Because of Him

A few weeks ago, as I was driving down IH-35, I was thinking about a conversation I had with a friend.  We were lamenting the challenges of motherhood, workhood, familyhood and the interplays of each aforementioned arena of life.  It was a pitifully cathartic, and much needed, lunch date.  As she divulged, I listened and empathized.  Then, the conversation became foreign.  She spoke of the explicit directions she needed to convey to her husband to interact with the family.  It became apparent to me that my feelings could only be sympathic toward my friend; I did not understand her relationship with her partner. 

 

While driving, in that moment, I understood why I am still a glass-full/tenacious/content/blessed being.  I give much thought to being a person without a mother.  At times, it consumes 100% of me.  This fact in my life gnaws and, at times, devours every ounce of inner warmth, self-comfort I have.  Somehow, I always find a way back to me.  Since the age of 26, I have been denied a mother.  Notwithstanding, the world has given me a partner whose love for me can fill 100 strong relationships.  I am positive of it.  He gives me light when I do not deserve it.  He comforts gently.  He leads unknowingly. 

 

Most importantly, as the mother of dear Bennet and Ruby, he is raising the girls with her spirit and heart in full force.  He speaks Vietnamese to the girls each time he has an opportunity to incorporate a single digit number (at times, incorrectly) or food item (cơm, mì, thịt). He plans trips to visit Mom's family in California.  When surrounded by my large extended family, I will look over and see him, a head taller than everyone, laughing right along with Uncle's antics.  He has kindly badgered the local elementary school to ask about the dual-language Vietnamese program and the possibility of transferring into the school.  When Dad had his stroke almost four years ago, Jeremy brought up moving him down to Austin.  To be honest, I was overwhelmed with what we needed to do. I remember crying with relief knowing that my husband took the initiative to plan for and care for my father.  For the next few months, Jeremy would come home from work, bathe my father, eat a quick dinner, give me a kiss and take turns puting our six-month old to bed.  He did what Mom would have done.  In this next month, Dad will be moving in with us, and I am grateful for the efforts Jeremy has put in to finding a larger home to accommodate all of our needs. 

 

                                                   

The smartest words I have spoken in life was to tell Jeremy Palafox, "I like you more than a friend.  Don't say anything.  Just walk into the library to study."  Of course, being the man he is, he listened to my explicit directions.   However, before taking a step towards the building, he said, "Thank you." 

 

We were friends.  We dated, and on our seven-year anniversary, we married.  He labored right alongside me those two phenomenal spring days.  He is now the father to my children. 

 

This world gave me a partner who is there when I falter.  And, while picking me up, he always finds a way to bring small and big joys.  Life is still hard.  And, life is so,so good.  It's because of him. 

 

Too Much Noise

I am exhausted today.  My current state, I'm sure, contributed to my fast and furious trip to the minutes, hours and days following Mom's passing.  I was at work today.  In the midst of cutting and copying a picture for a PowerPoint Presentation, I could not take it.   Tears were already wetting my keyboard, and I quickly paced to the final bathroom stall of the closest restroom.  There I stood, heaving and trying my best to squelch the horrible weeping that seeped out.  I finally regained some composure, and attempted to casually walk back to my cubicle.  I took the long route to ensure the least number of run-ins with co-workers.  I ended up not making it back to my work space.  Rather, I shamelessly cried to the first person who spoke to me. 

Sometimes, I know exactly what causes this reaction in me.  Other times, it can be the smallest of things.  Either way, the response is always strong and deep.  When I think of those early days, I want to cry and throw up.  It was too much.  I remember the cold December air outside.  I remember the feeling of my braces.  I had them put on two days before.  Honestly, the pain I felt in my mouth was welcomed.  It brought me solace to feel some physical pain.  I needed something to take the edge off of the emotional rage.

