This story is about perspective and how our own can completely change an experience, story, and memory.
My hands and feet have always been cold — not a good trait to have as a massage therapist who massages using both her hands and feet! I am quite self-conscious of this. Instead of the gentle introduction of a warm touch to my client — one that says “Thank you for trusting me to be here with you”, my cold hands can wield a client into shock by shouting “I’ve arrived! On your feet soldier!”.
My mom used to tell me that she too always had cold hands and feet — That is until she had a baby. She had three babies so by the time her oven retired from baking, her hands and feet were extra toasty. She used to say that the cure to my frigid extremities may also be tied in with giving her a grandchild.
To the dismay of my mom (and my clients), my hands and feet remain cold as I never did make her, a grandmother. My sister however did.
My sister announced she was pregnant during Christmas of 2018. We were surprised and thrilled, nobody more so than my mom. She basked in the pure excitement of looking forward to becoming a Halmoni (‘grandmother’ in Korean). This excitement was untainted for a couple of months.
At the end of February, Mom received a call from her doctor that changed all of it. An ultrasound had detected shadows on her pancreas after Mom had been experiencing pains in her stomach.
The remaining several months leading up to Mom becoming a grandmother were an eclectic mix of hope and terror. Nabi arrived in September, officially making my mom, her halmoni.
She was a Mom for nearly 42 years and a Halmoni for 5 months.
Mom spent her last month in hospice care. My brother, sister, Nabi, and I spent every day with her while my brother and I would alternate spending nights there. It was my turn to stay overnight. I was irritable and struggling to accept how I could be short and annoyed with Mom. Nights there were sleepless. Mom would moan in discomfort and pain, wanting to be re-positioned or feeling anxious and restless. She was literally helpless and I was literally coming undone. After consulting with her doctor, I felt confident that Mom would be here for at least another day and made the decision to go to my sister’s to get a full night’s rest.
My phone rang. It was 3am. It was the nurse at the hospice. She called to let me know that there was a change in mom’s breathing and that it could happen “anytime now”. I woke my sister who then woke a sleeping Nabi to rush to be by mom’s side.
Feeling desperate to make sure Mom wasn’t alone when it happened, I ran inside the hospice while my sister parked and gathered Nabi. Just before I reached Mom’s room, the nurse came out of her station to greet me. “I’m so sorry for your loss” she says to me. “What?? She’s gone?!” I plead with her. Mom passed at 3:25am. My sister and I arrived at 3:40am.
Mom appeared as though she was asleep as she had been for majority of the time we were with her. This morning, her face looked relaxed. For the first time in months, Mom didn’t have furrowed brows or a grimaced face. I was in shock. I sat beside Mom’s head while whispering “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here”. My sister and Nabi rush in. We lock eyes and I just shake my head. Nabi’s halmoni is gone.
I swear I am seeing Mom’s chest move up and down ever so gently. The nurse called the time of her passing at 3:25am but even at 4:00am, I would insist on seeing signs of life remaining in her body. I remind myself that we have such a limited understanding about life and death — though she technically stopped breathing, her cells are still alive. I want to believe Mom knew and felt we were right beside her then.
My sister and brother drape over Mom while crying and holding her. Mom’s feet are turned inwards with the toes overlapping. They remind me of feet belonging to a small child who’s frightened. Mom’s hands rest on her torso, one on top of the other (I assume the nurse placed her hands this way). Her hands and fingers are becoming rigid and difficult to weave our fingers through. She becomes colder — so my sister keeps telling me.
I tell my sister that I swear I could see subtle breath-like movement in Mom’s chest and that she feels warm to me. As time continues to pass, her body grows stiffer and colder. My hands can only feel the stiffness.
My eyes wanted to see (or saw) Mom’s chest moving no matter how subtle. My cold hands allowed me to feel warmth in Mom’s. My perspective brought me comfort at a time that would have otherwise felt more unbearable.
