One Last Time

Hamilton has a song for everything, and all the songs are constantly in my head.  Lately, “One Last Time” has been on a loop in my head, which never happened before. 

A couple of Wednesdays ago (in the middle of September) I was talking to my mom on messenger. We were talking about my nephew’s being quarantined in boot camp, a cousin who died of COVID, and the weather.  The weather was the last thing we talked about before it became too late for one of us to stay up.  That Saturday, I sent a message asking if we could call sometime that weekend on Skype.

But it was that Saturday that my brother Chris’ girlfriend had to call 911 while they were sitting together and my mom couldn’t breathe. Chris did so much to keep everything together, and to help us feel connected. The next four days were filled with machines doing everything for her. Chris worked out ways for us to facetime, and we were able to talk to her four times while she was on a ventilator, unable to talk. He said her eyes opened.

My friend, Rita was social worker with hospice. She knew everything and kept up with me 24/7. I was so lost, but she was great guide. She told me that my mom could hear everything.

Then it was being up all night talking to my mom’s cousins and friends and neighbors, and being exhausted all day.  My boss let me come in after lunch for a week, which helped, but didn’t really help the fact that I didn’t want to be there.

Then, my favorite day, September 23rd, the first day of fall, the anniversary of my failed marriage (But I never let that tarnish the day) our friends came and made us dinner and sat with us until my brother called.  We facetimed again, and Rumi played a beautiful song on the piano just before they unhooked her from everything. 

We’re stuck here. We couldn’t leave, because our visas would be instantly invalid, and we wouldn’t be able to come back. Before this happened, I talked about sending the girls, but my mom said it was too dangerous there with Ohio being a red-zoned state, and we should wait till it all blows over. It’s over here in China, but Americans are still in the thick of it.

I wrote the obituary, and I realized so many people just kind of skip to the end.  We just turn it into a brief outline leaving out all the details and avoiding the huge emptiness looming.  Seventy-seven years reduced down to a few impersonal sentences.  I thought about me going through cancer at 42 and still needing my mommy.  All the packages we’ve received over the past decade, just two weeks ago, we got a small one with hand made slippers and a piece of jewelry for each of us.  Mine was a beautiful bracelet that I absolutely love.  She said there were blankets to match the slippers waiting for us.  None of this makes it in the paragraphs.

The wake was on the 30th, the day after my mom and dad’s 58th anniversary. I went to bed early and woke up at 3:30, with tea and tissues ready and table set up with my ipad and phone. One of my oldest, best friends Julie, went for me. She took her phone, and let me talk to some people and sent pictures of the flowers and stuff. She’s been to every single family event since I’ve known her, so she stepped up as a sister again.

It’s been four years since we were in America. It didn’t bother me before. It’s out of my hands now. I’m just glad it’s a holiday in China, because it wouldn’t be able to stand in front of a class and say a single thing.

You know by now, Rumi’s turned into a chef, and I love to cook, but we haven’t made a meal in about week. We just keep ordering food, and laying around doing nothing. I wanted to go hang in Starbucks one day, but because of the holidays, everything was really crowded, and we just came home. Rita said to light a candle, which I have for two days. I honestly don’t think I’ve grieved until now. I’ve felt sad, depressed, unsure, confused, isolated, missed people, but never like this. Never all at once.

The song “One last time” is about learning to say goodbye. But if I had known, I wouldn’t have spent those last few normal minutes talking about the damn weather.