The day that mom died, it felt like my world was put on pause. Literally.
I forced myself to go to the park that day and it was a creepy experience. There were so many people there, walking around the lake, having picnics and barbeques, sitting on benches, or playing volleyball. Yet no one else seemed to notice that there was something very off about it all.
The birds and other animals were practically frozen in place. It was as though they had no life in them. As I passed by them, I waited for them to move, but they didn't. They stayed where they were, staring blankly at nothing. Unmoving.
The sky was as blue as ever, though.
Why is it that the universe likes to play jokes on us, sometimes? I don't mean to sound so negative, but I guess the day she died is something of a touchy subject for me. And I don't mean to say that I look back on her death with only sadness. Of course, I don't. Mom inspired me so much...Everyone who knows me knows that.
I guess I just think about things every now and then. I'm not able to control every thought that enters my mind, no matter how many mental exercises I've done to try to control myself.
The day that mom died was a scary day. It was terrifying. I felt that my own life might possibly be over. That was how I felt when I found out.
Mom was everything to me. She taught me so much. Her enthusiasm, her laughter, her encouragement...how could I live without her support?
That was how I felt for a while after.
I couldn't bring myself to burden Grandpa after her death either. I just couldn't bear the thought of forcing myself on someone, even if it's because of my mother's death. Even if he wants me to live with him with all his heart. I just know that it wouldn't be right. And I also fear that I may take advantage of his kindness. That's easy to do when someone is being very kind to you. And nothing is kinder than offering someone a place to live.
There was supposed to be a lunar eclipse that night. I heard about it from someone who was talking in the hospital hallway. I told my mom about it as she lay in the hospital bed and she could only flutter her eyelashes in response.
I smiled back at her, my lips wobbling. It hurt to see my energetic mother confined to a bed like this, unable to even smile anymore.
But I could tell what she meant by the flutter of her eyelashes anyway. I could see it in her eyes. She was telling me to go outside and watch it tonight. She wanted me to enjoy myself, to not worry about her.
A part of me wished that she was able to talk, so that she could tell me that she's going to be fine. That everything is going to be fine. The selfish side of me arose every now and then during this period of my life. I tried hard to suppress it, but I guess my fear was too great.
I was afraid that I couldn't continue being a kind person after her death.
After she died, there was a period where I would pull out our photo albums, ignoring the voice in my head that told me I was doing it for the wrong reasons. I was ruminating over the past, mourning what I wouldn't experience again.
I would flip through a photo album and tears would instantly slide down my face, sobs rising up my throat.
It was so hard to believe that this was the same person in these photos. In a way, it felt like the crippled woman in the hospital bed was an imposter. It couldn't be the same person. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone or something. Nothing felt right anymore. Nothing tasted right anymore.
Was I in hell? Because it sure felt like it.
I feel ashamed when I think back on this time of my life. I know I shouldn't, but I do. Anytime that I've doubted myself, I look back on with shame and disappointment in myself.
I know mom wouldn't want me to feel this way. She would want me to forgive myself. She would say that I went through a tough time and that I will come to terms with it when the time is right and then I'll be able to move on.
She always said the right things. I still can't believe she used to be in a gang. Not that gang members can't be good people, too. It's just hard to match that tough, gruff image with the woman I know.
Anyway, whenever someone asks me about my mom or about her death, I do still feel a tiny yet sharp stab of fear in my chest. A part of me doesn't want to talk about it. Maybe it's because I feel like they won't understand. They don't know this person who was so special to me. I'm afraid that when I tell a personal story that means a lot to me, that they will just nod, eyes blank, uncaring and unmoved.
I think way too much. I think that much is clear.
But maybe I'll try to work on the parts of myself that still feel fear. I can do that much at least. I'll do it for Mom's memory. Even if she's dead, her memory lives on. I need to remember that.
Thank you for everything, Mom. Thank you for helping me to become a strong person. And don't worry.
I'll never give up.