epilogue.

Dear Omma and Halmoni,

For almost two months, the world has been at a virtual standstill as the coronavirus takes over lives, of both those with the illness and the rest of us who are trying to contain it by maintaining distance. For many, the coronavirus has been isolating...breaking us from our usual routines and the ways we stay connected to each other. And in other ways, there have been simpler moments of joy, like the chance to take a walk on a sunny day, or to notice the magnolias and then the cherry blossoms in bloom. Oh, how you loved when your magnolia tree bloomed…

Halmoni joined you this morning, Omma, and although the thought of you welcoming her brings me some comfort, her passing while in isolation weighs on my heart. I didn’t know that the last time you saw her, more than two years ago, would also be the last time for me. Did Halmoni feel lonely these past couple of months, Omma? Did she wonder why no one came to see her? Did she wonder why her oldest daughter had stopped calling her, not realizing that you had passed?

Omma, I started this year with my mind set on readiness. After grieving you, first while you were sick and then after you had passed, I wanted to commit myself to healing and then surrendering. It came in glimmers at first…almost as if I shouldn’t feel “normal” or even joyful again. An unnie asked what it was like to lose you…the closest word when she asked me this was “devastating.” The first mother’s day without you, all I could think about was your physical absence. Who do I celebrate on mother’s day, if not you? The first birthday without you, Dad sent my card almost a month early, just so he wouldn’t forget. But how I missed your lovely writing and how you wrote how proud you were of me, each year without fail.

Just like you told me I would though, I started to feel more and more moments of joy…

At the one-year of your passing, Dad and I took lunch to the oncological nurses who used to care for you, and they all spoke of how they missed your beaming smile. C and I took the first of your ashes to Chimney Rock, where we used to go as a family, and I scattered you among white flowers underneath a waterfall while reading you “Epitaph” by Merrit Malloy:

When I die / Give what’s left of me away / To children / And old men that wait to die.

And if you need to cry / Cry for your brother / Walking the street beside you. / And when you need me, / Put your arms / Around anyone / And give them / What you need to give to me.

I want to leave you something / Something better / Than words / Or sounds.

Look for me / In the people I’ve known / Or loved, / And if you cannot give me away, / At least let me live in your eyes / And not your mind.

You can love me most / By letting / Hands touch hands, / By letting bodies touch bodies, / And by letting go / Of children / That need to be free.

Love doesn’t die, / People do. / So when all that’s left of me / Is love, / Give me away.

Omma and Halmoni, thank you for loving me so well. Now, I give you both away.

Omma & Halmoni, 1971.

let us be grateful (day 100).

Dear Omma,

Yesterday marked the 100th day after your passing. According to Korean custom, this is the end of the mourning period. How can I grasp the end of mourning when I’m just starting to process your non-presence?

I’ve found myself reaching for coping mechanisms you’d find both mortifying and maybe just a bit endearing (maybe? let’s hope so). I speak about you and your passing with more opportunity than I should: “How would I like my coffee? Black, my mom just passed, thanks.” It’s almost as if, by repeating it, I’ll finally grasp that it really and truly happened. That maybe others will glimpse there was a time when I didn’t look as if I was constantly on the verge of tears. But mostly, by constantly saying it, I have opportunity to keep you alive, even if only through memory and tribute (blessings to those who asked what kind of woman you are - in a word, kind).

My reading list, full of books about near-death experiences and grieving, pretty much guarantees I won’t be invited to any book clubs or cocktail parties any time soon (repeated thanks to those who continue to reach out nonetheless…rest assured, I’ll be sure to bring up my mom over drinks!). But this research also gives me comfort - that you went peacefully and surrounded in love; and reassurance - that we are still enveloped by your love and care for us.

We’ve each had an Omma ‘experience’ since your passing: Dad feels your joy every morning when he prays, and you sent a ray of sunshine down after Josh scattered some of your ashes at Joshua Tree. You’ve come to me in ways I’d anticipated, as in my dream, with you larger than-in-life and wearing a white dress and red & green vest. As I told you I was doing OK, I also regretted that I didn’t have more to say…different from my awake life, when I’ve wanted so often to pick up the phone to call or text you. You’ve also come to me in unexpected ways, as on the subway platform, when I uncharacteristically paused to help the blind student from Liberty find his way through the station, and I was distinctly reminded of your wish to have your eyes donated so you could give someone else the gift of sight.

This year’s holidays, also the first time being in the house ‘without’ you, felt conspicuously quiet…but you were still ‘there’. As I stood crying tears into the kimchi I was putting away (you were always the first to help with clean up after Christmas dinner), Laura came to hug me and tell me again how kind you always were. Dad and I sat by the fire one night, reading the stories you’d left us in your journal, and he told me about how he’s been set up a couple of times. The thought of him being with someone who’s not you is even harder than the thought of him being alone, and he reassured me there is no one like you. When I joked with Dad it was OK for him to get a hearing aid, now that you’re not here to nag him, he gave a rueful smile and said he’d still rather be able to see you.

