I was emailing a friend of mine the other day and he told me to appreciate the fact that I’d had my mom for as long as I did. And I thought to myself, it wasn’t nearly long enough. But his mother committed suicide when he was just a few years old and I felt like an insensitive whiner for going on and on about my mom. Another good friend of mine lost his mom at a very young age, too, and for some reason when I lost my mom, I forgot all about these other folks who’ve lost their moms, too.

I was lucky to have her for as long as I did. I wish I’d known her better; I always thought I eventually would, but I took it for granted. Just like I took for granted having my mom at all. The rawness of the loss has healed over a bit. And even going through and organizing her things isn’t so difficult and I manage to do a little every day, but every now and again I find something that feels so intimate and revealing and it takes my breath away. Yesterday it was a wooden box full of quarters she collected and I pictured her putting quarters into it and it breathed life into her in my imagination. It’s probably the hardest thing now — imagining her doing very specific things and feeling her living in my head for a moment. But it’s a nice thing, too.

I couldn’t get on as well as I have if it weren’t for my sister. I think about her all the time. I mean I’m living with her, too, but I worry and think about her all the time anyway. I think about how sweet and generous she can be and what a rotten sister I’ve been. She sent me this photo the other day:

Mom. Korea.

I don’t know who all those children are, but she looks so young and has the most beautiful smile in this photo. I worry about my sister living here all alone when I leave. But hopefully that won’t be for at least a little while, so I’ll worry about it then.

I still feel like hell. I’m so conjested that sometimes my head feels like it’s in a vise. Just turning or nodding my head hurts. I worked today for a little bit, but didn’t make it much past 2pm. Then I slept until dinner time. And I’m ready for sleep yet again.

We celebrated Josh’s birthday today, a few days early. Our first celebration without my mom. We invited a close aunt and uncle and they stopped by, but couldn’t stay. My grief is nothing compared to my aunt’s. She can’t even come over to the house without difficulty because it was my mom’s house. She was visiting grandma yesterday and sighted a pair of my mom’s shoes and those sent her into tears. And seeing her sobbing started me going, too.

I’ve been thinking lately how it’s gotten so much easier. How I don’t cry at night anymore thinking about her. And when I do think about her, the sadness doesn’t stay with me as long, and I think I’m afraid I’m going to lose her, to forget her, and forget what she meant to me. I’m afraid of going back to Mountain View because at least here, I’m always surrounded by her. Distance always makes me forget and I don’t want that to happen.

I’ve been so sick lately. I woke up Friday with the mother of all sore throats and I don’t feel too physically owful, but my throat is killing me and I’m sneezing and congested. It feels more like a bad allergy attack than a virus. And if I don’t keep drinking hot water to ease my throat, I feel like I’m dying of thirst.

We keep putting off going to visit the car and talking to the investigator. And calling the mortuary about the incorrect death certificates. It’s no longer that I can’t bear to do these things, but if I keep putting it off, maybe I just won’t have to. But that’s the runner away in me; that’s too easy. Tomorrow. I’ll probably call in sick so tomorrow. I’ll call.

Sometimes I think to myself it’s not fair. Then immediately refute it, because what’s fair? It is fair my sister has the physical problems of someone twice her age? Is it fair my crazy fucking ****** didn’t manage to kill himself when he wanted to but my mom died in an accident? Is it fair I have a car and a job and a roof over my head? The world and life don’t exactly balance out.

Sometimes I think about god and faith. It’s times like this that try the non-believer cause it would be so nice to believe my mom was in heaven hanging out with god. Or to believe in any sort of warm and fuzzy afterlife. A friend of mine told me he believed in god because he couldn’t believe we spent our lives connecting with other people and that there wasn’t anything else afterwards. But I think it’s the connections that keep us here on earth. Why would anyone want to continue living if there weren’t connections tying us down? Or propping us up?

I was telling someone today how all I blog about anymore is my mom, and how boring that must be for an outsider. How much of someone else’s grief can you possibly listen to? I keep telling myself I’m going to blog about something in a category other than grief, but I can’t seem to free up the brain cycles to do it yet. I’ve been reading the news, thinking about my future, but neither of these seem to warrant the attention my mother does.

