Tag Archives: caregivers

The Gift on My Mom’s First Birthday Since Death

 

Photo credit: "Single" by Linsday

Photo credit: “Single” by Lindsay, used with Creative Commons License

On January 27, 2015, my family lived through the first birthday of my mother after her death.  On that one day, I cried and I laughed.  I bummed around and I got dressed up.  I slowed down enough to get nostalgic and I rushed in between hectic events.  On that day, I learned that I could experience “all of the above” while still grieving.  I also received an unexpected gift.

We celebrated my mother’s birthday in honor of her.  When she was alive and especially when she was able bodied, she used to celebrate the birthdays of loved ones who were far away and who had passed away.  For her, being absent was not an obstacle to celebrating special occasions.  Of course, celebrating special occasions with certain loved ones missing is not the best.  Perhaps my mother learned this as a wife of a career diplomat moving globally as an alternative to the feeling of missing out on everything as an expat.  We celebrated my mom’s birthday in her absence because she did that for so many of us through the years and because we miss her.


I my mind, I needed to stay at home and absorb my mom’s absence on a day that was probably going to be one of the days of the year I would grieve most intensely.


 This year, my mother’s birthday was the same day as a close friend’s wedding.  At first I was hesitant about going.  I was not sure I would be in the right frame of mind or be emotionally energetic enough to attend a wedding.  I thought to myself, “Of all the days in the year, it had to be on her birthday??… How am I supposed to make that decision?”  In my mind, I needed to stay at home and absorb my mom’s absence on a day that was probably going to be one of the days of the year I would grieve most intensely.

However, I surprised myself.  About two weeks before the wedding, I decided to offer my close friend and his fiance a formal wedding portrait package as my wedding gift.  Whatever plans they had for a formal wedding shoot had not yet been solidified so the wedding shoot became useful for the couple.  The desire came naturally and I began to look forward to doing this for my friends on their special day.

Doing the wedding photo shoot was a giant step for me.  The last formal photo shoot I did was at the end of February, 2014, about two weeks before my mom passed away.  That photo shoot took me out of the house for some hours on the last day it turned out she was speaking with full consciousness.  It’s still too painful to count exactly how many hours I was away from her side… it’s a useless and pointless kind of painful.  


I carried around guilt for over ten months because of the timing of when I left the house to do that last photo shoot.


When I came back home that evening, something seemed different about my mom, but I thought she was just tired.  By the next day, her speech and mind slowly began to show signs of deterioration.  I carried around guilt for over ten months because of the timing of when I left the house to do that last photo shoot. I had a hard time looking at the photos from that photography session for a long time.

At this exact time I am writing this sentence, I am realizing now that the wedding photo shoot was a gift from my mom to release me from the guilt I carried around for over ten months.  The timing of the wedding and the fact that my friends did not yet have any offers for a formal wedding photography session came into play for me to learn that I should not stop doing what I love doing.

The question I previously thought to myself is now my answer:  “Of all the days in the year, it had to be on her birthday.”

Because of the wedding, what started off as a day of nostalgia and a sense of homesickness for my mom, ended up being a very full day.  January 27th this year started off with me looking at photos and videos of her birthday from last year shortly after midnight.  When I woke up in the morning, I called one of my mom’s sisters to talk about my mom and the mini celebration my aunt was preparing for the day also.  

I cut fresh roses from our garden and arranged them in various vases on the area we reserved for my mom’s urn.  We set the framed photo of my mom, my dad’s favorite photo of her, the birthday balloon and small birthday cake I got later, in the same area.  I said my birthday wishes to my mom before I rushed out the door for the photo shoot.


My visually creative side was alive again and everything seemed natural to me.  My friends look beautiful in the photos and I am grateful I was there to capture the moment of the day they got married.


The photo shoot was wonderful.  My visually creative side was alive again and everything seemed natural to me.  My friends look beautiful in the photos and I am grateful I was there to capture the moment of the day they got married.  We proceeded to the reception venue and I set up an area for photo sessions for the guests before rushing back home.  My dad, my son and I would be home and awake at the same time only in that window before the wedding reception. 

When I got home, we celebrated my mom’s birthday and took photos together of the occasion before I quickly dressed up for the wedding reception.  I rushed back to the reception wearing an outfit that resembled my mom’s style, including a top she gave me a long time ago.  I used one of her purses that matched my outfit.  I met up with my date at the reception, someone I laugh a lot with, and we just enjoyed the evening. I took photos, I ate, I drank and I was merry.  Within the few hours of the reception, we all created memories that will now always be part of the day my friends got married.


