My sister called me last Thursday afternoon to say the words you never wanna hear. “Mom has 4-5 days.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Sandy’s voice weak or shaky, but that day it was both as she relayed the info hospice had just delivered.

As I pulled into the parking lot of Mom’s senior community as I had many times before the pandemic hit, memories of our first visit flashed before my eyes. We had researched and toured several other senior homes prior to this one. I knew right away this was the place. Warm, inviting, newly built with modern but classic decor, and didn’t smell musty or like my parents’ kitchen cabinets with decades of to-go containers.

My dad’s Parkinson’s diagnosis was what initiated the search. I could write a novel on the tears, debates, fights, hoops, antics, and subterfuge that followed from January 2018 to June 2019 when we moved my mom into a beautiful two bedroom in the Assisted Living wing. Maybe someday I will write that novel. For now, let me just say that it was a true miracle – God’s gracious, compassionate intervention – right there in the waiting room of the ER as Mom finally agreed to let us move her into the senior home after a year and a half of desperately trying to get them to where we knew would be best. It took my dad lying there in the ER to convince mom. In retrospect, maybe we should have activated Operation Fumigation sooner to get them to move. We actually hid bugs around their house and hired a real termite inspector to come after which I masterfully copied, pasted, photoshopped, and completely altered what would have been a perfectly clean inspection report. We never got to use it. That same day was when I took my dad to the ER and the last day my parents were together in their home.

Their races to the finish line could not have been more different. Dad fought it the whole way. God bless everyone who cared for him at the hospital and skilled nursing home. Long and drawn out. Hit some walls along the course. Periods of denial. Glimmers of hope. Moments of reflection. Much like running a 26.2 mile marathon. They say the marathon doesn’t really start until Mile 20. At that point, everything hurts. Reality hits. There’s not a whole lot you can do to change your outcome. That’s probably when we knew it was time to say goodbye. A very long, painful goodbye.

Dad never made it to the two bedroom apartment we moved mom into fully expecting he would join her soon after. In a matter of days, my sister and I had managed to consolidate/purge some fifty years and 2,200 square feet of furniture, memorabilia, and plants (oh so many plants) into a 600 square foot space. For almost two years, we were so focused on dad’s Parkinson’s that we didn’t see mom’s Alzheimer’s coming. At least not as quickly as it did. Consequently, in her mind and heart, that lovely apartment was not her home. Every day we came to visit, we arrived to see mom had packed all her clothes, taken down all the pictures, and set them by her door ready to leave this “hotel” to go home. Of course, each time we’d gently remind Mom this was her home now, put her clothes back in the closet, and re-hang her pictures.

When dad passed away in October of 2019, I was prepared to relive his passing each time I visited my mom. She would not remember he died. She would ask for us to take her home. She would not eat most of her meals so she could store them in her tiny fridge for my dad to eat when he came back. Even at my dad’s Celebration of Life service at their church, mom saved a seat for him next to her.

I wonder what it might have been like had my mom passed before my dad. Would he remember?

I think I just became numb to the repetition. “No, Mom, dad’s not coming home. He’s with Jesus now in Heaven.” “Mom, this is your home now. You live here now.” “Don’t worry about how much it cost, Mom. It’s all free, so you should eat as much food as you can.” One of the many creative lies, I mean, strategies we employed to help her feel more at ease living in a nice, new apartment.

Those first few months after dad passed are a blur now. Thanksgiving and Christmas 2019 came and went. The senior community did a fabulous job providing activities and a festive atmosphere. We got into a nice groove of weekly visits. I looked forward to playing Bingo with mom and joining her in sing-a-longs as well as Friday exercise classes. And then the pandemic hit. No more in person visits. I did get to visit once last October during one of the less restrictive stages in NorCal. Unfortunately, probably due to the holidays, an uptick in county cases shut down everything except Zoom calls and window visits.

