two stands a captivating home on the east side of Sacramento, California. Its welcoming red double doors open to the main entrance of the living room. There is a worn comfy sofa with pillowy arms, a precisely configured bookcase loaded with hardbacks, family pictures on one wall, and a curio cabinet furnished with unique trinkets you can only purchase through Reader’s Digest. The earth tones of the flooring create a sense of grounding and stability, while the white and taupe of the walls provide a subtle contrast that helps to focus the eye and create a sense of openness and clarity. The overall effect is one of peace and serenity.

It is the first moments of May, with the noticeable presence of a cool morning. Bees visit flowers and sparrows gambol in the light blue skies which provide a stunning backdrop for the day. The spring flowers emit the same sparkle as May’s birthstone glistening. Mother’s Day is a holiday celebrated annually on the second Sunday; the day we remember the first person we saw when we were welcomed into this world. A special day to honor our mothers, our grandmothers and other female role models who are moms in our lives. From giving us unconditional love, to showing us the way to being compassionate people, mothers are the priceless gifts that we cherish and value. While all these women have been influential in our lives, it is important to recognize that mothers are the primary caregivers and nurturers. They are the ones who have been there for us through the good times and the bad, teaching us valuable life lessons and guiding us along the way. These women imprint their I love you on our hearts and souls because they are extraordinary. Well at least for this family.

Alma Cruz Gebera de Ordaz a frail 89-year-old mother of five boys: Fernando, Javier, Felipe, Matteo, and Lorenzo. She also has a girl, her youngest, named Lourdes Esperanza. Alma prefers calling her angel the shorter version—Hope, from the Spanish to English translation. Hopey developed into the more endearing form used on exceptional occasions expressed with a sweet child-like voice. Alma became additionally blessed with ten grandchildren. Her darling granddaughter, Gabriella Inez, is Hope’s only child from her first marriage to Salvador Vega. Alma refers to her as Gabby as her little ‘pajarito’ incessantly chatters all the time and laughs louder than thunder.

Alma has been known to spend hours in the family room reading often getting lost in the stories and tales that the books expose. Reminiscing over her collection of owls, admiring the sentimental knickknacks her children and grandchildren have given her throughout her lifetime. Nestled in her chair, Alma counts down the minutes until the next installment of her favorite soap opera, Days of Our Lives. As the sand slides slowly through the infamous hourglass, the melody whines down. The time passes, the show ends for the day, unfolding the continuous saga of the vile Stefano DiMera. As his evilness has survived another day. Once again, Alma left to mull over if one of his illegitimate children will persevere, or if the mad doctor will bring into existence a clone of Marlena or John as someone else. With an audience of one, Alma clings to one question as to who will be the next victim to dishonor the DiMera name?

Until tomorrow, Senor DiMera. Viejo malo. Alma speaks toward the television, satisfied and eager for another episode. It is time for her other one-hour ritual of praying the rosary-or, as her Tias called it, the garland of roses. She retreats to her bedroom and settles down before the daily ritual. She calls to mind her Tia’s definition of the word Rosary and how it originated from the Latin meaning, being one of the flowers, and is used to symbolize the Virgin Mary. Laughing to herself, Alma reminisces an encounter when young Hope took advantage of her curiosity.

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A fledgling Hope did not understand the purpose of the amount of time it took to pray for such a fancy string of beads, as she called it. Her eyebrows creasing with concern, she inquiries from her mother, Why is it that you have to spend up to an hour repeating the same set of prayers? The repeating reminds like when my records are scratched. Alma enforced her daughter to sit down and handed her one of the many spare rosaries she had tucked away in her pillowcase. She told Hope to follow her direction and repeat every word after her.

The ritual opened with the sign of the cross and responded with the Apostles’ Creed. The next bead was the Lord’s Prayer. The following three beads were Hail Mary and a Glory Be. Then came the set of a Lord’s Prayer, ten Hail Mary and Glory Be repeating the three prayers five times each.

Sixty-five minutes later, Hope opted to never question her mother regarding religion or how tedious the repetitive process was. The experience of being still for an hour made her body seem disturbingly serene, like a nap. Hope was silent, keeping her comments to herself. She considered on mentioning, If I tell momma how lame it was to sit reciting over and over the same prayer, she will for sure backhand me across the mouth along with being grounded for one week.

In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. Alma ended the prayer session and began to explain to Hope, As one being raised by the Catholic Church, my Tias taught me the discipline behind praying the rosary. I want you to understand the devotion and honor to the Virgin Mary. What it means to have a rosary in hand gives one the staying power not to recite the prayer, but to contemplate the grace of God.

Momma, can I go get a snack? This praying has made my legs numb. I need the blood flowing again.