Your not ‘being’ here is heartache, Omma…wanting to see or touch you reminds me of how it felt to have my first crush: longing for something that wouldn’t happen. Just like I didn’t know then when or how I would start to feel better, I’m not sure of how long or what will make me feel joyful, or even steady, again. I know I should turn toward joy however it comes - it’s what you’d want. Dad told me he’d never forget your expression upon learning about your cancer diagnosis, and how you immediately said, “let us be grateful, let us be grateful.”

In just a couple of days, it will be your forty-third wedding anniversary, as well as the eve of a new year. I’d be lying if I proclaimed I’m ready to conquer 2019 or whatever joyous euphemism I’m supposed to shout at the start of a new year…for it will be the first in which you don’t live among us, Omma.

So instead, I will offer up a prayer as you would have done, and because to be alone and without you is what I most fear…

Let us be grateful, let us be grateful.

your ray shines down to where your ashes were scattered in joshua tree.

how do I wake my spirit.

You can hear me all the way upstairs? (after stirring awake again and seeing us hovering near)

Yes, I can, Omma. (me teasing you)

Sor-ry! (in your girlishly accented English)

This would be the last conversation we had…

Dear Omma,

We brought you home from the hospital on a hot September Monday (“Indian Summer” you described in your broken English as you felt the heat and sunshine on your face). You’d asked to stay there for the duration of Hurricane Florence thank-you-very-much, and when we transported you home, I said hi to you from the front of the ambulance, and you were still able to walk to your bed at the time.

The stents you’d had placed - first a couple, then another - couldn’t keep up with the cancer that was spreading through your stomach. Each day, I’d return to your hospital room, knowing that you’d thrown up again and earlier, and noticing that you were weakening, seemingly hour over hour.

I brought you photo albums, asking about the black & white photos from your girlhood, but you asked for the photo albums from our childhood. You told me the dress you wore in your first photos with Josh, made for you by a friend, was the same dress you wore when you first moved to the US. You kept Dad in his place - you asked him about his future girlfriend, but later when I asked if you were OK with it, you slyly smiled at me as you shook your head “no”, that Dad would not be able to find a girlfriend.

You and I sat in the courtyard about a week before you passed - I told you again how thankful I am that you are the mother I was given. I told you that whether you were to pass in a week or in 30 years, I would not know how to live without my Omma. You told me I’d be OK, and that when your dad passed, you at first didn’t know how it would, but that life went on day by day.

Hospice sent nurses to the home - more than once, you asked if you should go to the hospice facility, not wanting to burden us, but we insisted we were all where we should be. And still you found ways to make Dad do your beckoning - sending him out for Sierra "Chee-eh-ra” Mist when Sprite was not good enough, and calling for him in the other room (“Bi-lip! Bi-lip!”) even though Josh and I stood next to your bed, asking what we could do for you. As you handed Dad the wad of cash you’d stashed in your bags, you told him to hold onto it for now and to give it back if you lived.

The day before, I asked if you wanted to call your friends in Korea, but you said you’d call them when your voice was stronger. You took a few visitors that day; even though I insisted you see only who you truly wished, your openness still compelled you to welcome all. The evening before, almost 30 people from your church sat in our living room hoping to see you, while Josh, Stephanie from hospice, and I tried to keep you as comfortable as we could. Around 11pm, you finally seemed able to sleep, and over our late dinner, I commented to Josh that I wasn’t sure if you’d make it through the next 24 hours. Shortly after, I received a message from a long-ago friend, who said that God had placed us heavy on her heart that morning.

Just like the days before them, your last hours both stretched out slowly and passed too quickly.

It was just after 2 in the morning that we had our last conversation. Around 4, I asked Dad if he’d like to call your minister…he and his wife showed up 45 minutes later and sang your favorite hymns. Around 6, both your and Dad’s sister came, having awoken to messages from us to come as soon as they could. Around 8, I roused from a few minutes of sleep to hear Dad talking to you.

I sat in a chair across from your bed, while Dad stroked your hand and told you stories of your life together. You’d lost the ability to speak by then, but you’d nod along to the shared memories. He also told you it was OK to go on to Heaven, and I cried at the thought of how fortunate I’d be to have someone who loved me how Dad loved you in your last moments.

Around half past 8, you started to visibly struggle again, so I went to help you sit up.

It was as I was holding you that I felt you take your last breaths, and saw the life leave your physical body.

Oh, Omma…

Oh, Omma…

Even though I know you’re still with me and that you’ll welcome me to Heaven some day, there have already been hundreds of present moments in which I’ve missed you. When I think about the thousands of future moments I won’t be able to see you smile, hear your voice or feel your softness, I’m tempted to feel heaviness. But I also remember that even in your last hours, you told me “fighting!”.

