I seem to have become the keeper of the family photographs.
I didn’t ask for this job. But actually, as overwhelming that is was when it
was bestowed upon me, and as overwhelming as it is when I think about the giant
Rubbermaid tub filled with years of images, I am happy to have them in my
possession.
Some of my earliest memories are of uncurling the scalloped
edged, black and white photos that were taken by my father in Asia and Europe.
They presented a life to me that took place in locations so distant that it was
simply unfathomable to my young mind. They served as proof of my parent’s
youth. They served as proof that life existed before me. I have always
fanaticized about time travel, not traveling forward but back so that I might
relive moments or watch silently as history unfolds. I love the way that
photos can hold a moment in eternity.
Last winter my otherwise remarkably, healthy mother became
ill. Her stomach was persistently sour, she often felt dizzy and confused and
nothing tasted good. Her medical care provider prescribed her an antacid and
told her to return when she had finished her prescription. When my brother
called her one evening and heard her slurred speech he asked the nearest
neighbor to take her the hospital. It was then that I heard her describe the
taste of food as metallic. It was then that the light-bulb of recognition
flashed for me. In a few days the hospital doctors diagnosed stage 4 cancer.
The lesion on her brain was the likely culprit of the metallic taste in her
mouth.
At the time I was frantically juggling. For 5 months prior, my husband
and I had been preparing to move to China for his work. My then 17 year old daughter
had been diagnosed with an auto-immune disease. My husband's family had had several cases of auto-immune disorders which had resulted in life threatening illnesses. Olivia was due to graduate the following May and we were facing the prospect
of having her away at college and being treated by a pediatric rheumatologist
in Kansas City while we were living on the other side of the earth.The idea
that my mother was fatally ill was simply unfathomable. Attempting to process
it made my head feel like it would explode. I went through the motions each
day. I performed the English training that I do for a living. We filled out passport and Chinese Visa
applications, waited for the acceptance letter from the American School my son
would attend in Shanghai, went to doctor’s appointments for my daughter and
visited my mother as frequently as possible to find her declining more each
time. I’m certain that there was a perception that I was cold and unfeeling. In
truth I was completely overwhelmed. I was numb by default. I felt alone and on many days, I did
nothing but cry. In the past when I heard someone describe despair so deep that
a person couldn’t get out of bed for days, I was unable to empathize. During
those months, I experienced a hint of it. My motivation for getting out of bed
was the work that I love and my children who needed to see my face.
My Indonesian mother, Dutch father and their two oldest sons
immigrated to the US. They had had a comfortable life in Indonesia where my
father managed a rubber plantation.
After WWII Indonesia fell into communist rule and all people of Dutch
ancestry were forced to leave. The Netherlands was in economic recovery after
WWII and finding jobs to support a family was nearly impossible. Thousands of
families of Dutch/Indonesian ancestry were given refugee status and relocated
to many corners of the earth. My parents and brothers landed in Kansas.
I often wonder what my mother eyes saw when they landed in
Kansas City. I wonder what she thought as she looked out over farms and fields
as they drove west to Lawrence, Kansas. I know that their beginnings in Kansas
were humble and I’m certain that the people that kindly welcomed them into the
community knew little about the countries where my parent’s lives began.
When my mother was 13
years old the Japanese had invaded Indonesia. I know that her 13 year old eyes
saw more violence, injustice and brutality than any child should ever see.
After the war the Dutch military came for what they called “reconstruction” but
was actually “re-colonization” and she met my father. Later in life my mother
spoke of the comforts she’d had in Indonesia, the hired help, the status in
their lives and how that compared to her beginnings in Kansas. This might
explain the state of dissatisfaction that seemed to manifest in so many areas
of her life. She was beautiful, stylish, talented, generous and frequently “at
odds” with members of her family, people in her community, American culture,
the opposing political party and the hypocrisy of Christianity. Ironically she
had been raised Catholic and was extremely devout in her belief.
My mother was the “driving force” behind making money and
saving money. She sold eggs, cleaned houses, recycled, pinched pennies and
stretched dollars. Her experience with scarcity during the war seemed to be the
voice in her head that drove her. She was obsessed with having “enough” of
everything. She hoarded food, perishable and non-perishables. Her multiple closets
were FULL of clothes that represented styles and trends from each decade during
her life in the US. She hoarded cooking utensils, baking dishes, pans and
cooking appliances. She collected enough office supplies to run a business for
years. Each year she planted and tended a garden big enough to feed a community
and in some cases she did. My mother could never turn away a homeless pet or a
hungry person.
When my father passed away in 2008 my mother refused to the
leave the home that she and my father built on the land that they’d worked so
hard to buy. She lived alone in the too big house, with her cats and her dog,
planted her too big garden and did her best to care for her much too big yard.
She was lonely and felt isolated but she wouldn’t give up her home. At times
when I would call her she was happy and animated. More often when I would call
she was frustrated and unhappy. Seeing her was frequently a ”mixed bag” which
made it difficult to see her with frequency.
In late March my husband, my son, my daughter and I traveled to
Shanghai for ten days. We visited the school that my son would attend, found an
apartment nearby and visited the city. One Sunday while walking through the
French Concession (the area of Shanghai named for the Concession that was held
by the French from 1849 to 1943 and is now a popular tourist area) I saw a
Chinese woman of my mother’s era flanked by her two sons and followed closely
by her other children and possibly grandchildren. They were quite a procession.
The woman was clearly the matriarch of her family and carried herself with an
air of distinction that was clearly bestowed upon her by her children. She and
I briefly made eye contact though I seemed to have been rather invisible to her, I will never forget her or the realization
that I made at that moment. The scene that I witnessed would have been my
mother’s dream and she in fact had earned it.
When I returned from China my mother had lost all her hair,
she had lost even more weight and was very, very weak. On April 17 she passed. The following week my
husband’s company announced that it would not send us to live in China as
planned. All of the months of
preparation came to a halt and the earth also seemed to screech to a stop on
its axis.
More than a month later we held a memorial at the church that
we had attended as children. It was the same church that sponsored our family
to the US. Each of us; my three brothers, our spouses and our children gathered
with friends and community members to celebrate my mother’s life. Some of her
favorite hymns were sung by many of the voices that I’d heard each Sunday
throughout my childhood. Their voices blanketed us with their familiarity and love. The
next day we met with our children at my parent’s home and carried their ashes
to the top of the hill which marked the border of their land. We stood in a circle
and each shared a memory. We laughed and we cried. Each one of us filled a cup
with some of each of my parent’s ashes and scattered them.
Life has started to return to something that feels almost
normal. About a month ago I realized that my grief had come in layers of loss
as I slowly allowed myself to “feel”. I
have come to terms with not moving to China and I might even feel a little
grateful not to have. My daughter decided to wait a year to start university
and is actually managing her health without medication. My parent’s house and
land sold rather quickly and I sadly said goodbye to it. My husband and I are
making plans for the future.
I haven’t quite figured out how to mourn for my mother. On
some days I can feel her near me. On other days I am resentful and confused. And
there have been days that I recognize her humor in something that I hear myself
say and I laugh out loud.
Downstairs there is a Rubbermaid tub filled with images and
moments. There are photos of my children and those of my brothers. There are
photos of friends who are a part of our lives today and some that we will never
see again. There are photos of relatives
that share our DNA that we have never known. Best of all, there are images of my
parents who are adventurous and young and healthy and always will be.
