I Have Two Moms, But They Live in Different Languages

by Audrea Huang ‘22

CW: death of a parent

I grew up in a hospital.

Soft jazz fills the hallways as I hold my brother’s hand, searching for Mom’s new room. As we stroll past familiar numbers, I wave good morning to neighbors walking with their IV bags and sharing stories of family and friends with nurses. Left, right, left, I repeat to myself, aiming to memorize the route this time so we won’t get lost among the winding passageways again.

I never thought much of our trips there. Pre-packaged foods from the hospital cafeteria were delicacies that were never available at home; watching reruns of George Lopez all night long played into my rebellious desire to stay up past my bedtime.

Yet my excitement for this other life quickly diminished as Vera’s condition worsened, turning short stays in the hospital into weeks and months. Although I had walked down those hallways more times than I could count, I began to feel lost in the maze of unending off-white corridors that were supposed to protect my family from the dangers raging outside. I had no idea those dangers could originate from within, breaking through the strong barrier of disinfectant. I clutched my brother’s hand more tightly as the deafening silence blaring over the loudspeakers became too discordant to handle.

Our house turned into a foreign land. What was once a home of joy and comfort turned into a ghost town of sorrow and unease. Packaged food from the cafeteria made its way into my room as I stayed up all night wondering when the doctor would give Mom clearance to come home. 

When she eventually returned, I wanted it to be over. I couldn’t understand why the doctors wouldn’t stop her pain and make the cancer go away. I didn’t know why her condition made her cry out in agony, and it made me so frustrated. 

As she took her last breath, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. After nine excruciating years of fighting an incurable illness, she could finally rest. We were finally at peace.

Then my dad got remarried. 

Why is he trying to replace Mom with this new woman he just met? Somehow, he lit up every time he saw Eva, the same way a smile had crept across his tired expression when he was reunited with Mom. Was it truly possible to move on and accept someone new?

I loved that he was happy, but something still stood in the way of me accepting anyone else as my mother. My limited memories of Vera are solely encompassed by her illness, but she was still the dominant figure in my life. I wasn’t sure how to give that up. Every time I called Eva “Mom,” I became inundated with guilt, as if I was admitting to Vera that I no longer had room in my mind for her. 

Thus, Eva became known as “Mama” in Chinese while Vera exists as “Mom” in English.

I am still learning how to be a better daughter to both of my moms. I am still learning to accept that I can love them equally. 

Ten years have passed, but I still think of her every day.

Audrea Huang ’22 enjoys discovering wonder in the everyday through food, music, and photography. From the February 2020 issue.