Am I Still Me?

Everyone losses someone eventually. It happens. It's life. We all know it. We all think "what if" scenarios and we all think we know how we would be if someone we loved passed away. And then it happens.

In the past two and half years, my husband and I have lost three people we loved dearly. The first tragedy was my brother-in-law. One night we were all playing World of Warcraft together when he said he didn't feel good. Weeks later, he was gone. The second was my father-in-law. Just a few short months after our brother's passing (at the beginning of 2019), he found out he had a rare cancer and started tests and treatments immediately under hopeful doctors. Later that same year, my mother would be diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Like my father-in-law, she started treatments immediately. My husband and I watched as both our parents struggled, bloomed with what seemed like newfound strength, and then died just 3 months apart from each other. What a way to start 2020 off.

Grief and loss definitely change people but you'll never really know how it'll change you until you're in it. For my husband, he can't play certain games or watch certain anime because they were things he and his brother did and discussed together. The typical regret sets in from all the times he grumbled about doing things or moments he missed because he wanted to "just chill and relax" on his days off. For me with my mom, it's different. A part of me feels like I lost my identity.

My mother is Vietnamese and so of course, by blood, I am too. However, I grew up feeling like I never really fit in as an Asian American. We were never taught how to speak Vietnamese (only picking up on a few words as my mother would use them) and the closest relatives we had were hours away so naturally we weren't that close with them. So how did I feel "close" to my heritage? Well, it was through food. My mother loved to cook, I mean LOVED. Of course as kids we never really appreciated home cooked meals (hello there McDonald's) but as we grew up and left the house, that was the thing all of my siblings and I wanted the most. Even up until her passing, sitting with her at the dining table with a spread of dishes were the best moments of my life because I felt at home.

A week after her death, I was rummaging through the freezer mindlessly, as I'm sure we all did at some point during this pandemic. I caught sight of the frozen bag of meatballs we had and instantly started craving this seafood meatball soup my mother made. I'm sure there's a proper name for it but my mother just called it "crab soup". As quick as the craving came, the quicker regret and sadness kicked in. I never learned how to make the soup, nor many of the dishes she made. She would tell me, "Lynn, I'm not going to be around forever so you better pay attention." In that moment of realization I said "F--k, I should have listened" and immediately was brought to tears. The soup was gone just like my mother was gone and so was my identity.

So much of what made me feel "Vietnamese" was my mother and her cooking. Grief makes things sensitive and I find myself often fuming when I read comment threads or posts where unpopular opinions are that pho restaurants are overrated. Cuisine is not a trend. It's part of a culture and in that, a part of a person's identity. When I eat at a pho restaurant, I think of my mother and in a way feel a little bit closer to myself.

As I am dealing with my loss, I am also on a journey to reclaim my identity. I think I'll start with trying to find out what "crab soup" really is.