Two Missed Calls

Missed phone calls have given me a soft spot depending on the person and the circumstance. I've written about missed calls before from my past. But this one was different. 

I hadn't looked at my phone in about an hour. It was sitting in my purse while I did other things. As we wrapped up and got ready to go home, my husband started the car and I buckled myself in. I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. The process was instinct now. When I pressed the button and saw the Home Screen light up, chills went down my body.

I had two missed calls from "Donna."

The only "Donna" who has ever meant anything to me was my mother. And on this Sunday afternoon, the first thought that entered my mind was I had missed two calls from my mother. 

It sounds absurd. My mother has been dead for over 20 years. She never had her own cell phone number. I've never even inputted her name or number into my cell phone because I received my first cell phone a year and a half after she died. Why in the world did my mind automatically think that? 

Because at the very core of my being, my mother is still very much a part of my life. No, I don't think about her 24/7. No, my family and I will never see her with our eyes. But a part of her is always with me and I can't change that even if I wanted to. 

***

Yes, I put Donna's number in my phone. She's a government employee I was introduced to and she and I will be getting in touch periodically. When we first met, my mind did register her name being the same as my mother's. That was my conscious thought. But she's not more than someone I need to interact with once a month for a short phone call. I added her name and number to my phone so I wouldn't ignore it thinking it was a spam call. 

When I received these calls from her, it was only the second time we were in touch. And instead of my brain registering her as the government employee whose number I had saved in my phone, my mind took me directly to my mother's name. 

This is what grief looks like 20 years later. The most outlandish thought of having a missed call from my deceased mother supersedes reasonable thought of missing a call from a stranger. 

Iron Chef

About a month and a half ago, I randomly came across a Facebook ad and saw one of the TV chefs I watched as a child was going to be at a nearby Costco. Mentally, I made a note of this time and date and told myself I was going to go. When the day arrived, it was cloudy with impending rain. I debated if I actually wanted to drive across town to catch this chef in person. My kids ended up being slightly antsy but cooperative so we were able to get loaded up and drive over. 

The kids enjoyed their samples and I enjoyed meeting an Iron Chef in person. I've watched so many cooking shows over the years, his included, and this felt too special to pass up. The irony was nobody else there seemed to have any idea who he was. 

Who knew I'd meet an Iron Chef at a Costco. 😆 

A while after this Costco adventure, we turned on the TV, and guess who's cooking show was airing? Yup, Chef Ming Tsai. The kids were excitedly saying they had seen him before and watched his entire show even though that was not the intent of originally turning on the TV. It also just happened he was making salmon on his show and we were thawing salmon for dinner that evening. We decided to spontaneously try his salmon recipe which wasn't bad at all. If I made it again, I think I'd marinate the salmon or add more salt and pepper. Perhaps this was me not following the recipe because I didn't know how salty the sauce would be since it has a lot of strong flavors already. Regardless, it's a recipe I'd try again with or without some amendments. 

This isn't the first recipe from him we've tried. I've altered his 炸酱面 recipe over the years, but his is the one I originally started with many years ago. Cooking is so personal because it's a way of sharing your life, your memories, your flavors, with someone else. It's a way to pass down memories. 

This week, I received my signed copy of my cookbook. I can't wait to rifle through and check out all the recipes and mark some I want to try. 

I loved watching TV as a child growing up. My mother always said, if you're going to watch so much TV, you better have something to show for the programs you watch. I'm proud to say I knew his name before he became an Iron Chef, and hopefully, my cooking skills can justify all the hours I spent watching cooking shows on Saturday afternoon PBS. 😀

Running Power

Nearly 13 years ago, I was probably at the lowest point in my life due to choices I had personally made. So this doesn't include my mother dying because that wasn't in my control. This was in my control, and I was facing it head-on.

The irony of this situation is that less than a month later, I met my future husband. I didn't know he was my future husband at the time. I was a clueless 20-year-old going into my last year at college wondering what in the world I was going to do with the rest of my life after I graduated. He was just a guy sitting across the table from me at a restaurant as we celebrated a mutual friend's birthday. Oh, and I did think he was cute.

But this isn't about him. This isn't about what brought me to the lowest point in my life either. This is about what I did after to bring myself out of the lowest point in my life. This is about a pair of shoes.

My 13-year-old shoes. 

