Following mom's feet

Soon after my mom passed, I piled up all my red and brightly colored clothes, bundled them together in a furoshiki, and relegated that to a corner of my closet. I wouldn't be wearing them for three years: the culturally appropriate mourning period for a parent.

A couple weekends ago -- only about halfway into the prescribed period -- I painted my toenails red, a color I haven't used since I-don't-remember-when.

Why did I commit such a faux pas?!

For one thing, those "rules" only loosely apply to me because I wasn't born in the home country, and we aren't there now.

But the real reason -- the one that makes most sense to me -- is because rather than miss and mourn my mom, which I do all the time anyway without even thinking of it, I wanted to intentionally celebrate and be like her (which Ikind of am anyway thanks to genetics).

When I still lived with my parents, my Mom and I had a weekly Sunday night ritual: I'd give her a manicure and/or pedicure; she always had French manicured fingernails and red toenails. We'd chat a little about our day or week, and then mostly read or write -- or in my mom's case, household bookkeeping and such -- in our own little words, but right next to each other.

Last weekend, my dad and I went to the cemetery to visit Mom's grave. I hadn't been there since my birthday. And it felt especially right to be there with my red toenails. I think she would have been glad about them.

Someone I know would call this, "Saying 'yes' to life." I think that's why it felt so good. And I think my mom would have agreed.

Remembrance

[mama n' me]

It's been two weeks since my mom's first anniversary memorial and it blows my mind that she's been gone for an entire year.  I had left myself a buffer of a few weeks to sort out thoughts and emotions, but when it came down to it I was one.  hot.  mess.  Especially because Mom's was a week after the 10-year anniversary of 9/11, and those memories revolve a lot around my parents.  I sat down to write about my mom and the waterworks started -- surprising because I thought I was fully resolved that she had truly finished her life and was therefore okay with it all.  But the truth was -- and is -- that I will always, always miss this lady.

When I have bad days, I miss my mom's comforting hugs.  She always insisted that it's okay and I'm still young and it'll work out. 

When I have good days, I miss my mom's celebratory hugs.  I miss her comments on my haircuts and manicures.  I miss her guilt trips over my shopping, until I told her I got a good deal, and she'd say, "Good girl!"  I miss her curiosities over my knitting or sewing or embroidery projects.  I miss the way she said, "turtle," or "squirrel."  I miss her grammatically precise emails, how she always wrote, "perhaps," and never, "maybe."   And her texts.  I miss her laugh.  All the seeming little things that are such huge and gaping holes in my life, now that they're no longer a few miles down the road.

So, you see, I can't have a day that's not without missing some part of my mom.

My coworker saw my puffy red eyes coming out of the ladies room, put her arms around me and let me sob into her shoulder for as long as I needed.  She lost her mom a few months after me, so knew exactly how I was feeling and exactly what I needed.  Thank God for sending angels at just the right time.

As the weekend progressed, we observed the cultural customs.  At the Buddhist temple, we found Mom's photo on the big wall along with all the other people who've died.  Her coordinates are OO-64.  The feeling of being so separated from her was surreal and discomforting.  My younger brother had his mini-meltdown then.  The next day, when the extended group -- family, coworkers, high school alumni, college alumni, NZ alumni -- gathered at my dad's house, was another day of showing up.  I'm so grateful to my cousins who helped with all the food and serving!  My youngest brother had his meltdown then: in addition to mourning and missing Mom, he just found out that one of his housemates was killed in a hit-and-run bicycle accident.  Sadness and shock all over again.

The picture above is one I took of me and my mom at the black sand beach at Waia'napanapa on the island of Maui, when our entire family vacationed there in 2009.  It was our first family vacation since my brothers were kids, and Mom's first year of retirement.  We ate and drank and talked and faught and swam and shopped and drove and watched the sunrise and had a great time.  My SIL later shared that my mom actually said she had fun, that she did things -- like snorkelling -- she'd never done before and never thought she could do.  With all her kids.  At the same time.  How awesome is that?  After a lifetime of work and struggle and never thinking that she could ever rest, I'm happy that she had a couple years to relax before she left us. 

