On the day of my mom's heart attack, my parents were planning to fly out to California to visit us. My husband Rich and I and the kids had moved out to CA in August, this would be the first time they came to visit. They were going to stay with us for about 7 weeks, through the holidays before coming back to CT and then flying out to Taiwan for several months. We had been planning and looking forward to their visit basically since we moved there. I had been thinking of restaurants to take them to and we had been planning on going to San Diego over winter break.

On the day of their flight, my Dad called to say they wouldn't be able to make the trip today - my mom suddenly didn't feel well and was in the hospital. The rest of the day I waited for updates from my Dad. I started to feel more worried as the day went on. Rich and I decided to just go back to be with my parents instead of waiting for updates from afar. We caught a redeye that night. We landed the next morning and went straight to the hospital. My mom's condition was mostly stable then, but honestly, it did not look good. As I sat in the hospital waiting room, I kept thinking this was all wrong. She was supposed to be in CA with us, not here. There was a glitch in the universe and we were living in some strange alternate reality.

It was hard to see her in the hospital in that state, connected to so many machines and tubes to help keep her body working, and very swollen from all of the fluids. She was sedated, not conscious, and it gave us comfort to know she likely wasn't in pain. I don't know if she could hear us, but we spoke to her anyway. We begged her not to leave us, to come back to us, in any form, and we would take care of her. I played videos for her of the kids talking to her and Austin singing. I honestly don't know if she heard any of it, but I hope she did. We left that night very worried and scared, but still hoping that things would turn around.

When I walked into my parents house that night, I could see my mom's purse by the door, her suitcases ready to go, her guitar on the coffee table. She had just started taking lessons and was planning to bring it with her to California. I was looking forward to hearing her play, and never had a chance. I know the kids would have loved seeing her play too. During dinner, I asked Austin to sing a song for Puo Puo so I could record it and play it for her. He actually said "Puo Puo," it was the first time he said it - before that, he could only make the "puh puh" sound. Then he sang his version of "Baby Beluga" which we had been singing lately.

I woke up early the next morning and couldn't fall back asleep. I went out into the family room. Ordinarily, if I woke up early, I'd find my mom already up and in the family room, doing stretches on the mat or watching Chinese videos on her phone. This morning, the house was quiet and dark. It was a cold night and I thought of my mom lying on the hospital bed alone. I called the nurse to ask how she was doing, she said she was mostly the same as the night before; I asked the nurse to put an extra blanket on her.

It was very foggy that morning and as the sun rose, it shone through the fog. I hoped the fog would clear that day for my mom too, that things would turn around. That day in the hospital was similar to the day before, mostly sitting around waiting for updates. We became increasingly worried as her kidneys shut down. The doctors wanted to try dialysis, which we agreed to as a last resort, and clung onto the hope that she would pull through. In the afternoon, the doctors said her heart was showing an irregular heartbeat. When the doctor came out to tell us that her heart had stopped, it was the news we had feared. It all felt very surreal, but among the many emotions, I felt a sense of peace because I knew she was no longer struggling or suffering. When we went in to see her, the room was quiet. Most of the machines had been removed - no more beeping.

It's been two weeks now since her death, and it still feels very surreal. The fact that she is gone forever is something that's very hard for me to fully grasp. Part of me feels like when this service is over, we'll go back to life as normal and she'll come back. It's hard to imagine life without my mom.

She and my Dad gave me my life and made me who I am. I had a happy childhood and a wonderful life all of these years, thanks to them. My parents worked hard when I was little. My mom had a full time job, and my parents ran two Kumon centers after work and on weekends. My mom was so busy, but she never complained. She would come home after a long day and cook a delicious dinner for us, then continue with her Kumon work, sometimes falling asleep as she was working.

She gave me so many opportunities, she enrolled me in all sorts of sports camps - soccer, basketball, gymnastics, tennis, dance classes, even though I never had the talent that she did. She planned birthday parties for us and made holidays special. All of the fun memories I had as a child I credit to her. She put up Christmas decorations (including fabric trees that she sewed herself), we did Christmas shopping together and wrapped gifts together. She took Byron and me to New York City for Broadway shows. When my dad went out on work trips, she would take my brother and me out to dinner. We would pick a different restaurant from the Entertainment coupon book each night - we called it "adventure dining." We went on a family vacation every year, and she planned all of these trips. Not only did she make our life fun, she taught me how to live life fully and enjoy life. She had so much energy and did everything with enthusiasm. She wanted to try anything and everything that sounded fun. We did white water rafting in Costa Rica and stayed in an ice hotel in Quebec. She was so adventurous. My love of travel is passed down from her (and from her own mother who also loved to travel), though my mom was more adventurous than me.

