It’s been nearly a month since everything fell apart, and my family began acquainting ourselves with the grief that comes from watching the person you love most shrink away from the person they used to be, the person who always made everything OK.
Now I cry at everything (and I hate crying). I cry at my daughter’s swim lesson because I always send mom photos and videos of her progress. I cry at the frozen yogurt place when my daughter tips up the cup of melted yogurt like a she’s taking a tequila shot; I would have sent mom a photo of the chocolate mustache that remained. Each time my daughter says something funny, I file it away to tell my mother later—I have FaceTimed her almost every day since April 2020.
I sob over my sleepy newborn because my mom was supposed to be here with him, with us. I choke back tears at the Korean bakery because the last time I was there, she was with me. She loves the pasteis de nata, almost as good as the ones I’d had once in Lisbon. I cry while eating good bread because mom loves bread. I cry while eating ice cream because mom loves ice cream. (Preferably from the carton.) My mother is everywhere. Untethering from her is both impossible to do and yet impossibly painful otherwise.
Then after sobbing in the car or wiping tears from the head of my nursing newborn, when my daughter, elated, greets me at the front door, I wipe my face dry and smile back. Now I need to be someone’s mom. I’m at the hospital most of the day, so I try desperately to create some kind of normalcy for my daughter when I am around.
All in, she is adjusting well to being a big sister. She called her baby brother a “poo-poo potato head” once, but that has more to do with her being an early adopter of potty words than any actual malice she feels towards him. She’s a bit obsessed, actually. She curls up next to him and, in a high-pitched voice says, “Hi baby brother! It’s your big sister,” and then pets him delicately on the head as if he were a Chia Pet, his soft spot a plot of pokey grass. Still, I can’t be reduced to hysterics each time she says, “Are you sad because you miss your mommy?” (You’d be surprised how often she asks.) Her world has been turned upside down, too.
My mother is the strongest person I know; I want to love my daughter in all the ways my mother has loved me. But there’s a very specific reason why I am able to be present with my daughter when I come home, why I am still able to access all that love when I am knocked breathless at the realization of my new reality. It’s because I have been loved: By my mother, my husband, my family, and by you.
In times of crisis, people want to help. This desire comes naturally for so many people, and to witness it in action the way I have the last few weeks makes it easier to see that the world isn’t all bad.
Since my mother’s collapse, my husband has been working overtime at home so I don’t have to. My mother in law has devoted her time to assisting us however necessary. You, my friends and colleagues and acquaintances and Internet companions, have shared selflessly: your listening ears, your time, money, food, energy, and most of all, a little space in your heart.
You have dropped everything at your homes to come pick up the pieces at mine. You’ve cooked for us and brought us bagels and coffee and pastries and held my baby and played with my toddler. You’ve set up play dates for my daughter and washed my dishes and grocery shopped. You’ve sent DoorDash gift cards, listened to me cry, and distracted me with skincare recommendations and absurd memes. You’ve been vulnerable and you’ve made me laugh. You’ve constructed playlists for me and said, “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” You’ve done all this so that I can spend hours at the hospital next to my mother and cry into cartons of ice cream when I am home.
You have pushed aside the clutter in your own hearts, the worry and fear and sadness and anxiety and anger that you, too, are holding, and have made space for me in a tidy corner. I like to think that, in this heart palace, you hold my family and I wrapped up in one of those ugly but obscenely soft blankets. The kind you guffaw at but secretly covet. Maybe something akin to a Snuggie. This space that’s been made for me and my family, this brutally human space, means more than I have words for. So “heart palace” will have to do.
There is nothing anyone can do that will erase what my family and I have witnessed since the night of February 7. No one can take me back to February 6 and stop time. But your humanity has moved me. It’s proved that our capacity for love is so much greater than we often give ourselves credit for. It’s a fitting homage to my mother, whose humanity knew no bounds. Thank you. xx
Your Mom, was one of the strongest people I know. The way she faced cancer so very long ago, gave me a glimpse into how I should face cancer a few years later and then again more recently as I had faced another cancer fight in the last 5 years. She had no idea what her strength, attitude and positivity would help me and who knows how many others during our cancer fight just by Debbie being Debbie and I wanted to be half the example she didn’t even know she was setting. Oh, and Katie-Deenie (that’s how I refer to you…the Deenie thing confuses me as to if it’s your Aunt Deenie or you Deenie. Also, I refer to Neal as Neal-Woody which keeps my simple mind unconfused) how your mother loved both of you and she was so good at it. Obviously, Ms Ruby was a very good teacher to your Mom and your Aunt Deenie (the other Deenie) so knowing that has been passed down to you and you’ll pass it down to your children and the world will feel the love for generations to come. What a legacy you have to carry on but no doubt you’ll do it and be good at it because you were taught and you learned from the very best. Oh, how I’ll miss Debbie, she was always the happy, always dressed with earrings and makeup on, always the first to-ask, “how are you”? No matter what she was dealing with, you and Neal-Woody were both teenagers at the same time, the house needing cleaning, the clothes needing washing and supper needed cooking and a million other things I’m sure, Debbie Assaf Hartzog always cared
more about everyone else and how she could help and be there for them. I loved Debbie Assaf Hartzog along with everyone else who knew her. How could you not? Katie, you and Neal have both been so blessed to have had Debbie Assaf Hartzog as your Mom. Love you all, Cheyrle Peebles.
This was such a heartbreaking beautiful piece. I’m so sorry for your loss of your beautiful Mom. Jaime had kept me updated and my heart grieves for you and your family. Sending prayers and hugs❤️