I bought these pair of shoes brand new that fall as I started my third and final year of college. I was highly stressed, very lost, and I had trouble sleeping at night. I found myself lying awake with my thoughts, unable to shut off my brain. So I found a way to use my restless energy. I started running. The loop I ran around campus was approx 1.7 miles. This is the number I calculated based off a rough estimation from reading a campus map and using my AirPods case as a measuring tool. It's probably pretty accurate because I remember it was about a 2 mile run if I didn't take the shortcut.

On top of running, a friend and I would do Insanity workouts at her apartment in the afternoons after class twice a week. I think once, I was crazy enough to do both: an Insanity workout in the afternoon and a run in the evening. Thinking about doing that much exercise now makes my knees want to buckle. I'm 100% sure my body would not be able to handle that today. But at the time, it's exactly what I needed. 

After graduation, these shoes came with me overseas as I moved away for a year. They walked on icy ground. They rode trains with me as I traveled across a foreign country. They bicycled with me over the old city walls of Xi'An. And they came with me when I moved back. 

They got a lot of rest for the nine or so years after. In the last year, I brought them back out and they went biking with me. They took walks with me when I needed to heal my knee. And I finally noticed their wear and tear.

The mesh is tearing at the front corners
and the front of the sole is detaching. 

Earlier this year, I was in the restroom at a Walmart. There was an older lady walking out of one of the stalls. By chance, I happened to be looking toward the floor as I made my way into the restroom. And I noticed her shoes matched mine. The very same pair of shoes from 13 years ago which I'd purchased for myself. Could hers have been 13 years old, too? It's unlikely they were too new because the design and model has long been replaced with newer versions. But I couldn't mistake the color or the design - they were the same. 

It's nearing the time when I will replace this pair of shoes. Part of me is elated to not match the fashion choices of someone twice my age. But part of me is sad because getting rid of these shoes will mean getting rid of the physical history attached to them - the places they've been, the things they've done, the ground they've walked. Yes, my memories will be there, but that will be all. 

This pair of shoes saved me during a very difficult time. And I never knew they had the power to do so.

Clearance Gas

 One morning as we were driving to school, my daughter was looking out the window and told me, "Mommy, gas is on clearance! I see a 166." Now I've been alive long enough to know gas does not go on clearance. Only if there is a signage error is anyone able to get gas for anything close to "clearance" prices. Gas does not go on clearance, ever. But there was a reason she was telling me this, and I knew she could read. So while I was at the stoplight, I looked over toward the gas station and looked everywhere for a clearance sign. I looked at the gas pumps. I looked at the window to the little store. I did not see a clearance sign anywhere. 

The light turned green and I had to move on and keep driving. I told my daughter gas does not go on clearance and the conversation ended. We went to school and that was the last I heard about clearance gas for a few weeks.

After a few weeks, we were stopped at the same light, and again, my daughter told me, "Mommy, look, there's the clearance sign!" I turned to look again. This time, I saw it. Because of where the car was stopped and the angle at which I was now looking at the gas station. I saw the clearance sign. 

Finally, I understood what she was showing me. And then I explained to her what the word clearance means in this context. She's been very familiar with the word clearance in regards to shopping. Mommy looks at the clearance at Lowe's. She looks at the clearance at Kroger. She looks at the clearance at Walmart. She scans aisles for clearance at Sam's Club and Costco. We look at clearance at Michael's. We loved the clearance at Bed Bath and Beyond before they shuttered all physical store locations. Clearance has been a part of her life since she was a newborn. 

But this was the first time she's seen it in regards to height. So I explained to her that certain trucks or vehicles are very tall so they need to know if they can fit underneath. The sign lets the driver know how tall the top is. If the driver's vehicle is taller than that, he/she cannot drive underneath. And that is the second definition of clearance she's now acquainted with. 

I was glad to solve this mystery. 

An Alternate Universe

One of the books I read last year was The Time Keeper by Mitch Albom. It was one of the more unsettling books I'd read by him since I discovered Mitch as an author in my late teens. In it, the characters explore a life between time and experience what's most easily called an alternate universe. 

I think we all catch ourselves thinking about our alternate universes sometimes. What if I married this person instead? What if I had moved to a different state? What if I had made a different decision?

For me, I have many of these in my life. I think about how my life would have been different had I chosen a different major in college. What if I'd gone to a completely different college? My friends would have changed. My career path may have changed or been affected at the very least. My husband may be different because the circumstances which we met would have changed. And we always say had we gone to the same college, we wouldn't have dated or gotten married. I believe it.

We recently visited one of our alma maters with the littles.

