Baby Within

I admit that I have been feeling reticent since my recent gumption to tell this story.  Friends have approached me with thoughtful/concerning/compassionate/you-really-need therapy sentiments, and though I have blatantly stated my feelings in writing, I am not ready to whole-heartedly verbalize my inner-thoughts.  At this point, I am not sure if others really want exposure to this raw material, or if this is my excuse for not confronting this collision head-on myself.  People stated, "I did not know you were so angry about this."    This thought has been slowing rolling around in my head.  Now, it has picked up momentum, and I understand that this crockpot-speed anger manifested once I took my third pregnancy test in August of 2008.  Until that moment, Mom's passing was simply an untimely, utterly sad event for me, myself and self-involved-I.   The minute innocent bystanders were involved, something shifted. 

Mom talked about her pregnancies with each of us.  I caused the most trauma.  Dad was a prisoner-of-war when he fought for South Vietnam.  Upon his release, Mom and Dad married and decided America was the place to provide a worthwhile, worry-free future.  They escaped in the middle of the night.  As a naval captain, Dad navigated the wooden boat filled with 80 people.  After 11 days at sea, they arrived at the Hong Kong harbor.  I was born within 48 hours of their arrival.  At 5 lbs., 6 oz., I was too much for my mother.  "They sucked you out with a machine.  I was too weak to push.  You were so red when you came out.  It was all of the watermelon I ate."  I loved this story.  The history, the drama.  I loved it.  Growing up, Mom was sure to let us know that pregnancy was hard.  "Con, I was sick, bệnh, the entire time.  It was hard.  Khó. It was hard." 

Mom and Me, Hong Kong

 When I realized that I had an offspring growing in my own body, I, too, rely on my own mother's advice.  What else is a daughter to do?  While other mothers-to-be have continual input, I relied on the two aforementioned sentences.  Alas, her words spoke truth.  Week-six drop-kicked me to the ground.  Nausea was my sidekick 24/7.  Her only piece of advice rang true, and it brought me much discomfort and misery, physically and emotionally.  One evening, I asked Dad about Mom's pregnancy.  "I don't know about that," he casually answered.  I reminded myself that it was my lonely journey, and I continued on.  By myself.

During the last year of Mom's life, I moved back home.  One evening, she was washing the dishes.  When I think about Mom, I often picture her standing at the sink, hand-washing the dishes and putting them in our drying-rack-dishwasher.  We had an argument that evening.  I do not remember why, but she yelled through gritted dentures, "I WANT TO BE HERE FOR A LONG TIME.  I WANT TO MEET YOUR KIDS.  DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" When I think about that night, I feel guilt.  I feel guilt for upsetting her.  Even more so, I feel sadness when I finally understood Mom's fear of her own mortality.  For the first time, I realized that losing my mother was the not the greatest fear.  The strongest woman I know was losing her footing.  Mom was losing her own life. 

Again, her words rang true.  She did not meet the sweet girls.  This time, though, the sharp words consoled me.  She wanted to be here.  She wanted to tell me not to wash my hands with cold water after giving birth.   She wanted to hold Bennet and Ruby on those April days when they were born.  She wanted to eat a bowl of pho ga with Bennet. She wanted to teach Ruby her numbers, "Ruby,con, một, hai, ba, bốn, năm! Vời!  You are so good! "  She would have loved them so much.  These things did not happen, and I am not quite okay with it.  Not yet.