Where is it Written

NOTE: This is the extended version of the talk I gave at the funeral, so it is a little longer. When I gave the talk, I just picked and chose what I said from my cluster of things, but in this case, this is more of what I wrote down from the time that mom went into hospice on February 6th, 2015, to the time of her death on February 17th, 2015.


 I have here about sixteen pages of things that I wrote down about my mother. I began writing them down when she first went into hospice because I was afraid that I would forget; but also because I was afraid that I would have to say them all like this. I wasn't in denial; I knew that ultimately death would happen, but I had fervently prayed that it would not happen until I was old and gray and toothless, married with sixteen children and seventeen cats - or maybe just the cats. Sadly, it came earlier than expected, but I won't read you all sixteen pages of things, because we'd be here all day, and even then, sixteen pages would not be enough for all that I have to say about my mother. Everyone who knows me knows that I am the world's biggest mama's girl, and that hasn't changed, even now. I will always be my mama's little girl, regardless of where either of us are.

1. Mom was an extremely intelligent person. She could understand and speak multiple languages, and read several more, most notably Russian, in which she majored at college. She absolutely adored learning about other cultures; they fascinated her, and she would read up on them as much as she could, absorbing as much knowledge and insight as possible. This was also unintentionally true of her spouses; my father was a Vietnamese immigrant, while my stepfather was a full-blooded Maori from New Zealand. She embraced other cultures and ethnicities with an open mind and heart, never judging, always tolerant and patient and kind.
2. This was true of everything in life. She had always wanted to be a teacher, a dream that didn't get to be realized until much later in life, and it was much shorter and more painful than it should have been. A belated alimony check from my father when I was in high school allowed my mother to take night classes and get her teaching license. She became a special-ed teacher at Stafford Middle School, teaching those students with heavy emotional issues like anger management. Printer throwing was not unusual for her classroom, as she soon discovered. These kids were rowdy, rambunctious, loud, obnoxious, violent, stubborn, laced with profanities, and she loved them to pieces. The other teachers, however, did not. They treated her as though she didn't exist, as though she was somehow less of a teacher than they were. When they weren't ignoring her, they were talking about her behind her back, tattling on things she supposedly did and didn't do to the principal. I remember she came home in tears one time because she had zero friends and zero allies at her work. Yet she still went, every day, because she loved her broken, messed up kids; because she cared so much about their well-being. I don't think anyone truly understood just how hard it was for her to get up and go to a job that she had wanted all of her life, only to be mocked, under appreciated, and eventually forced out.
3. Mom always wanted a million kids, from the time she was a little girl all the way until she died. It didn't happen; my father and her divorced before I was born, and she didn't get remarried until I was thirteen. After my little brother was born, my stepfather passed away unexpectedly due to septicemia - blood poisoning - and it broke my mother's heart, literally, because she knew then that she would never get to have her large household of children that she'd always wanted. We did foster care for a while when I was in high school, and had some wonderful kids pass through, but nothing was permanent, and I was always acutely aware of how hard it was for mom to sit in church and look at all of the families with two parents and a ton of children and not feel some hurt and envy. Our lives were not meant to be that way, and it was something she always struggled with. My stepfather Mac was the great love of her life, and she was not going to remarry after he died, knowing one day she would see him again.
4. There was nothing I couldn't talk to my mom about. She was always willing to listen, always willing to help. I regret now more than ever being too stubborn with her sometimes. I hurt her many times with my refusal to acknowledge her intelligence, thinking that I knew better, when I didn't. I told her a few days ago that my biggest regret was wasting time and not getting to go through the temple with her. She told me, "There are no regrets, just moving forward."
