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.