Omma, you were gentle in your strength and joyful in your loving to your very end. Yours is a legacy felt and known in many and subtle ways…

I miss you, Omma.

Our last family photo, taken on September 11th, 2018.

“God never ends anything on a negative; God always ends on a positive.

Because what is negative about going home?”

journey home safely, Omma.

the greatest of these.

Dear Omma, 

growing up, you surrounded us with christian doctrine and scripture both literally and metaphorically - in portrait mode, the lord used to scare the bejesus out of visitors, and he symbolically kept eyes on us at all times. as my own beliefs started to take their own shape, i became inured to the religious overtures. recently though, a scriptural artifact resurfaced for me: "and now these three remain - faith, hope and love. but the greatest of these is love" (point: mom).

the last month has been insistent...while i traveled between time zones for work, the cancer has been progressing rapidly through your stomach. i'd land at the airport to phone calls from your oncologists, who would explain that the cancer cells were now spreading in ways that were not only causing obstructions but worse, were becoming uncontainable and inevitable. at one point, Dr. S and I sat in silence on the phone while Cardi Grande blared in the background at JFK. we both apologized to the other, he for layering in more information that diminishes hope and adds pressure, me for subjecting him to my tearful pauses...both of us hating Ariana B Bubblegum just a bit more. 

while the MEK inhibitor alternative chemo sat in your fridge instead of being a hopeful treatment, you went for radiation to try and clear up the most concerning of the obstructions. when i asked why the recommended treatment had been cut in half, the radiation oncologist's frank response about your outlook led us to explore hospice as an option, although you made it clear that you only needed help with housework. 

i tried to tell you how thankful i am that you're the mom i was given, and i asked you to not hesitate if you experienced any discomfort. a day later, you were back in the ER, the cancer and the obstruction now having caused enough abdominal distention and discomfort that your stomach was 15x its standard size, even though you hadn't been able to eat anything for weeks. two stents were placed a couple of days later, trying to create a passageway in your stomach and also giving us more time. 

as i write you this letter, an NG tube runs through your nose, trying to suction and decompress your stomach, which doesn't function on its own. i try to explain that your stomach is like a newborn's again (albeit with patchwork plumbing), while you masochistically watch cooking shows and talk about how you miss eating steak (which you don't normally eat). dad jokes that you're his grown baby, and since crunchy ice is the most delicious thing you're eating these days, i tease that you're like Roxy the rescue. 

each decision is day-by-day, with both treatment options and procedures growing more limited, and any potential benefit now more heavily outweighed by the risk. the doctors ask how informed you are, which has worried me in the past, but you continue to warrior on. you're clearly on your own path, guided by your faith and your hope that God will lead you when it's time for you to exit this earth. your radiation oncologist commented on how stoic and determined you are, and how you and dad are one unit. i see this as your love - of this life, of your family, and of opportunity - that you remain anchored to. 

a church member prayed for you the other day: "God, I'm not sure what to pray for," which struck me. my prayer for you, Omma, is that when God does bring you to your forever home, he does so as gently and with as much love as possible. 

with mom, a couple of days before she was hospitalized again. singing in the church choir has been one of her great joys. 

second chances.

Dear Omma, 

would you say that everyone deserves a second chance? i can practically hear you shouting "guh-rohm (of course)!" and nodding your head in response to that one. i'm not sure i would have always agreed, but somehow, i got one recently. 

eight years ago, the fissures between us were great - you and dad had come to new york for my business school graduation (an achievement i'd thought would solidify my standing as a successful korean daughter) and instead of feeling surrounded by celebration and support, i felt the burden of your continued pressures: "when are you going to get married? when will you start a family?" you've never been one to boast about our family's successes (preferring humility above all), but still...i felt turned away by your lack of outward support. so i did what i thought i needed to do to protect myself. instead of spending time with you, i went to see a show with another family, joining in their celebrations while pretending it was partially for me as well.

the weekend came to a head when i refused to attend church with you, and you and dad decided to return to north carolina early instead of spending the time with me. it was then i resolved to keep my life from you...choosing to pursue my own happiness instead of seeking what would make you happy. i thought it would be easier to keep you at a distance, so we couldn't disappoint each other. 

recently, i had a chance to make a little bit of the past right - for years, you've been wanting to come back to new york, telling others you hadn't made the trip yet because i was too busy. this time, we flew to new york together to spend a couple of days doing some of the things you'd perhaps imagined - eating bingsu (korean ice), buying ban-chan and other korean snacks, and going to the jim-jil-bang (korean spa). you told me about how one of your favorite street foods was hoh-ddohk, a korean honey cake, as we ordered it fresh off the grill. i got to show you where i work and introduce you to some of the people who have been a part of this journey with us, even if you haven't known it. with each introduction i made, i could see how proud it all made you. but actually, it made me so proud to be able to introduce you to them. and mom...we got to see that show together, finally, when C took us to see "come from away". 

