When I was 18 years old and almost done with the fall quarter of my sophomore year in college, I got a call from my dad one evening. He told me that my mom was not doing well and I needed to come home. My mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 6, and was in and out of the hospital for treatment and surgeries over the years, but for the most part we didn’t live in the shadow of her illness. My parents kept our life as normal as possible, and I was aware that mom could get tired easily and sometimes had to go away to the hospital. This was one of those times, but things took a turn for the worse during one of her surgeries. Not understanding the gravity of the situation, I asked if it could wait a few days until I had finished my finals, but he insisted that I come home as soon as possible. I loved college and my friends and didn’t want to leave early, but I went through the motions of calling the airline to see if I could get a flight home that night, and then called my academic advisor to let him know I’d be missing my finals. He kindly offered to notify my professors so I would have a chance to make up my exams later.
I remember that I took a red-eye from San Francisco to Chicago. When I landed in O’Hare, I called my father to check in during my layover while waiting for the flight to my hometown. It was probably 5 or 6 in the morning. He answered the phone in a faint, scratchy voice. When I asked how my mom was doing, he whispered, “It’s not good.” I don’t really remember the end of the conversation, but when I landed at Willard, a family friend was there to pick me up instead of my dad. Where was my dad? I asked. I can’t remember all the details, but at some point between getting picked up at the airport and arriving at my parents’ house, I finally got the news that my mom had died. I walked into my bedroom and collapsed into tears, wailing like a baby.
The next few days were a blur - I remember helping to pick a dress for my mom to be buried in. We had a wake at the funeral home, where I saw 엄마 in the casket for the first time. Her skin looked like wax. It was the first time I had seen a dead person or experienced the death of someone I knew. I chose to wear one of her dresses for the funeral and gave a speech where I said I hoped that I could be good enough to make it to heaven so I could see her again. I took quite a few items of her clothing as a way to cling to her. At the cemetery before they lowered the coffin, I was struck by the sense of finality.
I remember the last phone conversation I had with my mom, and talking about how my classes were going, and how I did on a recent test. One of the last things she said to me was to try to do better next time. That was a stereotypical thing to hear from a Korean parent.
People brought casseroles, and tried to console me by sharing that they too had lost a parent. I stayed at home for about a month to take care of things around the house, but I was grateful to get to go back to Stanford in time for winter quarter. The first few weeks were incredibly difficult as I was starting new classes and studying for my make-up finals from the previous quarter, including on weekends when everyone else was out having fun. I was buried in schoolwork and studying, but I caught up within about a month. From then on I went through the grieving process and learned what my new life was as someone whose mother had died. None of my friends at school had experienced this, though over the years sadly there were some friends whose parents died from cancer. I remember feeling isolated and lonely, that only my dad and brother could understand what I was going through, because we lost my mom together. I had an innocent and happy childhood without any major adversity in my life up that point.
In the year following my mom’s death, I went through many ups and downs, as expected. After I made up my final exams, I made up for missing out on fun by drinking too much alcohol and doing stupid things, but luckily I managed to avoid getting hurt or causing permanent damage. I went to therapy for the first time. Over time, the pain became less sharp, but the feeling of loss persisted and was part of my new identity. I attended a church service on Mother’s Day of that year, and ran out of the building when I felt the tears welling. That was clearly too soon. However, I kept living my life and was able to take an amazing trip backpacking around Europe the summer after my sophomore year of college.
December 2021 was the 30th anniversary of my mom’s passing. I still feel the loss every time I go through a major milestone in my life. I wish my mom could meet my husband and my kids, and know the adult version of me. I’ve had a distant fear of cancer hanging over my head all my life, but so far I’ve passed the age at which my mom was diagnosed (36) and her age when she died (48).
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