Thank you, Mom
Originally published April 4, 2021
My mother passed away on March 6th, 2021.
I wrote about her that spring in a piece called “Thank You, Mom,” which I published on Medium. I’m bringing it here to align with where I do my creative thinking now. Every year on this date I return to that piece — to sit with it, remember her, and remember me before she died.
I’ll share some reflections in a different post; but for now, what I wrote then:
March 21, 2021
Today would have been my Mother’s 78th birthday. She passed away in the early morning on March 6th, 2021 in our home of 37 years, after an 11-year battle with cancer. As anyone who has dealt with the death of a loved one intimately knows, the few weeks immediately thereafter are consumed with admin, logistics, planning, photos, finances, cleaning, calling — little to no time for grieving. But this is all expected, as the first stage of grief is Shock and Denial, a state of disbelief and numbness that anything has actually transpired.
When my Father passed away on July 19th, 2009, I was 29 years old, and had just graduated from Wharton Business School. I was in Philadelphia hanging out for the summer before moving to New York to start my own company. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was sitting at a café with my brother, Eugene, who was visiting. My mom called, which was uncommon. I picked up — she said: “Eurie, you and Opa need to come home right now...Appa is not going to make it.”
I hung up the phone and told my brother exactly what my Mother had said — we both thought, make it to what? He was not sick in any way. It was just a normal Sunday. We got up from our table quietly, went back to my apartment, and packed up to fly home. We got the last two seats on the last flight out to San Francisco that night. We flew in silence, arrived, and drove straight to the hospital — it was a slow motion blur. That first week was consumed with admin, logistics, planning, photos, finances, cleaning, calling. No time for grieving.
My brother actually took the California Bar Exam that week (he passed).
I never got to say goodbye to my Father. Since I always lived away from home, I’m not sure I fully admitted that he had passed away for months, even years. I somehow felt that he was still here. Sure, I couldn’t physically talk to him, but I could hear his voice. He really only said a few things to me throughout my life — like a fortune cookie, the messages were short and sweet.
My Mother was diagnosed with cancer about a year after my Father passed away. It was unexpected. She went from no known health issues to stage 3 ovarian cancer, out of the blue. We had just settled our lives back into some semblance of a new normal after my Dad’s passing. I had moved immediately back to San Francisco to help my Mother sell our family business, a small neighborhood café. I went back to work and was able to live close by to keep an eye on her.
When we found out about her cancer, the prognosis was grave. We miraculously got a last-minute appointment with Dr. Lee-may Chen at UCSF on a Tuesday. Dr. Chen is typically booked for months, but there was a rare cancellation, and her assistant Kelly was kind enough to reach out to us first because we had stopped by on Monday in person to leave a printed copy of all of my Mother’s medical records, as advised by a college friend, Dr. Catherine Dao, to whom we are eternally grateful. After seeing my Mother, Dr. Chen immediately booked surgery for that Thursday. We were grateful for the timeliness but fearful of the apparent urgency. I remember thinking: I’m going to lose both of my parents before I’m 30. I’m not married, I don’t have a house, I don’t have kids, I don’t have a career, I don’t have anything. I need my Mom.
My Mother used to say, you will never understand me, until you become a mother yourself. It was a frustrating statement when I was young, because I felt like she just didn't want to tell me what was on her mind. Now, as a mom, I realize that she was right. There are, in fact, no words to fully articulate the many feelings a mom has at any given moment — love, pride, joy, fulfillment, hope — but also fear, challenge, exhaustion, even sometimes resentment, all rolled up into every split second of every day.
When Izzy was born on June 20, 2017, a deluge of knowledge flooded into my mind. Suddenly I understood everything my Mother had ever said to me. With that enlightenment came an immense sense of guilt for all the years I did not understand. Did not appreciate. Did not fully grasp how much she sacrificed for me, for our family. I was always as grateful as I could be, but how could I really be grateful for things I could not possibly understand? Things I did not ask for? Even at times, things I did not want? And how unfulfilling might that have felt for my Mother, to give selflessly, and not feel fully seen, appreciated, understood?