I know my mom would have loved to smell the roses, have some cake, hold the birthday balloon in her hand in her childlike zest for life, and hear all the stories about the rest of the hectic day…(it) makes me cry, but I also smile because she gave me a gift on her birthday.


 At the end of the day, I came home to a quiet house.  But it was also the quiet you get after a full day lived well.  I know my mom would have loved to smell the roses, have some cake, hold the birthday balloon in her hand in her childlike zest for life, and hear all the stories about the rest of the hectic day.  To imagine how it would be to still have her here with us on her birthday makes me cry, but I also smile because she gave me a gift on her birthday.  

On my mom’s first birthday since her death, my mom gave me this message:  “Live days worth telling stories about.”

"Mama's Gift on Her First Birthday Since Death"

On January 27, 2015, I learned I must continue to be present in this life, unpause what I love doing and continue to live out my days knowing it’s ok to miss my mom deeply, but also making sure I don’t miss out on life.

 

Thank you, Mama, for your gift to me on your first birthday since you left us.

We love you, Evangeline Vitug Dumapias, January 27, 1945 – March 15, 2014.

 

Confronting Goodbyes

“Goodbye” by Gybsteria, used with Creative Commons license

[Once in a while, there are some topics that have particular meaning to caregivers or the aging population, but also hold significant meaning to global nomads or Third Culture Kids of different ages.  How we say goodbye is one of these topics.  This article, “Confronting Goodbyes,” was originally published in Culturs, a “global, multi-cultural lifestyle magazine for Global Nomads, Third Culture Kids and racially-, ethnically-, and culturally-blended people.”]

If I had a shirt I could have worn throughout my childhood and teen years of moving around the world, it would spell out these words from my all-time favorite quote: “I hate good-byes.”

Good-byes for me meant leaving countless close friends I could be completely be myself around. I had to constantly leave behind or be left behind by the friends I had sleep-overs with, tape recorded little adventures with, and shared secrets with.  A history of “last times” with friends I grew up with, in one to two-year time spans, perforated the timeline of my days with them.

Good-byes also meant living away from my parents through some childhood years that will never be repeated.  When the tuition of the limited options for English education was beyond my parents’ budget, I at times needed to live with my grandparents and cousins in another country. Political unrest in the country of our expat assignment also sometimes led to the need for me to live away from my parents.


 Frequent goodbyes can make one want to feel numb.  However, I am not. Something always pulled me back to feeling the pain of good-byes each time they happen and I could not figure out why I had not developed a coping mechanism to feel less of the pain as I got older.


 

I also had to let go of favorite places, classes, teachers and school staff, foods, and TV shows.   Good-byes cut short the time I had with loved ones as well as whole environments. This can take a toll on emotions when it’s repeated so frequently and when it occurs before a child or adolescent has had a chance to know what stability feels like.

Frequent goodbyes can make one want to feel numb.  However, I am not. Something always pulled me back to feeling the pain of good-byes each time they happened and I could not figure out why I had not developed a coping mechanism to feel less of the pain as I got older.  I took psychology courses in college and learned more about human development in my graduate education for social work.

None of the theories or case study exercises ever seemed to satisfactorily address my sense of grief at goodbyes, the enormity of its effect in my life or the way newer goodbyes, even those I that were unintentionally re-enacted by children around me, were connected to the goodbyes of my youth.

I only figured it out when I experienced the deepest goodbye I have ever experienced in my life thus far: the goodbye journey I had with my mother when she passed away.  It was not until she passed away earlier this year that I reflected on how she said goodbye to me throughout the years.


 …she would watch her loved one not only board a plane, but watch the plane fly away until it was smaller than a dot in the sky.  My mother would watch the car of her loved one drive away until it turned a corner or the tail lights were so far they were less than sparkles at night.


 

My mother would confront each goodbye with me and other loved ones through the very last minute moment of it.  Before the historical event that changed airport security practices worldwide, she would watch her loved one not only board a plane, but watch the plane fly away until it was smaller than a dot in the sky.  My mother would watch the car of her loved one drive away until it turned a corner or the tail lights were so far they were less than sparkles at night.  She would watch my school bus drive away until she could no longer see it after shifting her position or peering around obstacles in her line of sight.

