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.