I want to be a hunter

I promise, this is not a sad post.  I don't only post sad things.

When I became a parent, I didn't think about how to explain death.  I guess I was in a bubble, naive to the reality that death is really the only thing that we all share in common, even over life.  2017 hit our little family hard with death.  And my four year old was introduced to death, well, well before most children are.  

OK seriously, so easy for me to slip into the darkness of mortality.  Seriously though, bear with me, this post is not about sad things.

But here's the thing.  I personally don't think it's about the exposure - it's about how it's explained to a child - that matters.  I say this with as much respect as I can muster, but to the parents who find it "inappropriate" to discuss death with children - for fucks sake, things DIE.  That's just how life work.  People die.  Plants die. Chickens die so they can fucking be in your chicken pot pie.

Which leads me to today's story.

You see - AJ's been exposed to death in all sorts of ways. We tell him that death is a natural thing that happens when life cannot continue anymore - sometimes it's because something is sick.  Sometimes there is a purpose (like food),  Sometimes, it's for reasons we do not understand.  Things that die don't come back... well, except those things that are destined to be food.  Those things come back onto the dinner table. 

The father of one of AJ's best friends is a hunter.  Like a real sportsman.  He hunts deer, elk, and waterfowl (and probably other stuff that I don't know about).  He hauls his kills home to feed his family.  I've never been comfortable explaining to AJ what exactly H's dad does.  That's probably in part due to my fear (and distrust) of guns.  

Anyway, H's mom delivered 4 freshly acquired ducks to us this weekend.  My dad was absolutely delighted - as any Chinese man would be having just been delivered 4 fresh ducks!  He spent the day feathering the ducks and making duck soup.

At dinner today, he told AJ that he turned the ducks from the fridge into soup.  AJ asked us how the ducks made it to our house. My dad himself was curious about how hunting waterfowl works, so we turned to Youtube to watch a video made by Cabella's about duck hunting basics.  I was a little worried about how AJ would respond to the "duck violence" at first, but I was pleasantly surprised.  He asked us pointedly if the guns killed the ducks and why that happened.  I told him that trained adults use guns to hunt animals for food, so that we may enjoy and eat the meat for dinner.  

He simply accepted the answer, chomped down the rest of his food, and announced by the end of dinner that he wanted to be a hunter like H's daddy when he grows up. 

100 Days

Today is a weird milestone. 

It's gray, cold, and rainy outside.  It's cold enough to feel it in my bones today.  I watch my preschooler go out the door in his brand new Columbia fleece jacket.  Instinctively, as the wind blew gusting in, I pulled his hood up cover his head.  He looked back at me and stuck his tongue out at me, as he waddled menacingly backwards away from me like an oversized baby penguin. 

I have a flashback. I'm not sure that it's even a real one.  But I'm seeing myself at his age. I'm waddling around in a fresh layer of snow in a thick pink coat in front of our new house.  My mom is near by, her brow furrowed in a lukewarm disapproval.  I can't read exactly what she's thinking. She's probably thinking I'm gonna get pneumonia again that winter, prancing around in the snow like that (I did, but it had nothing to do with the snow, I promise). She's probably thinking how beautiful it was outside.  She's probably thinking about what her mom, who grew up in tropical Southern China, would have thought about the wintery blizzard, had she been there and alive at the time.

I'm brought back to present time.  It's 100 days today.  My mom's 100-day death anniversary. It's a weird milestone.  I call it a milestone, because honestly, I don't know what else to call it.  When she was alive, she always used to point out, that people go and honor their deceased family members at the 100 day milestone. 

100 days without her. 

I think hard about what that means. And feel hot tears well up in my eyes as I realize that it's been 100 days that I've been a mother without her.

I get these flashbacks a lot lately.  Like I mentioned, I'm not even sure that they are real memories.  But somehow, I find that this is how I connect with my mom. I have these crazy moments in parenting - like the sacred minutes I hide in my downstairs bathroom to eliminate alone, and I find myself laughing, wondering if my mom ever hid from me like this as a kid.  Or I'll find myself soothing my toddler in the middle of the night, wondering if, 30 years ago, I ever let my mom sit down in her rocking chair to soothe me - or if I was just like my little monsters and desired to be carried and rocked like a human rocking chair. 