Mom, me, dad, and my cousin in red with my Aunt holding him
at my dad’s graduation in 1974. Korea.

I’m busy in spurts of activity interspersed with intense tv watching during which I’m busy baking and/or cleaning (there’s no cable in my mom’s room yet). I can’t sit still, but I desperately want to do nothing.

Mom in Los Angeles Park, California. 1970.

I’ve been putting off, for a month now, looking at the clothes my mom was wearing during the accident. So long, in fact, that the clothes have badly molded in the plastic bag they were tied up in. I got the standard bloodborne pathogens warning regarding the clothes so I took precautions. I thought what an odd sight I must’ve made out in the backyard with my pajamas on, a rag tied around my nose, clear woodworking goggles, and latex gloves on with bare arms and exposed feet, cutting up large plastic garbage bags and then unwadding and carefully laying out blood stained clothing covered in white mold. I wasn’t sure if I was being overly cautious or not enough. The mortician kept saying how many people are in and out of the coroner’s office and I was concerned about what that might mean (did that mean my mom’s clothes were hanging out with other dead people’s clothes? Did that mean the clothes might’ve caught something from passerbys? I don’t know nearly enough about this.) I felt awkward leaving her bra and panties out in the open like that, but I wasn’t going to let those clothes lay around inside — not with my delicate little sister in there inhaling god knows what emanating from the clothes. Even with the nose hanky, the clothes smelled none too fresh — a mixture of blood and mold and general staleness with a hint of something malodorously hospital-like sans disinfectant.

And as the sun was setting, all I did was roll everything back up and put it back in the plastic bag from which I’d rescued them in the morning. Right after her death, when I had to practically beg the mortician to give me her clothes, I needed them. I wanted to see them. But when I really wanted to, I didn’t have time to — there were always people around, and I wanted privacy when I took them out. And I didn’t want anyone walking around in the backyard when her clothes were lying about. When I got back from Mountain View 2-3 weeks ago, I had the privacy, but I worked all day — I didn’t want to leave the clothes outside without me around to keep an eye on them. Yesterday I thought about it, but couldn’t, and today in a manic rush of cleaning, I tore open the box and untied the first of two plastic bags, then I started to smell the faint odor coming off them and panicked. Then got my makeshift “safety” gear together and hauled everything outside.

Anyway, it’s done. Now I don’t know what to do with them. I wanted to call my dad and ask him what I was supposed to do with those clothes. I badly want to wash them. I sort of want to throw them away, but don’t feel like I can. It feels a little morbid to keep the clothing around. I’d feel less creeped out if they’d been washed. There wasn’t nearly as much blood as I thought there’d be, but seeing the clothes was hard nonetheless. Just thinking about her wearing them that day and the clothing she had on her — a couple of things that I recognized as things she frequently wore. They forgot to give us her other shoe. We only have one — the clean one. The other one was soiled. I think they must’ve forgot to put it in the bag. I was upset about that earlier today. Seeing the one shoe in the bag…

I don’t know how people deal with grief. Sometimes I feel like I’m going mad.

Our grandma came to visit this weekend. I haven’t seen her since my mom’s accident. Seeing her crying immediately set me off. She looked so tiny sitting in that plastic outdoor chair. Her feet didn’t even reach the ground. She’s still so vibrant. Sad, but she seems healthy. And her mental facilities are still sharp.

I’ve been thinking about my family dying and it’s a depressing thought. I’m not quite sure how to kick this funk. I feel like a wad of darkness. And I think I’m handling it well. I wonder what it’d be like if I wasn’t. But I’m alternately angry, irritable, or sad all the time.

Jess and I made some cards tonight and it reminded me of the last time I made cards here with my mom. She was putting stickers willy nilly all over the card. It was so cute. They were for Frank and Ed’s birthdays. I don’t think I remembered to give them to either of them. I guess I can put them in my scrapbook.