I remember the day I finally understood my Mother’s unconditional love, and untold burden — I was nursing Izzy in her room, exhausted, emotional, lonely, and in pain, feeling a weight, responsibility, and fear I could never have imagined before, and all I could do was call my Mom and say: I’m so sorry it took me so long to understand. I get it now. I am so grateful for you and everything you have done for me. And I’m so sorry it’s been so hard for you. I’m so sorry you had to give up so much. I did not say “Thank you” on that call — the two words seemed too shallow. How could they possibly convey a lifetime of gratitude? My Mom knew that I finally saw her that day. She said, “Thank you.”
What Mom gave me, our family, was her identity. When she became our mom, she ceased being her own individual self, with her own hopes, desires, dreams, needs. She became a Mom, a Matriarch, carrying the responsibility and burden of her family’s safekeeping first and foremost in her mind and heart. She embraced that role fully, and in her death, it was the greatest accomplishment that gave her peace, for a life well-lived.
It wasn’t until the late 19th and early 20th century that women in South Korea even had access to formal education. When my Mother was in her 20s, in the late 1960s, it was still extremely uncommon for a woman to attend college. Those few female contenders who had the test scores, financial resources, and — most importantly — parental approval to do so dreamed of Ewha Women’s University, South Korea’s most prestigious women’s college to this day. Of course, that wasn’t enough for my mom.
My Mother, breaking gender barriers, was accepted to Seoul National University, the college that only the top male students competed for… she was one of only two women in the entire college. She graduated top of the class. She also went on to earn her graduate degree, rare for men, inconceivable for a woman. It was a true symbol of her ambition, intelligence, courage, even defiance of societal norms, and certainly a true credit to my grandmother (as my mother could not do any of this without the support of her mother) who was incredibly visionary, empowering, and fearless in protecting my Mother’s right to be educated, her right to be independent.
It is important to note that my grandmother was the O.G. feminist-trailblazer in the family, having only daughters (six!) during a time when traditional Korean society only valued sons and empowering each daughter to be unapologetically strong and ambitious. Pictured above to the right of my grandmother is Dr. Kaseja Kang, who got her PhD in Psychology from the University of Wisconsin (she taught herself English by transcribing every class recording into Korean) and practiced in Los Angeles until she turned 70 a handful of years ago… and to the left of my mom is Dr. Choong-Hui Kang, who earned her doctorate from Seoul University (following my mom’s footsteps) in Chinese Literature and taught the same subject as a tenured professor until she passed away a few years ago.
To know my Mom was to know her beauty. My Father always compared her to the plum blossom flower that grows in Korea even in snow — a symbol of perseverance and hope, of beauty, purity, and the transitoriness of life. This is my Mother.
To know my Mom was to know her fairness. She always believed that God, life, was always fair — if you had a lot, a lot was expected. If you had little, relief would come in some way. If you suffered, then there must be a reason, and you should endure the best way you know how.
To know my Mom was to know her food. Even in the last months, weeks, days of her life, she thought about what Korean dish she could make us, and how to divide the steps to work on them in 15-minute increments when she was able to get out of bed. Towards the end, when she was no longer able to move, she dictated steps to my brother, who navigated the recipes as extensions of her hands.
Over the past 9 months, I could not understand why she was so hell bent on making us food every day — we told her to rest, we told her we could get sandwiches, we told her it was too much work. She kept saying, how could she not prepare a hot meal for her precious kids? She said that she would cook for us until she could physically no longer do it. It almost made me not want to visit for fear that she would work herself to death trying to make me lunch.