you are, at this point, what your doctors describe as an anomaly. your cancer continues to spread, now having moved into your lumbar spine. and yet, you've gained twenty pounds and don't complain of pain, except for the neuropathy (constant pins & needles) you feel in your hands and feet. the treatment options are more unknown now, as your care team and i discuss what possibilities remain and how to determine what might be best for you. 

sometimes, when your head isn't covered by a wig or a hat, i look at you and see a different omma - you still insist i take all of the farmers' market peaches back with me, knowing they're my favorite - but i also know that you see me as the woman you've raised, and who makes you proud. on your recent trip, you were asked to share something about me that's embarrassing, and through tears, you started to tell the story about how i looked after you after your surgery last year.

omma, i can't promise that i will always know how to make the right decision on your behalf...i wish i could, but terms like "KRAS mutation" and "MEK inhibitor" are only understood so much by help from the google. i also can't promise that i will be able to give everything i have to your treatment and care...now starting to feel overwhelmed by and afraid of the uncertainty. but even now, i can hear you saying to me "gehn-chan-ah"...it's OK. 

a mother's day note.

Dear Omma,

It’s been more than 15 months since your diagnosis and on this Mothers’ Day, I’d like to celebrate some of the ups…after all, it’s what you’ve been doing throughout!

Your oncologist told us that this chemo regimen has less than 10% odds of success, but against them, you seem to be responding to this treatment. Although your hair has finally succumbed to the chemo (making you look a bit like Korean yoda), your cheerfulness continues to delight the nurses as you go for your weekly treatments, and they cheer alongside you as you shout “woohoo!” and pump your arms when you’ve put on some weight.

Now I worry less about the big unknowns and more about how your day-to-day holds up, as the cancer and chemo can turn even the most taken-for-granted into an obstacle. Your appetite had been strong (albeit your cravings questionable - chicken pot pie with a side of kimchi and coffee ice cream?), until the week when ulcers in your stomach prevented you from digesting food properly and ultimately caused internal bleeding. Because your hemoglobin levels were critically low, back to the ICU you went, for more transfusions and another endoscopy.

Mom, it was just last year that you were in the hospital for 5 weeks because of recurring staph infections, both fed and drained by a system of tubes for weeks. This time, you waited (im)patiently for me to pick you up, tired of the liquid hospital diet after only a couple of days, and fully ready to get back home. And remarkably, the scans showed that your cancer is holding steady…not receding, but not spreading either. How wild, and how grateful I am.

A couple of weeks before your hospital return, our family went on vacation, our first trip together in almost 15 years. We spent mornings reading at the beach and in the afternoons, you and I would scour the local TJ Maxx for deals. You gamely tried to befriend peacocks at the botanical gardens one day, sidestepping your way closer and trying desperately for a picture of a tail in full bloom. As we’d walk on the beach and talk about this, that & and the other, I had a glimpse of the mother daughter relationship I’d observed in others, and sometimes wondered why we didn’t have. And then I realized, we have had it…it’s just been uniquely ours.

At age 4, I felt protective of you when the police officer knocked on our apartment door after we had been in a car accident earlier that day. At age 8, I felt defended when you stood up to the airline attendant who scolded me for misbehavior, insisting that I wasn’t to blame. At age 17, we shared both joy and sadness when I called to tell you of my acceptance to college, and at age 22, I felt your pride and worry as you saw me off on my one-way flight to New York.

While you’ve been cheerful throughout your sickness, I continue to stumble into moments of fear, sadness and simply being overwhelmed. Each time, you tell me not to worry and that everything will be okay, just like you’ve always done for me.

Thank you for being mine, Omma.  

not a peacock in sight, but definitely on mom's radar. 

& many more.

Dear Omma, 

Happy extended birthday! On March 3rd, you marked the occasion of your 69th year, and because we do as much as we can Eunice style now, we've been celebrating for going on 3 weeks now! Because, even if we were to extend your birthday for another 3 weeks, months or years, it still wouldn't be enough. 

A few weeks ago, you started your 3rd line chemotherapy because your cancer didn't respond to the first two. Those treatments' rate of predicted success, though still not great, were higher than your current treatment. Ever the fighter, you tell us you want to continue with chemo, even as you wonder aloud why the cancer keeps spreading through your body (the cancer now having slipped into your pelvic bones) and as your care team urges us to consider palliative options you don't seem quite ready for.  

