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…

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.