What do you call a person who is vital to the functioning of your family, even though they are not related by blood? And how do you express the sorrow when that person is no longer with you? Carmen Ayala was that vital person for us. For 24 years, she took care of my aunt, Adele Halperin, who was unable to care for herself. My aunt passed away on May 7, just as I was finishing a long article about her for this magazine. And on July 19, just two days after the issue was sent to the printer, Carmen also passed away.
To my surprise, I felt more devastated by Carmen’s death than I did by my own aunt’s. Carmen loved Adele as if she were her own, bringing her back from her traumatic past and restoring her dignity and humanity. I had thought that my family would have years to express our gratitude, foolishly relying on Carmen despite her failing health at 81. She seemed too strong and determined to do something as ordinary as dying. The idea that her heart might one day fail seemed impossible and improper: Carmen was defined by her heart.
Let me share the backstory: In 1953, when my aunt was just 21 months old, she became a ward of New York State. This was not done out of cruelty, but rather in accordance with the prevailing custom of institutionalizing developmentally and intellectually disabled children. My grandparents faithfully followed the doctors’ advice and placed Adele in Willowbrook State School, which later gained a reputation for its appalling conditions and neglect, and then Wassaic State School, which was somewhat better. It wasn’t until 1980 that my aunt moved to residential care, but even then, she did not receive quality care. The few times my mother visited her were awkward and confusing. The woman who took care of my aunt did little to help my mother understand who her sister was or what she enjoyed, neglecting to provide insight into who Adele truly was.
However, in 1999, Adele moved into the home of Carmen and Juan Ayala. From the moment my mother and I stepped into their house, we could feel the difference. It was a place filled with inside jokes and familial banter. “Who’s the turkeyhead?” Juan would playfully ask my aunt, to which Adele would joyfully respond, pointing at him and making Carmen burst into laughter. If my aunt wanted perfume, Carmen would buy her perfume. If she reached for a bottle of red hair dye in Walmart, Carmen would purchase that too and dye her hair red. Carmen always searched for shiny things like gold-plated earrings, coats with large brass buckles, and baseball hats adorned with rhinestones because she knew my aunt loved bling. Carmen would puree Adele’s meals since she had lost all her teeth, and she would organize her clothes by season, keeping meticulous calendars and records to ensure my aunt never missed a doctor’s appointment.
I would have never truly understood who Adele was if it weren’t for Carmen. She keenly observed my aunt’s habits and personality, allowing my family to truly know and understand this close relative who was excluded from our family lineage at just 21 months old. Carmen was the one who shared stories with me about my aunt’s amusing sense of order and precision. During my final visit with Adele, Carmen discreetly called me into the bathroom where my aunt had just finished showering and was meticulously wiping away every bubble from the brass handles and bathtub rim. She believed that a shower should be free of any bubbles.
Carmen had a unique understanding of each person she cared for, and she possessed infinite patience. When my aunt first arrived at their home, she would have tantrums and use profanity. Many other caretakers would have given up, but not Carmen. She persistently and gently spoke to Adele, involving her in simple household chores until they formed a strong bond.
Over time, their bond grew profound. It was Adele who would greet Carmen every weekend morning with, “Hello, Mommy! How are you doing today, Mommy?” It was Adele who would go to Carmen’s room to comfort her if she didn’t feel well. When Adele passed away, Carmen was devastated. She would often say, “I’m always looking for her,” searching the clouds when she was outside and waiting in her room to see if Adele would pass by.
And shortly before Carmen’s own passing, something extraordinary happened: Adele appeared to her. Carmen hadn’t even shared this experience with her youngest daughter, Evelyn, who lived nearby and spoke to her regularly. Evelyn only learned about it on the day of her mother’s funeral, while speaking with Adele’s former nurse. “I think Adele was waiting,” Evelyn told me. “She passed away first to wait for my mom. That’s how I see it.”
It’s a beautiful concept, the idea that my aunt may have passed away just before Carmen to greet her at the gates of heaven. However, there is another way to interpret this sequence of events. Last fall, my aunt and her roommate contracted COVID-19 at their day program. Despite being ill and bedridden, someone still had to cook for them, care for them, and nurse them back to health. That someone was Carmen, as always. Often, these duties fall to immigrant women, particularly those who are poor and of color. They are the unsung heroes who care for our most vulnerable, enabling the lives of those who are more privileged.
Carmen already had Sjögren’s syndrome, an autoimmune disorder that manifested as pulmonary hypertension in her case. When Carmen contracted COVID-19, which was inevitable considering Adele and her roommate had it, she never fully recovered. Oxygen tanks became a constant presence in her home, required morning, noon, and night. When my aunt suffered a massive heart attack and lost consciousness, Carmen and Juan had to lift her out of bed to administer CPR, with Carmen still holding onto her oxygen tank.
The image of Carmen, attached to her oxygen tank, exerting herself to save my aunt, lingers in my mind. I also can’t stop thinking about Juan. He is the embodiment of joy, a mischievous prankster, the heart of the household. Just four months ago, that house had five occupants. Now it is up for sale. My aunt is gone. His wife is gone. The other two residents have been relocated to different homes (the confusion they must feel). Juan recently left for Puerto Rico to live with one of his children.
He is lost without Carmen. And how could he not be? She was a pillar of strength. Carmen came to New York from Puerto Rico at the age of 13, started working in various factories in Lower Manhattan at 16 (until her death, she couldn’t eat a hot dog after witnessing how they were made), and then became a cleaner in schools and Midtown office buildings. She eventually opened a daycare in her Bronx home and also fostered children for some time. She did all of this while raising her own four children practically on her own (she met Juan later). Sadly, her oldest child passed away from a blood disorder.
“She was a provider,” Evelyn explained. When Carmen’s brother’s house in Staten Island burned down, she gave him her living room furniture. When her sister went through a tough time, Carmen took her in along with her nieces and nephews. “She was always helping someone,” Evelyn said, “whether it was family or a stranger.” Her children inherited this same spirit of generosity, with her remaining son, Edgar, fostering several children and adopting three.
During Adele’s funeral, the rabbi called for us to remember Carmen, the woman who loved Adele as her own. And I will always remember her, too, as the person who allowed my family to truly know and connect with my aunt. I am eternally grateful for Carmen’s dedication, love, and strength. She was a remarkable human being who made an indelible impact on our lives and will never be forgotten.
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