I can still remember that day—April 24, 2014. No, not the day she died—but the day that would foretell her impending death, another five and a half months away or so. But none of us knew it just then. Not Mom. Not Dad. Not me.
It was an ordinary Thursday, a day of the week on which Mom and I usually headed to the neighboring town just a few minutes north of us. The sky was overcast, with the sun just barely peeking through the clouds. We were going to mail a package, check out the new deals at Rite-aid, and most importantly—get our favorite treats at Geissler’s. You see, no trip there was ever complete without a variety of their chicken wings, beef barley soup, and an occasional whipped cream dessert. Especially when Mom had just gotten a clean bill of health from her doctor a day ago: we were more than ready to indulge. And me, I was relieved that I had—at long last—submitted my introductory chapter for my then forthcoming book on Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man to my editor at Routledge. It was a cause for a small celebration.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly during our little excursion. Mom was in a great mood. I could tell as she was trying to persuade me to buy that nail polish I had been eyeing: most of the time, she would half jokingly dissuade me, reminding me that I probably had nearly a shop’s worth of nail polish. And meanwhile, here I was, trying to be prudent, to not capitulate. But alas, the siren song was too strong for me. As Mom herself found some deals in the dollar bin that she couldn’t resist, we both walked out of the store laughing at our shopaholic tendencies. Yes, I was her daughter alright.
On our way home, we decided to watch Saving Mr. Banks that evening, a film that I was finally able to check out from the library after s 3-week wait. Upon arrival, I dashed up to the study to complete the edits on a newsletter I was helping to put together for a friend. “It should only be two hours, Mom. And please don’t let Dad eat his dinner in the family room,” I reminded her. He had a habit of dropping food all over the place and I was fed up with vacuuming on a near daily basis.
As I finished the edits earlier than anticipated, I felt excited, eager to watch the long awaited video and dig into the mini Tiramisu cakes we had bought that afternoon. But there was already a sign that something was wrong as I headed down the stairs, yelling out “I’m all done, Mom!” Usually, she would holler back, “OK.” I didn’t think much of it though; perhaps she had fallen asleep?
Upon entering the family room, I saw her lying on the couch. “Hey, Mom, are you sleeping?” I half whispered. Even though I didn’t have my glasses on, I could tell that something was very wrong as her hand was trembling. “Mom!” I cried out several times, shaking her and throwing some water on her. No response. She either had a heart attack or stroke—so I called 911.
It took about half an hour to arrive at the hospital with Dad. We were both shaken, but I was easily the more petrified of the two. I wasn’t just concerned about Mom—the fact that she handled all the finances meant that I would be the one taking over if she never regained her senses or passed away. And I had no idea what bills would have to be paid and where she kept them. It felt all the more daunting as Mom emerged from her coma very confused two hours later. She couldn’t remember who the president was (Barack Obama) or what year it was. Indeed, she kept repeating that it was 1949 when the doctors asked her what year it was. Even though she recognized us, then, she was still in a very precarious state.
It was after midnight when Dad and I arrived back home—without Mom, of course, who was kept at the hospital for further tests. I couldn’t help but notice that even the cats knew there was something wrong. Both were sleeping in her bed, with the boy, Charlie, who was particularly attached to her and always following her around, sitting on her pillow and Georgie, his sister, right beside him.
It wasn’t until early Friday afternoon that we arrived at the hospital as Dad usually slept through 3 pm: I felt partly relieved that he got up at noon. I was also relieved that there were no calls from the doctor: this seemed to indicate that there were no new emergencies.
As we walked through the entrance of the hospital, the mechanical piano started playing a piece from Schumann’s Kinderszenen, one that Mom used to play all the time. Naturally, I wondered too if she would ever play it again. My heart was thumping harder and harder as we approached her room. Would she be conscious? Would she remember anything? I found myself even wondering to myself would she be...alive?
I cried tears of relief when Mom said “hi” to us. “What’s the matter,” she asked, when I bent down to hug her. Kissing me, she stroked my hair, reminding me of childhood days. Though weak and groggy, however, she seemed more of her normal self. Her cadences were familiar even if her speech sounded more slurred than usual. Maybe she would recover after all? Despite the fact that the late afternoon nurse couldn’t tell us how much progress Mom had made from last night, Dad and I believed she was on the mend. Miraculously, her doctors would tell us over the next two days how remarkably she improved. We were elated when we learned that she might even get to return home on Tuesday.
As it turned out, unfortunately, she would have to be sent to rehab first. It was more than a little disappointing, of course, but Dad and I took comfort in the fact of her apparently rapid recovery. She recalled who the president was. She remembered names and I could tell she enjoyed reminiscing over the past with Dad. Most everything seemed intact.
I felt thankful even as we helped move Mom from the hospital to rehab. I still recall how moved I felt as I heard Diana Ross’ voice over the radio singing, “Ain’t no mountain high enough…, nothing can keep me, keep me from you.” Although I had always enjoyed the song from as early as my childhood days in the Bronx, the familiar strains hit me with a new poignancy. No wind, no rain, no winter's cold was going to keep me from her. Mom was always there for me: and I was going to visit her every day. She was my goal, my everything.
Her week at rehab was a hopeful one for me as she appeared to make solid progress: even as I remained more than slightly apprehensive that she would have a relapse, be forced to stay longer, or that some mishap would strike. Dad and I were touched by the folks from the local Taiwanese association who came to visit. Of course, there was a part of me that felt more than a little daunted by the prospect of preparing her meals and meds in addition to bathing her upon her return—which was going to be, appropriately it seemed, the day before Mother’s Day. Not to mention that I would be Dad’s caregiver too. But I had missed her so much and couldn’t wait to show my love for her by mothering her in return.