5. She was lonely. She felt isolated from the people who couldn't understand or didn't even want to try. Sometimes she'd cry because she didn't have anyone to talk to anymore. Her husband, her father, and her best friend had all died within a few years of each other, and there was always a part missing because of that. But she held onto life because of a deep, endless, overwhelming love for her children, for whom she dedicated her life. Near the end, when I talked with her about my fear of being without her, she told me that I was the one she was the most worried about. My older brother and his wife had each other; my little brother, though young, was strong and faithful, and she was so proud of him. But I was the emotional, attached one. I was the one who felt too much, and thought too deeply. She was so worried that if she wasn't here, that I would fall apart; and I genuinely believed that I would too - that without my precious, adoring, wonderful mother here to help me, I wouldn't be able to do anything at all. It wasn't until close to the end that I realized I couldn't see her in pain anymore. That watching her struggle just to hold onto what little sanity she had left, the effort it took just to stand up and sit down, that it was me who needed to let her go. When the blessings changed from "your time is not yet" to "well done, thou good and faithful servant," I knew that it was important for me to let her have peace and trust in the Lord, however painful it would be. And I told her late one night, that I finally understood; that I was finally able to say that I would be okay if she had to go. It was the hardest moment of my life, but I knew it was the right one.
6. Near the end, she started having panic attacks. It was hard for her to breathe, and she'd panic about not breathing. Her body and her mind would force her awake every ten minutes, telling her that she needed to get up, because she couldn't breathe. She was confused, disoriented, and very childlike. She didn't understand what was going on most of the time, and it was incredibly hard to watch. I missed the mother that I could just lay next to in bed, snuggle up to, and convince to play with my hair for the umpteenth time. That was one of my sadder realizations; that my mo was no longer the woman she was, not by choice, but by a body that betrayed her. I used to curl up beside her for hours just because I could. We'd talk, laugh, goof off. I'd put my head n her chest and listen to her heartbeat. But I couldn't do that during her last several months; it was too painful, she couldn't breathe. I had to sit near her, but not too close.
7. She always knew what to say. When I was in college, I called her, every single day, sometimes more, even if it was just to say goodnight. When I went to Canada, even though it was a dollar a minute, I still called her to make sure she was okay. I literally never went a day without talking to her, even if it was just for thirty seconds. I proudly told roommates and friends that I was a mama's girl, through and through; that there was no one else in the world whom I loved more. My mother was, is, and always will be, my favorite person and most important to me.
8. It's terrifying thinking that I have to wake up without her. Sometimes I think I'm okay, and other days I can hardly breathe out of grief. When I told mom it was okay for her to let go, she and I both cried into each other's arms. I asked her how she felt, and she said she wasn't scared of death, only of leaving us behind; that she knew there was nothing to fear, but that she couldn't help it because we were her precious children, and she loved us and needed us to be okay.
9. When I was sick or in pain, Mom was there. I crawled into her bed in agony more times than I can count, and she'd stroke my hair, kiss my forehead, and yell at anyone who was too loud when they came into the room. One time she was feeling sick herself, but she drew me up a bath in her own bathroom because she knew it would make me feel better. She was my protector, my comforter, and my guardian, and she still is. I managed to return some of the favor during her last little while, because there were times when she would wake up disoriented, scared, confused, not knowing where she was, or what was happening. She'd reach out to me, and I'd take her hand, and tell her how much I loved her, and that everything would be okay. Even when she couldn't find the words to speak, we'd hold hands and remind ourselves that we were in this together. Sometimes in the middle of the night, we'd share a few quiet words, just the two of us; I'd cry, of course, and so would she, but she'd be just lucid enough to tell me how much she loved me, and that would be okay. There was one day that she had enough of her senses to record, at my request, a message for me, so that I could always remember her voice. The contents of the message are private and precious, but it was a moment in time that I was very blessed to have. There weren't many moments after that where she was capable of understanding a lot.
10. My mom had four brothers; she was the only girl, and she was very close to her mother. In turn, I am extremely close with my grandmother as well. Three generations of women, who all loved and respected one another. My mom always taught me to respect and adore my grandmother as she did. I know my grandmother didn't expect her daughter to go before her; if I had my way, neither of them would go until I'm ninety, with those seventeen cats.
11. I told Mom that I was sure there were some important people on the other side waiting for her. Melody, my mom's best friend who died about twelve years ago, would be standing there impatiently, a smile on her face while saying "My best friend will be here soon!" Meanwhile, Mac, my stepfather, would elbow Melody in the side and go, "Hold on now, that's my wife, I've waited thirteen years to see her, me first." Even our beloved fifteen year old cat Pickles would be riding on Mac's shoulders, and he'd give a yowl of protest and try to climb his way to the front of the line. But then another man would push through them all and say, "That's my daughter, that's my baby girl, everyone stand aside, that's my baby girl." Where I had been a mama's girl, my mom had been a daddy's girl. They hadn't always gotten along like she and I had, but she loved him and he adored her; mom was his only daughter, and he was SO proud of her.