Without a slip, but a head tilt downward, tucking her chin, peeking over her glasses, she continues to teach her biblical lesson to Hope, Do you remember when you received Communion? That is the beginning. The rite of passage for young Catholics, honey. To accept the essence of the celebration, to receive the body of Christ, and submit your faith to the body, blood, soul, and divinity of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. And at that ceremony is when one will receive and would have learned to pray the rosary.

Hope curls her lip, afraid to speak her truth, I remember, but really the body, blood, what in the world, mommy? All to receive a beaded necklace?

Blasphemy child! As Alma slaps Hopes tiny hand. Child, having this so-called beaded necklace in hand made me feel protected with the daily challenges one endures to live a blessed life. You will respect it when you grow up. Alma ignores and carries on about her First Communion. Recalling when she received her first rosary and prayer book. As Hope’s stomach growling became louder and intruding.

Both were a gift from Tia Rosa and Tia Lola. They explained to practice one must have dedication for the sacraments as a day-to-day ritual. This task was a prerequisite for me to have before bedtime or any free time. They insisted upon me to pray the rosary, for however long it took to finish. The porch was full of my friends, even though they had to wait for me. My lesson with you has come to an end. You should now get yourself a snack. That stomach of yours is causing a lot of disruption!

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In her bedroom, Alma laid-back in her old rickety rocking chair. As she sways back and forth in rhythm to the creaky noise, which remained unfixed for years. This period piece has seen its better days. Where no amount of Pledge could conceal the worn-out wood or cover the scratch marks on the seat. A sound reminiscent of the long nights of her rocking her baby Hope to sleep.

Alma veers her weary head to peek out the bedroom window. The sun’s rays reflect off the sheer fabric curtains, setting the room in a peaceful feel. I need to remind Hope to water her roses. She catches sight of the meticulous yard and is mesmerized by her daughter’s treasured rose bushes climbing up the trellis outside. Thank God, my daughter does not take no for an answer that I move in with them. She even created a quiet spot for me to read among the colorful and fragrant flowers. I am so grateful for my baby’s consideration, which has made this transition so much easier. May God spare my daughter from my burdens.

It was up to Hope and Gabby to convince her that this was her home, just like the one she sold a year ago after losing her eldest son. To keep her mind busy, Hope designate a section in the garden for her to nurture her plants and be responsible to maintain them. Her doctor suggests managing her loss of mental functions to a routine she had done before, and it would give her a familiar feeling of her past.

There stood the stunning yet fragile red rose, one of Hope’s favorite. For everyone to appreciate its beauty, one must be wary of its thorns. There is a theory behind her adoration of roses because, if one steals the essence from the rose, the thorn will harm the thief with a prick. Hope grasps the beingness of the rose, like her hardships. As well as her daughter’s and Alma’s life. For that significance, she plants three of her gorgeous prize possessions. All located outside her mother’s bedroom window. The fragrant keepsake of a towering yellow Grandiflora rose spreads on the vine. The sweetly petite congeniality pink rose bush stretches beyond full, but her favorite voluptuous star with double red simplicity hedge rose-scented the essence of beauty in her garden. Not to mention, sneaks into Alma’s bedroom window. All of this to cherish her mother’s arrival into now their new home. Wanting to remind her for the distinctive reason of her new living arrangement and to ensure the decision was done with love not pity. Entirely to establish the new residence as Alma, Hope, and Gabby’s new home.

Alma adjusts her rear-end in the rocking chair placing her rosary in the crystal dish on her packed nightstand with an array of magnificently adorned statues of saints and assorted scented candles. Within the Mexican culture, Alma regards this as sacramental to have a sanctuary of religious artifacts and photos to display a sacred place. A place of solace, to homage the loved ones who are deceased. In respect, Alma honors her loved ones with recognition of prayers as a daily anniversary. Another valuable lesson taught to her by her Tia’s, One must have God in their everyday life. Tia Lola always spoke highly to her belief, ‘It is to know of the comfort of God’s presence, along with the strength of faith. Hebrews 11:1 defines faith as ‘confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.’

Abruptly yet unexpectedly, a feeling of queasiness and confusion attacks Alma’s body. She eased up cautiously to placed herself on the bed. I am not feeling well. My legs are weak. She sat there for what seemed like an eternity as the seconds ticked by slowly. Even when she tried to distract herself with her thoughts, it appeared like she had been sitting there for hours. Her thoughts raced, leaving her feeling completely overwhelmed. Let me rest a second. I am feeling cuckoo in my head.

Now that being diagnosed with the disease, Alma paid more attention to the signs and symptoms of her disease but ignores one of the major components of crossing over to the age of 90-years old. Recalling what Doctor Sahota discussed with her, The medication you will be taking from now on will slow down the inevitable. The progression of mental deterioration will make your cognitive content fumble more daily. Learning to deal with being disoriented or distracted is going to happen as time goes on. She grinned with contempt at her confirmation of the disease.

