"Umma, I'll see you in London." I said it in a way so as to convince myself that my Mom would somehow, some way become cancer-free. As if by saying something emphatically, it would become true. This was March 2013.
When my mother realized that perhaps cancer might get the best of her in February 2013, my older brother (who was living in Korea near my mother) relayed to my sister (who was living in London at the time) and me that it might be a good idea to come out to Korea to say our final goodbyes. And so we obliged. We both separately arranged to take our families in March to stagger our stays.
I never believed that my mom would actually die, though. I was pretty confident that she would beat death.
In February 2009, I found out that my Mom had Stage 4 colon cancer a couple of days after I got engaged to Susan. My family purposely withheld the information from me until after my proposal. My Mom was the first person I officially contacted afterwards. Using my highly sophisticated Blackberry Smartphone, I e-mailed my Mom on Sunday, 2:07 PM, "Umma, She said Yes!" Exactly 21 minutes later at 2:28 PM, my Mom replied back, "congratulations, my son!" Umma.
When I came home after the most memorable weekend of my life late Monday night, my brother (who was living in Southern California with me at the time) gave me the sobering news about Umma. I have never experienced, nor probably will ever again experience such juxtaposition of joy and sorrow in such a short span of time.
We had originally planned on getting married in December but because we wanted my Mom to be part of the wedding, Susan and I moved up the wedding to July of that year. Just in case. Umma somehow was able to fly from Korea to Los Angeles in between chemo treatments. Moms are just like that. And this Umma in particular was not going to let a little cancer prevent her from watching her youngest of three children get married. I was confident that God would extend her life. All things considered, my Mom looked great at the wedding and there was no reason to think she would do anything but live a long and healthy life.
April 1st, 2013. Easter Sunday. Around 2 PM.
My brother called me on Kakao. He never calls me on Kakao. I instantly knew. I didn't want to pick up but what else could I do other than pick up my brother's Kakao call? In my reluctance to actually take my brother's Kakao call, though, I accidentally hit Kakao's Ben the Dog voice as I received the devastating news of my Mom's passing. My brother must have been a bit confused. Why is Jibin talking in a dog voice? Even at the time, I thought it was kind of funny. I just didn't laugh. I sobbed in my wife's arms. And then I sobbed some more on the flight to Korea by myself the following night. I landed at Incheon Airport, rendezvoused with my sister (flying in from London) as planned and my cousin, Hong de Joo, took us directly to the hospital where we would all mourn together as a family for the next couple of days.
Psalm 116:15
"Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of His godly ones."
I've had nearly three years to reflect on my Mom's passing. I'm grateful that my son got to spend his dol in Korea and while Zach will not remember much about his grandmother, he nevertheless will be a beneficiary of my Mom's rich spiritual legacy. What a freeloader.
I have a daughter now. She's turning 2 soon, and she's a handful. Like my Mom, she's fiercely independent. If I try to feed her, she'll say, "Me eat." If I try to buckle the carseat, she'll defiantly respond with, "Me seatbelt." My mom would have thoroughly enjoyed Juliet Park.
But I'm absolutely sure she's in heaven enjoying her granddaughter right now.
I love you, Umma. See you in about 40-50 years. Probably.
Read other related questions on Quora:
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from Quora http://ift.tt/28pnBNG
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