A letter to my unborn Pookie Bear

Written during week 38 of gestation – beginning 30 November 2021

November 30, 2021

Dear Pookie Bear, 

I am currently 38 weeks pregnant with you, my little love. While you will eventually read this when you are a blossoming, beautiful, and vibrant nearly grown young woman, I wanted to write this letter to you before you were born so you’d know about our journey to have you, and you’d realize exactly how much you are loved and wanted in your daddy’s and my life. 

In the ’90s, there was this popular boy band from Australia called Savage Garden. They wrote this song called “I Knew I Loved You” (before I met you). While your mama is a bit cynical and doesn’t believe in love at first sight (she does believe in lust at first sight, as that makes far more logical sense), she certainly felt this about you. I felt this when I saw the picture of you as a little embryo/blastocyst, a bunch of cells expanding after being thawed out from the freezer. I felt this during my first obstetrical ultrasound, when we saw you as just a little blob on the screen, a small gestational sac floating around the inside of my uterus. And with each subsequent ultrasound, more and more of you was forming and taking shape, and with each printout I got, I kept it close to my desk while working to remind myself how blessed I was to have you growing, slowly and surely, inside me.

My mother, your ba gnoai, always told me that I’d never quite understand how much she loved and worried about me and your late uncle until I had my own children. And while I debate most things your ba gnoai tries to lecture me on, as you yourself know how stubborn your mama is, I will willingly admit that she was right on this point. My worries about you began even before I was pregnant with you. 

Pookie Bear, I’ve thought of you and been wanting you since 2018, though to be honest, your dad got cold feet and stalled until the middle of 2019, much to my annoyance and dismay. Little did he know then that getting pregnant wouldn’t come easily to us.

You see, we didn’t conceive you the “old-fashioned way” as much as I hoped that would’ve been the case. We started our TTC “trying to conceive” journey in the middle of 2019. After about five months of trying and each month ending with my period, I just had a sense something was wrong. I immediately went to my doctor to get tested, and she said everything was normal on my side, so I had your dad get tested, as well. And that was when we found out that things were not ideal there. I went back and told my doctor, and she was still hopeful. “It’s not impossible, but it may just take longer,” she said. She suggested we try for a few more months, and if it still didn’t work, IUI would be a good first step at a fertility clinic.  

When I first entered that fertility clinic she recommended for an initial consultation in September 2020, I felt hopeful, too. IUI didn’t seem that invasive, and if “he just needs a little help” like my doctor said, within a few cycles, we’d get pregnant. But with each subsequent sperm sample, the results just got worse and worse. The second and last IUI, the sperm results were just one level above what they would have suggested to cancel the cycle entirely. I felt physically and mentally crushed as I sat in the room, undressed from the waist down with a covering over me, waiting for insertion, hearing this come out of the reproductive endocrinologist’s mouth. I wanted to scream, but I wasn’t sure who to scream at or blame for this. It just felt so unfair at the time that so many other couples were able to conceive so easily (and even accidentally), yet for us, it felt grueling and nearly impossible as each month passed. At the same time, I felt ungrateful and terrible, knowing full well that many other couples struggled for years if not decades to conceive with far worse prognoses than we had: closed fallopian tubes, poor egg quality, low egg count, azoospermia, completely immotile sperm, far lower sperm counts than what we faced. In total, we tried for about a year before I went to the fertility clinic. And after the second failed IUI cycle, your dad and I decided to forgo a recommended third IUI cycle and to jump right into IVF (in-vitro fertilization) since the success rates were much higher, though the treatment would be far more invasive, painful, and time consuming, not to mention much more emotionally grueling than IUI.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” your dad asked me after the IVF virtual consultation with the reproductive endocrinologist.

To me, all I wanted was you, Pookie Bear. I didn’t care that I’d need to go into the clinic for appointments nearly every other day for constant blood draws and transvaginal ultrasounds. Although I hated needles and the thought of self-administering follicle stimulating hormones into my body via 2-3x daily injections in my stomach scared me, all I thought was: all these other women before me have been strong enough to do this, so if they could get through this, so could I. I was strong enough, right? I could do this… just for the chance to have you. There were no guarantees as we were constantly reminded through this grueling process. But I remained hopeful because at the end, our goal was the same: to have you in our arms. We were also lucky in that your dad’s company at the time had amazing fertility coverage, which was rare for most health insurances and employers at the time in the U.S., so the out of pocket costs to us would be minimal. We had a lot of privilege, as I knew few people who had gone through fertility treatments at the time who had any coverage at all. 