As your oncologist searches for options that may provide a last alternative treatment, we are also provided with statistics to try and help us process what's happening now, almost as if these data points are barometers for how much hope we can maintain. But truthfully, even if a medical miracle were to happen (which I've read many accounts of, in my own attempt to process), just like no treatment can be 100% curative, a promise of more time doesn't necessarily provide what I've hoped for - perhaps naively - a 100% reconciliation and 100% of expectations met. 

What your illness has given us though, Omma, is a heck-of-a-lot of healing and perspective, as well as moments of joy I may have foregone or otherwise postponed indefinitely. Like when you showed me how to make my favorite radish kimchi, instructing me to slice the green onions on the diagonal just-so. Or the afternoon when you and Dad had a "who's on first" moment, when he just couldn't hear your articulation for "sherbert", not "sorbet", as you told him what you wanted for dinner (ice cream diet being one of the only perks of a stomach ulcer).  And when C came to North Carolina for your birthday dinner, your smile stretched wide as you hugged him hello and greeted him with the white tulips you'd wrapped, and even wider still as he enthusiastically ate the kimchi we had made together. 

Josh reminded me recently that, as far as moms go, he and I got a pretty amazing one. Omma, I know we've caused you hurt and confusion by not seeming to adopt your values and when we didn't have a close relationship with you. Although we may never fully agree on our beliefs, your love for us is unconditional and I know how much I will continue to feel your love even after you've passed...of that, I am 100% certain. 

I love you, Omma. 

A triple birthday celebration for Mom, GohMoh and Aunt Priscilla, as well as an NC introduction. 

i'm sorry, and thank you.

It's already been a year...It's only been a year. 

Dear Omma, 

It was a year ago last week that I got the message from Dad: "Your mom has pancreatic cancer, pray for her." I flew home the next day and when I picked you up to go to the gastroenterologist, you were yellow like an oompa loompa. I burst into tears on the spot, partially because seeing you like that made your diagnosis real, and partially because well...you looked like an oompa loompa! 

You didn't feel like a sick person, so after seeing the doctor, we went to lunch with Priscilla (your younger sister) and Lisa (her daughter), and I urged you all to go inside the restaurant while I called family members. Truthfully, I needed the privacy to be overwhelmed. I was crying so hard in the parking lot of Friendly Shopping Center that, at one point, a friendly stranger came up enquiring to see if I was OK. What other answer is there to that question, but "no, not really...and it will be alright"? I would receive an echo of that stranger's kindness, and give a similar response, months later on the NYC subway after learning of your metastasis.  

I'm Sorry...

Mom, just a few weeks before your diagnosis (over the holidays), we had hit another impasse in our relationship. For years, we had disagreed on lifestyle and values - you wanted me to marry, have kids and be a good Christian (not necessarily in that order). I wanted you to accept me for who I am - headstrong and more independent than a traditional Korean daughter, but capable and thoroughly alright. I'm sorry I made you cry when I tried to explain how your pressure to live our lives in a certain way was driving us away; I knew we were stuck in a pattern of constantly letting the other down, and I also knew that something had to give in our relationship if we were going to have one at all. 

...and Thank You. 

When we learned you were sick, suddenly our pattern of disagreements was broken, and the only important thing became knowing and doing as much as I could to take care of you the best I could. Maybe a part of me thought that taking care of you was how I could show you the good qualities of the daughter you raised, at least the ones not dependent on grandkids I have yet to give you! But truthfully, Omma, it was never a question, or even about being a good daughter...how could I NOT take care of you? This new relationship we have forged over the past year, I am so thankful for it - for the opportunities to get to know each other, for the times we've been FAI-ting(!) together for you to get better, and even for the overly involved conversations about your (lack of) bowel movement. 

The doctors say now that we're probably looking at one more year. Well wishers share stories of others who outlived their prognoses by months and even years. I don't wish many more years for us, Omma (although I would be grateful for them!). I only wish for as many moments as it takes for you to do and say everything you always wanted to, without having to suffer or be in pain a single moment longer than you need to. For all of these moments, for however many of them we get, I will do my best to care for you, get to know you better and show you as much love as I can...even as you say to me, "I'm sorry, and thank you." 

I love you, Omma. 

auld lang syne.

Dear Omma, 

You commented to me recently that sometimes, life doesn't give you what you expect or think you want, but sometimes it does give you exactly what you need.

You were only 18 when your own father passed away unexpectedly, and instead of going to nursing college like you had planned, you stayed at home to help Halmoni with the store. As your friends went off to school and met their husbands, you told yourself that you would never marry a store owner, knowing the challenges firsthand. You also became a second parent to your younger siblings, and on your 25th birthday, the oldest of your younger brothers asked you to spend your next birthday with another family, his way of asking you to find someone to marry. 

Another life wish of yours was poetry and although you may not have gotten to teach or write full-time, your talent resulted in one of your poems being published in a literary magazine. This poem was like an analog dating profile, and you received many letters in response (including one from a tae-kwon-do instructor, you noted), but there was one that stood out. Dad was in the habit of sending "good job!" letters to writers whose stories and poems he enjoyed, which included you/your poem (swipe right!). 

