Cristina Gonzalez

It All Goes to the Same Pot

In late winter of 2025 I was driving to work, sipping my coffee- as I do. Eye’s sweeping back and forth for any rascal deer waiting to jump in front of traffic- as I do. And listening to Morning Edition on NPR- as I normally do. It was, for all intents and purposes, a very normal morning. What brought me out of my ho-hum morning commute was a report that $65 million dollars in research funding for the Alzheimer’s Association was being seized by the federal government. It was the latest collateral damage from the DOGE experiment. I listened to the report, listened to who was impacted- organizations, patients, researchers and where they were in their studies, progress that had been made but would go no further, drugs that were in clinical trials, and the impact of halted studies on: patients and families depending on this funding to continue the work of finding a cure for this time-thief of a disease. Then I cried- not as I normally do. 

I cried out of anger and oddly- fear. 

When Mama G was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I went out to my car and screamed as long and as loud as my lungs would allow. I screamed because I was furious that mom lived her whole life then it was all going to be gone- slowly and painfully. As the disease carried on (and for the year following her death) I was convinced that: I had a ticking time bomb that would go off at age 62, meaning I had approximately 23 years left with my children and I was going to die from Alzheimer’s just like my mom. Through a lot of therapy (and with the help of time) I was able to edit that ending: I am of my mother, but I am NOT my mother. I began to have hope that by the time I get to my 60’s- researchers would have found the silver bullet and my children would not walk a similar journey as my sisters and I. 

But then there was this report, on this cold and bleak March morning. The funding had stopped. Researchers were relieved of their jobs. And hope had been lost again. Once I settled in at work, I reached out to my two pen-pals, Jason Greene and Patrick Quinn (the two runners I met on the Alzheimer’s team in 2024). They heard similar reports and through the miles apart- we had a shared moment of: fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

The three of us met by chance because we have one thing in common- this fucking disease. We are a thousand miles apart but this one thing, this one god awful, memory thieving disease is what brought us together. We each have our “Why”- a parent, a grandparent, a loved one who was taken too soon- but deeper than that, we raise money because we don’t want it to happen to us or to another loved one. We don’t want our children to walk the same path we did.  

With that said- I am incredibly thankful to everyone who has contributed to my goal. If you would like to donate, I strongly encourage you to check out my friend Jason’s page. We are in this fight together- running for prevention, raising money for a cure. It all goes to the same pot and when times are tough and uncertain, every donated amount allows those impacted by Alzheimer’s to believe in a future without Alzheimer’s. Thank you.

https://events.alz.org/fundraisers/jasongreene/nyc-marathon

A Very Belated But Still Merry Birthday Dedication to Mama G.

Congrats everyone! We’ve made it through the summer holiday. The kids are back in school and the sun is sinking lower in the horizon each day. I know before long my 5AM runs will be in a steady state of darkness. But alas, a new season is on the horizon. 

In the middle of the summer break we celebrated Mama G.’s birthday: July 26th. In my early adult years, I could not- for the life of me- get that woman’s birth date correct in my head. In my early 20’s I would call her on July 25th and if she was really unlucky, I would call her at midnight on July 25th, psyched to be the first one to wish her a happy birthday. She would grumpily remind me, “NO Cris! You’re a day early.” Or, even worse: I would call on July 27th and wish her a merry birthday, then receive an irritated, “Cristina. My birthday was yesterday.” Honestly, I was the WORST at wishing her a proper happy birthday. I mean, the woman who brought me life, did her all for me, carted me around hither and thither- I couldn’t do her a solid and remember her damn birthday on the right damn day. Thankfully it became a running joke between us and I made it a point to call her, for good measure, on July 25th, 26th, and the  27th. But, if it wasn’t for my Pops orrrrr her girlfriends, I don’t know if Mama G would have received a proper birthday salutation. 