I also remember everyone around me.  People tried to help.  I know they did.  But, it did not help.  Minutes after Mom's passing, I remember sitting next to her bed in the hospital.  Dad had gone to find the monk, and I was left alone with her.  My uncle came in and stood at the door.  Maybe he was afraid he was going to catch her death?  I am not sure.  From a distance, he told me to uncurl her hands.  That way, they would look nice for the wake.  I yelled at him.  Then, my aunt walked in mumbling about the willow tree in our backyard bringing bad luck.  I yelled at her, too.  This was just the beginning.  People would proceed to say the insignificant words to me.  Silly words. 

In retrospect, I know they all meant well.  In the moment, I heard empty words that were desparate to appease their personal discomfort.  It was their noise, and they brought me into it. 

"Why didn't you tell me she was sick?"
"Why didn't you call and tell me she was dying?"
"My parents are going to send you a check."

There were those that knew exactly what to do.  I remember our dear family friend, Trudy.  She would come to the hospital.  She would talk to Mom and wash her body with a warm towel.  Those were the only moments I remembered Mom allowing herself to sleep for a bit. For days, she was contstantly awake. I think she was afraid to sleep.  She was afraid to die.  I remember our dear friend Bertha coming in and just talking.  Her voice brought so much warmth and love to the room.  Her booming laugh made things feel okay.  They just were.  They did not bring their own noise to fill the space.  They simply accepted the facts and showed us that they loved all of us. 

Then, there were those who understood.  Those who had already felt the pain of losing a parent.  I hung on to their words.  It showed me that someone understood.  My mother-in-law sent a card a month after Mom's passing to say she was still thinking of me when the cards and calls had stopped coming.  I recall an evening years after Mom's passing.  I was sitting at a bar with friends.  As the other 20-somethings were chatting about jobs, alcohol and whatever, Matt and I started to talk about our parents.  He had lost his dad.  As the noise moved around us, I recall feeling safe. I could be honest and talk about Mom with someone who understood. 

Then, there were those who just listened.  Those who just said, "I am so sorry," and meant it with every cell in their body.  I could see that they just wanted to take away my pain with their hugs and kind eyes.  I appreciated that.  I appreciated those who were okay with quietly sitting next to me.  They had not walked in my shoes, but they were okay with just holding me up.  I am grateful for them.  I am so grateful for Jeremy continually holding me up.  It is a hard job, and he does it everyday. 

So, today felt like December 23, 2004.  I am pretty sure tomorrow will be different.  It usually is.  When the day comes back around, I will not be ready.  I'm okay with that.  Even years later, when I have lived those moments a million times, I will take them on without armour, without calloused hands, without stoicism.  It feels the same each time because a daughter can never really be okay with losing her mother. 

I See You

I still see you, Mom. 

I see you when I look in the mirror.  My nose is yours.  And, sweet Ruby has the same nose.  Your brothers and grandma, A Pò,  were so excited to meet her over a year ago, "She looks so much like her, huh?" they chimed as their broad noses widened with excitement. 

 

 

I see you in Bennet.  At times, when her will and independence reigns, I know it's you.  You always used to say, "We can figure it out, con. Bìa, we can find a way."  Whether it's putting on her own shoes, pulling up a chair to reach an item tucked away or eating self-peppered strawberries to prove to me they're good, she surely has your pride.  At times, to a fault. 

 

I see you when I see the girls together.  They do love each other so much.  I see you because you raised, Kim, Dan and I to love one another.  To depend on one another.  We do, and I am grateful for that. 

 

 

 

I see you when the girls' little hands reach for pistachios.  They cannot get enough.  So, my hands move as fast as yours to remove the shells.  I always manage to sneak a few for myself. 

 



 

I see you when the girls are eating.  They love cá, salmon .  Bennet loves phở.  Jeremy and I just bought them their first pairs of chopsticks.  Benny is so proud when she uses them.

 

I see you when I see a beautiful sunset or sunrise. I remember that last year we were together.  We would go to the high school track.  I would get in a run, and you would walk.  You wore your child-sized New Balances and soft denim capris.  When you tired, you would sit on the bench and wait for me.  Each time I turned the final corner of the lap, I would see you swinging your legs.  Your feet could not reach the ground.  I saw the most beautiful sunsets that year.