Sure, I felt a lot of anger and resentment: it made me mad that even though nothing was wrong with me specifically based on the endless tests I had to go through that I was the one who had to go through these invasive treatments, which would end in an egg retrieval, which is technically a surgery. I don’t blame your dad; he couldn’t help his situation, but I couldn’t help but feel resentful. I was angry that in all fertility treatments, only women had to go through this and that the hardest thing any man had to do through this process was to masturbate and jizz into a cup (you can handle my language by now, can’t you?). It just felt so unfair. Women already must go through the burdens of pregnancy and childbirth, and just to conceive when there is a problem, we must endure even more. This is what all women share: it is both a burden and a blessing to be able to get pregnant and give birth to a child. 

And so, we went through with one round of IVF to begin. It was 2.5 weeks of daily self-administered injections nightly, with nearly every other day visits to the clinic. Each evening, your dad tried to remain supportive by standing by me as I did the injections into my stomach. He always had a nice treat, usually a dessert or Aussie biscuit, waiting for me when I was done. Your mama was very lucky, as she didn’t experience any of the usual IVF medication side effects, such as bloated stomach (that appears pregnant), mood swings, or nausea. Work at the time was very busy for me, as well, so I was somehow able to compartmentalize IVF and focus on work while at (remote) work. And then after the retrieval, which happened on the last day that I could say I was 34 years old (January 16, 2021), though I had a relatively smooth and quick recovery, I was beyond crushed and broken to find out the initial results on my 35th birthday the next day: twelve eggs were retrieved, but only five were mature and actually viable because one of my hormone levels unexpectedly spiked at the beginning of the cycle, which the RE did not anticipate, and so all the eggs grew out of sync. And in the end, out of five mature eggs, only one after fertiliziation made it to the blastocyst stage for genetic testing. I was angry at literally everyone after this happened: at the RE and the clinic for not seeing this coming and not changing the protocol; at your dad for not having to experience all this physically and not having the burden of doing nearly all the work; at the world for why I had to go through all this for barely a chance for you. I was pretty certain that if multiple lives existed, in a past life, I must have done something pretty bad to deserve this awful karma. But when the results came back and you, my little embryo, were considered a euploid (NORMAL!), I couldn’t help but be a little excited. And I was even more heartened when I found out you were female… because as I immediately thought when I saw the unredacted sex results: Of course, only a girl could have survived all this bullshit. 

We debated doing another cycle, as I was scared we only had you, our one embryo, and if you didn’t “stick,” we’d have to start another IVF cycle all over again, from scratch. But your dad insisted we try with you first. He also did this because he was hell bent on having only one child, and I still wanted two. So, I finally relented because I was too exhausted to argue and debate after all this physical and emotional turmoil. I just wanted to move forward, and so we did that with you, our one survivor embryo. 

So we did more testing, and finally the embryo transfer happened on Monday, March 29, 2021. I felt optimistic about your sticking. I hoped and prayed every day, and as you would know, I rarely pray. On that day, I got a picture of you, my little embryo. You were already expanding after you had been thawed from the freezer. And because your mama loves alliterations, I temporarily named you Emmie the embryo that day. Then a week and a half later, we got the news that you had, in fact, stuck: I was pregnant with you, my tiny survivor, my little embryo that could. Your Auntie Crista was staying with us at the time, and she accompanied me to the clinic to get my pregnancy test done. We walked across the park and had a fancy and indulgent breakfast at Sarabeth’s, then returned home. When the nurse called with the positive pregnancy test results just before midday, we both cried tears of joy and jumped up and down at the news. I was four weeks pregnant. I just couldn’t believe it: I was ACTUALLY PREGNANT. WITH YOU. Your dad, though, was cautiously optimistic: “Upward and onward,” he tentatively said after giving me a kiss on the forehead. He didn’t want me to get too excited in case this pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. And unfortunately, we know too well from too many people we knew how common miscarriage was, so it was dangerous to get too excited. But I felt we had to celebrate the small wins amidst so much waiting and crap we had to go through.