You liked his letter too, you told me, so you wrote a response to Dad and started a correspondence that would span two continents (with you still living in Incheon, Korea, and Dad living in the U.S.). Over the next ten months, you and Dad got to know each other, relying on just your words, stories and postage stamps. You grew fonder of each other, both sight unseen and voice unheard, having never exchanged a photo or even talked on the phone. 

In December 1975, Dad was planning a trip to Korea...a prodigal bachelor's return of sorts, with family and friends preparing to introduce him to their single daughters and nieces. Originally due to land on December 23rd, his plane was re-rerouted due to snowy weather, disappointing the hordes (his description!) of women who came to meet him. His plane arrived a day later, on Christmas Eve, to only one woman waiting for him at the airport. 

Your first impression of Dad? Eh...too skinny, too dark. You told yourself that looks didn't really matter; but Halmoni's approval did. Fortunately, both Halmoni and your siblings also saw the side of Dad you had come to know through your letters. With their blessings, you agreed to marry. He had only one question for you, whether you wanted any wedding jewelry, which you politely declined...a response Dad would later tell you was the only one he would have accepted. 

You were married on December 31st, 1975, just a week after laying eyes on each other for the first time. After your wedding, you took the train to Pusan for a brief honeymoon, but because it was New Years Eve, there were no hotel rooms available. So you spent the night in a coffee shop, finally talking and getting to know each other in person. At daybreak you wanted to sightsee, so you hired a taxi driver, a man who would go on to become a minister and who would later meet your kids when you brought them to Korea. You left your home in Korea and moved to the U.S. just 6 months later, and my older brother Josh was born a year after that. 

Even after 42 years of marriage, you and Dad still hold hands while watching TV together. You worked alongside each other as store owners for most of your marriage, and now he takes you for your biweekly chemo and rubs your back when you're sick from the chemo. When you were too ill to be at church, Dad would sit in the pew silently crying, not knowing what he will do without you. You gently teased him for his tears, and are patiently teaching him chores while also insisting that out-living Dad is the best way to take care of him. 

Happy Anniversary, Omma and Appa...I love you both and wish you many more. 

For long ago, my dear...we'll take a cup of kindness yet. 

you're safe. i'm here.

Dear Omma, 

When I was around 10, I realized for the first time that my blissful existence of roller skating after school and Babysitters Club best friendships, would eventually come to an end...because I would no longer. be. alive (ever the lighthearted one, I've always been). You curled up at home with me for those few days while I worked through this precocious existential crisis, reassuring me that dying was like going to sleep and that our souls would live on in Heaven. I understood and knew I liked sleep, and I also liked the idea that you would be with me in Heaven, so calmed a bit, I went back to imagining myself as Kristi Claudia Yamaguchi Kishi...but something in me had shifted. 

You're safe. I'm here.

Last weekend, you and I traveled to LA to visit your own mom (Halmoni) and brother. It was a last minute decision spurred by the latest in your diagnosis - the cancer has metastasized to your peritoneal cavity, and ongoing treatment at this point is palliative. As we flew to LA and then checked into our hotel, I struggled to remember the last time we had taken a trip together. At first I wasn't sure how we'd spend the time, but it passed quickly, wandering through shops together, eating our way through Koreatown, you seeing your friends, and visiting Halmoni as much as we could. Throughout the trip, you kept commenting on the ways I'm like you, Mom...we had even each brought a book to read again, my choice being Joan Didion's "A Year of Magical Thinking." I couldn't bring myself to point this out, but I recognized myself in you when, concerned about Halmoni's dry skin and overall well-being, you gently lectured her to go to the activity center while you rubbed lotion onto her dry skin ("Mom, drink this protein shake. Mom, put this coat on. Mom, you're sure you feel OK when you're out walking?"). 

You're safe. I'm here. 

When we said goodbye to Halmoni, I prayed that the two of you will see each other again in this lifetime, and neither of us could stop waving to her as she stayed fixed to the door until our car was long out of her sight. I cried when we separated in the Atlanta airport, needing to take our flights back to NYC and NC respectively, wondering if we'd have the opportunity to take more trips together. Joan Didion wrote: "We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all." Just like you comforted me when I was younger, you reassure me now that you will be strong as you go back for chemo treatments and that you are not afraid of dying...only that you feel badly you might leave us too early. I'm grateful you taught me then and reassure me now, that your love and protection will never not be. 

You're safe. I'm here. 

I love you Omma. 

coming home.

Dear Omma, 

A saying that's stuck with me recently is, that life continues to send us the same lesson until we learn and grow from it. My initial response to this was: "Pffft. Groundhog Day was just a horribly good Bill Murray movie," (you'd point out I get this obtuseness from Dad). But these last few weeks have been like a spotlight on those words, casting a high beam on their intention.