One day during her last week of life, when I was leaving her for the day (the last day she was able to talk to me clearly) she asked me to bring her a plateful of fresh garlic so she could peel it in bed. As I broke up the garlic pieces for her, I noticed they were very hard and difficult to maneuver, even for my hands. It was impossible to think that with her frail hands, she would be able to peel even one of these pieces of garlic. I asked her why she would possibly want to do this — and she simply whispered, “Time is too precious to waste." If I do a little bit when I can, the garlic will get peeled eventually.” I realized in that moment, while she fully understood she was dying soon, she wasn’t dead yet — so how could she just waste her remaining precious minutes and seconds staring at the clock waiting to die? She was going to use every last second of life, to care for her children, as she has done our entire lives.
To know my Mom was to know her determination. She would always say, I did my best, and if it's my time, I'm ready. Since she was first diagnosed with cancer in 2010, there were probably 6 surgeries over the course of that decade, each one in a different part of her body, each one said to be "the last." Every time she confronted the challenge with head held high — outfit on point, heels and handbag matched — fists up ready to fight. Last July 2020, during a radiation treatment appointment, she sheepishly reported an inability to eat for 6 weeks, which panicked her doctors into admitting her to the hospital immediately. The next few days brought a harsh reality — they said she was in terminal condition and would have no more than three weeks to live. She demanded to go home immediately after hearing that prognosis. That was 9 months before she passed. Even the home hospice nurse said: "Your mother is the strongest person I have ever met." Yes. She is.
My Mother did not die of cancer — she died from Completion. She passed into her next life realizing that the purpose she had in this life, caring for her two children, had finally come to an end. Over the past 11 years, she relentlessly fought cancer to see me through every life milestone into adulthood: she saw me turn 30, find a career I love, have a fur-baby pup Early Kim, buy my own apartment, get married, buy our first house, have our first baby Izzy, learn to be a Mom, have our second baby James, she even made it to my 40th birthday. She did her absolute best, and there is nothing more I could possibly ask of her.
The hardest part for me in witnessing my Mother’s journey through her end of life was seeing her body fail her, piece by piece, in slow motion. I felt it cruel for her to be stripped of that which defined and empowered my Mother throughout her life — her strength. I often thought, if it were me in her place, I would have wanted to go before it got so bad; but the reality is, she did not know the concept of giving up. Even in her death, she embodied her way of life, best articulated by Viktor Frankl in Man’s Search for Meaning:
“Everything can be taken from a [wo]man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
My Mother always chose her own way — she always rose to the challenge, no matter what the circumstances. She would not dare give up even one minute of life with her family, no matter how much pain and suffering was involved. She was determined to use every ounce of her body, mind, and life to its fullest. And that she did.
When loved ones pass, it is understandable to think: I wish I could have said more before the end. But it turns out, there are only three things I could think to say to my Mother, even when I thought every day might be our last: 1) I love you; 2) Thank you; 3) We will be ok — you taught us well.
Thank you to all of my dearest friends and family who knew and loved my Mother — she loved you all so much and was so grateful for your presence in my life. She knew all of your stories, shared in all of your victories and disappointments, and took pride in all of your goodness, as though you were all her own kids. We all have a new angel looking out for us, making sure to advocate for our good fortune to whomever is in charge. She joins my Dad who has been hard at work over the past 12 years trying to pull strings for our family, ensuring my Mother could be with us until she was positive that we would be okay when she left.
The loss of my Mother in this life is immeasurable. But she has undeniably earned her peaceful rest and an eternity of happiness. I know she is in a better place now, reaping the reward for her hard work, waiting to meet us again in our next life.
I’ve been waiting for months to catch up on your Substack and this entry, whether you wrote it long ago or just today resonates and reverberates with so much love. To quote you “To know my mother was to know her beauty.” A beautiful plum blossom that has allowed and grown so much abundance and fruition. Beautiful, Eurie. Your mom must be so proud. 🥹
You’re so spot on about her reaching “completion”. She, like you, could never conceive of leaving something incomplete. Everything she touched was transformed for the better. You got that from her.