I’ve had an emotional couple of days. (Thank God for Google Reader to send my mind wandering, although not very far.) I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately. I try to think positively when I think about her; things like, we’re lucky that she got to meet the twins before she died, and, I will tell the kids as much as I can about her so they will always feel like they know her… but sometimes, that’s just not enough.
The other day, I was at the grocery store while T (our sitter) was home with the kids. For reasons unknown, my mom popped into my head. And I started tearing up. In the damn grocery store. On the drive home, I couldn’t stop crying. I had to pull into our garage and sit in the car for a minute to compose myself, and finally force myself to get out because I began to feel like a bad Lifetime movie.
Quite often I wonder if I’ve dealt with her death. If it’s going to hit me in some powerful way on some random day, unexpectedly and furiously. Of course, I’ve cried, I’ve mourned—I still mourn. Every day I mourn the relationship she should have had with her grandchildren. But the mourning is so hurried. Before the kids come rushing at me and needing me and asking me and hugging me and wanting more more more… When I cry in front of them, the Bean strokes my face and cups my chin. She asks, “Mommy, you okay?” I tell them I miss Halmoni. Bean gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Buddy asks if I need a band aid. And I break down even more because my mom will never know these two compassionate little kids. These two who, when one falls, the other asks if he/she needs a hug and warmly wraps his/her arms around the other.
Occasionally I think about that scene in The Sixth Sense, when Toni Collette’s character reveals the question she asked her mother: “Do I make you proud?” I feel like I have so much unfinished business with my mom. And I need her back so that we can discuss it.
We had a mother-daughter relationship. We weren’t distant; we weren’t best friends. We loved each other. Overall, I respected her. In many ways, I looked up to her. She fascinated me. She scolded me. She made me laugh. She told me when she was disappointed in me. She hugged me. She nagged. I’m reminded lately of how complicated—for various reasons—our relationship could be at times. And thinking about her this way causes an ebb and flow of feelings: guilt. anger. sorrow. confusion. unease. incompletion.
My mom started chemo the day after the twins were born. When I went into labor, she, my dad, and my sister drove from NY to Boston to come to the hospital. G’s parents did the same from upstate NY. By that afternoon, we were all there together. The plan was for G’s parents to stay with us for a couple of weeks to help out. When my family left just a few hours after they arrived, my mom turned to G’s mom and thanked her for staying with us to help out. And she began to cry. She felt guilty that she couldn’t stay longer. Because she had to wake up early for chemo the next morning. G’s mom ended up staying with us for a month. And every time I spoke with my mom, she told me to thank his mom again for her. She cried each time she requested that I pass this message along.
She came to visit two more times after their birth, during her breaks from chemo. Both times, she was incredibly weak. She couldn’t sleep or eat because of her nausea, so she stayed up with me all night while I nursed, pumped, and then nursed and pumped some more. She spent every moment she could with the twins. She didn’t want to leave them. She pestered me about how I should do things differently. I got annoyed because I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much I would be begging for her advice only months later.
After that, her body started failing her and she entered the hospital. We drove to NY a few times for short visits. She wouldn’t let the babies come into the hospital (her days as a nurse made her adamant about this), so G and I took turns visiting with her while the other waited outside in the parking lot with the twins. She took out the pictures that I and my brother had sent of our kids and said to no one in particular, “I love them so much.” I think about how this must have hurt her, to only see them in pictures, and to know two of them were only a few hundred feet away from her. Hurt so much that she clutched this envelope with photos of her grandchildren. Hurt so much that when she looked at the photos, she tried not to picture them growing up without her.
She didn’t get better. She passed away five and a half months after she began her chemo treatment. G and I were staying with my aunt (the kids were upstate with G’s parents). Around 5 am, my aunt knocked on our door and told us we had to get up NOW. I’ve never woken up so quickly. I sat paralyzed for a moment. I knew what was about to happen. And I wasn’t ready.
We took my mom off life support later that day. My brother (who had flown in from California first thing that morning), my sister, and I stood around her bed with her closest friends: her three younger sisters. As the heartbeat monitor slowed, my Eemoh threw herself on my mom and berated her for leaving them (her sisters) when she was the reason they had all come to the States in the first place; to follow their Uhnee.
