Letter and Lessons From Heaven

It’s been three years since my mom passed unexpectedly from cardiac arrest. Today is that anniversary. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. And it feels like forever. I have wanted to share this story for a long time. This morning, I knew it was the day. This is just a piece of a much larger story.

I had been living in China with my then husband and four children.  I had spoken to my mother on the phone just a day before she died.  She was going in for “just a heart stint.”  That was so characteristic of her.  She didn’t want me to worry.  She’d be fine, she said.  It was early March 2020 and travel was a nightmare. Direct flights to the US from China had been suspended and a quarantine was in place to return through Hong Kong, our nearest international airport.  So as much as I wanted to jump on a plane that minute, it felt nearly impossible.  My brother and I made plan for her care post-surgery and I got my head back into “distance learning” with the kids.  I was just waiting on her “I’m out of surgery” text message to know everything went as planned. 

Instead, I woke up to an email from my Uncle.  “We are so sorry to hear of the passing of Aimee.” 

…What? Was it true? MY mom?? Was there a mistake? I pulled out my US phone and connected it to the spotty internet – voicemail voicemail voicemail… “Sis, it’s Hamilton please come home!” “Honey it’s Dad, please call us…” “Rachael, it’s Judy we’re here for you - call us,” “Rachael it’s Uncle Jim. I can’t believe this is happening -CALL US…”

The feeling of unexpected loss is indescribable. It’s like falling and spinning and you can’t breath and you aren’t sure if you’re dreaming or are you alive at all and you’re crying and a deeply primal moan that isn’t yours at all is coming from your chest… Shock, denial, bewilderment, acceptance. Shock, denial, bewilderment, acceptance…

“I need to go home NOW!” I told my then husband.

I flew back to the US the next day, planning on staying the two weeks required to return through Hong Kong at that time.  As I landed in Tokyo and checked my phone, I found out that my relatives were all concerned I had been exposed to Covid (valid – no one knew WHAT was going on).  So when I finally landed in my destination city, I found myself alone. 

After a mini crash course on how to use Uber, I made it to my mother’s house.  I was full of expectations of empty sadness.  I had tried to imagine what it would be like to walk into the house, and not find her watching the news in the kitchen while heating up something for me to eat - even though I would have told her the jetlag made my stomach turn at the thought of food. Or chicly smoking her cigarette on the back patio with her signature glass of spirits.  I wanted to unload all my tears and pain I had held back on the 30 plus hours of travel.  I wanted to fall to the ground and weep and whale and exhale my grief. 

I walked into the dark house, manhandling my suitcase and carry-on over the wobbly brick threshold. 

“Momma I’m home,” I said meekly to the air. 

I braced for the emptiness.  What I felt instead will stay with me forever.  I turned on the lights and took a deep breath.  I was in fact alone, but the house was not empty.  “I’m so glad you made it home,” was whispered into my heart and mind.  I couldn’t even cry I felt so comforted.  I was wrapped in a warm reassurance that everything was going to be OK.  I was home. The only way to describe it would be, if you’re around someone and you close your eyes. You can’t see them, but you can feel their presence and you know they are there.  For the next two days all I felt was wrapped her presence and peace.  I did cry, but I was comforted instantly.  I was not alone. 

I don’t pretend to know what happens when people go through this state of transition from life to death.  I do feel personally at some point they must move on – somewhere.  I felt her presence less and less.  I was having to stand on my own two feet.  The real grieving had to begin.  As in death as in life, she couldn’t protect me forever. 

My brother and Uncle had made the first visits to the morgue while I was traveling. The funereal home was waiting for me, and my signature as Executor, before they sent her body for cremation. I was still mostly numb. I walked into the funeral home and was escorted to an office. I signed papers – don’t read those papers if you don’t have to. It’s terrible the detail that is required by law to put in those papers.

They asked if I was ready to see her. Yes no I guess so. Here we go.

I had been hoping for closure or something…. They led me to a room and closed the door. I was by myself. She was on a table, covered to her chin by a white cloth. I didn’t know how to feel. I sat on the chair provided. I stood. I sat. I walked over to her, I stopped being able to breath. I sat. I cried, I shook. It was her, it wasn’t her. It was Friday and she had passed on Monday… Let’s just say, again, do not recommend seeing a loved one in this state if you don’t have to. I wanted to leave, to run. But I wanted to stay forever. I don’t know if I’ve ever in my life felt this lonely. Her presence wasn’t there, oddly. I was left to mourn her Earthly temple in a room that felt like the air and energy had been vacuumed sucked out of it. I have no idea how long I was there before I left on wobbly legs… That was one of the single hardest things I’ve ever experienced.

The day I had to pick up her ashes at the mortuary was also surreal.  You really can’t imagine it unless you’ve had to do it. Maybe it was a little brain atrophy from being alone for so long under such stress, but probably it was just my usual coping skill of using humor to dispel my discomfort. I nervously made jokes to her ashes. I laughed out loud. “Is this what insanity feels like?” I wondered.  I wasn’t quite sure. Turns out, it is called GREIF.

The process of going through someone’s belongings is uncomfortable and arduous. Her purse and the other belongings she had with her at the hospital sat on a chair. Like moving through water, I began to go through them. It was like each item had gravity. In the bag was some books of course, and some paperwork. As I sorted through them I noticed paper with her handwriting…

I realized my mom had left me a letter… By then, I knew she had known what was going to happen. There were too many things that were buttoned up right before… And now this.

In life she had been conservative in nature, not one to express herself or her emotions. Not the huggy-feely type at all. But I knew she was a deep person. Maybe so highly sensitive and deeply emotional, that somewhere along the line she had built a wall around herself that even she could no longer see how to get through or how to let anyone in…

Her letter read: 

“Life is too short to wake up with regret.

So love the people that treat you right.

Love the ones that don’t just because you can.

Believe everything happens for a reason.

If you get a chance, grab it with both hands.

If it changes your life, let it.

Kiss slowly.

Forgive quickly.

God never said it would be easy,

He just promises it will be worth it…

I love you,

Mom”

It was meaningful to me then. Three years later, its mysteries are deeper and more meaningful than ever. Greif is a funny bird. It flies around, it leaves, it returns, it sits on your shoulder, it’s out of sight, it’s always there… It’s never really far from you. I once heard a psychologist say that closure isn’t really a thing. People say they want closure so they can stop hurting. Make the pain go away… But if you love deeply and allow yourself to be loved deeply, you can’t ever be the same. A life without regret is not a life without scars or wounds. A life without regret is a life of taking chances, vulnerability, making changes, facing fear and rejection, and sometimes yes falling or not getting it quite right.

I thought this morning about all that has happened in the last three years. I wept because I just want to take the opportunities her death has given me and become the best version of myself that I can even thought I feel like I’m still trying to figure that out. A child never really stops wanting to make their parent proud, even when they’re gone. In life she would have rolled her eyes at my hippie-woo-woo ways. But now, with greater perspective, I think she is my biggest cheerleader. Really, she always was.

I love you, Mom.

Rachael