At the 5-week clinic appointment, your Auntie Crista also accompanied me, and that was when I had my first obstetrical ultrasound… which uncovered that there was not just one, but TWO gestational sacs; my little embryo that could SPLIT! We couldn’t believe it; your Auntie Crista and I were squealing with joy and excitement. The sonographer said she wasn’t sure if the second “sac” was just excess fluid buildup or a second sac, so she said we’d have to wait until the next week to confirm for sure if the embryo had split. And then, at the 6-week appointment, which your dad went to, it was confirmed: my little embryo had split into two, and we saw two gestational sacs, two yolk sacs, and two positive flickers — your two heart beats, on the screen. I was in total shock and awe. You would never believe how happy and excited I was; I couldn’t even believe how bursting with joy I was. I almost felt like it was just meant to be that we would have two babies. Your dad, on the other hand, was shocked and terrified. He eventually warmed up to the idea, saying it must have been his “super sperm” that caused the embryo to split. I let him think whatever he wanted. I was just elated. 

In the moment it was confirmed I was carrying twins, this strong wave of protectiveness came over me. I immediately just felt this unwavering urge to shield the both of you from everything awful and ugly in this world. I know how unrealistic and helicopter-parenting that sounded, but I couldn’t help it. It was the Mama Bear in me revealing herself. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be. Two weeks later, at my 8-week scan that the RE did, he said that your tiny twin didn’t make it. The words that every pregnant person fears hearing were heard by us that day after a long silence and the doctor constantly zooming in to see closer on the ultrasound screen: “I’m so sorry. I don’t see a heartbeat.” 

In that moment, I truly just wanted to die, to disappear into thin air and away from this cold, hard world that took your identical twin sister away. Just days before, my body was nourishing and growing two little babies, and just like that, one of them had literally vanished, her little heart stopped, and her gestational sac shriveled against the tiny embryo she once was. They call it “vanishing twin syndrome,” and it’s actually quite common according to all the medical professionals we spoke with. Although it’s been known to happen for decades with twins at this stage of gestation, little research has been done on *why* this actually happens. Your dad, always the logical one, got angry that we weren’t warned that this could have happened and how common it was. But I just felt broken, and I couldn’t stop crying. We ended up going to see a maternal fetal medicine specialist the next day to confirm that you were okay, and thankfully, you were just fine, progressing normally as a singleton, as though your twin never existed. The MFM specialist said she had no concerns about you, and you looked healthy and on track for this stage. And thank God for that, Pookie Bear: you were what kept me going during that dark period. If I didn’t have you to live for, I’m not sure how I would have made it out of that awful time in our life. 

Given our journey to getting pregnant, IVF, and losing your twin sister, I remained cautiously optimistic as the weeks went by. But the days moved forward, and I held my breath at each doctor’s appointment, each ultrasound scan. With each week that passed, I was more and more thankful with all the good news that came our way. Other than fatigue and the occasional nausea in the first trimester, I was feeling very good. I felt amazing during my second trimester, and in the third, although I did have a temporary and painful 4-day bout of sciatica because of your position in my uterus, I was still so happy. Each visit, you were progressing well, growing, breathing, moving and kicking like crazy. One of the sonographers called you a “tiny dancer,” who made it difficult to get the still photos needed to evaluate appropriate brain development at times, but who always turned out okay. And as you got bigger and I could feel your movements, I could not believe how happy I was. Each day and night, I gave thanks for our progress, for having you growing in my uterus, happily and healthily. I had no idea I could be this happy, this thankful for my body, which was able to grow and sustain you as a new life. And as I started feeling your movements inside of me, your wiggles and squirms and turns and somersaults and kicks, I discovered a new amazement and new joy. Each movement felt like a blessing, and I imagined honestly being sad when you came out and I could no longer feel your movements so close to me like this. Before being pregnant, I had never known happiness like this one. 