Tonight, we ate a dinner in honor of her.  Boiled chicken and Chinese veggie delight.  It was a simple dinner, just the way that she would have liked it. My toddler and I prayed to Jesus about her, asking him to help us be strong and live lives that she would be proud of.  I hope she could hear us up in Heaven. 

Modern day mom guilt

When I was little, I assumed that parenting was going to be really simple and straight forward.  If your child did X, you'd respond with Y.  This was at least, my observation as a child.  It seemed like my parents knew exactly how to parent me, and how they felt about parenting me.  My parents worked long work hours (we were not exactly well off, like many other Asian-American immigrant families).  There was no regret or guilt over things.  There just wasn't.

So imagine my surprise when I learned, as an adult, that something called "mom guilt" exists.

The thing about mom guilt (and I will stay with "mom" guilt - I'm sure "dad" guilt exists also, but I'm not a dad so I really can't speak to it) - the thing about mom guilt, is that it's a different flavor of torture for everyone.  Maybe it's something you do different in your household but every other mom does it one way, and now you question yourself.  Maybe it's you working away from the house, and you feel guilty about leaving your child with someone else.  Maybe it's your inability to ionno...bake chocolate chip cookies for the bake sale at school. Whatever that guilt is, I can tell you, with 100% confidence, that mom guilt is ABSOLUTELY USELESS.

Let me tell you about how I let modern day mom guilt destroy my perfectly good Wednesday night.

For about 2 months now, I've been using a service, which I choose not to name, that essentially creates some sort of scrapbook of your child.  It marketed to me via Facebook Ads and targeted me because sometime in my 4.5 years as a parent I did something on Facebook to indicate that I'm a tired overworked mama.  Anyhoo, this service texts you every X amount of days and asks you questions about your child related to personality, memories, favorites, etc - you get the picture.  The goal is to create a nice little collection of memories, factoids, anecdotes about your child, so that you don't forget what they're like when they're little.  The original idea of this really excited me, simply because of how easy it would be - 1 question a day for 365 days a year. In no time I could create a super memoire of my children, with very little effort!

The problem is?

The questions.

The questions were good, general, open-ended questions that made me want to respond, with fond memories of my child.

"What is one thing that makes being AJ's parent rewarding?"

Slam dunk.  I wrote a whole paragraph of a response on that one.

"What were some names you considered for 2.0?"

Cute. Never thought about blogging those.  I'd want to remember that.

But there were lots of close ended questions.  And it's not even that I'd mind them, but they were starting to make feel like I was being interrogated by some sort of judgy PTA lead-mom.

"What is AJ's favorite place to travel?"   Travel? The kid is fucking 4 years old.  We've been on the plane 4 times and that's 4 times more than many other children I know.  How the fuck does a 4 year old develop a favorite place to travel?  maybe I'm just a bad mom who isn't taking her kid to enough places?

"If you can take AJ on a trip anywhere in the world, where would you go?"  Why is this an appropriate question for a memory book of my child? this is a fictional answer because it's not a reality.  And again, the focus with the travel (this question came the day after the last one)

"What is traveling like with 2.0?"  (2 days after last question) Seriously, it must not have liked my previous answers.  Seriously though - does this company think I'm made of money or something, why is everything so focused on traveling?


Then there were just stupid questions that really, someone as dumb as soup wrote:
"Does 2.0 make any adorable faces?"  <--- seriously, this is a question that someone with the social skills of a potato would ask when they run out of things to make small talk with.

And then 2 days later, back to travel questions again.

Honestly, that all was just kind of funny, but what really wore me down, and introduced a very intense dose of mom guilt into my heart, was that for a good number of the questions, I did not really know the answers.  I often had to turn to my husband to ask (I'm glad one of us knew the answer) - but the fact that I didn't know... that started introducing a deep sadness into my soul, and doubt about whether or not I was doing a good job parenting, being a mom:

"What is AJ's favorite toy these days?"
"What kind of games are you playing with 2.0 lately?"
"What is AJ's favorite dessert?"
"What does 2.0 like to do for playtime?"
"What is AJ's favorite book?"
"Did AJ do anything nice for anyone today?"
"Does 2.0 have a way of getting your attention?"
"Is 2.0 learning a new skill?"
"What is 2.0's favorite activity?"
"Did you learn anything new about 2.0 today?"
"What is something 2.0 is afraid of?"

All questions I didn't know the answers to.

I suppose it really depends on what kind of personality you have.  Some moms I know would find this as work paved for them - motivation/inspiration on things to do and work on.