My dad was in the waiting room with my uncles, our spouses, our extended family. My uncles immediately took charge afterwards and began to make the arrangements. My dad sat in the corner, completely dumbfounded and lost. When we all finally pulled ourselves together and made it outside, a stranger who had been in the waiting room with us told me and my sister that not many people are lucky enough to have so many loved ones who will come together for them the way we did. Her words, while startling (when she first approached us, she asked, “Who died?”) and invasive (lucky is not a word you want to hear in those moments), were also oddly comforting. I realized that my entire family had taken up that large waiting room upstairs all day. My aunts and uncles had all arrived within that first hour. I don’t even know how my brother and my SIL flew over so fast. The day was a blur; the longest, most sickening, gasping-for-air day in my life. But our entire family was all there for it, right alongside with us.
I have guilt. Ridiculous, baseless guilt—much in the same way my mom had guilt for not being the mom that she imagined she would be when she became a grandmother (i.e. there for it all). I have guilt that I wasn’t there for her through such painful treatment; while she was in the hospital for two months, her body failing her, clearly losing the battle. I was a new mom, trying to take care of two babies. I know—it’s baseless guilt. I refuse to feel guilty for nursing my kids for ‘only’ three months. I refuse to feel guilty for letting them cry it out at a very young age. And I refuse to feel guilty for doing everything I’m sure I did wrong those first several months of their lives—I was barely surviving. But I will always feel guilty for not being with my mom during the last months of her life.
I feel like I had that chance to resolve any issues we may have had. Of course, in the end, it doesn’t matter. Or—it didn’t matter. We couldn’t waste time thinking it was the end, trying to resolve issues. We needed to fight for her, not give up. Now, two and a half years later, it does matter. I try and keep those positive thoughts in my head (i.e. we’re lucky that she got to meet the twins before she died) but I’m in a different state of mourning now. I mourn the relationship I could have had with her—no longer just as mother and daughter, but mother to mother. Because I see her view now. Maybe I don’t agree with it all—the disappointment, the strict parenting, the constant pushing to be and do more—but I see it now. I want to tell her. She still managed to tell me that she loved me. When she cried because she couldn’t help with the twins, I knew. That was enough. She had guilt too. She wanted to be more too. She was trying to be everything to her family and her kids. And she was just doing the best she could.
So. I’ve entered a new mourning phase. Is this something new? I’m sure it’s not. The beauty of hindsight. The things I would have changed. Mourning the future. It’s so cliché. But I suppose it makes sense. There’s still so much I need to share with her and ask of her. It overwhelms me and swallows me whole on particular days for no reason at all.
Some days though, I try and keep it simple. In my head, I quietly ask her, “Do I make you proud?” And I wait for an answer. I think I know the answer, but I’m still not sure. So I wait as patiently as I can… and wonder if maybe someday I won’t need an answer anymore. Maybe.
(In my heart of hearts though, I know I’ll always want one.)
If you made it to the end of this self-indulgent post, thanks for reading. If you didn’t, I understand. This rambling entry was more for me than anyone else. So thanks.
21 Comments
I love that first picture - you were both so stylish and beautiful that day.
I wanted to send a warm hug your way… My mother is still living thankfully, but I have similar fears that we’re not making the most of our time together (esp since I only see her a handful of times each year). Your post definitely made me tear up, and it IS wonderful that she was here long enough to see the twins. I’m sure you’ll treasure the memory of your mother holding them, playing with them, forever. And I’m certain that they brought a ray of happiness into a very dark period of her life.
This is really beautiful. I admire you for sharing it.
I’m crying… I can’t stop. I hope Peanut loves me as much as you love Halmoni.
This post was beautiful. I made it through but not before being reduced to tears. Now I really don’t want to move away from my mother!
That was a beautiful post. So sad that your mother missed out on seeing the twins grow up.
My husband lost his dad to cancer shortly after our daughter was born. What you wrote about taking turns in the hospital, and about your mom being weak from chemo when she saw the babies, brought back memories of that period in our lives. It was so bittersweet to be celebrating my daughter’s life at the same time we were mourning my father-in-law’s death. Hugs.
I just read that again. You look like your mom in that picture. I’m sure she is with you every day and is so so proud of the mom you have become. I miss your mom too. I remember how sweet she was to me when we were in high school. I think she was glad we were friends. : )
Posts like these help me in my own grieving process. This line hit me like an arrow to the heart:
The day was a blur; the longest, most sickening, gasping-for-air day in my life. But our entire family was all there for it, right alongside with us.
Yes, exactly. The day my father died we had no idea it was coming. He had been in hospital for two weeks prior and all the docs said he was on the mend and that the cancer was gone.
The next day, after his release, he died of a gastro bleed-out.
I, too, look at my baby and think of how cheated we all are.
Thank you for sharing this. Pain is so much easier to bear when it is shared.
Thank you for visiting CAC and I will be back here soon.
Peace to you, friend.