 

 

I hear you when the girls shout out the artist's name when the first few notes of a song comes on the radio.  "Neers (Lumineers)!  Mraz (Jason)! Five (Maroon Five)!  One Public (One Republic)!  Madonna!"  They love all kinds of music.  Guess what, they love Cyndi Lauper.  I hear you singing along with them. 

 

I hear you when I sing to the girls.  The words are different.  The song is different.  But, I hear you singing along with me. 

 

I smell jasmin, and I know you are close.  Right now, our archway is in full bloom.  You loved jasmine so much.  You would put on your flip flops each evening when the blooms opened.  You would pick them off the bush and put them in a clear bowl.  "Bia, con, smell this.  So good."  You would do this every evening.  New blooms would come back the next day, waiting for you to carefully pick them.   

 

I hear you when life gets hard.  When the work is overwhelming.  "Figure it out, con. Bìa, you can find a way."  And, I always do. 

 

I smell home when I cook.  The smell of fresh lettuce, mint leaves, fish sauce, soy sauce and fish.  I love it.

 

I feel you each time Jeremy holds me.  The last time you spoke to him, you asked him to take care of me, "Take care, Bìa."  The night he proposed, he reiterated your words, and he has kept his word.  Everyday.  He is a gentle and kind husband, and he keeps your spirit and words alive with the girls.  And, one day, he will teach them to dance in the same way you taught him to dance. 

 

I see you, Mom.  And, one day, I'll see you again.   





Soul Brothers, Soul Sisters

Today is Mother's Day, and, on this day, I will say I am ever-so-blessed to be called a Mama myself.  Though a tough day, I am grateful for my "motherfull" life, two cherubs and kind Jeremy. 

On this day, I also take the time to join hands, in thought and spirit, with me fellow Soul Brothers and Soul Sisters.  Those who have also lost a Mama.  Those who can empathize.  On Friday, I was sitting with fellow co-workers.  One woman was speaking about her 90 year-old mother.  The other woman was speaking about her own mother who passed a few years ago.  I sat between both women, and I felt at home.  They spoke of how it feels to "parent" your parent, how to give an ailing parent perceived autonomy, how hard it is to care for a parent while juggling your own life and children.  I quietly sat and listened.  From experience, it was not the time to share my own Mama story.  Then, it happened.  "Phuong, do you have both your parents?"  My eyes teared up, "Mom passsed away eight years ago.  I understand."  Our working relationship catapulted into another echelon.  We had both experienced the loss of a mother.  She understood me, and the value of that is immeasurable. 

Friends have reached out to me recently with consoling words, offers of "let's talk", suggestions of going to therapy, texts, hugs.  I know there is much love around me, and I appreciate it.  I really, really do.  I will acknowledge that the most comfortable conversations have taken place with those who have walked the path of loss.  With my Brothers and Sisters, not much verbage needs to be exchanged.  Tears lay the foundation for common understanding, and we walk away a bit lighter.  She understands.  He understands.  I find comfort in that.

So, today, dear Brothers and Sisters, I am sending so much love to you.  Regardless of age, gender, ethnicity, we are part of this family, and I am thankful for you.  Thank you for walking alongside me as I live my everydays sans Mama.  I wish us fond memories, humor, self-patience and inner-peace. 

Egg Love



Recently, a co-worker gave me half a dozen fresh eggs.  I knew exactly what to make.  My palette and memory, at times, feel that the word "Mom" is synonymous with the word "food".  Man, could Mom cook.  If I had to divide Mom's brain into subsections, food would surely take up 80% of her brain capacity.  If she was not cooking, she would be thinking about what to feed us for the next meal, washing dishes from the previous meal or going to/from the Asian market.  With the eggs I received from Cole, I started making one of my favorite dishes, soy sauce eggs.  It is a savory dish composed of meat and eggs simmered in a brown sauce. 