Me?

Maybe because I'm still heartbroken and picking up the pieces of my life right now. Maybe it's the overwhelming stress of work and being a working mother.  Maybe it's my overly self-critical personality.  But to me - not knowing these things, and being constantly reminded of such (by a machine no less) - is eating away at my mama soul.

The questions started to feel like judgment instead of what they were, simple questions:
"Does 2.0 appear to have a special bond with any family members/friends" If you mean other than me, yes.  He's 16 months old and can say every other family member's name consistently except for mama.
"What did you do with AJ today" This came on a day that I had to work while he was off from school. I was convinced it was judgement sent from this company on my decision not to take the day off.
"What was the best part of 2.0's day?" I had no idea.  I was working the entire day....making money to pay the mortgage. Sometimes adults need to do things other than being with kids....
"Did you take 2.0 on any special trips lately?"  I get it that you don't think I spend enough time with my kid...


And finally, this one earned them an unsubscribe and nasty customer complaint.

"Did you go on any outings with 2.0 today?"

No, I did not, because I left the fucking house at 5 AM to go to work because it's a fucking Wednesday and it's my job to put food on the fucking table so my children don't go fucking hungry.

Here's the thing.  Deep down, under all the tired layers of me, is a mama who wants to believe that she's doing a pretty good job being a parent. I'm fun with my kids.  I give good kisses to my kids.  I issue bear hugs.  I make silly jokes.  I get great big laughs, great big smiles, great big hugs from them.  I teach them good values and model them in my every day life. I keep my children safe.  I teach my children important things.  I laugh with them when their spirits are high, and cry with them when their spirits are crushed.  I crawl on my hands and knees and chase them until they fall over with giggles.  Deep down, I know, that I'm the world to my children.  But I let something try to convince me otherwise, and believed for a minute that I wasn't enough.

11/18/17 9 PM.  That's when I decided I wasn't going to let anything or anyone make me feel guilty about how I parent or what our lives look like anymore. Parenting is hard enough without things (THINGS) that constantly make us feel like we're not enough.  Enough with crap that trigger extra mom guilt - done! Cut out of my life.

Wow. felt so good getting that off my chest.

Onwards.

Lost in Loss

As you can probably tell, from the time of this entry compared to the last, my mom has sadly passed away. And it's taken me this long to finally come back to the blog and be OK talking (typing) about it.  I want to now.  I didn't at first, not for 2 and a half months.  But I'm OK with talking (typing about it now).  So here goes...

That last entry that you read about, prior to this?  That was timestamped 45 minutes before my mom passed away.  I remember exactly how it went.  At 2 PM, after I logged off of Blogger, I went to check on my mom.  She had seemed to turn the corner somehow.  I'm not even sure how exactly, but she seemed to be at more peace than before.  I waited for maybe 10 more minutes before I decided dose her with her morphine, followed by her haloperidol dose.  On my mind was only one thing: comfort.  I remember 2:12PM very clearly because that was the last thing I wrote down in my dad's logbook:  2:12PM Haldol dose.  I remember looking up from the purple log book and noticing that my dad was snoozing on the couch next to us.  We had a Chinese Christian music playlist on loop, and the whole environment started to feel a bit more serene.  She stopped her distressful moaning, so I figured now would be a good time to slip away to do some chores.  I tiptoed into the kitchen and finished the remaining dishes.  I'm not sure why, but the pharmacist in me was looking for something productive to do.  I knew that the caretaker (Michelle?) was going to start her first shift tonight, so I figured it'd be a good time to empty out her medication drawers so we wouldn't have to worry about reconciling all that with her.  By 2:30pm, I'd cleaned out an entire drawer of old meds, cough suppressants, and inhalers.  I walked out to check on her.  Still sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling slowly.  I felt content.  I went to the bathroom to cut my bangs.  Cause apparently, I was bored and my bangs needed to be trimmed.   

