I Thought I lost her...

My mother has a new zipper. A nice track of 36 silver staples than run from middle of her her back, just above her scapula, and curves around under her left breast. If you pull on the zipper my mom's left chest cavity would flop open exposing the graft that a surgeon stuck in there to replace the ruptured aortic vessel. The zipper wasn't there a month ago. A month ago we were sitting by the kitchen window taking care of intimate mother/daughter details. I was plucking her eyebrows just like the way she asks me to do them on every visit. I am an excellent plucker and I work fast and quietly, plus, it's free. My mom and I are close enough that I notice her shallow breathing. I take quick glances that reveal her foggy eyes, her thinning hair. "Mom?" I ask her and then pause. I don't know if I can ask my question, I've been wanting to ask her something for as long as I began my fear of losing her, however, I had only recently discovered what that question was. "What is it?" she asks with her eyes half closed. "Mom," I start again, "Are you afraid to die?" There is no delay in her response - "NO," said with an inflection that makes me wonder if it was a stupid question. "She follows this up with "is this what you have been worrying about all this time?" "13 years ago, you told Dr.-------- that you did not want to die" I remind her. "Of course, I don't want to die and leave my family, but I am not afraid of dying. I am more afraid of pain, and if I die, I will have no pain." We don't discuss it anymore but I feel a knot inside me loosen a bit.

I was in Denver when I found out her aorta ruptured. As most non-communicative families do, my brother, who had been delegated to call me had no valuable information to tell me regarding her situation and severity. He simply wanted to pass on a message to me from my mother that I was to stay and finish my work and then he added "if it was up to me, I would come home." At some point during my rush to the airport, I was able to reach the ER and locate my mother's room, but only as she was just being wheeled off to surgery. A doctor got on the phone and told me her situation was dire and they were concerned about her safety. I hung up trying to remember what my last conversation had been with my mother, and how sad it would be if I could not recall the last words we had shared.

I guess you could say I started mourning on the plane. Most aortic aneurysm patients die en-route to the hospital, so she had very little chance of surviving the surgery. Being a superstitious woman, my mom claimed she had been visited by all our close relatives when they passed on. I believed this power had been bestowed upon me and half expected that I should see my mother's form appear on the plane's wing tip waving goodbye to me on as she ascended from this life. It seemed like an appropriate backdrop for a vision - the sky was burning off a brilliant glow as we chased the setting sun westward. I teetered between moments of lucidity and shuddering waves of grief the entire ride home.

I was relieved to have Stephanie waiting for me at the airport - relieved from the burden of loneliness and loss. There was no news from the hospital and we headed directly there. By this time mom had been in surgery for nearly 5 hours. We met my family at the hospital where we waited for word another 3. At almost midnight the surgeon came out to speak to us. He said they had repaired the aorta but they had difficulty stopping the bleeding. I remember my dad asking in a meek and hopeful voice, "but she will be okay now?" and the surgeon's response was "I don't know, she could die tonight, she may die tomorrow, she may have had a stroke, she may be paralyzed, we will just have to wait and see."

2 hours later I went into the ICU to see my mother. She was on a ventilator, her tongue hanging off to one side. Her face was beyond recognition due to all the swelling. There were more machines and tubes connected to her than I had thought possible. I suppose somewhere between my brother's phone call and the plane ride home I stopped allowing myself to have hope. I stroked her hair and her face, touched her swollen eyes, I told her how brave I thought she was, and I told her how much I loved her. I hunkered down deep inside myself and waited for her to die.

But she didn't. She lived through the night, she lived through the next day. When they lowered the sedation she wiggled her fingers and toes. In three days she was responding to directions from the doctors and nurses. In 6 days they removed the ventilator and she was breathing on her own. On day 8 they moved her to recovery. After 16 days in the hospital she is lying in her bed across from me, taking a nap. My whole life I have always seen my mother as frail, weak, and sick, but I was wrong. That little woman has some will in her to beat the 95% odds stacked against her and survive.

Respite

I am back from a a 5-day jaunt in the mountains. Yosemite again. Is it wrong to be so in love with a place that I feel loss by leaving it? It is haunting to feel such insignificance next to timeless granite and big trees and yet, as I age, I feel more compelled to explore that. But maybe that pull is only a returning to what is true about myself - that I am tiny, flowing, and only ever occupying a moment.

We were fortunate enough to go with a couple of older ladies. Let me clarify, older in age, but in no way limiting their physicality. I am humbled to say these women schooled us every day in energy and will. Faces do tell a story, especially in women. When the only light is a flickering campfire, you can see suffering etched in her reflection. That face shows she has endured and survived. I could be making an excuse for my own face. It surprised me in the mirror this morning, now that I am back in a place where such things exist.

I like my respite in the woods. I like that I can leave my computer, cell phone, and television and still have something to do, or, do nothing at all. I even enjoy hiding in the tent for an hour between 5-6pm waiting for it to cool enough for the mosquitoes to subside. And while I am laying on my goose down sleeping bag, I can trace the light changing through the trees. I love walking on the trail and in the off chance you run across somebody usually they will stop and talk to you - always asking "where have you been, how is it going so far, and where are you headed next?" Those questions are slower and simpler in the woods.

Jelly

I think it's taboo to gossip about one's own family - especially in Asian culture. But I'm just so irritated with them. I'm sad to say that jelly has caused a rift in my family's relations.

My grandmother is convinced she is going to die very soon. Because of her imminent death, she spends a marathon weekend cooking up her "last" batch of strawberry preserves. She gives numerous jars to my mother with specific instructions on how to dole these out to us kids. She then grows increasingly concerned that her grandchildren, me in particular, will liberally give them away. She may have forgotten to mention that they need to be preserved-in-the-family preserves. I think she struggles with this and in the end tells herself one thing and my mom another. She is upset to find that my mom did not give me enough of the allocation. My mom (also a severe diabetic), is a jelly thief and can no longer be trusted. Mean words are exchanged and two weeks have passed without a word between them.

Aging may be a major factor in this type of behavior. But I am mostly just irritated that this is how far we (the people that share my DNA) can take such a trivial matter. Really, the jelly meant NO HARM! But when something really disturbs you, wise people say you have to look in the mirror. I am mostly upset at myself for allowing temporary "things" carry the burden of my feelings.

ooh la la

I'm finally getting off my ass to write again and I have had to travel 7000 miles away from home to do it. We are in the romantic city of Paris. I have been cheating on my American pancakes for a 2 week tryst with croissants and beignets. In fact, I'm starting to resemble a buttery pastry ... plus a scarf.

Contrary to popular belief, I have found the French to be gracious and pleasant. There was one exception our first night at a certain "Cafe de Coupe" on Rue St. Honore, just across the street from our hotel. Our waiter, Monsieur Stinky, knew just enough English to be intimidating and not enough English to act equally ignorant. So what if we got charged 20 euros (roughly 28 bucks) for two flat spritzers with lemon? I knew just barely enough French to thank him and sought my revenge in the greater arena of the world wide web (1 star for you garcon).