Thank you for sharing this post.
I know my words probably won’t comfort you, coming from a complete stranger. Sometimes when someone you love passes away, it’s hard not to focus on their death and the things that they missed. Your mom’s life was obviously more than her passing and while she’s not there physically, she’s there in you and in your memory. Time heals all wounds, and at some point, you’ll stop mourning and start remembering. In the meantime, it’s ok to cry and be cliched. Everything will be ok.
Thanks everyone for the very sweet and supportive words, and for reading through that very long post. It felt good to get it out, and painful too. It feels even better to get support from you all—people whom I’ve never even met in person! (Except you clutteredmom, and I know my mom was extremely glad we were friends. You know my family loves you. You tell me all the time.
Thank you thank you.
And Rachel and Mrs. Chicken… I’m so sorry for your losses too. Bittersweet is definitely the right word.
The picture of you and your Mom is absolutely beautiful. Whoever took that is a great photographer.
What a great post. I am sure it was a hard one to write.
I cry when I drive home from work and see a particularly nice sunset or if I had an exciting day at work and wish I could share my thoughts with my dad. There are days when the tears are streaking down my face and I don’t care what other drivers may think. My dad died from cancer when my sister was 9 months pregnant so he never met my neice, his first grandchild. He never met my husband and now my 3 month old son. You were blessed to have your mom meet your twins as fleeting as it was. I simply ache for my dad on many days and he died in ‘97. I cry when I look into the face of my baby’s eyes and see my dad. In my thoughts I try to wish my dad back to life so hard that my heart is simply drained from the experience. I see him in my dreams from time to time. Cherish your father and other family members as a way to honor your mom.
I understand your loss.
Josh’s mom
only an amazing person could write that posrt (the kind that would make her mom proud.
it’s a wonder why we take our moms, our relationships with them, and time for granted.
your post made a lot of sense and hopefully it will make me be a better daughter (and maybe i’ll save it for agpie so she too can be a better daughter…)
What a wonderful post, thanks for sharing it. I miss my father so much it’s palpable each day, some days are ok. It’s been 3 years this past February since he died in hospice from his cancer and heart failure. I agree that the mourning changes, and I’ve had those days sitting in the car crying too, you’re not alone.
I’ve no doubt you make her very proud both as a daughter and a mom.
Best,
lil’sis
Mourning the future is just as painful (even more so) as mourning the past and the loss… thank you for sharing. It is so sweet that the twins are so compassionate (love the bandaid offer!)… *hugs* to you and the twins…
I just realized that blogger ate my comment(wrote it on the weekend)grrr. I just wanted to say what a beautiful and touching tribute you wrote to your Mom. I don’t think many of us have perfect relationships with our mothers, but perfect or not, your words were so honest and sweet. I’m so sorry you had to suffer such a great loss during a time when all you should have been feeling was joy and excitement at becoming a new mother.
I haven’t suffered the loss of a parent, but I do know that it helps to talk and share when your emotions are at the surface, so please keep sharing. Sending you good thoughts and a warm hug. Take care.
wow. that really got me. im so sorry for your loss. but what you wrote was truly beautiful and certainly had me crying too.
For the last week now I have been dealing with a lot of my own heavy emotions regarding my mom. I’ll spare you our long story but in a nutshell I haven’t spoken to her since the day after Xmas. She lied to me for her own reasons and I haven’t been able to forgive and/or forget. I’ve been struggling with my actions, dealing with the enormous guilt that only asian daughters can understand, and wondering how this will all play out.
I look at my children everyday and fall apart inside because I want so badly for them to have a relationship with her. But it’s difficult for me to see them enjoying her company when my own relationship with her has fallen apart.
Funnily enough as I opened up your site I scrolled down and stopped here, at this very post, for some odd reason. Maybe it was the word ‘Mom’, maybe it’s just coincidence, or maybe it’s a sign. Yesterday I had resolved to contact her thru a card I planned to send by week’s end but I still had reservations. Now I’m just a pathetic, crying mess.
Thank you for baring your feelings and sharing this. I suppose that being a mother has never been & will never be easy from any aspect.
P.S. I do believe you’ve done your mother proud.
What a beautiful post. Thank you for sharing.
I’m sure you have made your mother proud.
Thank you again to everyone for all your kind words. I debated on whether or not to post this but G convinced me that it would be therapeutic. It absolutely was, and it was great to get so much support.
So thank you.
wow halfmama, as a mother and a daughter, that was one of the most gut-wrenching things i’ve ever read. really, really amazing. thank you.
I understand all too well, how you feel. I lost my Dad before my son was born.