So after we got to around 20 weeks of gestation, I didn’t think calling you “Emmie” fit anymore, even though I did love “Emmie the embryo.” So your name changed to Pookie Bear. Now, you probably hate it when I call you that, but you will always be Pookie Bear, my little baby, in my heart, no matter how old or how big you get. Your dad and I have a lot of hopes and dreams for you, but our greatest wish for you is to grow up to be a happy, healthy, independent, empathetic, and kind human. The world into which you have entered is full of negativity, ugliness, racism, prejudice, injustice, and darkness, and navigating it all will be a challenge. But we hope that we will be able to arm you with the skills to get through it and not just survive, but thrive and make the most of it. I hope you will be quick-witted like your dad; I’m unfortunately too slow with comebacks for the idiots out there. We hope you will embrace your mixed heritage being Chinese, Vietnamese, and Indian, and having two nationalities, both American and Australian. We want you to combat any racist, ignorant crap that anyone tries to say or send your way. You are blessed and privileged to come from cultures so vast and rich, with long-standing histories and influences on the entire earth. You are also extremely privileged to be able to hold two passports from two wealthy countries that have little restrictions when it comes to entering different countries. 

I hope you will be happy to know the story of how you came into the world, of how much your dad and I truly, genuinely wanted you. You have an entire extended family that has literally been waiting for years and years for your arrival (yes, this goes back to window guards on the second floor of your paternal grandparents’ home in Brighton, Victoria, in 2016; ask your dad for that story), and we all have loved you before we have even met you and want what’s best for you. I know there have been and will continue to be times when you will get angry with me, be mad about things I say or do, but I hope you will remember that I love you and always just want what’s best for you. I will always try my best to listen and be empathetic to your needs. I may not always do or say the right thing, but my heart and intention are always in the right place for you; I am human, after all, and humans do make mistakes. I can admit that, at least. I hope you will love and be proud of your parents, who have tried so hard to give you the best life possible, a life that is better and easier than even the lives we had, and magnitudes easier than the lives our parents and grandparents had. 

I love you more than anything else in the entire world. You and your dad are my whole world, my sweet Pookie Bear. As long as I have the two of you, nothing else matters to me. 

Love, 

Your mama Yvonne

The Dream Team strikes again

My calendar has been pretty clear since the middle of November at work, so it’s actually left me with a lot of time to catch up on cleaning things up for organizational purposes for customer work, as well as personal tasks I wanted to get done before Pookie Bear arrives. I was a little befuddled when a colleague on my team sent me a calendar invitation with our names titled: “Last 1:1.” That was weird, I thought. We’d only had maybe one or two 1:1s leading up to my leave since she’s covering for a handful of my accounts, so I thought it was strange. So then I did some investigative work and checked about 10 other team members’ calendars at the same time/date to see what they had. Welp, it looks like they all had a private invite on their calendar for the exact same time. These deceptive fools planned a surprise baby shower for me!

So I got into the Zoom late this afternoon and of course, there are about 15 other people in the Zoom other than the colleague who originally tried to dupe me, and they all laughed and said, “well, we REALLY need to talk about ALL your accounts RIGHT now in case you go into labor!” It was super touching; I was nearly in tears when I got on the video chat. Even virtually, I felt so overwhelmed with love and appreciation. At previous companies, somehow, I had always taken the responsibility of planning things like surprise baby or wedding showers, organizing cash pool gifts for those celebrating the next phase of their lives. It was something I enjoyed because a) I love surprises and b) I like organizing events that make people feel seen and appreciated. The look on their faces when the event is sprung up on them always gets me.

And now, a handful of colleagues I am close to got together to do this… for me. None of us have ever even met face to face given the pandemic, yet somehow, I have felt more loved, appreciated, and seen at this company than any other company before. We talked a lot about babies, partners, changing relationships, sleepless nights, #teamnosleep, and endless cuddles. And they sent me a really generous Amazon gift card, put together a virtual card of well wishes and parenting advice, and said more was on the way.

Pregnancy has really made me feel so grateful for so many things. I can’t even believe how overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude I’ve been all along the way, not only that things have gone so smoothly with everything from pregnancy symptoms to doctor’s appointments and test results to Pookie’s anatomy scans, but even just so overwhelmed with gratitude for the people in my life: my friends, each of whom has been there for me in some shape or form to support me through my IVF and pregnancy journey; my colleagues, who have always checked in on me regarding how I’m feeling, how pregnancy is going, and showered me with gifts to welcome Pookie Bear; my family, and yes, even my mom for being there for me and checking in on me, even when I may not have consciously wanted her to; the professionals ranging from the bond I’ve built with my therapist to my doctors/sonographers/nurses at the fertility clinic and my regular OB-GYN pracice and my doula; and of course, Chris, my rock who keeps me going strong regardless of what obstacles we’ve faced. I have had no shortage of support in some shape or form, and I just feel so blessed to have everything I have in my life.