I still remember the day of her homecoming as clearly as the day of her stroke. The morning was hazy and humid as I started vacuuming, counting down the hours till she would be home again. Although I was never one for housework, I felt much more diligent and enthusiastic as the two weeks and two days she’d been gone felt like two months. I was going to be flawless so Mom would not have to fret or worry. I laid out her plush new robe and slippers. I seasoned the lamb and salmon, barely remembering to defrost the strawberry shortcake before heading out with Dad to rehab. Even more than seven years later, I cannot forget the thrill I felt as we took Mom downstairs to the car with the two vases of flowers and balloons sent from her friends and sisters. The cats seemed happy to see her again; Charlie meowed long and hard, as if asking “why did you leave? Do you feel better now”— he stood on his hind legs and touched her knee with his fluffy white tufted paws.
By then, the clouds had lifted. It felt like the happiest day in my life: better than winning any awards, being admitted to Oxford, or discovering that I had passed my doctoral defense. Nothing came close to this narrow reprieve from the permanent loss of my mother. And as I bathed her that evening, she marveled at me. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure whether I should be proud or ashamed that she didn’t expect me to be capable of caring for her. “Mom,” I sobbed, “I never want you to be hospitalized again. I want you to be here and healthy. I will do everything I can for you!” That night—and the following nights—I slept in Mom’s room as advised by her doctors in rehab. The futon was narrow and barely comfortable, but I didn’t mind as she slept nearby on her bed. It brought back many pleasant memories, reminding me not only of my toddler days when I felt secure sleeping in her bed, but the times she visited me in England as we chatted before falling asleep.
The quiet before the storm
Within a few weeks, it became clear that Mom’s brain was never going to recover completely. She had more or less lost all of her reading skills, not just in English, but in Japanese, her best language. She would ask over and over again when her younger sister in Alabama and her daughter would arrive. And sad to say, I lost my temper at her a few times—not having fully realized yet that this stroke had caused a significant cognitive decline. She would make odd statements which made sense on an immediate level but which I now realize were signs of impairment. And since she had always had an irascible side that could not be easily reined in, I couldn’t always tell. I was nonetheless relieved that she was back home and that her physical and occupational therapists thought she was making progress. When we finally got to watch Saving Mr. Banks, I couldn’t help singing along
Let's go fly a kite
Up to the highest height!
Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring
Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let's go fly a kite!
Everything was going to be fine, just like in the days of my childhood—like that time Mom had surgery in New Jersey. She was gone for two weeks, which seemed even more interminable back then, but returned home in fine shape.
The following three weeks would offer a reprieve of sorts when even near-disasters seemed to sort themselves out. Although I did not want to stress Mom, it was also difficult for me to refrain from confiding in her when a problem arose at my university. For soon after I had gotten ten students in my class—which ensured that it would not be cancelled—the department chair emailed to say that she had cancelled my class, giving it to another more senior faculty member. I was livid and distraught not only because it meant I would have no teaching, but also for the sheer fact that it was a class I had designed and taught. What if that instructor decided to enter it in a teaching contest and won, taking credit for it? To avoid telling Mom, I called the National Suicide hotline, even as I told them that I had no intention of committing suicide.
Yet, I still felt uncomfortable: perhaps because I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear. After all, she had seen many of my evaluations and read much my work, especially in recent years. Only she knew the degree to which I had been burned by the university. She’d heard me talk about my colleagues and department chairs. As I wept bitterly, telling her, “Mom, you are all I have,” her anger was palpable: go raise hell, she told me. And so I did when I called the dean and the chair, refusing to mince words. Somehow, some way, I got my course back. Mom was pleased when I told her of the about-face—which made me at once more thankful and yet anxious. What if I had lost Mom? Who could I have confided in? Who would cheer me on and reassure me that I wasn’t the world's biggest loser—something I had begun to feel even though I had consistently stellar teaching evaluations, publications, and a book contract with a major press to boot? She was my rock, my touchstone in a way that no one else was. As I’ll discuss later, we didn’t always agree on every issue or their resolutions, but she was always able to reach some understanding of my perspective.
Around the same time, Mom had another health scare as she looked incredibly weak one day two weeks after her return home. She was angry that Dad and I sent her to the hospital, and still not very mollified that she was able to return home that night. But I was thankful that she was back, even as she grumbled at me. The next day, she seemed much better, enjoying the guests who came to check in on her.
At long last, as if to round up these days of relative ease, Mom’s sister, her daughter, and granddaughter arrived in mid June. We were excited to see them and Mom was tickled by the granddaughter’s evident fondness for me. When they left, I had a number of pots and pans to clean even after her sister helped, but I didn’t mind as Mom sat by my side, chatting away gleefully, helping me dry dishes. She hadn’t been this animated for a very long time, not even when she was healthy. For the remainder of the evening, we watched TV together joking and laughing in a way we hadn’t for months—just like the good ol’ days. In fact, I felt I had never been happier in my life. Everything would be fine, it seemed.
Until the next day, June 17th, that is. It was a day that would shake up our lives irrevocably, with bad days increasingly outnumbering good days all the way to her passing.
Well ... confirms my confidence in your writing skills. I felt like I was there in a way. And I feel also that i understand you personally just a little better. Thanks, Frances.