I moved away from my family and friends over two years ago. It was then that my mom told me:
It’s always harder for the ones being left than it is for the one leaving.
Her words have never felt more true than in the last few months since Mom passed.
Growing up, Mom and I had a colorful relationship — that’s putting it in a mild and respectful way. We pushed each other to our limits, and often past.
I was the first of three children who (without being planned) were brought into a troubled marriage. Though we found ourselves on rocky grounds much of the time, we also had many great times spent together as a family. Frequent family camping trips, playing games, and movie nights where during intermission, my mom would run the concession stand and my dad pretended to be an obnoxious movie-goer, were among my favorite past times.
For me, the good times could never be fully enjoyed. My parents’ separations felt regular enough that I found myself constantly in preparation mode for the next fight or bad period. In our younger days, my mom stayed at home with us for the majority of the separation periods— my dad would often stay with his parents and/or remain at the convenience store that he operated.
For the times that required only a short time away from each other, my parents devised a plan that would be fun for us. It would be masked as a daddy-daughters date to a local hotel, back when I thought Howard Johnson’s was the nicest hotel in the world.
It wouldn’t have been difficult to temporarily delude my sister and me into thinking all was right with our family — staying in touch with Mom through walkie-talkies, a TV in the same room as our beds, and a bag of Ruffles original potato chips with Philadelphia cream cheese onion dip is all that it took for us to fall asleep into a blissful oblivion and for my parents to have the space they needed from one another.
One fight between my parents was particularly bad. I remember Mom went to visit our next door neighbor who had become a close friend. Hours later, she returned home barely able to stand or walk. Before that night, I didn’t know that drinks could have that effect on someone.
My dad helped Mom up the stairs where she continued to stumble and fall. It was frightening — She was unrecognizable to me.
When Mom was in her room alone, I went in to check on her. It was then that she told me she wanted to move back to Korea. She planned to leave us with our dad and return after a number of years (my memory is foggy as to the specific number of years) — I just remember thinking she’d be back around the time I was set to graduate high school. It was my first memorable time of being anxious and frightened around Mom leaving.
Mom never did move to Korea that time. A decade later, it was I who left for Korea to teach English. In the months to follow, Mom visited me and had plans to stay with family and friends for a while. This turned into her staying for a year and a half. We lived approximately three hours apart but saw each other pretty frequently. When my teaching contract was up, I left for Canada again. Mom remained there for another several months.
During the years leading up to our time in Korea, the uncertainty in our family always remained. It was now veiled with the distraction of new and the hope of a fresh start. My parents had moved our family into a larger home where life seemed to be cautiously on track. My parents took joy and pride in renovating every part of the home (even letting us choose the color of our bedroom walls, carpets, and blinds!). They planted new trees and an assortment of greens and colors in the front and back yards. The trees in the back were strategically placed to provide optimal space and shade during the minimum “ten years” they had planned to live there for.
I can’t recollect how long the feelings of hope and excitement lasted before my parents got into their patterns of stress and fighting again. Dad would seek solace in his workshop or listening to classical music in the basement which would eventually turn into his sleeping quarters on many of the nights.
My dad moved out first, then my mom, and then my dad again. They finalized their divorce and sold the house. It was during my last year of high school so in order for me to be able to finish the remainder of that year (as to not affect my entry into university), my mom made arrangements for me to live with a friend and her parents while she and my siblings moved an hour away.
I went away to university for one term before dropping out and returning to live with my mom. Unable to handle the intensity of the colors between Mom and me during that time, I moved in with my dad (along with my stepmom and her three kids). I’d eventually move back in with Mom.
My norm was one of instability at home. I seemed to be managing fine — I had a lot of practice. What followed were more changes, a few new residences, more fights with Mom — some that would last for months without speaking, feeling close to one another again, becoming best friends with Mom, moving out of the country, visits to Canada, a visit from Mom (where the captioned photo was taken) that left me yearning for more time with her, and ultimately Mom’s illness and death that turned my yearning into a helpless cry that will forever go unanswered.
At times, it seems like I was almost primed for this outcome, while at other times, it feels like I’m still waiting for her to return the way she always had.
Missing Mom isn’t something new. Missing Mom with the shock of remembering that I will never see her again is. She has left me for the last time.