12. Gabriel may have been the youngest child, and some - including my siblings and I, on occasion - thought he was too spoiled sometimes. But truth be told, in spite of our bickering and squabbling, all of us were so proud of him, especially Mom. She loved and adored his bright, cheerful spirit, his intelligence, and his kindness. "Just like his daddy," she'd say fondly. "He gets that from his daddy." Which was true, because Mom herself was a shy wallflower growing up, a trait passed onto her daughter. When we shamefully questioned Mom's parenting skills for Gabriel, she told us very directly that she knew what it was that he needed; that we had to trust her, because he was so much younger than the rest of us. She knew what she was doing. My little brother is one of the smartest, best, and kindest kids that I know, and I am incredibly fortunate to be his sister. I wish I could take back some of the arguments that I had with him, because all they did was stress mom out more and more, but we all learn from our mistakes; no regrets, just moving forward.
13. Waiting for death is hard. You don't want to say goodbye, but at the same time, watching someone you love struggle as hard as they are just to live is equally, if not more, painful. And you feel morbid and awful and guilty and mean for thinking, "Please, please just let them die, let them be at peace, please." Selfishly, you want the passing to be sooner, because caring for a dying person is both mentally and physically exhausting. You get little to no sleep, and you're constantly worrying, constantly thinking, "When will it happen? How much more of this can my heart take?" Especially since Mom was consistently in and out of  bed, trying to move, just to get up, because her mind kept telling her she needed to. She didn't have the strength to stand on her own, so someone always had to be with her. And it wasn't that we didn't want to help; it wasn't that we didn't love our mother, it was just the fact that all of us were so mentally and physically drained that it started being less, "Mom, please stay in bed," and more "Mom, pleaseeee pleaseee stay in bed" at three o'clock in the morning, for the third or fourth time in an hour. You tell yourself to have patience, that there's just "one more time," but sometimes that isn't enough.
14. I was irrationally irritated with everyone by the end, probably because I was so exhausted. But I've never been good at accepting help, or sympathy, and I'm extremely awkward with pity most of all. I didn't want to see people looking at me and going, "Oh, poor you, you've lost your mother." I was able to have my beautiful mother for almost twenty-six years. She is in my heart and everything that I do. I celebrate the life she is and the end of a very long ten years of struggling. She was a woman filled with love and wisdom and kindness; of intelligence, and wit and beauty. Even if she never thought so, I always thought she was beautiful. When she lost her hair to chemo the second time, I shaved my head with her to try and make her feel less self-conscious about herself. She hated the stares that she got, the blatantly questioning looks. It made her feel, as she put it, like an "alien" or a "freak." She tried not to let it bother her, and I reminded her repeatedly that other people's opinions are stupid - advice I needed to take myself, but it still got to her. She felt isolated at times, lonely in her solitude of a single parent, cancer-ridden household. She wanted so much more than she was able to have, but almost never complained; she accepted her life the way it was because it was the life that she had been given, and because she had her children, whom she loved more than anything else in the world.
15. I remember being half delirious the night of the 12th of February, waiting for a death that wasn't yet to come. I was sleeping on the floor of the living room, and I had no idea what time it was, but I was in the midst of my grief, half begging my stepfather to come and get Mom already, to relieve her of her suffering. I don't know if it was just me being desperate or delirious, but I thought I heard a gentle voice in my head saying, "Soon, little one, just a little bit longer. Wait just a little bit longer."
16. Her childlike nature at the end was painful. Her legs were swollen from disuse, and she could barely stand, let alone take the two steps to the chair next to her hospital bed. Most of her answers were childish yes's and no's, shy and uncertain because she couldn't articulate well. I wished more than anything that I could have simply wrapped her up in a blanket and snuggled next to her, comforted her like she had done so many times for me. But the bed was too small, and Mom was too restless, anxious, agitated. Being too  close to her made her feel claustrophobic, and she'd push me away to breathe. It stung, not because I knew she didn't want me near, but because I missed so much just the feeling of closeness, the touch of her hand in my hair as she gently and tenderly reminded me without words of how much she loved me. That was the thing about us; we didn't always need to talk to understand each other. I knew what she was thinking, and she could always tell what I was thinking.