I won't try to wrap up this post in any succint or "lesson learned" manner because the truth is, this sadness and gladness over my mom will ebb and flow for the rest of my life.  I don't know whether that's okay or not; it just is.

Hiccups and heavy hearts

Jamaica was tons of fun, but truth be told, there was a bit if not-so-niceness. I'd taken extra care to load up on sunblock and anti-bug spray, but my super (hyper?!) sensitive skin still got the best of me.  I went into the hotel's saltwater pool a couple of times, but stayed out of the ocean and out of the sun as much as possible.  The one day I spent entirely in shade, I still managed to get sunburn!  Blame it on the reflection off the water?

I got better before we left, but missed out on swimming in the ocean, which the gals did with the bride on the morning of the wedding.  I documented and relaxed on the private patio of the bride's room villa.  Not too shabby.

Although I had a great time with my gals, my thoughts did stray to DC every now and then.  How could they not?  This couple's engagement party was one of the last times DC and I hung out, and theirs was the first wedding I attended since our breakup.  Also, during the bride's mother's speech, I couldn't help but think that my mom would never have that opportunity; I will never know what she would have said to me on my wedding day.  So I cried a bit. And had a couple of drinks.

Reader, this disclosure is not meant to elicit pity!  There was rum, aye, there was. And dancing.  And good friends.  And new friends.  Which all equals a safe, uninhibited environment.  To be sad, yes, a little.  But above and beyond that, to be happy, to be in the moment. (Yes, I am happy, chatty, dancy when tipsy--quite a sight, I am told.)

I am learning that in the midst of mourning, there can be joy: much of life is a commingling of the two, and not just living in the extremes.  I will not be overcome by sadness, but choose to allow and choose to bask in the rays of light that shine into my life.

Thanks, C&B, for choosing to get married in Jamaica, where I got to see some more of your hearts, and have a great vacation to boot!  Thanks for putting that picture of all of us at karaoke in your wedding video!  Thanks, YPY, for encouraging me to travel, and for taking care of all the arrangements and being my soldier.  Thanks, MPN, for introducing me to the drunken coconut.  And thanks, Vinroy the Bartender, for scolding me when I thought I couldn't handle all the rum you poured into it: "You're on vacation, right mon?" "Um, yes." "Then you can handle it, mon."

All good, mon.

100 Days

Yesterday marked 100 days since my mom's death. We went to the cemetery as usual and then to the temple, as we'd done up until 49 days. This time we stayed afterwards for a short ceremony to officially end wearing traditional mourning robes. I had to remind myself that that didn't mean I was no longer remembering my mom; I got a bit teary-eyed, but it was okay.

The extended family and friends gathered at my dad's and were all there by the time we arrived. I never have to introduce myself: my mom's college friends recognize her in my face. They say that seeing me takes them back; then they all sigh and say, a bit wistfully, "We're all old now." I was grateful to see everyone, even though I don't know everyone's name. It's enough -- more than enough -- that they came because they knew and loved my mom. I gave them all big hugs.

[missing mom]

I doodled this the other day, kinda outta nowhere, and posted to P365. My BFF commented, "I miss your mom, too." It makes me tear up just to write that. I am grateful all over again that so many people knew my mom and share, in their own way, this grief.

So what now?

One day at a time. Starting slowly. Maybe I'll paint my toenails red; just like she used to.

Closet

As much as I would like to be one of those people who goes through their bag and mail each day, who puts their clothes away immediately, and who makes their bed each morning, I must confess that I'm simply not that neat.  Rather, things tend to pile up.  So weekends are for cleaning.  Which is especially nice since Monday is garbage collection day.

Part of each weekend clean has been continuing to pare down my belongings (I think it's great that these days, on the blogosphere at least, it's called "editing" or "curating" -- it allows every Plain Jane to become a little bit fabulous, don't you think?).  I even started putting clothes that I really like in the give/sell/donate pile, simply because I don't need so much!

