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Finding The Happy

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This morning, I got reminded that in 2½ weeks, I’ll be back in Singapore.

It was a good kick up the backside (although that was hardly what the reminder was about!) because it helped me distill exactly what my priorities need to be. I need to prepare the house for my in-laws’ arrival, which includes updating my Arddun childcare notes. I need to get a bunch of appointments and decisions made. I need to put my freelance work on hold. I need to stop trying to achieve every single Tupperware sales target put in front of me.

Did I tell you? I’m a Tupperware Demonstrator now. It’s turning out to be quite a bit of fun, and I’m liking how I get to swan off to party and mingle with grown women. It is also a time suck, at least at this beginning stage. I’m learning all the time and while selling Tupperware isn’t rocket science, it’s been over a decade since I last had a sales job. The temptation is to throw myself entirely into this new business but again, I have to remind myself constantly what my priorities are. All this, while half day-dreaming about what it would be like to be a Tupperware manager just so I can name my own team. (Shortlist so far: Silicon Velle.)

There’s a more sobering side to my return, of course. I’ve had a few cloud-like thoughts wafting through the brain cavity all morning, so I’ll try and pin them down here.

I’ve been thinking about what it’s like to never forget someone. And I’ve been thinking about what it’s like to remember them. Until my cousin’s sudden death a few years ago, and then my mother’s death this year, I never knew there was a difference. But the truth is, while I will never forget my mother; while the stark fact of her death has been branded into my soul and the burnt bit is still healing, it takes a huge amount of effort for me to remember her.

And that’s because remembering takes courage. It takes time. It takes up oodles of emotional memory, and you’re left panting after. I have a photo of her sitting on the buffet in the middle of the house, and you cannot miss it. And I can have whole conversations with her while Arddun is asleep and I’m doing the housework. But once I find my mind flashing back to the past and remembering what once was… I find myself pulling the plug. Making the images vanish. Because it is just so easy to sit there and feel paralysed with sorrow. And I don’t want to be paralysed, because I need to move.

“Give me unction in my gumption, let me function function function…”

In 2½ weeks, I’ll be back in Singapore. I’ll be sleeping in my mother’s bed. I’ll be bidding the rooms good-bye. Because this time will really be the last time. I love my husband truly, madly, deeply… but my mother and this house had always been my unconscious safety net. “What if Tony got hit by a bus… what if he goes all Rod Stewart on me one day and leaves me for a 20yo twinkie…”

My love for my husband is a choice. Every day, I wake up and choose to be with him. They say you don’t get to choose your relatives – NOT TRUE. Because out of all the men in the world, I chose Tony to be my family. I chose him to be my closest peer and kin. I continue to choose him daily.

My love for my mother is biological. It isn’t a choice – it is in my veins and permeates my soul, because I am of her. I think that with all mothers and daughters, the depth of love is variable – you get out as much as what each of you put in. But the starting point of that love and bond is biological.

Severing my ties with my family home is going to be one of the hardest things I’ll have to do this second half of the year. (The first, of course, was saying goodbye to my mother.) Going back to Singapore means having to Remember. God give me strength, because I’m sorta quaking at the prospect already.

 

Birthday bash

Today’s my mum’s birthday. If she were still alive, she would have turned 56.

I was half dreading this day, because I knew I was going to feel quite mixed up about it. There’s an awful jumble of feelings that come from remembering a dead loved one’s birthday. There’s that sense of wrongness which builds up to the day, and chiefly comes from not doing the usual things. Not hunting down the perfect gift, not wrapping it. Not battling the queue at the post office to send it. Not finding the card. Not texting her in the morning. Not calling her on Skype at the day’s end to find out how she celebrated.

Not being able to jump on the plane and then sidle up to her pew on Sunday to surprise her.

Then there’s the wrongness that comes from remembering someone’s birthday when they’ve passed. She hasn’t turned 56; her body stopped at 55 years, 6 months and 17 days. So what naturally follows is that gut-wrenching, heartrending sense of loss and missing. The kind you’ve been working at mastering and suppressing for the last few months so you can function – and even be happy – without dissolving into a mooching mess.

There was a guy recorded in the bible who had been blind from birth, which means he had probably been reduced to begging because that’s what happens when you don’t have Disability Care in the days of Jesus. And the question naturally followed: why? Was he born blind because of his parents’ sin? What was the whole point of depriving a person of sight and a livelihood from the start? Or the middle, for that matter. What is the whole point of dragging a woman through a very tough childhood and marriage, only to strike her with cancer when she’s finally breathing easier? Why?