And I know once Pookie arrives, she will have a similar web of support surrounding her.

Almost 39 weeks

Well, it looks like the daily pep talks with Pookie Bear worked: she has stayed cozy and warm inside my uterus through December, and now we are on the eve of our 39th week of pregnancy together.

I’ve felt and thought this the entire pregnancy, but I am so happy and grateful to have had such an enjoyable and relatively smooth pregnancy to date. I still can’t believe she is coming, and soon we will meet our little Pookie Bear baby. I’ve also enjoyed every single one of her movements, whether they have been kicks, pounds, squirms, wiggles, turns, and even her tiny little hiccups. Even when they have been painful, like when she’s kicked me in my ribs or given me sciatica or piriformis pain, I still love each feeling and just feel so blessed to have gotten this far with her. Sometimes, I just can’t believe how lucky I am, and I rub my belly and remind myself that this is all real, that my little baby is almost here.

In the beginning when I could feel her movements, she would get excited and move a lot after exercise, meals, cold drinks, at bedtime, and in the middle of the night. I still fondly remember waking up feeling startled, just to her little somersaults in my uterus. As time progressed and she got bigger, she’d get excited on plane rides, especially during ascending and descending. She loves being in festive, rambunctious events like Auria’s backyard food and beer event, and she moves a lot during those events, as though saying she wants to be included in the fun. She also kicked a lot during calls and presentations when I did a lot of talking. And she absolutely loves comedy and live theater; she never stopped squirming and turning during those live events.

I hope this is all indicative of the person she will become: someone who is lively and boisterous, loves good conversation, live theater, comedy, music, and events, travel, and delicious food. I’m so excited to meet my little Pookie Bear, and she has a throng of people who already love her and are eagerly waiting to meet her, too.

Cooking frenzy

I pride myself on productivity and efficiency. It’s a little disgusting to think about it, but I do. I have a hard time not doing things, and I know I get it from my mom. Chris calls me out on this all the time, as does my best friend, and this obsession certainly has not let up with Pookie Bear’s pending arrival. In fact, I think her pending arrival has only made the obsession worse with my to-do/checklist.

I was able to get my hair cut and highlighted yesterday, so that ticked off another big thing I wanted to get done before baby’s arrival. So what next? MORE FOOD! This afternoon, I made chicken satay and its accompanying peanut sauce with Sambal Lady’s new spice blends, stir-fried Chinese pea shoots, two mason jars’ worth of XO sauce using Eat Cho Food’s simplified recipe (the entire apartment smells like seafood now in the form of dried scallops and shrimp!), scallion oil noodles mixed with seaweed, and Instant Pot masoor dal. That’s six things in the span of one afternoon. And I still want to make tomato onion masala and potato leek soup (with the remaining leeks from Thanksgiving). The freezer is running out of space for me to add prepared food into, so now I’m going to need to figure out where to put all this tomato onion masala for quick Indian meals once I make it. The nesting instinct has gone on overdrive.

Belly attention from a little boy

I got into the elevator this morning to go down to the gym for my workout session, and my belly was clearly on full display. We’re at a point of the pregnancy now where it’s pretty hard to hide my pregnant stomach. And keep in mind that most of my workout tops are pretty loose fitted, yet despite that, the belly is *still* sticking out. In the elevator when I got in was a dad and his young son, who I later learned was 3.5 years old. As soon as the little boy saw me (or, well, my stomach), he broke out into a huge smile (that I could notice even with his mask on), and he immediately started patting my belly and hugging it with his short little arms. He then started repeating, “baby, baby,” and put his face into my stomach.

I thought this was the cutest, most adorable thing in the world. Granted, yes, there is something to be said about learning that touching a stranger, especially someone’s stomach, is kind of inappropriate, and this kid likely needs to learn about physical space and boundaries. But I couldn’t help but find this completely endearing and amusing. It was so heart warming. The dad was immediately mortified as you’d expect, and he lightly scolded the boy in Japanese to stop and to get away from me, which the boy reluctantly complied with. The dad then explained that the boy’s mom was pregnant with their second child, and that the boy really loved patting and holding the pregnant belly, so he was likely excited because of that when he saw my belly sticking out.