Well, I thought I was doing a good job on cleaning (or "exfoliating," as Jess calls it; during the summer I started her Summer Slim Down and decided to take it into autumn).  But then my brother and I started going through my mom's stuff last month.  I sorted clothes and toiletries; he did shoes and some paperwork.  And I ended up bringing two armfuls of clothes home for myself! 

I picked out one or two of her old school blouses, a couple sweaters, and -- ironically -- some pieces I'd given to her back in the day.  The gems, though, are her beautiful, hand-sewn traditional ao dai.  Some of them are from when she was still single, so they're precious as my-mom-before-she-became-my-mom mementos.  The fabrics are something else, too.  Lovely silks and brocades.  I've always loved the one with multi-color flowers on blue [middle], which I never saw my mom wear, and the teal brocade with spider mums [second from bottom], which is such a unique color and thick and rich and great for winter.  The ao dai take up a lot of closet real estate, and I have to squeeze into some of them a bit, but I'm sure they can be altered.  It feels nice to have her clothes so seamlessly integrated among my own.

[ao dai]

Living simply often means cutting out the sentimentality that makes us keep what we don't need, but I'm allowing myself to hang on.  Perhaps, as time passes, I won't feel the need to keep them any longer.  And at that time, it'll be okay to let go.  Besides, I'm sure I can find something else in my closet to let go... like my old high school prom dress!

Return to reading

My love for books has taken a back seat over the past few years, in favor of more hands-on activities like knitting, gardening, and cooking (and nephewsitting!  The Goo eats things).  These days, however, I migrate back to the familiarity of words printed on paper, that comfortable feeling of flipping pages.

I have randomly come across helpful articles. Sitting in the doctor's office I spied an issue of the New Yorker, in which there was an article on Roland Barthes' journal entries as he mourned the loss of his mother. Also -- and again, randomly, as it's not my habit to read magazines -- in an issue of Real Simple magazine I came across a description of The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion's memoir of the year she lost her husband.

Over and above my own findings, I have friends who've had parents pass away.  They have rallied to my side through email, text, phone calls, handwritten cards, and even books and music.

[books]

[music]

Jessica, who lost her dad a couple years ago, sent me When the Heart Waits and A Grace Disguised.  I am not quite ready for the former (having picked it up and not been able to get through the introduction) but am finding the latter a treasure.  I'm reading it slowly, red pencil in hand, because there's so much goodness to it.  Even in things I don't think I need.  For example, I skipped over the part on forgiveness because I think of myself as a forgiving person and because I just didn't think it applied to me.  But the self-imposed guilt of not reading the whole book got to me and I went back to read the three or four pages.  It wasn't just that I saw myself reflected in Sittster's description of an unforgiving person, but he had good advice about how to become a forgiving person. There are things in my heart, attitude, and actions that I can do.  So I will try.

I am totally open to recommendations, too, so don't be shy!  It feels good to be in the company of good books.

Ironically grateful

Thanksgiving was the first day since my mom's passing during which I had an extended time to myself. I decided to bask in it and just do little things: cleaning house, light weeding, and -- a first for me -- raking leaves. It felt nice to be outside on such a crisp autumn day. By the time I arrived at my parents' house I had worked up a voracious appetite.

[piles o' leaves]

At the end of the night I spent some time talking to my aunt, my mom's big sis, who is tiny but has a way of hugging you with the strength of the universe.  And who looks so much like my mom that I nearly started crying as I looked at her.  She told me stories of my mom as a teenager -- looking in the mirror, worried about this or that -- and as a young woman -- "your mom was the most beautiful I ever saw her when she came back from New Zealand.  She was absolutely gorgeous."

And I'd been thinking this for a while, but as I reflected on what my aunt shared, I began to ask: how many people hurt because my mom's not here?  How many memories do other people have of her?  What kinds of memories?  Of when she was a girl?  Of when she was somebody's girlfriend?  Sister? Daughter? Teacher? Friend? When she was someone who wasn't yet my mom? Who has the greater claim to grief?