And Jesus basically said that the whole point was so that God could be given the glory. A person, blind until adulthood for the sole and magnificent purpose of Jesus walking pass to heal him. Except I sure wish He were here in the flesh today, and that he chose to heal my mother.

What was the point of giving her life, only to take it away at 55? Was it so that God may be glorified through her example in death? Or was it so that others like me could be brought more into repentance?

I remember reading someone’s blog, and the whole blog was about this family who has a daughter with a condition that would almost certainly guarantee her death by age 4. When you know you have that sort of timeline, you don’t mess about as a parent. The doctrines about sleep training, the guilt about breastfeeding vs formula, the philosophies about discipline, the race to each baby milestone completely melts away when you realise that Nothing Is That Important as making sure that child knows she is loved, and that you’re all making great memories together. That blogger’s house was a complete mess some days but as the child got sicker, all they did as a family sometimes was to eat takeaway and watch cartoons with her. It flew in the face of every good parenting handbook out there, and yet I think it was perfect and natural parenting for their sick daughter at the time.

I wish I had known about my mother’s timeline, because I wish I had understood which battles to fight and which battles to merrily concede defeat because they weren’t worth picking up the axe for in the first place. I wish I had not fussed at the fringes, but understood which were the more important things. I wish I had dropped everything and run to her sooner. Hindsight can be such a bitter thing.

There’s the alarm clock, chirping in the distance. Yet another reminder that time marches on. Oh how I miss you, my mother, my confidante, my home away from home.

A new dawn

My mother slipped quietly away last evening. I was there with her to watch her last breath, along with my cousins Shawn and Andrea – the three children she brought up over the course of her short, fruitful life. I watched as the pain etched in her face like a scar finally disappeared.

She was 55 years old. She was young, she was beautiful, and apart from the aggressive cancer that seemed determined to consume her, she was healthy.

Outside the room was a throng of people; a rich blend of family and friends, old and new. Ward 43 was used to the constant stream of visitors by then. They noted how she never had any shortage of willing and helping hands. They noticed how they came, how they practically set up shop and kept vigil. Her doctor told me it was obvious how she had touched many.

Amidst the hurt that strangles, amidst the searing loss so hot, it temporarily blinds memories, I am deeply proud that strangers can wonder aloud about the kind of woman my mother had been. That a life so honest and humble could also speak so loudly. My mother loved life and loved people.

I’ve been sitting in her bedroom since a little before dawn, and it’s here that I’m learning how grief can be disconnected from the part of the brain that summons memories. This bedroom is a heartbreaking blend of sepia-toned memories and her excruciating final months. I shared a bed with her in this room. My toy boxes were in this room. Long talks into the wee hours of the morning were in this room. Shouting matches were in this room. Forgiveness was in this room. And in the final weeks, a lot of pain was suffered in this room.

Right now, knowing that she will not walk into this room again hurts more than I can ever hope to put into words. I miss my mummy terribly. Thanks for listening.

Grief does not change you. It reveals you.

So far, 2013 kinda blows.

We’ve pranged our new car twice… okay, I pranged our new car twice… got handed a very rude quote for some dental work that needs to be done, and have been patiently waiting for my employment situation to unfold.

But that’s just money and inconvenience.

For most of you who know me and some of you who have been following my blog, you’ve been made aware of my mother’s cancer. She had a lot of chemo last year, and that finished up in October.

In the first week of January, my mother had her routine check up with her surgeon and oncologist, and we found out that the cancer’s metastasized to her sternum and it’s inoperable. And so it’s more tests, and more treatment, and more fear and trembling. A quick scheduled reunion got cancelled because of other unforeseen health issues that popped up, and so now we wait and worry.

And then friends suffer sudden and devastating loss at the turn of the month. The kind that makes you cry until you’re soundless, and your chest hurts like the dickens.

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I walked into a bookshop today looking to find words to comfort others, because I lack. And after explaining to the store manager what I was trying to achieve, he handed me a small stack of books and I started tasting the wares to see if they were appropriate enough to pass on.

I ended up getting quite attached to one of the books. It wasn’t a preachy one expounding how to overcome grief, or what the stages are. Just simple verses, reflections and prayer that might articulate grief in its variety and complexity. But until I read that book, I had forgotten that grief visits us even when there isn’t a body count and a coffin. Grief is ultimately about loss, and it comes when trust is broken, when health is irrecoverable, when “big sin” separates us from God and we feel like we can no longer have His fellowship.

I had intended the book to be a balm for others but in reading it, I learnt that I’ve been grieving for a while.