Can I confess I didn’t look forward to those calls and window visits? They say when you get old, your idiosyncrasies and certain habits are magnified. Mom lived to serve you food and make sure you were warm. She also absolutely hated being an imposition to anyone or if you spent a dime on her. *I pretty much just described every Asian grandma. But seriously, multiply this by a thousand, and you have my mom. Couple this with her not remembering that Natalie and Meagan aren’t little kids anymore, and that I retired from teaching, and you get a five minute Facetime call in which she’s nervous cuz she thinks I need to get back to my classroom or pick up the kids or make Dave’s dinner. As for window visits, she was worried we were cold. “Ai-yo! You need a jacket!”

It was exactly a year ago and before the pandemic that Sandy and I got to take Mom out for dim sum to celebrate Chinese New Year. A family fave any time really. This week is Chinese New Year.

Natalie is flying out from Chicago to go wedding dress shopping with Meagan and I. Both girls got engaged last summer. A highlight of 2020. I can’t help but reflect and smile thinking about when my mom and I went wedding dress shopping. We had narrowed it down to two dresses. One definitely edged out the other but was so much more expensive. I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when I had THE dress on. She knew it was the one. I said “But it’s so much money. Dad’s gonna kill us!” Without hesitation, she said “Don’t worry!” Meaning she would take the brunt of dad’s anger as she had done so many times in the past because she recognized how important it was to me.

My mom championed many a cause on my behalf. She was also THAT mom who believed I could do anything. Thank goodness American Idol wasn’t around back then. Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a teacher. My mom knew that but along the way continued to be my best cheerleader in everything from dance to singing to art to architecture. “You draw such great straight lines! You could be an architect!” *Or just keep using good rulers.

Friends were always welcome at our house. Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood and schools back in the 70’s, I didn’t realize I was any different than my white friends. My mom loved and embraced all things about American culture. Well, except any attempt to “copy” Chinese noodles and pot stickers because we all know hers were the best and not to be messed with. And don’t even get her started on how spaghetti and raviolis are just knock-offs. *You can take the girl outta Taiwan, but you’ll never take the Taiwan outta the girl. Mom also loved music. Even MY music. Funny what Alzheimer’s patients remember. Mom couldn’t remember what she ate for breakfast or that dad passed away. But she remembered and frequently spoke of my sixth grade talent show with me and my BFF lip syncing and dancing to Shaun Cassidy’s “Da Doo Ron Ron.” I’m literally cringing as I type this. Another thank-goodness-Facebook-wasn’t-around moment.

Speaking of friends, one of my best memories of Mom is from one particular evening standing in the kitchen with her while she cooked dinner. I even remember how the setting sun was streaming through the window onto Mom’s face. I had come home from high school spring dance show rehearsal (yes, I had some moves back in the day – ha, ha). Mom asked how my day and rehearsal went. I started crying as I told her some of the girls said stuff that hurt my feelings. I’m sure I used a few more choice words, but that’s beside the point. Mom stopped what she was doing, looked up from her cutting board, and with giant Chinese cleaver in one hand simply said “AH, they are not your true friends.” Words to live by.

Another favorite memory with Mom was our trips to the Los Angeles County Arboretum in Arcadia. We went every time I brought Natalie and Meagan to visit from NorCal. She’d push the girls around in the stroller while always on the lookout for Arcadia’s signature peacocks. We’d bring stale bread to feed the koi and ducks in that famous lake where the 70’s TV series “Fantasy Island” was filmed. Say it with me: “Da plane! Da plane!” The arboretum also boasts beautiful rose gardens. Oh, how my mom loved roses. I don’t know how she did it, but her own backyard roses seasonally produced some of the largest, most vibrant blooms. Sadly, I did not inherit her green thumb.

I suppose I could go on and on about favorite memories. One memory triggers another memory and then another. I’m going to have to search through hundreds of photographs in the next few days for her Celebration of Life service. I feel like I just did this for my dad.

Ironic…that whole memory thing.