During my morning meditation where I think about “My Why”, my thoughts start with mom then flow into some aspect of her life: her sacrifices, her accomplishments, who she was as a fully formed adult woman, how I sometimes wish that I had kids earlier so I didn’t have to raise my children without her steady hand, or as was the case this morning: how I knew her as a mom with great group of girlfriends but how her friends knew her as a woman who is a mom. To those women who were dear friends to Patty: I give you many, many thanks for being her “ride or die”. 

Mama G set the standard for adult female friendships. She taught the Gonzalez Girls lessons like: You only take what you can give back, you call/ send a card/ acknowledge your lady friends for ALL the occasions- not just the Hallmark ones. Pot lucks are a time to share recipes and gossip. At least once a month get together with your gals to celebrate- no reason, just cause. When your girlfriend comes to you because their significant other has pissed them off to unbelievable lengths, remember to create a gentle space where they can pop off but land gently; preferably with good snacks and sweet tea. Get too drunk at least once every five years with your girls to remember what it’s like to not be an adult with adult responsibilities. And if there is a chance to see Chip N Dales- you better do it. YOLO people. 

Let’s give a shoutout to the decades of Mama G’s friends:

The Jacksonville/ Charles Carroll Days, circa 1980’s: 

We have “The Navy Wives” Ms. Debbie, Ms. Janice, Mrs. McGue, and honorable mentions of Aunt Helen and Christy Crime. These ladies were in the trenches of early motherhood alongside Patty. Providing support with uninhibited pool parties, childcare, pot lucks, joint birthday parties, and the occasional adopted family holiday celebrations since most of the families were implanted military folk with long distance relations. Mom and Dad made Ms. Debbie my god mother and I couldn’t have been luckier. 

The Chesapeake/ Poplar Ridge Days, circa mid-80’s to early 90’s:

For a bit of time through the 80’s, we moved from Florida to Chesapeake, VA, to San Antonio, then back to our home on Red Bay Lane. It was here that Mama G met the Pokeno Ladies. We have Mrs. Aguedello (who also worked at a fabric store and made quick work of cutting fabrics with precision; I LOVED watching her cut fabric), Mrs. Ziernicki (who was a spitfire with an incredible New England accent), Mrs. Svetic (who had the biggest and strongest shoulders I had ever seen), Mrs. Howard (who arrived with the yummiest apps), Ms. Kathy Peters (a quintessential working woman of the 80’s), and I’m sure a whole host of other women I don’t remember. Once a month a gaggle of kids would find themselves thrusted together on playdates or hanging out while our moms played Pokeno, gossiped, and eating snacks they would never make for themselves on any given Wednesday. By now, Jess was in middle school, Anna in upper elementary, and me in Kindergarten. These are the days of parenthood where I think Mom carried the emotional spectrum of having a child still pulling at her shirttails for every little need while learning to give space to the 13-year-old who thinks they know everything. Again, these were the ladies in the parenthood trenches with mom, keeping her afloat through the seasons.

The Great Bridge/ Forest Lakes Days, circa early-90’s to 2001: 

With the beginning of a new home, which crazily enough was the crowning jewel sweeping first place in all categories in the popular event of “Homerama”, came new neighborhood ladies. One by one Mama G. met and befriended a supportive and wild group of gal pals that would usher her from raising us youngin’s into the final years of us being at home. We have Mrs. Polakowski (who offered up hardened parenting advice as she had teens finishing up their high school years). Next, Ms. Belynda (a fierce mama who made the best guac in the neighborhood and would stand side by side with Mama G to make pesto). There was Ms. Danna (our col de saq neighbor who was about ten years behind Mom in her parenting journey but was New England proper and blended well with Mama G and her outspoken nature). And last but never least- Ms. Terry (the au naturale, hippy, and spirited mama who gave Patty G and her rebel rousing ways a run for her money). Together- these women walked side by side through their 30’s and 40’s, mothered with each other through newborn parenting to empty nesters, and all of the partnering woes life will throw at a married couple with young children. 

