Physician Healer

Issue 12 Mom

Mom

Since Mother’s Day is around the corner, I thought I’d take some time today to write about my mom. I’ve been thinking about her a lot this week. I do believe that much of how we become as adults stems from patterns we’ve observed in the adults who raised us. For me, between my dad and my mom, it would be my mom who influenced me the most. No offense, Dad.

Last week, I happened to find an older photo of my mom holding me all swaddled up. My dad used to write the photo date on a piece of paper and then place it in front of us so that when the picture was developed, we would know the exact date it was taken. This photo was taken days of my birth. My mom looked very happy and pleased with herself.

The photo brought back memories and made me smile. She often told me that when I was born, she was the happiest she had ever been. The pregnancy was easy, she had an awesome appetite and all of her usual ailments were gone. She suffered from abdominal pains and migraines for years. In fact, because of her long history of a condition called endometriosis, her obstetrician and gynecologist used to tell her that it would be a challenge for her to conceive. She tried for more than 2 years after she married my dad before her pregnancy became a reality.

Although she never said it, whenever I made her proud with winning piano competitions or getting good grades in school, she’d say with her eyes glistening,

“I tried very hard to have you. The doctor said I couldn’t have children. And, here you are.”

It was not her way to shower any of us with compliments. She used to say it was rude to brag and that would go to our heads. In fact, she was not an especially affectionate individual as I recall growing up. I didn’t get my first hug until I had to leave for college.

I always reported to her whatever happened at school everyday, what the teacher said, what the kids did, and so on. It was always so much easier to talk to her than to my dad. My mom was a stickler for details and kept track of all the different names of the different friends I had and all of our dramas—my dad, not so much. He always got all the characters confused and couldn’t keep them straight and I had to constantly repeat myself.

It was like that whenever we watched movies, too. They would get into these little heated arguments about the theme of the movie, which actor did what or said what and my mom would have to straighten out the facts and the plot for him. My dad would get all upset, get up from the couch and walk away mumbling. She was the brains in the family while my dad was more the muscle. Oh, and he did most of the cooking because my mom hated domestic chores. She was in charge of the laundry, however, only because she was very particular about how the clothes turned out, insuring they were free of wrinkles or color bleeds.

Growing up having moved many times, when we finally landed in Pasadena, my brother and I were old enough to understand my mom’s childhood stories of the number of siblings she had (she was number 14 out of 16). What I remember most was how much she used to miss her parents. My maternal grandparents passed away when my mom was 9. From what I could gather, my grandmother died from cancer and my grandfather from a heart attack.

From time to time, we would take out the old photo albums and my mom would look wistfully and longingly at her group family photo that was taken shortly before my grandmother died. She pointed out to us that she was 9 when the picture was taken and the only one smiling because she was the only one who didn’t know her mom was very ill and that the sitting would be the last time the entire family would be together. She remembered being so happy that day because both of her parents were present at the same time. And, there she was, between both parents, sitting next to her mom for the photo.

Then, there was the war and the Japanese occupied certain areas of China. She recalled one night as they were escaping, they hid in the basement of an old warehouse and that they had to stay very quiet because of shootings on the floor above them. She said she remembered something warm dripped on her head and trickled down her face. Because there was a tickling feeling, she brought her hand up to her face intending to wipe it off, but her nanny, who already knew what it was and was carrying her in her arms at the time, grabbed her hand and motioned her to stay very quiet and still. Years after, she realized what was happening.

Eventually, she and her siblings left their home and came to the U.S. through Ellis Island in New York. My mom spent some time in the east coast attending high school and college in Connecticut and Pennsylvania before the cold and damp weather really affected her health, after which she relocated to California where she met my dad through a mutual friend.

Life as a child growing up with extremely protective parents wasn’t bad as I was a typical obedient Asian girl. I didn’t have independent thoughts at the time. They were always quite proud of me. I never embarrassed them in public and was an exceptional student. When extended families visited, we were compelled to perform our best on the piano and compare grades. When we got older it was about which university we all got into. It was like a scene out of “The Joy Luck Club.”

