Summer of Sorrow
My mom's garden in Washington, in full bloom, with a beautiful visitor
The rhythm of a summer morning in my home with a tiny toddler has hit a steady state. If she sleeps through like she does most nights, the morning light awakens us. Old enough to require an nighttime oral device and daily medications, the bathroom is always my first stop where I take care of my oral hygiene and quickly splash cold water on my face to quickly shake off the grogginess. I pop the pills and grab my backpack and purse from my office, then tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen where the first thing I do is empty the drying rack and sometimes the dishwasher, trying not to let the clink-clank of porcelain wake up baby. Once everything is ready for the day and if baby is still asleep or not fussy, I get my lunch bag with the usual sustenance I prepared the night before - overnight oats, a quick microwaveable hot meal with a protein and vegetables, fruits, and snacks - and slip it into my backpack.
Once baby awakens, we give milk, change her diaper, and exchange her pajamas for a play outfit. If it’s early enough, sometimes we offer a little breakfast of either a freshly scrambled egg or a handful of plain cheerios. If we wake by 6:30, one of us might get a run in while the other runs the morning routine. As soon as the clock hits 8, I’m out the door for daycare drop-off on my way to work.
At some point during the day, it hits me that I will never see my mom ever again.
Sometimes it’s a sudden realization when I want to call her to tell her something new or funny my daughter did for the first time. Sometimes it’s seeing my baby run to me with a huge smile and hug my legs (because she is so tiny) and thinking about how fleeting this time is as a mother. Sometimes it’s a younger colleague lamenting to me about her mother’s request to visit more often. Oh honey, what I would give to visit my mom again. Even though my relationship with my mom wasn’t perfect, I still miss her and wish I could take back all of the hurtful and stupid things I’ve ever said to her over the years.
I think you lose some innocence when you lose a loved one, and especially when you become a caretaker and face a disease as nasty as cancer. I guess I was lucky enough to never witness a dead body at a hospital before, but it’s a pretty traumatizing experience when it’s someone you’ve known your entire life. You literally cannot imagine how much it sucks until it happens to you. Just like the experience of conceiving and raising children, it’s literally not possible to truly know the experience - every thought and opinion is mere speculation. In the midst of it all, I’ve had many friends and colleagues who’ve endured a similar situation help me through the struggle. They understood. Since her death, there is a coldness in the air that is hard to describe. Whenever I visit her house, I can’t help but hallucinate her into my field of vision. She is never looking at me, but cooking in the kitchen, reading on the couch, or writing at her desk. Visions of the worst days, as they were most recent, still crop up. I cannot stand the hum of an oxygen machine or even the sight of oxygen tanks. Even when I go the hospital for my own visits, I get uneasy.
The amount of life upheaval that can happen in such short period of time - just 4 short months - is harrowing, to say the least. The natural reaction to rapid-fire change and loss can be to harden ourselves. We might numb ourselves to emotional traumas, repress unpleasant thoughts, or take a stoic stance, only to inevitably crumble when we realize the gravity of the inevitable, the permanence of loss, and the impermanence of our lives.
As I sit here with a warm cup of tea, baby sleeping peacefully, it’s easy to forget how short our lives are. In our daily flurry of career ambitions and superficial pursuits, the moments that matter easily slip by, unnoticed, until it’s too late to savor them. Life is too short to settle for anything less than the extraordinary experience that masquerades as unremarkable days.