Oh, kids. They just do the darndest things.

Goodbye to a matriarch

This afternoon, we received the sad news that Chris’s paternal grandma had passed away at age 92. Last year, she celebrated her 91st birthday, and about 20 years of living independently on her own in the house she once shared with her husband, who died in 2000 from cancer. Shortly after that, she suffered a fall at home and decided the time had finally come to move out of this home and into an aging care facility. She seemed to have been in good spirits about it all, and from photos we’d seen, she looked to be in relatively good health. But in the last couple of days, she had been hospitalized for a high fluid build-up, shortness of breath, and extreme fatigue. Her heart has a leaky valve, and so the doctors said she needed hospital care. Despite her fluid levels decreasing and her breathing becoming more easy, she didn’t make it. And after requesting a shower, she peacefully passed away on a chair in there, with the nurses finding her.

It is sad that this global pandemic prevented us from seeing her last year. It’s sad that she wasn’t able to see a lot of her loved ones as often as she would’ve liked last year due to COVID-19. Chris always said that each time he saw Nana, he feared it may be the last time he’d ever see her. And in December 2019, it really was the last time we’d ever see her in person again.

Since first visiting Australia with Chris in 2012, I’d seen Nana nearly every year, with the exception of 2017 when we went to Hamilton Island for a cousin’s wedding, and 2020, when we were prevented from going back due to the global pandemic. Every year, I marveled at how healthy, happy, and alert she seemed. Despite her advanced age, she was always so sharp. She knew where the smallest and most insignificant things were in her house. She shared very detailed memories from Malaysia and her time adjusting to living in Australia. She still cooked and cleaned and gardened. She had the help of a family friend nearby, plus all her family. She was fortunate and blessed enough in her 92 years to live in three different countries, raise three children, who each had their own children, and some of those children were able to give her great-grandchildren. She lived a full and happy life and was always so positive. She’s definitely an inspiration not just to her family and friends, but to those who knew her. Every time I saw her, I thought, wow. If I could grow old to her age and feel that accomplished and loved and full of life, I think that will be a life well lived.

I’m sad that this little baby that is growing in my body will never be able to meet Big Nana, and that Big Nana will never have the chance to meet her. But I know for sure that Nana has left quite a legacy behind that this future child will hear plenty about.

5-year wedding anniversary

Today marks five years since our wedding. We technically got together as a couple in January 2012, which is the anniversary that Chris says counts more. That has a lot of validity, but the wedding anniversary still “counts” to me. We don’t really do anything to “celebrate” it, as in we do not exchange gifts or go out to a fancy meal for this anniversary. In fact, if I remember correctly, for our first wedding anniversary, we just got halal food that cost $6 per box from the famous 53rd and 6th Avenue cart. Yum, chicken/lamb and rice, although they have since gotten rid of the lamb as an option because they said it’s too expensive.

It’s made me sad to hear all the stories that my friend’s been sharing when she felt unappreciated, unheard, and unseen by her boyfriend of 10 years. One of the recurring issues seems to be when she’s been in a bridal party at a wedding or performing dance at a wedding, and because of her involvement, she misses some of the drinks or canapes during cocktail hour. While she’s scrambling around, she’s hoping her partner would have saved her some food or at least a drink, but wedding after wedding (and there have been at least 3 or 4, including my own) where she has performed or been in a bridal party, he’s failed to deliver. Even after the first or second time when she’s asked him to do it next time, he would make excuses, get defensive, and say he “had no place to put it!” She would try to brush it off, but after so many times of it happening, she realized that he didn’t even want to try to do something she wanted.

I thought about the one time I was in a bridal party and how Chris saved me food and drinks during cocktail hour while I was busy taking bridal party photos. I had at least one of each canape on a plate ready to be eaten. And when I got into bed this evening, I told him I loved him and appreciated him always saving me food.

“Huh? Ythi, you’re going nuts… talking to your friend and thinking about your own situation,” he mumbles sleepily in his half-asleep stupor.