My mother knew how to say goodbye because she did not fear the pain of it.  She confronted the pain of goodbyes in a way that most think unnecessary or too overwhelming to tolerate.  It seems almost unthinkable how a wife of a foreign service career diplomat who moved so frequently can still be willing to feel the pain of goodbyes.  After making a home for her family and connecting to friends as intimately as she would with her own siblings or children, she would time and again leave behind everything she whole heartedly put herself into.

I wondered, “How did she do that?  How can my mom bear the pain over and over again?  How can it not tear her down to wanting to just give a little less the next time around and even less after that?”

When I think about my parents’ last foreign assignment, in Bahrain, I am even more bewildered.  It was at this last post that my mothers’ capacity to connect to people seemed to shine the brightest.  Her own brother mentioned how shocked he was at the countless number of my mother’s genuine friends during his visit to Bahrain.  In the single setting of a hospital waiting room, my uncle witnessed a diverse pool of visiting friends who were deeply affected when my mother had a major disabling stroke at the age of 57.  The repeated visits of numerous friends arriving in shifts for weeks demonstrated to him a deeper level of friendship than courtesy visits for a diplomat’s wife.

Reflecting back, this meant that instead of giving less of herself after each goodbye, she was able to become even more genuine after each move.


…the reason why my mother was able to connect so well to people was her lack of fear of the pain of goodbyes.  The reason why she faced the pain of goodbyes was so that she could look forward to the next hello again and again…. It was as if she knew she would not run out of what sourced her to keep giving.


 

I grew up noticing how my mother would start a conversation with a stranger and show genuine interest in the stranger’s children and spouse, sibling or aging parents they left behind.  She connected with people of different backgrounds: from the visiting Korean concert pianist who accompanied a world touring Filipino violinist, to the Filipino factory worker, to the photographer for the royal family, to the husband and wife musician team at the hotel, to fellow ambassador wives who also missed their children who were away .  In turn, they connected with her as their mother, dear sister, or aunt.  In person, I have met at least five individuals who called my mother, “mom.”  I am an only child.

It occurred to me that the reason why my mother was able to connect so well to people was her lack of fear of the pain of goodbyes.  The reason why she faced the pain of goodbyes was so that she could look forward to the next hello again and again.  Feeling the pain ensured she was still present and that she had herself to offer again for the next hello with her loved ones as well the next hello with strangers. It was as if she knew she would not run out of what sourced her to keep giving.

My mother grew up in the era when overseas travel involved loved ones parting at a ship dock.  The person on the ship would throw and stay connected with the person at the dock with a string one person would hold on one end and the other person would hold on the other until the string snaps. I believe my mother faced the heart-wrenching emptiness of watching someone leave and withstood the position of being the one left behind because emotionally, she knew she would be ok after feeling the pain.  Finding a way to live with the pain of goodbyes allowed her to spend every last moment possible in the presence of those she loved.  Even to be near enough to the plane that took off was special to her. The cost of the pain in doing things like this was worth it for her.  Perhaps this fueled her until she could make it to the next reunion with loved ones.


 It is healthy to feel pain.  We need to embrace the heart-wrenching pain of goodbyes so that we can embrace the joys of the hellos and the connections that can form from them.


 

We as a Third Culture Kid or global nomad tribe must know that we can be ok after feeling the pain of goodbyes so that we can look forward to the next hellos.  It is healthy to feel pain.  We need to embrace the heart-wrenching pain of goodbyes so that we can embrace the joys of the hellos and the connections that can form from them.

I realized the answer I was looking for just were not in textbooks.  I hated goodbyes and hate the remnants of painful goodbyes from my youth still, but I continue to face them anyway because it is part of the journey of valuing relationships.  Without feeling pain at the last moments with people we value, how do we know we are allowing ourselves to experience the full extent of vulnerability that allows for growth in relationships?  Pain is a miserable emotion, but without it, we miss out on the broad spectrum of life and relational experiences.  Without pain, how do we know we are truly alive?

The entirety of my all-time favorite quote states,

“Why can’t we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together forever?  Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. And then we have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes… You know what I need? I need more hellos.” (Charles M. Schulz, “Snoopy, Come Home!” 1972, song “It Changes”).

The next time you find yourself dreading goodbyes, consider how your last goodbyes can prepare you to embrace your next hellos.

 

Dedicated to my mom, Evangeline V. Dumapias, who passed away on March 15, 2014 and all wives or husbands who give so much of themselves in their support of a spouse with a globally mobile career.

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