This past Tuesday, there was a terrorist attack in New York, just a couple of blocks from where I work. It was the largest scale terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11, the media said. This took me back to that day in 2001, when I was in my senior year at Washington & Lee. It was also a Tuesday, and I remember not realizing the impact of what had happened, until the next day when I found out that a close friend was on the second plane. Lisa was on her way home to California, having graduated a few months previous. 16 years later, and I still think about the life she was about to start - the dreams and hopes she was about to pursue - and how it was all cut short.

A few weeks ago, a relationship with someone I'd come to care for very much, ended. This love was one I'd grown to rely on for support and strength, particularly as we went through the toughest moments of your illness. Its abrupt end made me think about how someday, I'll have to say goodbye to you, long before I'm ready to do so. It also made me realize that unpreparedness for the end is actually an indicator of how much love is contained inside the relationship, no matter how imperfect it may seem and even if it's not long-lasting. 

We went together to Lexington this past weekend, you and I. I wanted you to see who I am now in my career. I also wanted the chance to share this part of my life with you, instead of shielding it from you, like I did when I was still too young and insecure because we weren't like the other families.

Mom, I am so proud of you for how well you handled your chemo treatment, for being well enough to make the trip to Lexington with me, and of your unwavering fight as we prepare to start this next round of radiation treatment. Most of all, I am thankful that you have always been proud of me and held space for me to come home, even when I tried to leave behind the things I didn't yet know how to be proud of. I hope that before our eventual goodbye, I have many more chances to re-learn some of the lessons I wish I had done better the first time. 

I love you, Omma. 

Back at Natural Bridge, near W&L, where I hadn't been since we went as a family when I was young. 

(re)fuel when empty.

Dear Omma, 

Forgive me; I've let life get in the way of these letters these past couple of months. I could say it's because there wasn't much to say, or because there wasn't enough time. The truth is, I needed the pause - to step away from worry, troubleshooting, planning...and to just BE. To remind myself that your life, my life, our lives...are more than just about your sickness.  

In early July, we said goodbye to Uncle David (Goh Moh Bu), much sooner than we had anticipated. Just when the family was starting to get its bearing back after your surgery, GMB's liver failure progressed rapidly, with his prognosis diminishing from a few months and then to a few weeks, before he passed away at home on July 1st.

I'm grateful to the man who gave me an American childhood full of camping trips and water slides, who taught me to love deviled eggs and barbecue, and who came to school events like he was my second dad. I'm grateful to the companionship he and Aunt Sukhui (Goh Moh) gave you and Dad, even when he pretended to still not understand Korean after 40 years of listening to your conversations. I'm grateful for how he welcomed the whole family home every Christmas, giving us that tradition to continue. And I'm grateful for the love and support he gave me as the niece he was constantly proud of, even if our ideologies didn't always connect. 

His passing reminded me that what truly matters is how we love each other while we have the chance to - that even if you argue or disagree, it all comes down to how you show up over and over again for those you love. He's reminded me that we're each born with a capacity for love, and it's up to us to determine how and to whom we direct that love. And that it's also about how we spend our time and energy to develop that love, until we are overflowing. 

These past few weeks, Mom, we've found things to argue about (hooray for being healthy enough to argue again!), and also things to celebrate. You and Dad sold your store of 30+ years, your home of almost 25 years and officially moved into your "retirement" home. You also had your first 3-month follow-up with the scans coming back blessedly "clean". I think this is your/our new normal, Mom...at least for now. With both you and Dad now officially retired and with you in the clean, I wish for you continued good health, strong spirits, and peace to enjoy everything around you. 

I love you, Omma. 

may you forever keep each other in good company. 

Want some fruit? Yes, please.

Dear Omma, 

Welp. You've officially won the Miss Congeniality title for the WF Baptist Cancer Center 9th floor for Spring 2017. One more trip to the ER/ICU later to treat another infection, likely from the IV you came home with that was supposed to give you nutrients (oh, the irony), and finally...FINALLY, you came home a "normal" patient who only had to go through chemo next. Only. 

This last time, I made you promise that you wouldn't end up back in the ER/ICU, but secretly I was grateful. Not that you were suffering again, but because it gave us small moments to get to know each other. As we sat in the ICU, you told me about how you and Dad met and got married within a week of knowing each other (more on that at a later time...). And about how when you first moved to the US in late May, the magnolia trees were in bloom, just like they have been now outside of your bedroom window. 

I gained a new respect for you when I learned how, tired of being told by Dad for the umpteenth time not to nag him, you chose a different tack. Instead of asking him again to do something, you told it to a poem instead. And when Dad read that poem published in the national Korean newspaper, how surprised he was when he recognized the words of his "nagging" wife. Well played, Mom. 

