Around
Christmas three years ago, I lost my mother to cancer. I
wrote about it a few months back, about how painful it is to go through
something like that—and how painful it still is. No amount of words could ever
really do justice to the experience, they are never enough to let anybody know just how miserable it
was.
Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday, and on the weekend will be Mother’s Day. And instead
of writing about the tragedy of death, as I have before, I’m going to tell you about life—her life.
Like a
lot of people, I know I grew up with a love-hate relationship with my mother.
She’s the stricter between my parents, and there was a lot of pressure to live
up to her expectations—doing well in school, taming down extra-curriculars,
being quiet and responsible home bodies. Eventually, I stopped paying too much attention
to academics and focused more on various school and after-school activities
(like school plays and several organizations)—until my grades began to slide,
and we began to share our first few fights.
We shared
a lot of screaming matches (with my sisters as well) over chores, our social
lives, boys and vices like drinking, smoking and piercings, to name a few. There
were definitely moments when we nearly strangled each other, a normal situation
between mothers and daughters. I was scared of her, for a time, because I was a
teenager and it was in my chemical composition to be.
Of
course, that’s not to say we didn’t get along with her—we did. We often went to
the mall together, sharing a love of shopping and food. One of my fondest
memories of my mom would be that she was, and still is, the best cook and baker
I know. Countless hours were spent in the kitchen, making brownies and
chocolate chip cookies and yummy cakes.
A lot
of things that I used to resent are the things that I’m now grateful she imparted: flawless instructions on etiquette, learning to do chores, how to speak
with people, enrolling us in dance, karate and tennis lessons, feeding our love for books, finding
time for the family—mother really did know best. And now, I only wish I can
tell her that.
Her invitations
on Facebook for Farmville used to annoy the hell out of me. But now, I would
gladly trade three hundred requests for just one more day with her. And
speaking of Facebook, I used to be so embarrassed when she commented on photos
of me and my friends, and now, I would give anything for even just one more
comment.
My
mother was the strongest, bravest, most graceful, most beautiful woman I’ve
ever known, and I’m not just saying that because she’s my mother. Or maybe that’s
precisely why I’m saying that—because she was an absolutely amazing mother.
I wish
I could have had more time with her. She was an angel—and she earned her angel’s
wings far too soon.
I said
I would talk about her life, but I can't ever do it justice. I can’t even say it right, but maybe that’s
because no words will ever be enough to tell you how wonderful she was and how
grateful I am for her.