 

This is my third attempt at this dish.  The first time, I was newly engaged and wanted to make a nice dinner.  My taste buds were dissapointed with the overly boiled eggs and bland sauce.  It was one of multiple poor attempts at recreating Mom's dishes.  Jeremy sat there and ate every bit of it. His compliments did not alleviate my dissapointment.  I wanted so badly to get a taste of her food.  It was the one thing I could do to bring her back a bit, and I failed. 

 

I  made the dish a second time.  I was now a Mama.  The girls had already gone to bed, and Jeremy had fallen asleep with Bennet.  So, it was just me, my eggs and a myriad of bottles filled with brown liquid.  I started taking out what I could find that could potentially create the sauce...soy sauce, teriyaki sauce, seasame oil.  As the dish cooked, I put some jasmin rice into the rice cooker.  Twenty mintues later, my kitchen smelled like home and my rice was ready.  I sat at my kitchen table and took a bite.  It was perfect.  As the egg and pork went down my throat, the tears came up.  I did it.  It tasted just like Mom's. It took me eight years to figure it out.  My tears salted my bites, and I was escastic. 

 

Today is my third time to make this dish.   The eggs were dimpled from poor peeling execution, and, once again, I guessed at my work.  With one successful execution in the bag, I simply cooked.  I thought of her as I peeled the eggs.  How come her eggs were so smooth?  I thought about her as the sauce slightly splashed when I dropped the eggs in the pot. She would have surely made a comment about the stain on my shirt.  I took a bite of the fatty beef.  It was good, and she would have approved, "Con, child, it's good.  Next time put in more sugar, một chút đường.  It's good."

 

When I sit down to eat this tomorrow, I'll think of Mom.  I am not sure if there will be tears this time.  I am confident that as I finish the meal, my brain will start to think about Wednesday's meal for Jeremy, Bennet and Ruby.  I have found peace in making heart-meals for my family, and I am grateful. 

 

 



Grateful

 

The other day I was talking to Kim.  Just 11 months younger than me, I sometimes forget who is older sometimes.  "You okay?" she asked, as our conversation was coming to an end.  After briefly discounting her question, I realized she was referring to this very blog.  I quickly took a short breath, unsure of her next sentiments.  "Just making sure you're okay."  That was the extent of our conversation.  My sister and I can fill the seas with our dialogue.  Other times, our silence gently lends to an easy understanding with one another. 

 

Honestly, when I first started all of this, I was only thinking of myself.  Self-pity and lonliness accompany each other well.  When Kim brought this up, I was reminded that there are two other people who do know what I am feeling. There are two other people who lived alongside me in our two bedroom mobile home.  There are two other people who lost the same mother.  I remember standing between Kim and Dan on the day they buried Mom.  We had front row seats as her casket was lowered.  As the pulleys easily worked to placed my sweet/feisty/tenacious mother into the ground, each of my hands gripped tightly onto the only people who truly, truly understood me in that life moment. 

 

I am grateful for my brother and sister.  I know we were our mother's entire world.  To a fault.  She would sew for 10 hours a day to buy us namebrand jeans.  She would work in a Chrysler factory for years to find money to pay for  knock-off Cabbage Patch dolls, band instruments, crossiants.  When she no longer worked because of the stupid cancer, she crocheted holiday pins for me to sell at my Student Government meetings in college.  "Maybe sell them for $3? I can make a bit of money."  I still have those pins.   

 

Mom's happiness was directly tied to the three of us.  Her joy was the fruits of an unseen, but strongly felt, umbilical cord that fed her soul and attached to her three offspring.  She was careful not to boast about our accomplishments; nonetheless, every wall in our home was embellished with shadow boxes of insignificant medals we earned in school and newspaper clippings with our pictures at coloring contests/science fairs/perfect attendance ceremonies.  She loved us too much, and we are better for it.  

Kim, Dan and I hold the pages to Mom's stories.  Together, we find ways to live her life.  Together, we have not been able to recreate her eggrolls, tell her stories, make her fruit pizza.  The part that really makes this all count is that we do it together.  For all that my mother has taught me and has given me, I cannot be more grateful for my brother and my sister.    I just need to remind myself that this journey has been buffered by two earth angels who come from the same genetic pool. 

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.