As we transition from the intensity of your surgery and into a more "normal" treatment plan of chemo, I'm reminded of and impressed by who you are (and humbled when you find similarities in me). 

I'm grateful for how your face always lights up in a smile. About how this light inspired a nurse to go out of her way to get you the chemo you need to fight this cancer, at a price that removes a heavy burden from our family. I'm grateful for how you offer to slice me fruit throughout the day, and how you always know I'll say yes 15 minutes later after I initially tell you no. I'm grateful that no matter how unknown my career may seem to you, how trusting you are in my abilities as you watch me work. 

There are times when I'm prematurely sad for the milestones you may miss...will I be able to return the favor of telling you the story of how I met my husband? Will I be able to make you proud by telling you I secured career success? But what I will miss the most are the times when your face lights up in a smile simply because I walked in the room. And I hope that we can have sliced fruit together, for many days. 

I love you, Omma. 

Mom receiving her chemo treatment and with Angie, the miracle working nurse who after meeting my parents, took it upon herself to find Mom the medication she needed at a fraction of the price, saving them thousands. 

F is for faith...or FAI-ting!

Dear Omma, 

Today you had your last udder (drain) taken out and are no longer a cow! (Sorry to call you a cow, Mother...you're actually beautiful like a bird.)

Just over two weeks ago, we brought you home after you'd been in the hospital for a month in total, first for your surgery and then because of complications in your recovery. Bringing you home, we were afraid that you'd end up right back in the ICU again, and more than a little overwhelmed by the instructions on how to care for you. What if we got it wrong? What if we didn't know how to do what's best for you? 

The first day home, I caught you staring out your window and when I asked what you were looking at, you said you were looking at how spring had arrived while you'd been in the hospital. You also looked with wonder at your own reflection in the mirror, asking yourself "Myung Sook (your Korean name), is that you?" 

The new normal still feels rather strange, doesn't it Mom? 

Through it all, you have not lost your smile...except when Dad gets a little over excited about checking your blood sugar and ends up pricking your fingertip like he's jamming a thumbtack into a bulletin board {mother/daughter facepalm}. Every text you send telling me how you're feeling and what you've eaten (and sometimes what you've passed) ends with "FAI-ting!", the Korean rally cry. 

Today, you cried though. Not from pain or fear, but with gratitude. As you'd put it, we've been blessed with having a care team headed by Dr. Clancy Clark, a surgeon who you trust and who we know cares about you as a patient. You cried as you thanked him for taking care of you, and in a classic Clark move, he continued to show you care as he put his arm around you. God bless Clancy Clark, his team, and his family.

You're a woman of faith, Mom, and although this has sometimes been a source of disagreement for us, I see the way that you recognize the silver lining first, the way in which your gratitude and not your fear is what overwhelms you, and the way that you are unwavering in your belief that you will heal. 

I don't know if I believe that God lets bad things happen for a reason, but I believe in you Mom. I believe in the good days we will have. 

I love you, Mom. 

Mom and me on her (second) discharge day from Wake Forest Baptist, more than a month after she was admitted. That smile tho!

Two thousand two hundred & fifty-four.

Dear Omma, 

Yesterday I ran the Purple Stride 5K, a PANCAN fundraiser, on a beautifully crisp, Brooklyn spring day. The distance (nor my time) weren't what was impressive or noteworthy about this race though. 

I'd decided to run and fundraise for this 5K last weekend, when I was back in NC visiting you in the hospital. You'd been discharged only a few days post-whipple when complications from your recovery (your GI system basically sprung many leaks!) landed you back in the ICU. Even though your body has been running a daily marathon as you try to heal, your spirits have been unwavering throughout. 

I do worry sometimes...like when you beep your green medicine button 5 times in 15 minutes ("I just like the way it makes me feel," you told me) or when you ask for your 'baby doll,' which is what the nurses told you to call your medicine button. But mostly, the nurses all tell me how they LOVE you because you're always smiling and in good spirits. 

Friends and family raised $2,254 in your support, Mom! Their generosity and support has been both overwhelming and comforting...that's almost 15 times the goal I set. I wish that each of those dollars could be converted into another day with you. But that's not how God, the Negotiator who wins them all, works necessarily. 

The last couple of months have been new and scary for us all. None of us knows how much time we have to spend doing the things and saying the things we've always wanted to. But we have now...and just like you and Dad exchanged letters more than 40 years ago, getting to know each other and falling in love, these will be my letters to you. So that you know what you mean to me as a mother, and that you will hopefully know the daughter and woman you raised. 

I love you, Omma. 

NB: In total, $2,854 was raised in honor of my mom, who was speechless when I told her this. 

You kept telling me how pretty I look in this photo (almost in disbelief)...thanks Omma.