I checked back around 2:40 PM.  I touched her hands, and they seemed to be getting cool.  I took out the pink stethoscope that I bought for her, and listened to her heart.  It was there, but distant, and irregular.  I distinctly remembering that I didn't panic.  I knew what was happening, but I didn't know that in the moment, I would feel so weak and powerless.  About a minute later, the care coordinator from the caregiver agency rang the doorbell and came in.  He sat down to review the med list with my dad, on the adjacent couch.  He looked at me with knowing eyes, asked if he should leave.  I didn't have an answer for him, because honestly...I didn't really know what to do.  My medical training told me that I needed to keep checking her vitals, assessing for signs of life.  My inner child desired nothing else but to cling on to her mommy's wrist, dwelling in every last breath of hers, even if it was laced with the very foreign smell of death.  And then, within just a moment, her heartbeat slipped away.  I remember the care coordinator saying, "I'm so sorry.  I'll give you both some space" as he let himself out of the house (I feel terrible for that poor guy).  I remember my dad coming over, as we both knelt by her bedside, sobbing uncontrollably.  What he kept saying will forever be etched into my memory, "I'm so sorry, Mama." 

The tears were hard to stop.  There was a good 15 minutes where I knelt there, laying my head next to her bedside, releasing 33 months of sadness, pain, and fear that dominated my every waking moment while she was sick.  At some point, both of us ran dry of the immediate tears, and there was silence. 

That is the distinct moment in time that I can pinpoint where I was forever changed.  I remember realizing how distraught my dad was, and decided to find a way for us to get through the remainder of the day, so we sat there, for a whole after, cross legged, on the carpet next to her, telling stories, the two of us.  Stories that included mom.  Stories that included other family members.   I knew I needed to do something to help my dad grieve.  I knew this was going to be my job, forever now that my mom is gone, to look after my dad.  So I did what I knew how to do at the moment. Tell stories.

At 3:45, my auntie showed up at our house. She was supposed to come help look after my mom while I went home to care for my boys.  I told her at the door that my mom passed away.  The words felt foreign, rolling off my tongue, but it felt necessary coming out of my mouth, instead of my dad's.  She went upstairs to see her, and stayed with us the rest of the night.  The rest of the day was a blur - it consisted of me making a dozen calls informing all the relatives of the news. Some took it without any fanfare. Others required my consoling - which felt especially irritating to me, 2 hours freshly after my mom passed away.  We were able to arrange for all her sisters and nieces to come see her one last time before the funeral home came to pick her up.  The two girls respectfully picked up her, and transported her to the home in her favorite blanket.  I cried another river as they closed the van and drove off from our cul-de-sac.  But only momentarily, because I knew that my dad would need to be comforted, so I forced myself to stop.

One disadvantage of being an only child is that when your parents become ill or pass away, much of the burden to take care of business relies on you.  Without much help from my dad, I singlehandedly planned her funeral and took care of her final arrangements. On the day of her funeral, I couldn't find anything left in me to cry.  I looked at her one last time, peacefully laying in her casket, wearing the outfit that I picked for her, for my wedding day, wearing her beautiful butterfly pin and her signature watch.  I should cry.  But I didn't. Part of me (now) cannot forgive myself for not crying at my mother's funeral, but I suppose we all react to grief differently.

I didn't cry again until August 21.  I remember this day very distinctly because it was the day of the eclipse, and my 7 year anniversary.  It should have been a happy day, but something was dragging me down.  It wasn't til the end of the day that I realized that I was sad that my mom wasn't around anymore, wishing us a happy 7th, giving us marriage advice and well wishes.

I also remember September 5th.  Another distinct day. We met with the cemetery manager to work on the design of her headstone.  I had to run back to work, so quickly dropped by for a quick visit.  This was the first time I visited her grave alone, and I broke down, somehow just realizing that she really is buried there now, and not alive, no denying it.

Things had started to slowly heal during this time.  My family routine was returning back to normal, my boys were happy to see me home more often, but then a dark, dark thing happened.  On our way home from a trip up to Canada, we learned that my uncle had taken his own life.  When I learned of this, I was driving. I remember immediately springing back into action mode - almost exactly how I did with my mom's passing, aiming to protect my loved ones, somehow do everything and anything to shield the pain and suffering this would cause them. 

Why am I writing all this now?  I'm not sure - perhaps a part of me knows that writing has always been a way to relieve stress for me. Perhaps I know that someday, I'll forget the sequence of events of what happened this summer that forever changed me.  Perhaps I just need something/someone to listen because I've already tired out all the willing listening ears.  I don't know.  I wish I had the answers.  But for now, I'm still a bit lost.

