Love, Elevated

My mother is like an electron – constantly vibrating at a frequency much higher than most people – even at 70 years old! Retirement hasn’t slowed her down much. She recently relayed to me that her FitBit informed her that she has walked the 5,000-mile length of Africa. Oddly enough, Africa is next on her list for a travel adventure. She’s had many – and has taken me along for most of them. Since I can remember, we have been traveling together, nationally and internationally. She travels well, rarely gets tired or has any complaints. She is a master at adapting to new situations and can find the humor in anything – which is what makes her such a survivor. As a single mom since I was two years old, her electric energy has helped her balance all the demands of being a single parent. While I was growing up, she steadily worked three jobs simultaneously. High school English teacher. Private tutor. SAT Prep Instructor. While getting her Masters in English, she attended night classes on top of her day job. When she couldn’t find a babysitter, she’d bring me to her classes where her kind instructor would allow me to sit quietly in the back to read and color. When I would need a change of scenery, I’d traipse to the vending machines for an exciting game of choosing the snack with the highest salt or sugar content. Sometimes it was Fritos. Sometimes it was Sour Patch Kids. My mom still holds onto threads of guilt for bringing me to her night classes, alluding to the fact that I’d sometimes fall asleep in the back of the room – and memories of me slumped over on the desk (with or without drool, depending on the day) was one of the pivotal reasons she later decided to forego completing a PhD program at that stage in her life. She wasn’t willing to sacrifice my childhood for an intense program that would have her busier than she already was.

The funny thing is, looking back on that now, I never felt like she was too busy for me. I always felt nurtured, loved, cared and provided for. And I was able to witness firsthand the drive, dedication, and perseverance of a single mom who dared to accomplish, who simultaneously raised a child on her own while earning her teaching credential and eventually her Masters Degree. My mom’s guilt never touched me. But her grit did. She was teaching me, even at a young age, that I didn’t need a man to provide for me. I only needed a dream and the willingness to achieve it. She showed me that accomplishing a goal looked like long nights on a school campus, group discussions with her classmates, and countless hours writing papers – and revising and revising until they were as perfect as they were going to be. She showed me the value of education and its power to transform.

And in those moments as a child sitting at the desk in the back or wandering around the vending machines, I began to find my power. My imagination. My ability to tell stories. In the empty halls of the university, I dreamt up tales and adventures. I spoke dialogue between characters I invented. I concocted mysterious circumstances occurring on the quiet campus after hours. Being alone for those bouts of time enabled me to bloom into the storyteller I am today. Had I not had those solo experiences, had I not grown comfortable simply being with myself, I would not be the independent, comfortable-in-the-silence dreamer and creator that I am now.

Even though she was pursuing her professional dream, my mom was always there for the milestones and big events of my life. She took a sick day at the last minute in order to make my Kindergarten graduation. She attended every one of my plays opening night. She planned involved birthdays and Halloween parties. And she was there for the subtler, seemingly smaller moments of my adolescence – when I had questions about life or trouble with mean girls in school, when I simply needed to cry, the times when my dad would leave after our annual visits and I was heartbroken by his yearly partings. In our heart-to-heart talks (too many to even count), she helped me respect myself and my body as a woman. She allowed my young, existential pondering space to breathe. She encouraged and celebrated my talents and often instructed me: “Follow your bliss.”

So...when, at the age of 65, she told me she wanted to visit China and Tibet to fulfill a decades-long dream to see the Giant Pandas, tour Potala Palace (the Dalai Lama’s former residence), and get a clear view of Mount Everest, I stepped into the role of travel agent and told her I would be coming along, partly because I wanted to enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime adventure with her and partly because I wanted to look after her. Tibet is known for its extremely high altitude and rugged terrain – both which can be potentially dangerous – and I worried for her safety and health.

The day before our trip, I had a last-minute pitch with a production company who was interested in turning my sci-fi film script into a television series. I couldn’t skip the meeting. But the stress of prepping for and having the meeting amidst my anxiety-ridden packing (can’t forget the anti-nausea and altitude sickness pills) had my stomach turning until all hours of the night despite our early flight. A churning stomach along with other gastro-intestinal maladies were not uncommon to me; in fact, I had been battling low-grade ulcers and debilitating constipation on and off for several years. And stress was the worst catalyst (along with gluten and dairy). But in the morning, I managed to still find a semblance of excitement – we were going to China for crissakes! But that excitement hit a wall while we were on the 14-hour flight – me lodged in the middle seat trying to sleep while a wailing baby cried continuously as if his larynx were battery operated. The meal on the flight had made me gag a little and a lack of sleep would certainly put me over the edge.