The summer my dad died, I remember one quiet afternoon in the skilled nursing home sitting on the edge of his bed looking at old photo albums together. Black and white photos with the glue on the back yellowed from time. Last time I saw these albums was decades ago in the Arcadia house where Sandy and I grew up. Their wedding album was surprisingly well preserved. I carefully turned page after page watching my dad’s gaze and reactions. There were engagement and courtship photos. All leading up to the big day. When I got to one particular photo that was a close up of my mom in her wedding dress, it brought a smile that I hadn’t seen in a long time. Dad mustered up the strength to lean in a little closer to the photo then said matter of factly, “She’s pretty!”

They were married on October 10, 1965. I was almost a honeymoon baby. Mom said she liked that date because on an analog clock, the hands at 10:10 look like a smile. Over the years, 10:10 has not only brought me smiles but also joy, peace, hope, healing, conviction, and confidence. Confidence that my mom and dad are now basking in eternal glory with Jesus.

“I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of.” John 10:10 MSG

This verse didn’t always mean the same thing to me. Back in 2014, I got to meet Olympic marathoner and author Ryan Hall at the LA Marathon expo. I fangirled pretty hard that day. Got my photo opp with Ryan as well as his autograph on my race shirt which he signed with John 10:10.

He and his marathoner wife Sara champion many causes, but the one nearest and dearest to their hearts and mine as well is to share the Good News of God’s redemption and salvation for all – like my mom whom we prayed and witnessed to for over 20 years before that day at their San Ramon kitchen table when she decided she wanted Jesus to be her Lord and Savior.

I first embraced John 10:10 during the peak of my marathon training as Ryan inspired me to run with joy no matter what the outcome of a race. I liked the promise of “life to the full” (John 10:10 NIV version) as it worked well with the play on words since I was training for a whole lot of full marathons back then. But I didn’t really wanna think about the words that came right before. You see, the first half of John 10:10 says “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.” Basically to rob us of our joy. The same joy that God intends for us when we fix our eyes on Jesus, the true prize – not a medal or PR or fame. Not a job or promotion. Not a house or retirement plan. Not even healing from a cruel, memory sucking, physically debilitating disease.

Dad ran his race very differently than Mom. His finish was very different as well. We initially were not told any specific time line for Dad. In fact, we held onto high hopes of him moving in with Mom at her senior home. Maybe if his OT and PT go well. Maybe if he can pass his swallow tests and wean off the feeding tube. Maybe they could have another year together. Maybe months. Dad kind of decided the timing for us as he yanked out his own feeding tube one day. You’ll never guess the date that happened. October 10th. He crossed his finish line three days later.

We found out last Thursday afternoon Mom had 4-5 days. I am completely overwhelmed by God’s timing and grace that I was already here in NorCal when we got the news. I had changed my flight last minute to escape the polar vortex in Indy (yeah, I’m still a California girl). I wasn’t supposed to be here. My Southwest flight was originally booked for THIS Thursday. I would not have made it in time to say goodbye. Sandy and I were allowed to visit in person that evening and got the whole family on a Zoom call to say goodbye. Mom seemed to see and hear us briefly. After the call, Sandy and I told Mom how much she meant to us, thanking her for being the best Mom ever. We reassured her everything would be okay. That we are doing well. We have all eaten. And she didn’t need to worry about anything anymore. Then we sang to her the song she sang countless times to the grandkids when they were babies:

“Jesus loves me, this I know
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
They are weak, but He is strong

Yes, Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me
The Bible tells me so”

She looked peaceful as I stroked her forehead. How many times did she stroke mine when I was sick? We noticed how nice Mom’s skin was – so soft with a natural blush. She always took good care of her face. Stayed out of the sun. Wore a hat. She always shook her head when she saw my summer tans, and in recent years, sun spots from all the running outdoors. “Ai-yo!”

Mom crossed her finish line the next morning. When we got the call, we thought “Wow! That was fast!” True to form in not wanting to imposition anyone, mom probably saw all the protective gear we had to wear just to see her and until her last breath was probably worried we hadn’t eaten. As my sister and I were leaving her room for the last time, one of her sweet caregivers said “She can finally have dinner with your dad now.” I smiled. Yes, she can.