Photograph

Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes
But it's the only thing that I know
When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes
It is the only thing that makes us feel alive

We keep this love in a photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Hearts are never broken
And time's forever frozen still

Photograph, by Ed Sheeran

In the midst of everything that this broken, hurt, and painful in my life right now, my husband took me to the Ed Sheeran tour last night.  It wasn't a last minute decision - these were tickets that he purchased for us several months ago.  I have to admit, I felt extremely guilty going to the concert.  I checked my phone probably 26 times while I was there, terrified that something would happen while I was out.  

***pause on blogging to dose Mom's morphine***

I held it together until Ed got to this song.  It's one of my all time favorite songs.  I broke down.  There's so so so so much about this song that is good. I cried silently, with fresh hot tears streaming down my face.  My husband's standing next to me - I'm not sure if he knows that I'm a hot mess.  He probably does and doesn't know what to do.  I belt out all the words between my sobs.  I've listened to this song a million times and knew every single word by heart, but never has it meant so much to me before. 

Loving can heal, loving can mend your soul
And it's the only thing that I know, know
I swear it will get easier,
Remember that with every piece of you
Hm, and it's the only thing we take with us when we die  

The hospice nurse came today to see how he can help her be more comfortable.  We decided that it was time to start upping her morphine dose, and dose more often.  She's not able to communicate with us, but my gut tells me that she's in distress.    The nurse mentions that it can be any time now, only God knows. I want her to know that it's OK to go.

***pause on blogging to dose Mom's morphine***

When I'm away, I will remember how you kissed me
Under the lamppost back on Sixth street
Hearing you whisper through the phone,
"Wait for me to come home."

Love Story

I walk into my parent's house at 11 AM today and settle my things next to the coffee table where all of my mom's meds and supplies are situated.  I notice that my dad's medication log book is open.  I take a glance, as I always do, to catch up on the night's activities.  I see this excerpt.

4 AM:  She wants water and don't let me hold the cup. said: "you stand aside" but when she drank, she spilled half cup of water. I've got to change her pans (sic), shirt, bed sheet. She just like a child, making mistakes and quietly sitting on the reclining chair. When things done She and I all sleep back on our own bed. She said clearly "Sorry, DaDa." I haven't hear that voice for long time, I cried.

It's so hard not to melt down.  I knew my parents loved each other dearly, and I'm full of hatred at this terrible infliction that's robbing them of continuing their love story.

I've memorized that story.  Time and time again. They were in high school together.  They were friends back then, cause God forbid, young (romantic) love was just about as toxic as capitalism in their world (or so the Communists say).  They were friends and nothing more. My Dad was the shy upperclassman.  He sported a thick pair of glasses and kept his nose buried in the books.  They'd call him "3rd study" which was apparently a knock on his glasses - being the 3rd thickest pair in the class.  He actually had a second nickname "Mut See" which is some sort of slang being shy.  My dad later told me that it was his friends calling him a "Missus"  My mom was 3 years his junior, but every bit as feisty as the upperclassmen.  She was born to lead, and ambitiously took on being the class president at the ripe age of 13.  The two of them shared a large group of mutual friends.  All kinds of characters that I've heard my Mom and Dad describe in wild animation over the past 3 decades.  There was Mao See (which in Cantonese, directly translates to "cat shit").  Their group of friends would go to his house and belt out his name at the break of dawn and everyone thought it was hilarious.  There was Tsui Fu Jun (which in Cantonese, directly translates to "take off your pants Jun") who, if my memory serves me correctly, was actually their PE teacher, a somewhat shady character.  And of course Po Chun, my mom's best friend and my Aunt Paula, who I met in person in 2007 for the first time.  The auntie who kicked my Dad off his bed to spend the night with her bestie during our Canada trip in 2015.  These people and their character profiles each filled a part in my parents' love story. At least vividly, in my mind.

My Grandma knew from the start that my Dad would be a good one.  My Mom would later recount to me that even on her deathbed, my Grandma made sure that she knew that my Dad was a good one.  Fast forward a decade later, both had made it to America.  Neither had a future in China under communist rule for the types of families they came from.  So America it was.

And that's where the "love" part of the story started.  Somewhat, NOT romantically.  You could say that it was a bit transactional. My mom was 29 and my Dad was 32 at the time that they reunited in the States. Back in that time, that was considered, well, ancient.

In her own words, "we just looked at each other and we knew........that we're getting old so it's time to have children." Yeah, real romantic.

My Dad never actually proposed to my mom.  They were dating long distance for some time, while my parents both attempted to finish college  - my Dad in Oregon and my Mom in New York.  She came to visit him one week and on the drive to the airport, he quietly said to her "don't go."

