For me, that bond with my mami has always been sacred. It was born when I was, and it was forged in fire when, at 18 years old, I was shot and left paralyzed from the chest down. In an instant, I lost the ability to move, to care for myself, to live the life I had imagined.
I didn’t fully understand the weight of those words until I became a parent myself. That’s a love that defies explanation—a spiritual thread that connects souls beyond time, pain, and circumstance.
My mami had me when she was just 15. A child herself, yet from the moment I arrived—sick with jaundice and fighting for life—she became a force of strength. Doctors performed three blood transfusions on me, the last one just to say they tried everything. It worked. I survived. And from that day on, she became my protector, my warrior, and my greatest advocate.
Nine Months in the Hospital With a Caregiving Mother by My Side
My mami would later say, “The bullet didn’t just paralyze you—it killed a part of me too.”
After I was injured, I spent nine long months in the hospital. At first, there were visits from family and friends. But as time went on, their lives called them back. My mami never missed a single day. She balanced caring for my younger siblings while commuting hours back and forth by Metro Rail to see me—morning, noon, and night. In the trauma unit, where visits were restricted, she found creative ways to extend her time. She’d offer to clip my nails and take her time, just to stay a little longer. Her love always found a way.
Coming home was another storm. I was 18, but I needed the care of an infant. My mami bathed me, dressed me, fed me, cleaned me, transferred me in and out of my wheelchair, and helped with the most intimate, humbling parts of life. She became my arms and my legs. What may have seemed like small gestures were, in truth, massive acts of love.
It was hard for both of us when it came to my personal care. Before my injury, I was extremely private. Once I hit my teens, I never let her see me change. She used to tell me how bad she felt for me—and even embarrassed on my behalf. But we got through the awkwardness together. Funny enough, I now joke that I’m a bit of a nudist. LOL.
Those early years were dark. I drowned in grief for the life I lost, chasing distractions to numb the pain. I stayed out late, searching for something—anything—to fill the void. Though terrified every time I left the house, my mami never stopped me. Now I understand how deeply she must’ve hurt—how every siren or helicopter took her back to the night I was shot. But she never let fear steal my freedom. She encouraged me to keep living, to find joy, to heal.
Eventually, the emptiness caught up with me. With her constant support, I started rebuilding. I studied for my GED with her and a dear friend cheering me on. A vocational program led me to Miami-Dade Community College. A new power wheelchair gave me back a sense of independence.
A Caregiver’s Watchful Eye: Even When I Thought I Was Alone
I remember the first time I went to the barbershop alone—20 blocks away. I thought I was by myself. Later, I found out my mami had followed me in her car, watching from a nearby gas station. That’s my mom—always protecting, even from the shadows.
College wasn’t just my journey—it was ours. Her mornings began before dawn. She cared for my father, my sister, and me. She made breakfast—her spicy tomato soup still lingers in my memory—helped me get ready, and sent me out the door with strength. When I got a van, she added “chauffeur” to her list of roles, driving me to and from school while running the household.
I truly believe I wouldn’t have survived those years—let alone thrived—without her.
College lit a fire in me. I stopped seeing my life as broken and began to see it as blessed. I started believing I could still make a difference. That belief was planted, watered, and nurtured by my mami every single day.
School, Marriage, Fatherhood—And Still, My Mother Was My Caregiver
At 29, I met the love of my life. She had two daughters, and I quickly loved them as my own. Suddenly, I was a husband and a father. And again, my mami was right there—guiding, supporting, helping me transition into this new chapter.
Even after I married, she stayed close—not out of need, but love. She helped care for me so my wife could be a partner first—not a full-time caregiver. Her presence held everything together—our marriage, our household, our peace. She even helped with the girls, driving them to school and making sure they always felt seen and loved.
Not every wife dreams of having her mother-in-law around daily. But we made it work. We honored each other’s roles because we knew her love was sacred and her presence, a blessing from God.
She wasn’t just a physical helper. She was my emotional anchor, my spiritual compass, my mental strength. Whether fixing a toilet, calming me through hard moments, or just sitting beside me—she did it all with grace, humility, and love.
There are few things harder than wanting to do something as simple as change a light bulb—and being physically unable. That helplessness can eat at your soul. But my mother’s presence softened those edges. She made life livable. She made challenges feel conquerable.
There’s No Love Like a Mother as Caregiver—She Was My Angel on Earth
My mami has been my hands, my feet, my strength, and my sanity. Because of her, I’ve lived a life of joy, purpose, and possibility. I’ve had the freedom to be a man, a husband, a father, and a dreamer—all because of her unwavering love.
For 36 years, she has been my rock, my shelter, and my greatest champion.
Now, as she grows older and we’ve needed to bring in outside help, I reflect more deeply on all she has done. There is no caregiver like a mother. No hands more gentle. No heart more invested. No spirit more divine.
She gave me life once when I was born.
And she gave it back to me again when I thought it was lost.
She is, without a doubt, one of God’s true angels on Earth.
Bio:
Lazaro Gutierrez lives in Cape Coral with his wife. You can find him at his Facebook account. Click here.
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