blessed, brokenhearted, and somewhere in between.
There it was, written in blue ballpoint ink on my bucket list: Practice yoga in beautiful Bali. Then it happened — I co-led my first yoga retreat in Bali and literally spent two weeks living the dream surrounded by an incredible group of women. Charged with the magic of Ubud, we learned how to laugh, love and let go, and I felt so lucky and so happy that when I walked into a jewelry store on Hanoman road and saw a necklace with the word “Blessed” in Sanskrit, I knew I had to have it.
Then as soon as my plane landed I received a phone call from my sister telling me my parents were in the hospital and my heart sank. After travelling for 30 hours, when all I wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed, I went straight from the airport to the emergency room to see my mama — my beautiful, healthy mama — comatose and on a ventilator. No amount of yoga, pranayama or meditation could have ever prepared me for this moment, one that was so sudden and so shocking that it seemed to defy all logic. My heart broke into a million pieces, seeing my mother in that condition and watching my father break down before my eyes.
The next week was a blur of driving back and forth from the hospital, talking to doctors and nurses, crying, trying to convince my dad to eat something, and frantically researching my mother’s prognosis, which the doctor could only suggest was not good. On the fifth day, I got a call from the hospital. My mother’s blood pressure was dropping fast, and we should get there soon. I ran to the car and drove to the hospital with shaking hands and eyes filled with tears, where I held my mom’s hand until her heart stopped beating, still wearing that stupid necklace in some cruel twist of fate.
I never in my wildest dreams would have imagined that I would come back from Bali and never be able to see or speak to my mother again. There was so much I wanted to tell her, and I miss her all the time. I miss her cooking. I miss her bright, sparkly laugh. I miss picking up the phone and calling her to talk about my mundane life. Sometimes my mind runs away from me with “Should haves” and “What ifs”, even though I know that kind of thinking won’t change anything.
Last week, the kitchen was filled with sympathy bouquets, and the sweet floral aroma was almost sickening. Now, all the flowers are beginning to die, serving as a reminder that life just continues to go on, and that death is a natural part of the process of living.
Slowly, I’m starting to pick up the pieces. I start teaching again next week, and as much as I’m looking forward to being back in the studio again, I hope I can keep myself together. I still wear my necklace every day, and try to remind myself of all I have to be grateful for.
I feel grateful to know without a doubt that I made my mama proud and that she led a good, honest life. I know that I am like my mother in so many ways, and I hope to emulate her warmth, her kindness, her unconditional love. I feel grateful to have a support system of people who care about me. I feel grateful to have known the depth of a mother’s love. We are all blessed in so many ways, small and large, and despite the hardships that come our way, to be able to live and make our mark on the world is still an honour and a privilege.
So here I am, somewhere in between blessed and brokenhearted. Blessed to be my mother’s daughter, brokenhearted to have lost her so soon. Humbled and devastated by the chaos of the universe. Finding the balance in between.