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I wish I can tell you that I’m good with grief, but I’m not. Someone at my writing group on Saturday talked about Fight or Flight – and my immediate reaction to tremendous loss has never been flight to the safety of God’s arms, but the overpowering desire to put on armour and go into battle. Greatest defence is offence, they say. However, my version of “coping”  usually involves standing alone and yelling at something, or hitting out till someone else hurts just as much as I do. It isn’t healthy. I wish my instinct is to run to God first, and maybe one day – when I finally grow up enough to have a child-like faith – all I’ll want to do is run into the arms of the Saviour. Besides, running to God is, by far, the more intelligent and sensible thing to do than standing there, defenceless but seething like a mad woman.

My friends have just lost their children. I cannot imagine losing my child, much less two of them at one go. And yet I am deeply edified by them and their unwavering faith. I have always had the sense that their relationship with Jesus is one that is far more intimate than mine has ever been. They are His kin, whereas I feel sometimes I’m like His distant cousin twice removed – the one you might meet during Christmas, Chinese New Year, weddings and funerals. And again, I ache with them but I marvel even more at how they lean on Christ because He’s really family.

I found a post I had written last year, when we first found out that my mother has cancer. I didn’t publish it, because it was very raw and because I didn’t want to distract from the true sufferer and victim – my mother. I’ve always found my own grief a bit of a time-suck, the idea of wallowing just self-absorbed and futile. It irritates me. Crying has always irritated me, even though I can do it well and do it often.

But after reading that book today, and then finding this old post, I realise that some of the emotions are still there because they have not been dealt with, but swept aside repeatedly. And even though I’m not angry anymore, I am still mixed up. Because the fear is still there, along with the longing, and the fight not to despair. It’s still relevant, and the scab’s raw and bleeding again.

So here’s what I wrote. And be warned – it’s not pretty. But I thought I’d put it out there because if you happen to be like me in the anger department, I hope this gives you an outlet and a prayer… and evidence that comfort can come – even when you’re standing there alone and screaming.

By now, you might have heard. Both churches on each of our continents have been told. This morning, I wrote an email and this afternoon, the elders at PP will be praying over my mother. I’ve embargoed this post, and I’ve written so many private posts both in this blog and on my heart.

Because it’s official. Two and a half days ago, my family found out that my mother has The Big C. And not the good kind, if there ever is such a thing. And our world fell apart. Walls of hope shattered like thin, brittle glass and you cannot see anything clearly – most of all the way forward. And my reaction was shock and horror… and unimaginable anger. I was so angry, it was unholy.

I spent the next ensuing hours alternately blaspheming and begging in my heart. I couldn’t pray, couldn’t look at the bible, and threw the “I love Jesus” hand towel in the wash although a part of me wanted to burn it like an effigy. I was so mad. Pain and suffering inflicted on me is one thing. But to torture my mother who has loved and served passionately, touched so many lives and still carries with her the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit. Who didn’t ever have it easy. Couldn’t He cut her some slack? Couldn’t she catch a break?

Lots of verses flew through the mind, like the futility of building barns for tomorrow, and the whole damn book of Job. When God allows suffering, when you know on the one hand that He allows it because He is GOD and He has the big picture… such knowledge can be both a sweet comfort and a mockery of the pain you currently feel. And for the first six hours anyway, understandably or wrongly, I was really, really mad with my Maker.

And the other head voices chime in. You know this isn’t about you, but you wonder anyway if this is a sick chess game between God and the Devil to test your faith or punish you for all your sins. Your heated words, your stupid, thoughtless actions. You wonder, wildly, if you had brought this down on your mother. Only because it strikes so close and if she didn’t deserve it, maybe she was collateral damage because of you.

It’s crazy talk, but that’s what grief brings. Your head knows better that God is compassion and love, long suffering and infinitely patient, far from vindictive. But the heart is wild, angry, hurt, irrational.

And yet today is Sunday. A day, like any other day, that the Lord has made. And knowing that flawed and loving people are bear-hugging my mother with words and prayer and deeds is comfort immeasurable. Channeling God always brings beautiful, brutiful stuff. And from the bottom of my heart, I ask for forgiveness and again entreat Him for all my heart’s desire.

My mother – ever brave, ever strong, ever faithful – is also human and scared silly. Her fear isn’t unbelief – it’s understanding. There’s something about sickness that silences the masses. It’s not like death, which brings out grief that’s hot, searing, immediate, total. Tangible. Sickness becomes the white elephant in the room, and everyday life feels clumsy, false and suspended. And my mother, she’s practical and smart and incredibly brave. She has chosen not to hide her illness from those who care enough to ask. So please honour her bravery and don’t act all stiff and funny around her. Just hold her and laugh with her and scream with her and cry with her, will you?

For her. For me.

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