Mom Died and Left Me a Notebook
It gave me the closure I needed.
That summer of 2010, Mom took her last breath on a hospital bed in Bangkok. She was only 65.
Months before she died, I saw her sitting on the bed and scribbling in a notebook. I thought to ask what she was doing, but Mom wasn’t keen on showing affection or sharing her feelings. I doubted she would share her notebook.
Even when she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, her face remained stoic. I wanted to hug and console her, but experience told me she’d freeze and not know how to respond.
So I kept my distance and said, “You’re gonna be okay, Mammy, don’t worry.” She smiled and nodded without an inkling of fear on her face.
For months, she endured pain. Her once meaty body turned bone thin, but she didn’t stop scribbling in that notebook, which she shoved under her pillow as if safeguarding it.
Only after she died did I find out that the notebook was for me.
Moving to Nepal
Five years before her death, I was a newly divorced and childless 31-year-old struggling to make ends meet in the thriving San Francisco Bay Area.
Mom had urged me to come to Nepal to live with her and Dad. But I wasn’t sure I’d fit into Nepali culture, where patriarchy thrived and divorce was still taboo (although that’s quickly changing).
Besides, I didn’t grow up in Nepal like my parents did. When I was two years old, our family moved from Kathmandu to Tokyo for my dad’s job. Once I graduated high school, I went to the U.S. for college, where I lived and worked. I then became a naturalized American.
My only exposure to Nepal was during summer vacations when we visited our Nepali relatives. I was curious about what “my country” was like. So, I decided to visit Nepal to test the water.
One evening, Dad, Mom, and I sat around the dining table to eat. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of spices. Mom had made Japanese curry, my favorite.
“It’s so good!” I said. Mom didn’t respond. She had that look — that stern face and furrowed brow — I grew up with.
“Is everything okay?” I asked Mom. Dad responded by glaring at Mom.
She then got up, stomped to the cupboard, opened a shelf, and raised her hand to show a lock of her hair. “Your dad did this. Look!” She cried, pointing to a bald spot on her head. She had put the hair in the cupboard to show me what he had done to her.
Dad got up and raised his cane. I told Mom to flee upstairs as Dad yelled, “You stupid woman, you filthy, stupid woman!”
The emails Mom had sent me while I was living in the U.S., saying everything was okay, had been a façade. Dad’s old age hadn’t stopped him from abusing Mom all these years.
I had to move to Nepal. I had to make sure Dad would never hit Mom again.
The affectionless mom
You see that picture above of my mom and me?
I had to grab her hand to place it under my chin. Asians aren’t used to showing affection, even if it’s between a mother and a daughter.
But my dad loved giving me a big smooch or hugging me. Ironically, he also had a violent temper that he took out on my mom, my sisters, and me.
Mom was a battered wife, but she hid it well.
Outside of home, her eyes sparkled when she chatted with neighbors. She’d laugh, a big belly laugh, and crack jokes.
But once she entered the house, her mouth drooped, her posture stooped, and she only talked when she had to. She was the solemn observer.
As a little girl, I remember wanting to sleep with my mom, cuddling up to her and feeling the warmth of her safety, only to be rejected and told to go back to bed.
She never raised her voice or laid a hand on us, and I know she loved me. Yet, she gave short answers to my questions and didn’t reciprocate my affection. The conversation was surface-level with no depth of emotions.
She never complimented my academic achievements, either — not even when I got a full scholarship to an American university. It was Dad who literally jumped when we got the acceptance letter.
Mom smiled slightly and went back to the kitchen.
That left me with a void. I craved Mom’s affection and validation. I wondered if she was ever proud of me. If she was happy she had me. If I did enough to make her happy.
The notebook
I thought Mom and I’d grow old together, but life hardly goes as planned.
Five years after I moved to Nepal, Mom ended up in a hospital bed in Bangkok, where we were visiting for vacation.
Mom had been suffering from a stomachache for a while. Back in Nepal, the tests showed no signs of illness. So, the doctor presumed it was depression and prescribed her antidepressant.
I convinced Mom to go on vacation with me. I thought it would raise her spirits. A few days after we arrived in Bangkok, Mom got worse. She was nauseated and couldn’t down any food.
I took her to a hospital in Bangkok where we found out she had stage 4 pancreatic cancer. She had only three to six months to live. My sisters flew from the U.S. to be with her. We decided not to tell her she was dying. We didn’t want her to lose her will to live.
Then, the inevitable happened. Mom died in three months. I was relieved she wasn’t suffering anymore. But I was numb, crushed, shocked. Mom — who was my everything — was gone, forever.
That day, the hospital staff cleaned out her room and gave Mom’s belongings to me. One of the belongings was Mom’s notebook, the notebook she consumed herself with daily while scrunching her eyebrows or looking up to think.
I opened the notebook. The first page said, “To June.” I flipped to the next page. Banks names, bank account numbers, bank contact persons, phone numbers.
I flipped through each page. Again, more numbers and instructions on what to do with the house and the belongings.
There were no goodbyes, no I love you’s. No last-minute thoughts or sweet nothings.
It looks like mom knew she was dying. Her last action was to take care of us financially.
She made sure there would be no disputes about money among us three sisters, something she saw as a little girl when her dad died. His first wife took everything while leaving scraps for my grandmother.
That experience must have shaped her. Mom wrote which of her daughters was a beneficiary for which account. She ensured my two sisters and I wouldn’t have to fight for her assets.
I’m now living in the countryside of Germany with my German husband, our almost-5-year-old son, and our teenage cat, Snowy.
I can’t imagine not cuddling my son or soothing his fears. But Mom didn’t have my luck. I live in freedom, not terrorized by my husband.
She gave me the life she wanted to have. Because of her, we were able to buy a beautiful farmhouse with a big garden for my son to run around in.
She taught me that love comes in different forms. Not all mothers love by showing affection or verbalizing it. It may seem unloving, but I understand why she couldn’t. She did her best with the life she was given.
I have the much-needed closure.
Her love reverberates throughout the house. I feel her presence every day, even more than when she was alive. I feel protected in her warm embrace.
For that, I’m thankful.