I’ve been looking at photos of my mom when she was younger and she was so glamourous. She always dressed carefully, posed like a movie star, had a gorgeous smile. And it made me think that no one’s going to ever look back at my photos and think I was glamourous. I don’t care about me, but I like thinking of my mom that way.

Mom on some California beach in 1970.

When an alcoholic and drug addict asks if you want to share vodka with him, say no. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I said yes. What a moron. Feeling sorry for someone and trying to help doesn’t actually mean you’re helping. Some things you just can’t help with. Frank says he wishes he could do more for me and I tell him he’s doing the best he can possibly do and that he can’t really do anything more for me. But I know he feels useless. I think he’s being supportive and wonderful and I couldn’t ask for more, but I know what’s it’s like to feel helpless while you’re watching someone suffer.

I couldn’t help my mom when she was so lonely and sad. I wish I’d called her more and had come down to see her more, but that wouldn’t really have helped her. She had to find her own way and I think she was starting to before she died. In the very beginning when I couldn’t stop crying and hurting, I needed an explanation and I thought maybe the god she believed in looked into her future and saw she’d just keep suffering and took her away. I realize now that isn’t true. She had wonderful things awaiting her. She was learning patience and acceptance. She was going to get another chance at the thing she’d hoped and prayed for so hard when she died. If there was a god, I’d say he was spiting her, but that’s not true either. She just had an accident, and she left us all behind.

I continue to have my on and off moments. The early part of the week was hard. Thursday was a hard day. I had my son with me this weekend and he was a distraction. I am emotionally drained. My energy levels are low and I can’t seem to get enough strength up to do virtually anything. I think I’ve killed two of my three baby ferns — the baby ferns I’ve been tending for months and months. I forget to water the plants. I forget to do most of the things I set out to do. I keep neglecting the things I need to do related to my mom’s death and accident — I just can’t get up the energy to do these things and keep putting them off, one more day.

Dad, me, grandma, Jess, and mom. About 1979.

It started with that phone call on Sunday — thinking about my past and the things I’d done. I was driving around Irvine today — went to work, ran errands, and I was overwhelmed by my past life here. Not specific memories, but just the heavy feel of it. Driving by the Shell station, I remembered getting gas there with my mom. I’ve been wanting to call old friends to talk — I feel so desperate to talk to someone about the old days. And when I got home, I was so depressed, so burdened down. I was wondering how anyone stays to live in the place she grew up in. I thought living far away is just another way to not deal with it, to drive around always guilt free because nothing reminds you of anything you don’t really want to remember.

I was talking to someone tonight who’s so lost and so hurt, and I see myself in him. Talking to him reminded me that I’m glad of what I’ve become and glad that it’s all over. Not that I don’t hurt or feel lost sometimes, but I’ve got ways to deal with that intensity that are healthy. If you’ve got a heart that sensitive, you need a protective layer of some sort. For some people it’s God, for others it’s rational thought. Thinking through things, understanding the consequences and implications — that’s how I keep myself sane. Don’t get hung up on things I can’t change, don’t absorb all the world’s sorrow all at once, don’t think too much of myself. Know I’m a small piece, but an important one — just like everyone else.

Some days, I don’t know how I’m going to get through. But somehow I always do. I know I got some of my strength from mom. She forgave me everything. She labored all her life for us — for my dad, for me and Jess. And never complained. And in the end, the three most important people in her life all virtually abandoned her. But she still always had hope. For all of us.

My mom and me in Korea

It’s painful to see strangers be so callous about something that’s extremely personal to you. But once you get past the initial emotional reaction, you remember that people die every day — in accidents, by suicide, of old age, sometimes in tragic and horrific ways — and except for the handful of people whose lives have been personally touched by that death, the rest of the world doesn’t care. And you can’t take that personally.

Sometimes people are strangely suspicious and paranoid. Or perhaps I’m insufficiently so. Sometimes people are illogical and unintelligent. And a lot of times, people just don’t care about other people — whether they know them or not. I care too much. And there are lots of us, too.