It's 2 PM.  Everything has settled down for the afternoon.  The dishes are put away. The hospice nurse already left.  The laundry is done.  The noisy kids outside have come and gone.  He's settled on the couch next to my mom's hospital bed. His eyelids are getting heavier, due to the fatigue from the eventful night before.  But you can peer into his soul behind his black-rimmed glasses. You have to wonder what he's thinking.  I know he's wishing "don't go."

Acceptance

(late post, originally composed 7/25/17)

The last few days has been some of the toughest in my adult life.

I can't even begin to describe to you, how sad it is to watching as my mom progresses, slowly but surely, towards her final days with us.

For a lot of reasons, I will myself to stay strong.

For my Dad. He's so tired.  He's so heart broken.  He wants to do everything and anything in his power to help her. And it's taken me, the hospice care team, a palliative care physician, our family, and finally her Pastor to convince him that none of this is his fault - that despite his best efforts, this is the progressive nature of her condition.

For my children.  My 4 year old knows very well that his Popo has been sick.  I think that he even knows that somehow, her illness will eventually lead to death.  He's seen me cry. He's seen me pray.  I need him to know that even though I'm completely heartbroken, I will find a way for us to be OK someday.

For my husband.  This past week has undoubtedly been one of the more difficult on our marriage, at least from my perspective.  On top of my mom being so ill, my in laws have been out of town, so this is the first time that we've truly experienced parenting without family help. I need him to know that despite everything that is happening, and all of the time I'm devoting to my mom, I'm still there.  I'm still me. Still the girl he met 17 years ago who wholeheartedly believes in goodness and hope.

For my Mom.  She's been through SO much.  She needs to know that I'll find a way to cope with this. Because she's taken care of me all my life, and I need to show her that I'm not something she needs to worry about anymore.

For me.  Someday, I'll be able to look back and and perhaps not understand why the Lord has tasked me to grow up from this, but simply accept that it was his plan.  Today, I'm just going to do it and know that it's what I need to do.

Presence over presents

It has been a tough week so far.  I cannot ignore the evidence that my mom is steadily declining.  It's hard on all of us - especially my dad. There are some days that she has long periods of time being relatively stable. And then there's not.  But I don't really want to talk about how hard it is today.  It is hard enough already.

Today, I want to talk about what can you bring to comfort those who are terminally ill.

Flowers.
Always a favorite. The bouquet that's sitting in front of me right now is a color mix of purple, yellow, maroon, pink, and gold.  It's from the hospice care team.  It looks great and really lifts the mood.  My only critique?  It smells a little too fragrant.  Consider bringing flowers that have little to no scent, in case scents are a nausea trigger for your loved one.  Also consider allergies.

Pictures.
Something that my mom always looks forward to is seeing photos of her grandkids.  I tend to show the pictures to her when she's eating her meal.  That way, I'm not drawing her focus away from resting.  I learned today that silly pictures are good, but can induce expected pain from laughing too hard.  Oops.

Music.
Don't underestimate the healing and comforting power of music.  I played As the Deer on Youtube for her at lunchtime.  She didn't recognize it at first, but my dad did.  And he started singing it right away, and a small smile escaped from his lips. We're playing a 1 hour Christian piano music loop on Youtube right now, as she naps.

Presence.
Sometimes there's not something they want or need.  I've learned that sometimes, a quiet presence is what is sought.  My mom has expressed that she doesn't really like visitors cause they tend to be chatting, so I tend to sit in the armchair across the room from her, and just hang out with her as she sleeps.  Yes, its awkward, but I'm learning that it's helpful to her.

That's all for now.  more insights later.

Choosing joy over blue

The days are quiet now, when I visit my mom.  She spends a lot of time sleeping and resting, her eyes fluttering in restlessness.  Guilt hits me hard when I see her in her sleep.  Something primal and childish in me conjures wishes to shake her awake and embrace her like I used to when I was a child. But I know better than that.  No, the fear in me knows better than that.  The fear that governs much of what I say, do, and think nowadays.  

The fear is real. It might as well be a beast with 3 heads, surly claws, and sharp teeth.  It invades my thoughts often, and it lurks around to awaken me from my dreams at night. 

But sometimes, momentarily, I can will it away.  When I chose joy. 