Well, appreciation also needs to be stated…

When life ends during the pandemic

In the last year, a lot of people around the world have died due to COVID, whether it’s directly or indirectly. But regardless of COVID’s spread globally, there are also people who have died whose deaths had nothing to do with the Coronavirus. A friend’s dad passed away after a multiple years’ long illness last November. And this past week, my mom’s best friend’s husband passed away. He’d actually been sick since 2015, which is why they couldn’t travel to our wedding in 2016. So while his prognosis wasn’t great in 2015-2016, when I look back, it’s at least a comfort to know that he got six more years of life with his loved ones than anyone had originally predicted. It was sad news to hear for me, especially since, regardless of only having seen him a number of times during my visits home, he always held me in high regard and frequently asked about me and talked about me, apparently almost like I was his own daughter. He even used to watch all my YouTube videos as soon as I’d upload them. He and his wife had the notifications on my videos turned on, so they always knew immediately when I launched a new video. His wife would message me every now and then on Facebook, letting me know how excited he was to see me on their big screen TV. It was always so sweet.

Every time someone from my parents’ generation passes that I learn about, I get a little bit uneasy. We all know that in a regular, conventional life, parents will pass before their children, so it’s only in time that I will have to experience the terrible pain of eventually losing my own parents. And that reminder is really scary. Even though they live 3,000 miles away, I still think about them every day, and I still speak with them at least once a week. You can’t predict the future or when events will happen, and that unknown just kind of sits there in the back of my mind. It is not a great feeling. So the next thing I think about is… what am I supposed to do with the time I’ve got left with them? What else can I do?

Treats galore

In a holiday season when a pandemic continues to loom over us and we cannot travel while still being socially responsible, we are unfortunately home bound… with no line of sight into when we will be able to safely get on a plane. Being unable to see family and friends, not to mention travel, has been pretty awful. Yet somehow, they’ve still thought about us and have sent us delicious gifts. Yesterday, Chris’s cousins sent a cheese and cracker gift basket. Today, we received Magnolia Bakery cupcakes and banana pudding from Chris’s parents. I still have Levain cookies and brioche I got with my team bonding credit from yesterday, plus our leftover baked goods that I made for our building staff. We have endless treats in our apartment, but with just the two of us to eat them…. who know when we will ever get through all of this?!

Cash as a gift in Asian households

When I was young, I always thought it was a bit odd that family members, other than my aunt who lavished gifts on me constantly, always gave me cash as gifts. It didn’t matter if it was Christmas, my birthday, or Chinese New Year (well, Chinese New Year is always cash…), but I always just expected to get cash. In my white friends’ and more Americanized Asian friends’ homes, everyone always gave… you know, real physical gifts as presents. They’d choose a shirt, a sweater, a piece of jewelry, a toy… something that they thought the receiver would like and appreciate. I always wondered why my parents didn’t take the time to think about some thing that I could potentially like and give it to me.

Looking back now as a thirty-something adult, I realize that this thought was truly immature and lacking perspective. I had no idea how good I had it then… at all. As an adult, I am still, until this day, given cash by my mom and my dad. My dad would just give it to me (he’s a man of few words, just actions, as you can tell). And my mom would just say, “Well, I don’t know exactly what you like, so you can choose something you like when you want.” It is such a privilege to be given… MONEY. PERIOD. It gives you freedom to do what you wish with it – spend it on something you know for sure you will like and appreciate (or need… hello, groceries and bills?!); save it for a rainy day; invest it to make the money grow. It is a privilege to have family and friends of enough means who actually are capable of giving you money. I don’t know who you are as you are reading this, but how many times have you received an actual gift that you thought was absolutely hideous, or just didn’t fit what you wanted or needed at that time? Isn’t that pretty much all of us? Doesn’t that high potential end up leading to a lot of wasted time, money, and actual objects that would ultimately get wasted and likely thrown into a land fill?

But money? Money never fails. It can always be used. No one will ever throw it away.

I thought of this today as I received a check in the mail from my dad for Christmas. He wrote a short but sweet note, wishing us a merry Christmas in New York. I haven’t seen my parents for Christmas since 2011, but it hasn’t been a big deal since my parents don’t really celebrate Christmas anymore with my mom being a JW. Plus, since 2013, I’ve been coming home at least three times every year. For some reason, this time when I received this gift, I just felt a little empty. I definitely do appreciate the gift. But it made me wonder when I’d actually see my parents in person again with this looming virus and no end of this pandemic in sight.