These women were her safe place. They probably knew her in a way that I never will, or would. I am grateful that when we were little shits and pressing her every nerve, she had these women to lean on. I am grateful that when the three of us left home for college and beyond, she had these women to go to the museum with, to lunch with, to craft with, or call upon when she felt alone. She had this collection of women from all of the years to celebrate any occasion and especially on the day that mattered the most: her birthday. They were better than I would ever be at celebrating this woman; with surprise parties, gifts she actually liked, and luncheons that didn’t involve a children’s menu. To you women- thank you for your lifelong friendship with Mama G. 

As the old song goes, “Thank you for being a friend. Travel down the road and back again. Your heart is true. You’re a pal and confident.” Here’s to Mama G and celebrating every day, just cause.

Summertime with Mama G

Happy belated 4th of July everyone. I hope your holiday was safe yet eventful. We hosted my dear friend Megan Stewards and her beautiful children on the last leg of their 3-week Out West vacation. Aside from two 7-year old lil lass’ disappearing at the start of the city-wide parade and enlisting the help of local police to find said girls- we had a sparkling dandy, neighborhood fireworks show extravaganza, barefoot and breezy good time. 

The month of July keeps Mama G. at the top of my “thinking about you” playlist. The 4th of July showcased Mom’s neighborhood famous staples: pico de gallo, pesto pasta, margaritas, the watermelon and strawberries she bought from a roadside market on our way back from Sandbridge cut to perfection, brownie flag cake, and Rice Krispies that were perfectly soft yet dense with a deep crunch that would scrape the front of my upper palate- IYKYK. Our house would come alive with neighbors: adults mingling and kids running feral between houses. Patty was ever the gracious host: filling drinks, pointing her finger and telling a guest exactly where to find what they needed, refilling bowls of food, and floating in and out of conversations through it all. She was in her element and she was the queen of hosting. 

In the middle of the month, towards the early 2000’s we celebrated Anna and Art's marriage. Though I wasn’t present during the planning phase, Mama G. would share the adventures her and the blushing bride-to-be would have. When the location and menu were set, we thought it was a thoughtful blend of an "elegant neighborhood social". During this period of time, Mom had found great pleasure, wonder, and peace at The Chrysler Museum of Art. She would go with a girlfriend and marvel at the fine glass work, the sweeping tapestries; pieces of beauty encased for all to cherish. The menu was a savory contrast to the delicateness of our venue: enchiladas, pico de gallo, guacamole, and much more. But they weren’t just any enchiladas y mas. Mom’s recipes were such a favorite for the groom he requested that Anna and Mama G supply the caterers with her recipes to replicate for the feast- nothing less would suffice. 

Now, as blessed as this wedding was, I would be remiss if I didn’t make an honorable mention of a few notorious moments. It began with a sun burn and ended with a family friend attempting to slide ass first down the marble staircase railing from the second floor. See what had happened was. . . 

Pops went golfing with the boys and neglected to apply sunscreen. We're pretty sure it was 18 holes of golf with maaaybe one application of sunscreen. . . in July. . . in Virginia. He arrived at the Museum redder than a tomato and was, in fact, so burnt he was practically purple in some spots. Between my sister Jessica and I, we couldn’t decide if his head was as red as our red dresses, or redder than our red dresses. He was so burnt, I thought you could see a pulse in his forehead. But it was nothing that a little bit of tequila and freshly made lumpia couldn’t fix. 

As most weddings go, the bride and groom are buzzing from table to table with nary a moment to actually sit and eat. The same would be true of our dear Art. We knew Art was one of the good ones when Anna first brought him around for Patty’s infamous enchilada dinner. Some would argue that he would sell his first born son to have Mama G make that dinner once a week in perpetuity. Just kidding George, he would never. . . Sadly though, Art never tasted a morsel of the perfectly replicated Patty/ Mom cuisine. Twenty-something years later he continues to feel the sting of not getting his most favorite of meals on his most memorable of days. 