I think about how my life would have been different if I had switched piano teachers or even had a different teacher altogether. How would my ability have been affected? Would I play better? Worse? Would I have enjoyed it more? Would I have taken lessons longer? All these possible outcomes are valid, but it's also valid that because of the path I was on, I started accepting accompanying work at the age of 19 beyond doing favors for friends. And although untraditional, it set me up for the career I have now. And I really wouldn't change that. 

The biggest alternate universe I used to toss around was by far the hardest to come to terms with. What if my mother didn't die? It's true that one complexity of my current life now would not be there, and in that aspect, I will always feel a little defeated. However, having my mother in my life would not have simplified everything.

I was able to be my own person in high school because she wasn't around. I proved I had maturity, discipline, responsibility. I was also able to live my life, enjoy parts of childhood and the "fun" of it which I did not before being a primary caregiver, as primary as a minor could be. 

I was able to make decisions and not have to think about someone else. I still remember starting 8th grade and overhearing someone say they thought I had moved because I was not on the yearbook committee as the editor. Everyone thought I was going to be the editor after 7th grade. Everyone on yearbook wanted me to be the editor. But I wasn't even on the committee. I've never told anyone this, but I did not re-apply to be on the yearbook committee after 7th grade. At the time when applications were due, my mother was alive. I had made the decision to stop joining yearbook so I didn't have to stay after school once a week. I was going to go home everyday after school and be with her. And help her. During 8th grade. 

I didn't know she'd be gone before the end of my 7th grade school year. And that's why I was not on the yearbook committee, much less the editor, in 8th grade. After that, I could freely choose which school clubs I wanted to join, what jobs I wanted to take after school, and where I wanted to go. It came at a high cost, indeed, but I had gained certain freedoms which a normal teenager should have been able to experience to some degree. 

When I started dating, I didn't have to get my mother's approval. She would have been a tough cookie to impress. Nobody would have been good enough. She would have said something negative about everyone. Yes, I'm assuming, but I knew my mother. She could have protected me from a lot of hurt. She could have lectured some of the guys I'd dated in the past when they deserved to be lectured. But she may have also held me back from taking risks, taking chances, and ultimately, allowing me to learn and discover for myself. Not having her there put me on the frontline. I felt every punch and jab. But it also meant I could grow stronger. 

I've said before she would have hated the house we bought. I practically hated it myself when we bought it. But you know what? It's turned out to be the best choice we ever made when it came to housing. We love our neighbors. I've blogged multiple times about our neighbors. Just search "neighbor" in the search bar and you'll find a plethora of posts. This one is still my favorite. Our house really is my dream home in many ways. Not all, but many. Because when I come home, I feel comforted. I feel at peace. I feel satisfied. If I didn't like a wall color, I'd notice occasionally. If my shower bothered me, I'd notice it periodically. That's not to say everything is exactly the way I want, but a lot of it is. And the things that aren't are not worth my headspace to fret over. I'm not sure my mother would have been able to see the end result the way we did when we closed on this house. We saw the potential. We saw the future. And we made it a reality. And I'm thankful I didn't have to hear my mother gripe about any of it. 

Today marks 20 years. Just seeing it written out makes my heart sink. The wave of heaviness and emotion still overcome me. And a part of me will forever be sad my mother died so soon. But when I look at the life I'm living today, my job, my husband, my children, my home, myself. 

I wouldn't change any of it. 

Nostalgia

The last time I had a passport photo taken, I was 19 years old. After my husband took some photos, he showed them to me. My first reaction was, man, I look old. Honestly, when I look in the mirror, I don't see myself as old. In fact, I see places in my image which are more beautiful than they were to me a decade or two ago. Are they actually younger? Of course not. But the perception of myself has changed, and that's a good thing. I also have to remind myself. The 19-year-old in my last passport photo did not live abroad for a year away from close friends and family. She didn't get married. She didn't experience two pregnancies and two beautiful babies. And she didn't find her dream job yet. I prefer the woman in the photo who looks "old" because she has experienced so much more out of life.

I put off renewing my passport for years and years. I had even filled out the paperwork once only to put it aside, forget about it, and not do it. I not only needed to renew my passport but I needed a name change. It expired during Covid and there was no pressing need to renew because nobody was traveling internationally with two young children anytime soon. For the longest time, I also did not want to send them my marriage certificate. Would they treat it delicately like I do? Of course not. To them, it's a piece of documentation - a piece of paper with the right information on it. To me? It was the beginning of a new life.

Renewals must be done within five years of the expiration. Otherwise, it will count as a new passport application. I was just under the limit so this was the year to get it done. I filled out the forms, took a photo, sent them my old book as well as my marriage certificate and taped up the envelope.