Compared to my brother, though, I was the saint and he was the demon. When we were little, my mom used to brag what a great sister I was to my brother, but as we grew older, we also grew apart. He believed that I was the favorite even though it was customary in an Asian family that the son was favored. My mom may have hinted that every now and then. It’s kind of sad when I think about it now, only because I knew my brother as being an angry person and I understand the workings of depression much more now and what he must’ve been going through at that time and being misunderstood.

Once I started attending college, the first 2 years was hellish for me. It was the first time living away from home in a dorm with a bunch of strangers. My mom knew I was homesick and she missed me equally as much. I flew home every holiday, short or long, it didn’t matter to my mom. When I ran into trouble, roommate or other, she stood by me and cleverly solved all my problems. As I went into 3rd and 4th year, I became more independent and surrounded myself with a supportive peer group. It made me miss home less, which I thought was a good thing, but my mom was less than impressed. I took more weekend excursions with my friends to relax and see the sights, while my mom interpreted these actions as being lazy and lacking discipline in my studies.

Fast forward to graduation, moving back home, job hunting and moving out of the home and into an apartment with roommates represented my journey into independence and personal growth, but were actions received in horror by my mom (and dad, who pulled me aside one night to ask me if I could bring back that “good girl” I used to be).

My relationship with my mom grew more challenging as the years went on. She expected so much more than I could offer her. For a long time, I believed that I was a tremendous disappointment to her as a daughter. She maintained standards I felt I could not attain and she often reminded me about that. Once in a blue moon, though, during happier times when she wasn’t feeling sickly all the time, she’d let on quietly that she was still proud of all that I had accomplished. She would tell me that she just wanted the best for me because I was her daughter and favorite child.

My medical school and residency years were fraught with incessant arguments over the phone. She became increasingly frustrated when I didn’t return home after closing all the bank accounts and taking away all financial support, because I had found a way to borrow money to finish out med school. If she had made her point and didn’t like what I had to say, she would just hang up the phone. After a couple times of calling me right before my midterms and finals I decided to avoid picking up the phone altogether until the exams were over.

I remember most of the calls between her and my dad and me were generally unpleasant after the initial hellos. It was always criticizing, degrading and infuriating. Nothing I ever did was right. Whatever I tried in good faith was not enough or shot down. If it weren’t for the support of my student counselor, peers and faculty members, I would not have faired as well. (Recall in an earlier issue that my parents boycotted my medical school graduation).

After residency, I came directly to the desert and stayed ever since. For many years, my relationship with my mom seemed less strained as if she had come to terms with my decisions and accepted my choices. We would drive into Pasadena to have lunch with them and they would drive here to visit with us, as well.

Then, one day my mom said that they were too old to make the drive and so we started to go every weekend to see them. Eventually, she would find a way to pick a fight and as a result, we stopped visiting them altogether and the phone calls stopped. At this point, I had just begun studying concepts very similar to Buddhism and initiated my journey into conscious awareness and the importance of with whom you surround yourself.

At some point, we decided to limit our contact to just whenever she and my dad needed me to arrange and pay for their medication refills. Then, one day 2 and a half years ago, I received an unexpected call on my iPhone with “no caller ID” on the screen. I normally don’t pick up but something told me otherwise. It was my mom. She said that since our last conversation, her favorite older brother and sister had passed away and that she missed them terribly. She looked upon my uncle and aunt as her surrogate parents after my grandparents died. So, it was like losing her parents for the second time. She added that her own health wasn’t that great either these days.

Though she had always been sickly throughout her life (upper respiratory infections, allergies, high blood pressure, lightheadedness, passing out, chronic stomach pains, acid reflux, fracture spine from osteoporosis and a fall, blindness in one eye, and depression), she survived breast cancer. Before ending this call, she told me how much she missed me and reminded me that if I were to visit to come alone. She was adamant that I was to come alone and that my family was not welcome. Without explaining why after I asked, I just thought that she was still up to her old ways. So, I told her I was very busy with work but would try and ended the call nicely. Inside I was frustrated, because seriously, after all this time? Really?!