Like any gathering amongst longtime friends and family- you hate to see a good time end; at least not without a bang. As you can guess, the Chrysler Museum had in their rental contract something to the effect of: “If you break it, you buy it.” But that would not stop our beloved friend, “The BDC”, from racing to the top of the marble staircase, swinging a long and liquored-loose leg over the railing, and fixing to zip down ass-first. Lingering guests worked to intervene on the unfolding events but it was Mama G in her dusted purple shift gown, hair done to the nines with a face beat for the gods, rocking her most ABSOLUTELY OVER IT Mom Face, and veiled threats of violence that ultimately thwarted our dear friend from making a grave mistake. The queen of hosting would not allow such shenanigans in her second most sacred of places. Ultimately, The BDC left the Chrysler Museum intact, tummies were full (except for Art’s), and Patty/ Mom floated away from hosting yet another successful gathering amongst friends.  

I truly could go on sharing memory after memory of how Mama G could work a party but will finish off with saying that some of my favorite childhood memories are of my mom in the summertime. Being out of school for the summer and her being a stay at home goddess, it was the most day in and day out time I would spend with her and creating the majority of my childhood memories. Our trips out to Sandbridge; the moment I was old enough to soak with her during adult swim at the Great Bridge Swim and Racquet club; being forced to sit at the table until I finished my chicken salad sandwich (which I refused and missed out on evening playtime); being dropped off at summer camps and getting care packages midweek, snuggling up to her after playing “Ghost in the Graveyard” with the neighborhood kids even though I was sticky with bug spray and dried sweat. As the kids would say, “She could Mom the shit outta summer”. 

Honestly, Patty could “mom the shit” outta anything. But that’s who she was: a powerhouse, a host, a giver, a disciplinarian who loved you with her full chest, a chef who cooked with her heart, and one helluva lady. We are all better for knowing her and being a guest at her table where the margaritas flowed like water and the pico de gallo was plentiful. 

Photo: Mama G, Anna, Cristina, and Jessica taking shots of tequila at Anna’s bachelorette party. One of us is a pro and the rest of us are cabbage.

A Faithful Companion

Did you know that I was selected to run with the Alzheimer’s Association Team in 2023? Yessss, I was. Picture it: August 2023, Shoshoni National Forest- Sheep’s Bridge trail junction. There I was, on the last 6 miles of an 18 mile run when I stopped at Sheep’s Bridge to stretch, collect more water from the creek, and finish off the last 6 miles before heading home to have dinner with a friend. Long story short: I was attacked by a dog. And not just any dog, it was the thing of nightmares: a black, hulking, broad shouldered, 80 pound pitbull with gnashing white teeth. Search and rescue was dispatched, I hiked out the last 6 miles to rendezvous with SAR- not knowing how much blood, skin, or digits I may have lost, was taken to the emergency room and emergency surgery to clean and close the wounds. Though I was unable to run in the 2023 marathon, after many months of occupational and mental health therapy I was able to return to the trails, pick up where I left off and ultimately reclaim my position to raise the remainder of my funds and run in the 2024 marathon. 

About six months after the attack and two years since we walked our 17-year old family dog, Bean, over the rainbow bridge we decided as a family it was time to open our hearts and minds to another dog. After a couple months of searching, Frankie came across my Facebook page through our local adoption agency. We met, fell in love, and honestly- there hasn’t been a run I completed without him by my side. 

When people hear my story about the dog attack and learn our pup is a pitbull, their first question is “why would you get a dog of the same breed that attacked you?” Well, first things first: I can’t blame the dog for being vicious- he wasn’t born that way. I place blame on the owner who neglected to care, love, and lead his canine companion. Second, pitbulls are loyal and athletic creatures. And that’s a little like me: loyal to a fault and hella athletic. After three years of his constant companionship, I have yet to figure out how to adequately tire him out. Even on the 20+ mile runs; sure he might be a bit ragged but give him a five hour “disco” nap and by dinner time he’s ready to rally. 

As I begin the training season this year, so does Frankie. Side by side we pound down the miles, panting, and excited for what is coming over the horizon. He is a faithful trail companion, a reason for getting out in the dark of morning, and a smile maker. I am utterly grateful to have him by my side.

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