I got a phone call today that brought back long ago memories 15 years old now. And as much as I’m grieving, it reminded me that other people’s lives are moving on — or trying to. I can’t help my mom, but maybe I can help one of them.

Mom & Jess in front of Niagra Falls, 1980.

Thursday and Friday went by in whirl. I didn’t get anything done on Thursday that I wanted to. All that hunting for a photo and scanning images turned out to be for naught because after all that, I ended up not having time to print them out after running some errands and trying to get ready to go to the mortuary by 4:30. I didn’t end up making her a card or writing her the letter I wanted to, either. We got there 2 hours before the visitation service so we could see my mom beforehand and see how she looked. I rushed to the casket and immediately started bawling. It was harder to see her made up and dressed up than it was on either Monday or Tuesday. They did an amazing make up job, but she still didn’t quite look like herself.

Friday was no better. The funeral service was at noon and I wanted to get there by at least 11AM so I could spend more time with her, but we barely made it by 11:30 and I couldn’t leave her side. Thursday night, it was seeing her looking unbroken, and Friday, it was the thought of never, ever being able to see her physical form — like this or any other way — again. Not ever. I was so sick on Friday morning, I couldn’t stomach the coffee and banana I tried to have. And during the service, after bawling at her casket for half an hour, I felt so sick, I thought I’d pass out. I was trying desperately to get a candy out of its wrapper quietly so I could get a little sugar in me, but gave up after a minute of wrassling with it.

Today, Mike and Marg made us all a big breakfast, and then they took off back to northern California, and eight of us went to go see my mom’s grave. Uncle BK said they’d told him yesterday they were going to cover it with all the flowers that’d been at the service, and it was beautiful.

Mom’s grave at Pacific View Memorial Park, day after funeral services

The last couple of nights — Thursday & Friday nights, have been just friends at the house. My friends drove down from northern Cal, and Jess had Amy and Doug, and it was a nice break from the family — because it was a nice break from so much grieving. Our friends have been so sweet and supportive — it made those nights tolerable to get through. I have the best friends in the world.

I have my on and off moments. Sometimes the sadness overwhelms me, and sometimes I’m not sure what to do about it. I can keep myself busy or I can cry doing any number of things — staring at her photo, staring at her bed, staring at the photos near her bed, staring at her office, staring at her clothes, towels, books, her garden, virtually anything else in her house. But I always manage to pull through the sadness. Frank and I had a long talk tonight — it was nice to be able to chat together. It’s been so busy this week, he’s been really supportive, but I feel like I haven’t spent much time with him. And this week has been so sad and busy, I haven’t even mentioned that we got back together after New Year’s, sometime shortly before my mother passed away. She thought we were going to be married; she always wanted to see me get married.

I am so tired. I go to bed late — busy all day long with cleaning and getting things ready for the funeral and if I’m not busy for any period of time, I’m anxious that I should be doing something. I can’t sleep during the day, I can’t go to bed early — I’m jittery and don’t want too much down time to think.

Yesterday we made a big back yard effort and Amy, Jess’s friend, did a whole heap of work out there and made a section of it look lovely. My aunt was out there scooping up piles of leaves with her hands and putting them in the trash bin. My uncle was madly trying to throw stuff away that I told him he couldn’t. We left one section of the cluttered backyard mostly intact for my sanity — I don’t want all of it to change all at once. My sister’s allergies wouldn’t let her join us outside, so she scrubbed the toilets clean (better her than me I guess).

We ran errands — Jess & Amy, and Frank & I separately, and had a seemingly normal day. I had begun to think that it got easier every day, and that at the rate my sobbing had ceased, my mother would be a distant memory in a couple of months and I’d grow used to her absence, forgetting about how much I missed her. But it doesn’t get easier; every day is just different. Sometimes there isn’t enough to do. There are times when I’m too tired and aimless to concentrate on any given task so I wander the rooms, drift off looking at pictures, sobbing my little heart out. I think the days are catching up to me, up to Jess, too. Sometimes my sister drives me crazy — her tone of voice, her extreme moodiness, but I don’t say anything.