But then, I began doing more inner work, increasing my meditation times and learning more about conscious awareness by enrolling in specific courses and listening to podcasts. Several months after my mom called, I felt strong and ready to go visit her—alone—as she instructed, to find out what was going on with her. I called several times and left messages but did not get a call back. Thinking she was upset again at something I did or didn’t do, I called several times more and left more messages on their machine. Still nothing. I enlisted the help of a childhood friend and her family who still lived near my parents as they still reside in the same neighborhood. There was no word for them either. In fact, they hadn’t seen my parents frequent the restaurants at lunch time for a while now. I left a final message that I was worried and would now contact the police.

I then contacted the local police there to do a residential safety check. They reported that my dad opened the door and told them that everything was fine and that he would be sure to give me a call. No call was forthcoming.

On September 6, 2019, my friend, classmate and neighbor called my work and left a message. We went to the same schools growing up as she lived 2 doors down in our cul de sac. I thought it strange as she had never called me before. At most, we would exchange Christmas cards each year.

She said she had some unpleasant news to tell me and was sorry I had to hear it from her. She explained that my dad had apparently walked over to her dad’s house to notify him that my mom had passed away on Wednesday, the 4th, but was adamant that he was not to share this news with me. Feeling anxious, he reached out to his daughter who felt it was wrong to keep me in the dark but at the same time, he feared reprisal from my dad.

I was surprisingly composed and calm and thanked her for letting me know. I then explained to her how our relationship had been in years past and that I did reach out recently, but there was no reply. She apologized again for being the one to notify me but felt it was the right thing to do. I thanked her very much as I was grateful for her courage and we hung up.

Come September, my mom would have been gone 2 years now. Other than those closest to me, and my support group, I have never shared this until now. I felt it was time to dedicate this issue to her. Have I gotten over it? What is there to get over? Am I still angry with my mom? With my dad? How about my brother? Do I feel cheated that I didn’t get to say my peace or goodbye? There was no closure for me.

It took me a long time—many months later, to begin processing all the emotions from this. There was a range of sadness, regret, disappointment, and anger. I think I’m still processing but my education in personal spiritual growth has been my biggest rock. I can’t go back in time. The past is the past. Even if I could turn the clock back, I wasn’t ready to confront adversity. I had done it for so long it was just better to avoid the noise of argument. I was a different person then than I am now.

Today, I release my blame, my sadness, my anger, my regret and my disappointment. My dad and my brother can only meet me at the level of consciousness they are at. I understand them but they won’t understand me and that’s ok. They may blame me for my mom’s death and that’s ok. They may blame me for their own unhappiness and that’s ok. People who are not happy with themselves cannot be happy for others.

I forgive my dad and my brother for how they are. I forgive myself for how I was. I forgive my mom for everything. They did the best they could and continue to do the best they can. I, too, did the best I could and continue to do the best I can as I grow and evolve. I’ve learned on this journey, that our fears, our insecurities, our feelings of not-enoughness, our need to be seen by the world, to be accepted by others, to be validated, stem from inheriting our parents’, our guardians’ and our ancestors’ emotional baggage of experiences of the same.

So, this Sunday, on Mother’s Day, without judgment, without expectation, I give love and respect and thanks to all that my mom was. I am grateful for how she loved and cared for me in her own way while she battled demons everyday in her head. Let the last time I told her on the phone that I loved and missed her, too, be enough. Let me now continue to evolve in my journey so that I can be that conscious parent my daughter deserves.

With great love and respect for all you moms out there, I send you peace and joy for a heartfelt Happy Mother’s Day🙌♥️

Celeste Amaya, MD

For more information or questions, go to www.Amayamedical.com OR www.DesertMeridian.com

Thank you for reading. If you found this article meaningful, please share with your family and friends and feel free to leave a comment.

Remember to write your 5-10 gratitudes each day, including your wins and next steps to take in your journal. Spend time in nature daily to connect. Be present as often as you can by focusing on your heartbeat and your breath. Take breaks daily by closing your eyes and breathing in slowly through your nose and breathing out through your mouth. Please check out transformational tasks sections in previous issues for further tips.

Until next week!