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.