Alma’s voice becomes wobbly. I am seriously upset with my sudden decline. I have conversations with myself, quarrel constantly about who knows what, plus the hallucinations at a whole other level. Coming to grips is difficult enough but to not accept the terms of my full range of symptoms associated with the absence in my memory or mental skills-oh hell I give up!

The doctor continued to reassure Alma of her outcome, There are anxieties that come with a geriatric age and living beyond 89-years old.

I had no expectations of existing beyond my mother’s death age of 90. Besides, the inner struggle of growing old challenges me every minute of every day. Will I be content in being less physically able to do whatever or accept that becoming old as my new reality?

Alma wanted to reflect on her better days when she was vibrant. As a wife, mother, and independent woman who managed her own business, I loved my crazy life.

Alma reiterated to the doctor how she survived a hard childhood, challenging marriage, and proved to herself how resilient she could be. Dr. Sahota, gradually, my mind and body betray me. My insanity seizes occupancy in my mind as arthritis takes control of my body. Trapped and functioning, fewer denial wins. Yet, I remain resilient and will not consent to the role of my mind escaping. Needless to say, I am under arrest with this damn disease.

Alma connects to Dr. Sahota about her struggle, Suffering from AD is being in a state of personal hell. No one can help you because who wants to live in hell. I can’t remember where the last place I laid my purse down, wallet and keys. Oh yea, let’s not forget the regular chores of paying the bills on time. Planning and preparing breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Call for any medical or dental appointments. I hate depending on my daughter to do all of this. It is embarrassing to have my poor child turn on the shower, wash my hair and body at the same she becomes drenched.

Does Hope complain? Probably not!

Of course not! She welcomes it. Also, I am thankful for the supportive titanium knee replacements, but my walking has slowed down. I sound like Quasimodo dragging my feet. Now I scare my granddaughter at night walking the hallway like a monster.

Alma agonizes on her decision in enlisting her daughter to manage her everyday life. That poor child has enough on her plate. To add the roles as caretaker, financial advisor, cook, maid, and a counselor.

These obligations leave Alma to suffer piteously and not wanting to become a strain on the only family member who unconditionally loves her. I trust her and pray Hope will not scrutinize me as some decrepit human being. I plead to God, not be a burdensome obstacle in her personal life.

Dr. Sahota’s reassures Alma, There is no rational explanation of the overwhelming feeling of depression one minute, and a paralyzing emotion of helplessness the next. Vulnerability and insecurity prove no weakness. The shattering awareness of gloom consumes your heart. And leaves you to deal with a deep grave sense of worry. For a moment, memory loss is mournful.

I do not want to say goodbye to the images of my six children. Forget all the celebrations of my grandchildren. How is this disease going to affect my daughter? What type of destruction will it do to her goodness? She must deal with me being uncapable of basic hygiene care. How embarrassing it is when she must clean my private parts due to incontinence. The agreement to move in with her was strictly to tend to the uncertainty of the disease. My purpose here is not to disrupt Hope and Gabby’s tomorrow, not their future, as I will be gone by then.

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Reassured from the conversation in her head with Dr. Sahota, Alma stretches out toward the rocking chair in order to grasp the box of tissues with her skinny fingers. As sweat beads on her forehead the light-headedness intensifies. Alma’s footing suddenly slips, and she crashes downward. Her body twirled and jerked as she hits her forearm into the nightstand, then her head bangs the edge of the rocking chair.

Gasp! Screams! Blinks frantically, with crippling cries! Alma lies on her back, counting the cracks on the ceiling. OH, DEAR GOD! There is no reason to scream for help. DAMN IT VIEJA! No one is home but me and those dang dogs. She feels the agonizing pain as the back of her head begins to pound and quickly swell up to the size of a tennis ball. Get up vieja! She struggles to pull herself up to the edge of the bed, and cries out louder, I am telling you, what a disappointment you have turned out to be–Alma Cruz! Defeat enforces her pain to lift her up onto the bed. Still moaning of embarrassment, I am such an idiot! By the grace of God, Hope was not home to see me fall. Dear Lord, please just take me now!

Thankfully, her pitiable rambling does not disrupt the loud sound from the front door. There is a recognizable voice that calls out from beyond, Mom, I am back.

Oh, blessed Jesus. It is Hope! Alma wipes away her tears. Grins like a Cheshire cat with relief in the same breath, carefully rubbing the massive bump on her head. Celebrating her daughter’s name was not on the list of one of her constant obstacles today. Alma’s smile fades questioning.