There isn't a greater or lesser, a more or less.  It's all different.  Loss is loss.  To each person in their own way.

Mom will never not be in my thoughts or my heart; so I don't know that I need to trek out to the grave to "see" her or talk to her. I don't feel bad that I don't recall the exact time I last spoke with her or that I don't remember exactly what she was wearing. The last time I saw her was in the hospital bed and in the coffin, but those aren't the dominant images I have of her. Her influence on my life will always be so much bigger -- and smaller -- than that.

My college roommate came during the viewing and told me that she felt compelled to come because her mother had suffered from a ruptured brain aneurysm, too. She survived, but was not the same. Even before she told me that, I was grateful that I'd been spared a memory and experience of my mother other than who she was when she was alive and truly herself. I remember MyKo's fiance nodding in agreement when I shared that thought (he's a doctor), and I was reminded again when I read Rachel's post about her stepfather.

There isn't a greater or lesser, a more or less.  It's all different.  Loss is loss.  To each person in their own way.

And so, while sadness has taken up residency in my heart this season, somehow -- however strangely -- gratitude finds a home there, too.

This year (and evermore) I am thankful for my mom.  Thankful that she loved me completely.  Thankful that she did a good job.  Thankful that God loves me enough to have given me her as a mother.   I'm thankful for friends whose experience of having lost a parent has cushioned my fall.  Thankful for my dad and brothers.  And for our extended family, whom I've finally gotten to know better.  To laugh with.  I'm thankful for Wild Horse Cabernet Sauvignon on sale.

And I'm thankful for rakes.

Kauai revisited

I mentioned briefly that I went to Hawaii last summer.  I needed to get away on the heels of having called off the engagement, and my folks gladly let me tag along.  I'd never spent so much time with just my parents before, which made the week interesting, intense, and insightful all at once.  We had a good time overall, and now that I look back on it as the last trip I took with my mom, it's so much more meaningful.

[beach, kauai]

[shaved ice]

[poolside]

[4th of july]

[eating in]

In addition to hanging out by the pool and going to the beach, we took a ukelele lesson and went on a boat/snorkeling tour.  We attended an orientation of events at the resort, and the tour struck my mom's interest.  She harly ever suggested activities (she always did what everyone else wanted to do), and I knew that she wouldn't have mentioned it if I wasn't on the trip, so I went along (despite my own inclinations to wallow).  It was a splurge.  We woke up early the next morning and headed out to sea and over about 14 miles of the Napili Coast.  I'm glad we had a chance to see Kaua'i from that point of view -- looking inland we saw kayakers and hikers, tons of waterfalls, the mountains and vegetation, and with us out at sea, as dolphins (my first time!); we even stopped for a bit of snorkeling.  My poor dad got a bit seasick, but my mom and I loved it.

[folks, napili coast tour]

[napili coast, kauai]

I remember sitting on the boat on the bumpy way back, wind and water whipping my face.  I simply closed my eyes and held on, letting nature have its way.  I felt vulnerable yet free and strong and able... a bit scared, out of my element, but at peace.  Later my mom said that she saw the expression on my face and knew I was in a good place, enjoying the moment.  (There are tears in my eyes as I remember and type that.)  Of course she knew, because she knew me: she was my mom.

[me and mom, kauai 2010]

[pink plumeria, picked by mom]

[sunset, kauai]

I don't know much these days.  The person that I always thought would be there, so much so that I never accounted for her absence, is now gone.  I wanted her to see me get married, I wanted her to see me become a mother, I wanted her to hold and take naps with her grandchild.  And I can't even say that at least she knew who I would marry.  How strange, yet how natural, is it to mourn the future, those things that will never be?

First firsts

My younger brother had a birthday this past Tuesday: the first family birthday after our mom's passing.. I didn't think too much of it (I texted him on the day; we had dinner plans for the day after) until we met up on Wednesday, when he shared that he was feeling sad and was particularly missing Mom. Because it was his birthday and he was remembering where he came from. And that person is no longer here.