There are glimpses and rays of brightness when I do think of my mom.  

A couple of weeks ago, my cousins from Chicago came to pay her a visit.  I can't even remember how the topic arose, but he hadn't realized that my mom stayed in New York before she moved to Oregon.  I told him my very favorite story of hers from her adventurous NY days. 

One day, she got on the subway.  It was a good day. She'd just got off of school (work?) and had an appetite for blue crab.  She got a basket of them from some place in Chinatown.  It was a great deal.  She was proud of herself for wrangling those creatures into the basket.  And the deal, forget about it - it was great.  Now the subway ride from Chinatown to Queens is not exactly a short one.  She quickly found herself a seat, and after only a few moments of reviewing the day's events, decided to close her eyes for a few moments of rest.  She wasn't even halfway home when she woke up.  Rubbing her eyes slowly, she made out the sights of a person exiting the train car only to reboard the next train car.  Something wasn't right. Turning around, she quickly realized that she remained the only person on the train.  At rush hour. 

Then her heart sank as she looked at the basket at her feet.

Empty.  

Without pause, she gazed onto the ground of the Subway car, and sure enough - the basket of blue crabs had made their escape.  

She went into a panic. What was she supposed to do?  Collect the crabs? How? THERE WERE SO MANY!!!!! SO MANNNNYYYYY!!

So she did what any good young rider would do.

Exited the subway and left that shit alone.  

She did still have a blue crab craving though.  So she went and rode the Subway back to Chinatown.  And got some more blue crab.

------

Still one of my favorite stories of all time.

Mindfulness

Her house is filled with a quiet serenity.  From faraway, I hear a bird chirping, a neighbor hammering away at something.  Those are the only sounds I hear this morning, save the infrequent tortured coughs and sighs that exits from my mom as she rests on her couch.  I peer above my laptop to look at her, just to make sure that she's OK.  I want to memorize her - every little bit of her right now.  Even though she would probably hate me for it, I want so bad to take a selfie with her.  I want to remember the green top and periwinkle pants she's wearing.  She'll never know it, but she reminds me of Queen Elsa today. Yes, the Ice Queen, what with her pale, clean, still youthful face.  Youthful.  Typing those words makes me cower in a sudden somatic pain.  I'm suddenly reminded that her life could have been so much more.  My stomach lurches at the thought of my dad living alone, robbed of his spouse in the near future.  My heart cries in jealousy of those who have mothers who will live long, fulfilled lives.  My soul weeps, because my eyes are out of tears this week.

Here. Now.

Those are words I live by now.  I saw a behavioral health consultant a few weeks back for several sessions after deciding that coping with the gradual loss of my mother while being a full time working mother was just too....much. I learned that mindfulness practice is a powerful tool, to ground the soul back to the present. I describe the sensations and the feelings that I see and hear right now.  And focus on those things.  But I'm a novice at this. It's easy, in times of grief and despair to let our thoughts get ahead of ourselves - future tripping as I call it.  Mine always ends up going to the same place - the place where suddenly, I'm navigating this world alone, without my mom's hand to guide me. Her face becomes hard to remember.  Her voice fades.

Here. Now.

I'm brought back into the present. My dad has just returned from running errands.  I'm glad I took the morning off of work. I sit with her, silently watching her as she naps.  She's had an eventful morning and I'm proud to have assisted her in eating a big bowl of jook. Her cheeks are radiantly dusted with the NARS Amour blush that I applied on her this morning. She protested a little bit, worried that the "dust" from the blush would make her cough.  But I insisted.  I thought it'd make her feel better. And I was right.  I watched her smile after I applied the thin layer of rosy pink to her cheeks. Her face is so thin and fragile, but her cheekbones stood tall and proud. People would die for cheekbones like hers, I say.  She smiles further as I move the brush to my own face, applying the same color to the cheekbones I inherited from her.

I look at the clock.  11:30.  I have 45 more minutes before I have to go to work.  I dread the separation.  All of a sudden, I feel like a toddler again - like my own four year old.  Not wanting to leave, and unsure of when I might see her again.  I look over to my Dad, who is now settled in his armchair, contently tapping away at his tablet.  Probably getting some WeChat time with his friends. I desperately don't want to leave him either.  At least there's internet and text messages now, I think.  I'm always just one tap, one click away.  Never too far.  I let myself out of the guilt trap that I made in that 30 seconds of a stare.

Here. Now.