17. I didn't leave the house for almost two weeks after she came home from the hospital the last time. I was too afraid that something would happen while I was out, or that Mom would wake up and be on her own, with no family members nearby. I didn't want her to be lonely or on her own. I wanted her to feel comforted. Everyone kept telling me that it was okay to go and spend some time on my own, but I couldn't do it, I think for the same reason that I always made sure the last thing I said when I left the house, or went to bed, or hung up the phone was "I love you," just in case something happened. I read a book where someone regretted that the last thing they said was something mean, and I never wanted it to be that way. I  made sure it was said back to me as well; if Mom didn't repeat it, I would say it again until she did. Sometimes she'd make a face at me, but she'd always say it back, no matter what, because she knew it was important to me that we said it frequently and meant it.
18. Mom suffered a lot in life. She got married at 19 to my father and divorced before I was born. For the first twelve years of my life, she struggled as a single mother to raise two radically different children. When I was thirteen, she fell madly, deeply in love with McCormick "Mac" Cummings, got married, and had my little brother Gabriel. Then 9/11 happened, Mac lost his job, and my grandfather - my mom's dad - died. While my older brother and I were away in California visiting our dad, Mac died suddenly. Later, so would my mom's best friend, and Mom would develop cancer that would eventually be terminal. She was forcibly ejected from her teaching job, and spent many years working at a job she hated just to provide for her children. With her background and fluency in Russian and her penchant and love for languages, she could have been a translator for the UN. But  that would have meant sticking my brother and I in daycare all hours of the day, and she was unwilling to sacrifice time she could be spending with her children. Instead, she took on a less appealing job as a cafeteria manager, but that allowed her to be home when we got home from school. Everything she did, she did for her children. She loved us more than anything else in the entire world, and she was never afraid to show it. I am very grateful that I never went through the "rebellious teenager phase," because that would have wasted time. People have always been amazed at my lack of embarrassment when out with my mother. I didn't care if it wasn't "cool" to be seen in public with my mother, that's just who she was. I remember once she got stopped in the store by an acquaintance who exclaimed, "That's your daughter? She's here with you? Man, my daughter thinks it's so uncool to be in public with me." Mom just smiled and said, "Nah, not my daughter, we're cool."
19. One of our long standing traditions in our house was that Mom read aloud to us from the time we were little children all the way until we were adults. Those of you who know us know that one of the biggest series we read was Harry Potter, which came out when I was in elementary school. Mom read the books aloud to us from the first to the last, and when the last came out when I was in high school, I came home at midnight with it and Mom was sitting up in bed going "Let's read, let's read!" all excitedly. We read until 2 in the morning, slept, woke up at 8, and then read all day long. Every summer after that, she would read the entire series aloud to us, a tradition I cherished. Before Mom died, I overheard her say to Gabriel, when she was trying to reassure him, that she would be with him "every line of Harry Potter he read."
20. One of my mother's favorite movies was a movie called Yentl. Starring Barbara Streisand, it was about a Jewish woman back in the old days who was not allowed to study because she was a woman. She cuts her hair, dresses as a man, and goes to school to learn. Eventually she falls in love, and at the end of the movie, when she reveals herself, the man she's in love with tells her that she'll have to be a woman again, and that they'll get married and that's that. But she tells him that she doesn't want that, she wants to study more, and he gets frustrated and asks her, "You already have studied everything, you have me, what more could you want?" and she just looks at him and says simply "More." And that was always the same with Mom.
    
    She had a love of learning that couldn't be rivaled, and in closing, I wanted to read aloud one of her favorite songs from that movie that I think represents her well. It's called "Where is it Written?"

 There's not a morning I begin without
a thousand questions running through my mind

That I don't try to find the reason and the logic 

in the world that God desgned

The reason why a bird was given wings

if not to fly, and praise the sky

with every song it sings

What's right or wrong, where I belong

within the scheme of things

And why have eyes that see and arms that reach

unless you're meant to know there's something more

If not to hunger for the meaning of it all, 

then tell me, what a soul is for?
Why have the wings, unless you're meant to fly?

And tell me please, why have a mind

if not to question "why"

And tell me where, where is it written what it is I'm meant to be

that I can't dare to have the chance to pick the fruit of every tree

or have my share of every sweet imagined possibility.