Suddenly the coping mechanism of pouring yourself into work, or a new project, or an activity, disappears. You're snapped out of your bubble of concentration unawares, and it takes you especially by surprise because the event that triggers the memory, the reality -- in this case, a birthday -- is something that's always been there, whose date never changes.

In another case, something seemingly routine and uneventful will be a trigger.  For me, it was the first Sunday back at church after the funeral.  Having been in a haze of shock and logistics and surrounded by family for a week, I thought it would be okay, that I probably needed some 'off' time (my mom never went to church with me).  So I drove to church, first for a meeting, then the service.  I watched people come and go, say hi and bye, shake hands, and hardly anyone knew that I was going through the hardest time of my life, the greatest loss of my life.  It was just another Sunday.  I felt so small.  And so sad.  And so alone.  There, in that big, holy sanctuary. Under the big rose window.  With the big projection screen.  And the worship band rockin' out.  I felt like a ghost.  Luckily a good friend found me and came and put her arm around me.  And I buried myself in her shoulder.

I'm glad that it'd happened at church: a safe place where I have friends who will find me and encircle me and pray for me and protect me.  I steeled myself for that same feeling to rush back the following Monday: first day of work after the funeral.  Surprisingly, it didn't come.  I was relieved.  But that didn't mean that the feeling wouldn't come at all.  It did, eventually, either because I was thinking of her, or someone said something.  But I never knew what or when.  The feeling just kinda snuck up.  And still sneaks up.

The books and therapists say that the first year is the hardest for all the firsts contained therein.  First birthday without mom.  Soon, it'll be the first holiday season without her.  And then her own birthday in early December.

How do you deal with this but to share your feelings with those who care, reach out for their support, be kind to yourself and allow the time and space needed to reel back a bit, hurt a bit, maybe cry a bit.  It's all that I can do.

49 Days

Halloween was especially on the periphery this year because of my mom's passing.  Last weekend marked a milestone in the mourning process: 49 days.  We -- my family, my aunt, my cousins -- had been going to the gravesite and then the temple for the past six Sundays.  On the 49th day extended family and friends are invited to come to the temple and join in the ceremony and a vegetarian meal afterwards. 

The first 49 days is believed by Buddhists to be an important period, during which time the deceased is reincarnated and makes their transition to the new life.  Prayers are offered to guide and support the spirit.

Because of my personal religious beliefs -- but moreover because I know my mom didn't believe in reincarnation -- I don't put much stock in the meaning of the ritual (had to find out about it online).  I attended more for the cultural aspect of the mourning process, which establishes certain intervals at which the family comes together to grieve and also celebrate the deceased:  we went back to the grave three days after the burial, then once a week for seven weeks; the extended family will come together again at 100 days, and again at the year.  The increased intervals are meant to "ease" the presence of the deceased out of daily life.  I like that we're not expected to jump back into our regular schedules right after the funeral or after the bereavement leave allocated by work.  I like that it's a yearlong process, and that we will continue to meet each year on my mom's death anniversary.  And always on her birthday, and Mother's Day.

[family at 49]

To me, the larger gatherings are more for the "outer" circles of family and friends, where I am not so much mourning or remembering but simply "showing face."  For me and for my immediate family, it's not, "See ya!" until 100 days.  We continue to grieve, both as a unit and individually.  I do so by allowing the laughs and tears to come as they may, and by (re)turning to words -- self-help books, memoirs, articles, and yes, even my own.

Mourning

My mom passed away two weeks ago. Two days after I got back from vacation in Japan.

After a surreal week of making decisions and being present and getting very little sleep, I am shifting over to retreat mode: quietly. thinking. remembering. laughing. crying. and slowly: sorting. cleaning. giving away. keeping. smelling. loving.

The words will come back here, sooner or later; my mom would have wanted them to.

I'm around. If you know how to get a hold of me, feel free to reach out.