Believe it or not, there was no line at the post office when I went to send off my renewal. I smirked when I pulled up to the parking lot. 13 years ago, I bet a friend there was a post office at this intersection. He didn't believe me because he knew there was one at the next major intersection - which is true, there is. But, I was also right. There was one at this intersection and when he saw it, he was in disbelief the city would build two post offices one major street away from each other. I don't remember what I won, but the same location is still there after all these years.

It's the same post office my grandparents would go to when they lived here. That's how I knew it existed. I'd been many times with my grandfather running errands, back in the day when bills needed to be paid with a check and mailed off with postage. And here I was, driving with my son, to the very same post office my grandparents used when they lived here. 

As a teenager, the thought of returning to where we grew up felt boring. We wanted to go somewhere else, explore, be adventurous. And if we were lucky, we didn't come back. On the other hand, returning to where we grew up was the easy choice. We knew everything here. We knew people. We knew the streets. We knew the stores. 

Being an actual adult and in the same city where I grew up and went to school, it's a different feeling. It's actually nostalgic and nice. Are there times when it's boring? Yeah. But I can drive familiar places and be reminded of memories - mostly good - and share them with my children. 

There's a donut shop across the street from the post office I went to. In high school, I skipped class exactly one period one time in 12th grade. It was 2nd period, my statistics class. Three of us (from all different classes) went to this donut shop and ate donuts and chatted in the middle of the morning. I would have forgotten about this memory had I not been at the post office across the street. Nothing special happened that morning. We all ended up back at school for 3rd period. But being at this post office was able to bring back that memory for a little bit. 

The elusive post office I've known about for longer than most apparently.

The donut shop is no longer there. It's occupied by some other business now. But this post office still stands in the same spot. And my son got to come with me. 

Two Decades of Grey: Overseas

I kind of got stuck after writing the previous part of this series. Do I know how the story continues? Of course I do. I lived it. But I got stuck because I wasn't sure how to share it in a way which was productive. Honestly, it was symbolic of this period of my life. I didn't love my grey hair, but it was becoming more and more a reality. I was now an adult, learning to live with it, but also still dyeing my hair consistently. 

My husband is not the first person to tell me he doesn't mind my grey hair. But he is the first person  I've believed. He's also the only person who has seen it in its full extent and still looks at me the exact same way. And even then, it took nearly a decade for me to get here. I dyed my hair for the better part of eight years of marriage. 

I wasn't ready to believe it before then. I didn't even  like it myself. How could I believe someone else?

**

When I lived overseas, I'd wake up in the morning and go to my bathroom to get ready in the morning. Because of the lighting of my bathroom - not great - it would appear like my grey hairs were gone. Even when I fussed around my roots, the greys would appear to be colored. I'd have a moment of shock, amazement, hope, and then I'd run to the mirror in a different light, and there they were again. It's like they literally reappeared after disappearing for a moment and tricking me. I still remember that elated, bubbly excited feeling as if something miraculous was happening. And of course the deflating feeling after when I saw them again. 

Even during these moments of false hope, I'd wonder to myself. What was I expecting, a miracle? Sure, it’s possible. I believe God is capable of taking away my grey hairs with the snap of a finger. But will He? I think He has bigger fish to fry. I don't think eliminating my grey hair is high up on His agenda. 

At the same time, if I wanted to give God the chance to perform this miracle, I had to stop hiding. I had to let it be for what it was, and if He ever wants to show Himself in this way, then He has the chance. 

When I lived overseas, it was the first time I saw younger girls with premature grey hair. And then I thought, it must be an Asian thing. So I felt less alone, but I still fit the category of a young Asian with premature grey.  I'd shared about my grey hair with my teammates early on. I even packed myself two boxes of hair dye to bring overseas. Later in the year when my hair was growing and the roots were showing again, one of my teammates even mentioned, "Oh, I thought you were exaggerating when you said you had grey hair. It's actually more than just a few."

Nope, I was not exaggerating. 

**

Having not colored my hair for over a year, I've learned that hair can re-pigment itself over time. Most of the hairs which are grey stay grey at the root. But every now and then, I see a hair that is grey in the middle and dark at the root. If I kept dyeing my hair every month whenever I started to see grey roots, I would have never have seen this for myself with my own hair. 

This is how I know God is capable of changing my hair color if He wanted to. Will He? I don't think so, and it's not because I doubt His power. It's because I understand the choices made as an Almighty Being must be made carefully. Every wish cannot be granted. Every prayer cannot be answered. When you know the ultimate outcome, you know every sequence it will take to get there.