Two Years On, Remembering the Day My Grandma Passed Away
On September 9, 2022, just before dawn, I awoke to a sudden call from my brother and a text from my dad. The woman I affectionately called my Halmony (“grandmother” in Korean) had gently passed away a few hours before.
In the darkness of the hotel I stayed in, I slipped from the covers, escaping to the bathroom. How could it be? Only 12 hours before I visited her. 10 hours earlier attending a fundraiser. 8 hours earlier rushing to Lady Gaga’s Chromatica Ball at Oracle Park. 6 hours earlier at the bars in SOMA, 4 hours earlier eating pizza, 2 hours earlier finally asleep….
I couldn’t imagine what was happening at home. All I could picture was my Umma (“mom” in Korean), collapsing in on herself. She had been caring for her mother for the past year and a half. Enrolled in in-home supportive services, she visited Halmony frequently at her low-income apartment in Union City, before moving her in with us in Tracy. When that became too much to handle, she moved Halmony into a hospice care facility a ten minute drive from our home.
Through the years prior to Halmony’s passing, I found it difficult to process how frail she had become. Whenever I’d visit her, I noticed how thin her arms looked, the frailty of her movements, the fading color of her skin. I’d often receive calls that she was admitted to the hospital again. When my dad warned me that an upcoming surgery may not be successful, I bawled thinking how I hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. We knew her death was coming, but the hardest part wasn’t whether it would happen, but the stress of asking ourselves When?
Then her mind went next. Her memories, long receded into the past, resurfaced. I remember often sitting at my desk as Halmony laid in my bed (Umma had asked to use my bedroom whenever she’d have her over). As Umma would help her up or try to feed her, Halmony would not listen, resisting her efforts. When she’d sleep, bouts of shouting — not in Korean, but in Japanese — a glimpse at a long forgotten era. In that moment, I questioned whether Halmony knew where she was or who she was with. Could she remember who I was?
In her final days, I’d go to visit when I could, often going myself, seating myself next to her. She’d lay there asleep, with her little recorder playing Korean gospel music. She seemed so at ease, peaceful almost, her mind and body shielding her from the painful reality — her time was coming.
So on that final afternoon, as I took my seat next to her, holding her hand in mine, listening to her breath, I remember feeling oddly at ease. Although we were unable to exchange words, I knew my Halmony was happy to see me. I could feel it as I reached and wrapped her hands in mine. In a way, I could feel her saying to me, “I love you so much.” I smiled and wiped a tear from my eye as I got up to leave. I kissed her on the head and whispered, “I’ll see you again soon,” in Korean…
There was always something special when I’d hold my Halmony’s hands. Growing up, I barely learned Korean, so even in my adulthood, I barely managed an elementary level understanding of Korean (I took courses in college, but the lack of consistent practice rusted these skills. I carried a lot of shame whenever I attempted speech, embarrassed to not fluently know my mother’s tongue.) But, despite only speaking the basics, a deeper connection flowed between me and Halmony.
The gesture of touch, locking our fingers within one another’s, connected us together in ways words may never convey. I understood the depth of my Halmony’s love for me, her eldest grandson, not through her words or her actions, but through that simplest of gesture. I loved holding her hand, sitting there while she talked with Umma. This love between grandmother and grandchild…
Fast forward 12 hours and there I lay on the bathroom floor, with my head in my hands, tears flowing from my eyes, a cry for help thundering from my mouth. But no one came. Not the friends passed out in the room. Not my ex, sound asleep in the bed where I received the news. Not my family, rightly occupied figuring out what to do next.
I begged, “Can’t I just hold your hand one more time?” With that, a myriad of emotions washed over me — but one emotion pained me more than the rest, digging itself to the hilt, gutting my stomach, bleeding out my heart, tearing my soul apart. It whispered in my ear, stating this was punishment for being so neglectful.
Hard enough to deal with the reality that I was over 60 miles away from my family. Harder still the fact that I was a candidate for public office. (I neglected to mention that, at the time of Halmony’s passing, I was running for City Council in Tracy — a race ended up losing.) And even harder to stomach in realizing I made this conscious choice to attend this concert because I prioritized spending time with my ex.
In that moment, I felt the weight of all these competing interests finally give way, a door opened beneath me, ready to put me through the worst roller coaster of my life. I came face-to-face with the culmination of horrible decisions, squandered opportunities, and secret humiliation. While Halmony breathed her last, I indulged in the high of alcohol, music, and “friends”, avoiding the reality ready to consume me. The guilt of being unable to juggle all of this — it laughed at me, telling me how it was only going to get worse. I found myself powerless to stop it…
I don’t want to say it all ends terribly. In some ways, looking back on that night, the events that led up to it and the events that transpired afterwards, were necessary for me to confront various aspects of myself. Through this struggle to overcome loss, I sought to become a better person.
Although I hadn’t been the best grandson, I know she is watching over me — seeing my growth and overcoming my struggles. In the two years since her passing, I’ve grown immeasurably as a person. And I know she wouldn’t want her passing to be an event that weighed me down, burying me under the regret of the past.
I am thankful for the time I had with my Halmony in her final days. I realize how privileged to have the opportunity to say “Goodbye”. And while I miss holding her hand, her touch reminds me that the value of connection is what truly matters in this world.