We arrived in Beijing at roughly midnight and literally ran to catch our connecting flight to Chengdu, only to discover that it was delayed. So we sat in the cold, callous airport, slumped over our carry-ons wondering when we’d make it to our destination and if our tour guide would still meet us considering how late it was. I was too nauseated to feel hungry, but when the airport offered us a free meal of rice and some perfectly shaped balls of meat I couldn’t identify, I chose to fill the uncertain time by eating the darn thing – which only made my problem worse. About an hour later, we were on our final flight and arrived in Chengdu around two in the morning. Once we met up with our delightful guide – perky as ever despite the hour – the humidity of the outside enveloped me like a soggy veil. I felt legitimately awful and all I could think about was a soft bed. Oh God, I thought. I hope the bed is soft. Are the beds soft in China? Due to my uncomfortable state, my mom told me to take the bigger room with the king-sized bed and she’d take the one with the two twins. (We had gotten separate rooms due to her unintentional snoring habit). She was 65 years old and already sacrificing the nicer room. I thanked her profusely and we parted ways, her concern over my predicament very evident as she left me alone.

A few hours later, I woke up with terrible stomach pain and the urge to relieve myself...except I couldn’t. (Believe me, that is one of the worst physical circumstances you can find yourself in). I called my mom using the hotel phone and told her of my utter turmoil -- both physical and emotional. (The gut is the second brain of the body and plays a major role in regulating mood, in case you didn’t know). Hearing the desperation in my voice, she came to my room and we researched clinics nearby, but none were open yet. I returned to the bathroom, or should I say my battle zone, and she stood outside my bathroom door as I cried from the toilet – “I shouldn’t have come on this trip!”

But it’s what happened next that would stay with me and stand out as a defining moment in our relationship. When I emerged from the bathroom in my...err, still congested state...I lay down on the bed and my mother lay down beside me. She put her arm around me and held me for hours while we counted the minutes until a tourist-friendly clinic was supposed to open up for the day. There I was – a 29-year-old woman spooning with her mother on a king-sized bed in Chengdu, China. Nothing like some bodily pain to send a grown-ass woman back into a childlike state, reassuming the role of a girl who just needs her mom. While we lay there in the dull glow of dawn before the sun’s ascent, she recounted a story I had never heard before, telling me of the time she ended up in an urgent care clinic in Germany while on a European tour with her best friend when they were only eighteen. She humorously depicted the experience as if it were a horror movie, describing the scary doctor, the uncomfortable exam, and the fact that she could barely understand any of the medical staff. Before we knew it, we were bursting into unrestrained laughter – the type of laughter that works the abs and leaves you trying to catch your breath. The laughter, the absurdity of the present moment, the unspoken acknowledgment of how crappy it is to be a human sometimes, had the emotional healing powers of a religious sage or seasoned therapist. Her loving grace was so beautiful and so comforting that I even turned to her at one point and said: “This is my favorite part of the trip.” Granted, the trip had just begun so there wasn’t much competing for that recognition. And yet, something about the way I felt made me think that even after the Pandas and the incredible temples and even the view of Everest itself, this is what I would remember most. In that moment, somewhere in the midst of wrenching pain and the daunting uncertainty of whether or not my problem would be alleviated, I felt a moment of inexplicable peace. My heart ballooned inside my chest, filling my entire body with warmth. I had found a brief moment of complete and utter contentment. Why? Because I had my mother. Because she had left her room to be with me in mine. Because her embarrassing travel revelation rivaled mine. And because I knew I was not alone. Not then. Not when I was a child staring up at the vending machines deciding on salty or sweet. And it meant that I would never be alone because her lessons in love would remain with me even after she is physically gone.

For the rest of the trip, I managed to find joy in everything I saw even if I wasn’t feeling great. We saw the Giant Pandas and their nuzzling newborns. We saw the awe-inspiring Potala Palace. And towards the end of the trip, when I wasn’t feeling my best, I stayed in the mountain town of Shigatse, making friends with some local Tibetans while my mother continued farther uphill in the rugged countryside with our tour guide to get a glimpse of the highest peak on earth. I had gone on the trip to take care of her, and here I was, staying behind to recuperate while she fearlessly gallivanted up to an elevation point over 16,000 feet above sea level. The guide vowed to look after her, but had told us a view of Everest was not guaranteed. Considering the weather, namely the fog and clouds, there was a chance that it would be obstructed. But my mother willfully believed she’d see it. And when the time came, after she had camped out in a yurt at the tourist side of base camp, the skies cleared and she received a breathtaking glimpse of the snow-covered monstrosity.

She got her Everest. And on that unforgettable trip, I found something I didn’t expect: a renewed gratitude for my mom – who, with her electric grit and genuine grace, is and always will be a total boss.