Happy 6 Year Anniversary of Our Birthday

He was born, the love of my life, on this day, over 6 years ago.  He was purple and I remember my mother's careening cry and his father repeatedly crying "this isn't how it's supposed to be."  You see, he was purple and wasn't breathing.  That was but a moment and for that moment, he was whisked away from me to spend the first two days of his life in the NICU.

Our first meeting

Today, I feel the passing of my mother, that old wound like it was made yesterday.  The missing part of me, the broken part of me, the grief that overwhelms me, I feel it more keenly than I have in a long time.  I knew this day would come.  It was inevitable.  Now it's here.   

the newest link on the unbroken chain

I am choosing to move through day, not as if nothing ever happened but rejoicing in what did happen, the birth of my son.  You see, that little boy impacted my life more than anyone I know.  He changed me in ways I never anticipated.  He showed me the depths of me, the breadth of me, and when I thought I couldn't go on anymore, he showed me exactly how strong I really am as he anchored me and pulled me back from the abyss.  

my son and me, motherhood

Happy birthday, my love

We all seek a connection, a link to another living person.  I was linked to someone, the woman inside of whom God fearfully and wonderfully created me.  Then she simply slipped away, leaving me alone to figure it out on my own.  She was right though, when she said she knew I was going to be ok.  Since she left me, I have found a way back to myself, granted its a new self, but I am moving forward, holding onto a little pair of hands, that's quickly growing big everyday.

Today, despite the grief and pain that rings loud within me, I am celebrating life, the life of a little boy who came into mine and completely changed it.  Somehow, he made me better.  

the "Dear Mom" letter....

I walked by your picture the other day and your smile staring back at me seemed like a distant memory.  You’ve become someone I used to know, like the elderly Korean neighbor you used to always greet, whose grandson is now in middle school.  I hardly remember her.  You’re an image from my past, like your neighbor slowly walking past your house on her cane who always stopped with a friendly greeting but in the impatience of my youth I simply wanted to move on.  Except I can’t seem to move past this grief.  Like countless amputees, you’re just the ghost of a limb I once had.  I can feel you there if I reach far back in my memories.  I was surprised by your image as I walked past it.  The fleeting thought entered my mind that you were my mother.  There are pictures of you everywhere.  The one that still cripples me is the one with you and your grandson.  You both have the same exact smile and the way you are holding onto each other it’s as if you knew this moment would have to last. 

I drove over six hours with the husband and son you left behind to a place where I had always dreamt of going.  I’m sitting here in the dark, on bench and writing beneath the light of the moon and street lights.  The sound of cars and trickling water from a small fountain with a pineapple on it, serenade me.  Your grandson were so excited to go on vacation.  I needed to desperately sleep on a real bed.  If you hadn’t died, I would have bought my bed months ago.  The mattress has a huge dent from my ever changing weight through two pregnancies.  It really needs to be replaced.  Except for some strange reason I keep remember that it was an anniversary present from you. 

I dreamt of this weekend but then I dreaded it too.  I don’t remember when we last went on a family vacation together.  I think it was my cousin’s wedding.  You would have been proud of him.  But then you don’t use that word.  You preferred humility.  Maybe because English is our second language that our take on the words vary.  Or maybe we were never meant to be of one accord.  Yet there are times I catch a glimpse of myself, a limb, a silhouette, a gesture, something that’ll catch my breath.  Out of the corner of my eyes, I think I see you but I know you’re not there. 

This is your timeshare.  You should be here.  You should have seen your grandson, how proud he was that he overcame his fear and actually swam.  They can’t wait to go back in tomorrow.  I’ll probably join them.  You would love the cruise we’re taking tomorrow.  You liked that sort of thing.  We passed a Walgreens on the way here.  My dad remembered how it’s your favourite store and talked about you always finding one near every hotel where you happened to be vacationing.  But like your pictures, these reminiscences are pointless.  I have a life to live and since you’ve been gone, your absence seems to take me farther away from who I was.  Or maybe it is in your absence that I am finally coming into my own, removed from that large shadow you cast over my life. 

Truth be told, I miss your shadow.  I grew into the woman I am beneath your shade.  Now the sun scorches me.  Yet, I am still standing because while I stood beneath you, my roots had grown deeper than I realized.  There is a serenity here in the dark, the sound of the night enfolding me in its embrace.  It is an unusual place to write.  But then I was never usual was I?  I wish you could have simply told me the truth and not hid behind the pretense of humility.  In the end, the legacy we leave behind are our words.  I made sure to tell your grandson how proud I was of him.  It was a big deal for him to go for a swim.  He overcame his fear.  He is an over comer. 

I think in death you finally became the mother I needed.  I can cherish your memory and who you inspire me to be without dealing with the myriad facets of your personality.  I don’t think there is anyone who doesn’t feel your absence tonight.  But I think we are healing.  We are beginning to see a picture of what your family looks like without you.  It is hard.  Maybe it will never become easy.  But we are trying.  At the end of the day, it is what any of us can do. 

So after all the dreading and the stressing, I have come to a simple conclusion.  God never gives you more than you can handle.  So you have to trust him and yourself, because if he’s allowing you to go through the valley, not only will he see you thru but he has already equipped you to deal with what the valley holds.  Waiting and asking God what his will is for your life is fruitless.  If you really want to know what God’s will is for your life, you have to stop and listen to the answer.  But most importantly, you must find the courage to not only boldly accept the answer but act on it.  Sometimes, you really have to remember to look past the trees and notice the forest in all its majestic vastness.  Only then can you truly appreciate the raw beauty that surrounds you.

I hate it that you are gone.  But like any amputee, I am learning to live without you.  I am living better without you than I did with you.  Perhaps that is the real lesson of motherhood, letting go, of your mother and your child.  Life is but a fleeting moment.  We are born and we will die.  The only thing that really matters is the size of our footprint while we were here.  It’s not about fame or fortune because they come and go with the wind, it is about the impact we have in the lives of those who allow into the sanctuary of our family.