In many ways, she was younger than me in spirit, always wanting to have fun! I remember a time when she took me and my brother down to Florida, by the time we checked into the hotel, it was pretty late in the evening, like 9 or 10pm by the time we got to the room. On the way through the lobby, we passed a lounge with a pool table and darts. Once we got to the room, I was ready to shower and sleep, but Mom said "let's go downstairs and have pina coladas and play darts!" I was like, "really mom? I'm so tired!" but we went down anyway and it was fun.

As I grew up, I felt I became a version of her. My husband would joke and sometimes call me "little Dah-Miin." Sometimes we would unintentionally dress alike, or even find ourselves sitting or standing in the same position; we'd often think alike too. People would sometimes mistake us for sisters; she always loved that and I didn't mind. She was my best friend, someone I could always count on, my partner in crime. We planned vacations together, restaurant outings, weekend activities. As a mother now myself, I see how much of what I do for my own kids - planning birthday and holiday celebrations, vacations, activities - as a reflection of what she did for me as a child.

She is the strongest person I know and also the most generous and nurturing. She took care of me my whole life, even after I had kids, she continued to care for me as she cared for them - cooking for us, taking care of the kids. When my kids were babies, she held them during the day and overnight - all three of them loved sleeping on her as babies. Our youngest, Austin, was born last March, just as covid hit. We moved in with my parents that spring, so Austin basically lived his first year and a half of life in my parents house and my mom had a special role in taking care of him as a baby. He loved to sleep on her at night and in the early mornings. Some mornings, I'd wake up and find all 3 kids snuggled up with Puo Puo on the couch. She cooked delicious dinners for us. Then she'd finish eating in about 2 minutes and then hold Austin so I could enjoy my meal. She helped me tremendously, but never made it seem like a big deal. She was completely unphased by caring for three kids, or having to follow Austin around the house as he was learning to walk, which I found exhausting. When I thanked her, she'd shrug it off, saying "mei shi" - it's nothing. She always found fun toys and activities for the kids. I treasure the time we had together, especially in recent years.

Last November, she went to Taiwan. Before her trip, we dreaded her departure, I wasn't sure how we'd survive without her and Alex came up with all sorts of ideas of how to lock the front door with chains so she couldn't leave. She told us a story she had heard through one of her Line groups of a woman who had died, and when a friend went to visit her house afterwards, she expected to see everyone mourning her death, but instead found the husband just coming back from playing tennis and the kids happily playing with their nanny. The moral of the story was you guys will be fine without me. Well, we did survive - my dad and I took turns cooking dinner, and we made it through the winter, but the house was emptier and quieter without her. We missed hearing her practice her karaoke singing; I had loved hearing her singing - her beautiful voice filled the house. We counted the months and days until her return, the kids asked daily when puo puo was coming back. We were all so happy when she returned. It's hard for me to accept that she's not coming back this time. Our lives, our world will forever be emptier, quieter without her. She's someone whose presence was strongly felt, and so her absence will be strongly felt as well.

Even when we were apart, after we moved to California this summer, we kept in touch by phone. I would sometimes call her on Line when Alex and Audrey were at school, and she would always be so excited to see Austin on the phone, practically shouting "hi Austin!!!". He loved talking to her too, wanting to hold the phone, getting upset when we hung up. Whenever the kids did something we thought was interesting or cute, I would take a video and send it to my family. I know she loved seeing these photos and videos of the kids. She would always reply, sharing our excitement over whatever the kids were doing. In this way, she amplified our joys. I wish she could see my kids grow up and be a part of their lives and all of our lives for so much longer. We had looked forward to many more years together, decades together.

Her sudden departure is a complete shock. This new reality is one I will have to accept, but not without a tremendous amount of grief and sadness. I know I'll continue to feel her absence in the days and years to come, in the family celebrations where she'll be missing, in the trips that we'll take without her, in the restaurant outings she would have enjoyed, in the quiet mornings when I would have had her company, and in the small daily moments when one of my kids does something that I know she would have loved to see. She'll be in our hearts and our memories forever as a beautiful person, my dear mother, my best friend, a wonderful grandmother to my kids. Her spirit will live on in us, in the ways she has shaped us and in our many happy memories with her. I will think of her often and will love her and miss her forever.