My Mother's Strength: Her Journey (Part I)

Mom was a strong woman—a brave woman, a woman of faith. She was also a private woman. She rarely shared her worries or allowed me to see her pain. She was Miss Optimistic! I can recount only a few times when I saw a more vulnerable side of her. When her younger sister, Auntie Kenia, passed away, I could feel the tension. Mom was stressed. She was not her carefree and positive self. I think I was in middle school at the time. She was handling lots of logistics for the family and figuring out care for my aunt’s daughter while grieving the loss of another sister. I didn’t even know that Mom had lost her eldest sister when she was just ten-years-old until I was in high school. Mom and I were going through old photos, and I found a picture of her and another cute little brown-skinned girl. They were wearing big smiles. Mom said it was her sister, Janet, and that she fell ill one day and died the next. She said they were best friends, only a year apart. I started to tear up. Mom began wailing—a deep, ugly cry I had never heard before. We rarely talked about Janet after that. 

Mom did not talk about sad things. She did not dwell on situations she could not change. Growing up, she would wake me up every morning and say in her joyous and loud voice: “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Translation: Little girl, get up. Do not complain about getting up early to make it to school on time. You are blessed. Mom always encouraged me to see the bright side of things, especially because my life had so many bright sides from which to choose. She practiced gratitude and, thankfully, it rubbed off on me later on in life. 

As I got older and started having my own challenges, I began asking Mom more questions about her life. We were best friends, but I did not know much about her pain and hard times. How did she overcome challenges? How was she so strong? Why doesn’t she ever worry? I was struggling with the bar exam at the time, so I was seeking tangible advice. Her answer was always Jesus. She said to pray and give it to God. This answer doesn’t always work for millennials like me. Mom knew this, but she was just speaking her truth. I also wondered how she was able to live such a carefree life. I remember saying, “Do you think it’s because you lost your sisters? You know life can be short.” Mom paused and then replied, “I think so. Tomorrow is not promised for anyone.” 

When Mom got sick, she remained positive. Dad got the tumor results and looked at Mom. He didn’t have to say anything. She knew it was cancerous. She could see it in his eyes. She said, “Don’t worry. We’re going to get through this.” She fought her battle with a Bible in her hand and a smile on her face. Mom continued to take care of my 93-year-old grandmother. She cooked, cleaned, and handled her medical appointments like always. She decided not to tell Grandma she was sick. Grandma worries about everything, so Mom wanted to keep her at peace for as long as possible. When her body was weak from the chemo treatments, Dad stepped in to help her take care of Grandma. Grandma complained that Dad wasn’t taking care of her the way that Mom does. Grandma called me one day and said in her high-pitched voice cloaked in her Guyanese accent: “Ashley, tell your mom she is slipping on her responsibilities. She used to take care of me.” It broke my heart because she did not know the battle Mom was fighting. 

I almost told Grandma, but I understood Mom’s reasoning. She was trying to protect her. She was trying to protect all of us. When I was chatting with my friend whose mom is fighting stage 4 breast cancer, she said, “I’m honestly glad our moms are being so strong. They may not be sharing everything with us, but I prefer it that way. It helps me be strong.” Her perspective resonated with me. She was right. Anytime I would get sad about Mom’s cancer, I would just call her or go hang out with her. Her optimism and bright spirit put me at ease. Mom is okay, so I am okay. 

Once her health declined, and she could no longer be that source of support for me, I leaned into the inner strength that Mom exhibited her entire life. It was now my turn to take care of her. I have her DNA. I can do this (with inevitable breakdowns sprinkled in between). When anyone asked her if she was in pain, she would yell an emphatic no. Yet she laid bedridden with difficulty breathing and speaking. Pain was a triggering word for her. She did not want her family to see her in pain; she was still trying to protect us. If we asked her if she was uncomfortable, that seemed to be a better fit. She would concede and allow us to do whatever we could to restore her comfort. 

When people would ask me how my mom was doing, I’d say, “Her body is weak, but her spirit is strong.”  And when people would ask her how she was doing, she’d say, “I am blessed and highly favored.” Sometimes, it would upset me. How could she say that? She is deteriorating—becoming a shell of the vibrant woman she once was. She is suffering, dying. She is an incredible woman—a wife, a mom—my mom. She should have more time. How is this a blessing? But Mom always said that no one escapes hard times. Life is not fair.  She also said that you can still find blessings in life’s valleys. While I have honored my pain, I have held onto one blessing—my mother’s strength: her desire to protect me. 

For years, I had been trying to get Mom to open up more—to talk about her pain. I even tried hosting Red Table Talks with the women in my family, so we could dig deep and get closer. Come on Mom, let’s get vulnerable and build connection. I know she was probably annoyed. She said I’d been asking too many questions since the age of two. She also liked to keep things light and fun. I tried explaining toxic positivity to her. I told her always remaining positive during tough times is not human. The use of the word toxic to modify positivity did not make sense to her. I also told her that vulnerability had become a sign of strength to me. I think I was recently introduced to Brene Brown at the time. Mom would nod her head and try to understand. 

Yet, in this instance, I am glad that Mom didn’t understand. At least she never made it apparent to me. She was not vulnerable with me during her fight. She demonstrated a greater strength that I will probably not be able to fully comprehend until I have children one day—a mother’s love. She knew exactly what I needed. I was her daughter; she had to protect me. I realized that certain levels of vulnerability can be appropriate depending on the relationship. Mom did not let me see the sad thoughts that may have crossed her mind—the fear of dying. Perhaps, there was no fear. Her faith was strong. I’ll never know, but I am grateful that she kept that distance between us. Her strength kept me going. She gave me hope. 

When we got the news from the doctors that Mom likely had hours to live, Dad called additional family members to the house. He wanted her to be surrounded by family when she made the transition. I honestly didn’t want to see Mom die, but I knew I could handle it. I had already come to peace with the inevitable. I knew that Dad could use my support. We stayed all night by her side. She was no longer responsive at this point. Dad was anxiously awaiting the worst moment of his (and my) life. Running around telling us she was close, Dad checked Mom’s temperature, took her blood pressure, and made sure she was comfortable. Uncle Eric called it nervous energy. Dad just didn’t know what to do with all of his love and simultaneous pain. Mom and Dad hadn’t spent more than two days apart in 39 years. 

I imagined Mom saying, “Sid, calm down. Why are you running around like a crazy person? It ain’t gonna change anything. You were the best husband. I love you. Now, trust Jesus and sit down. I will see you in heaven.” Mom was bossy; I’m the same way. It’s odd to picture funny moments at times like these, but I did. Mom was still using her faith and humor to put me at ease, even if it was just in my head. Once it started to get late, Dad said we should go home and come back the next day. Before I left her bedside, I squeezed her tight, kissed her cheek, and said, “I love you, Mommy. I’m okay. You can go be with Jesus.” When Dad called the next day to let us know she passed away, I was sad and relieved. He said the nurse had just left. It was just Mom and Dad in the room when she went quietly and peacefully. It was the way she would have wanted it to be. I think she planned it. Her final act of strength and protection—leaving this earth without me having to see it.