On October 25, I was at art school, finishing up a charcoal drawing of a lion I’d been working on for the past month. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch and couldn’t wait to get back home, where Mom would be setting the table for dinner. It was a normal Friday evening.
I watched the hands of the clock struggling against gravity to hit 7 o’clock, dismissal. When it finally made it, I walked outside to my dad waiting in his Chevy Avalanche. Right as I touched the door handle, I heard my phone ding in my pocket. I got in the truck and, as Dad drove into the highway, I looked at the text message. It was a long paragraph from Mom.

“Alex. I just want you to know that no matter what happens to me, I’ve always loved you and your sisters. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you. Everything is my fault. I really did try but I…”

There was more, but dozens of thoughts already clogged my head, possible scenarios of what I would find when I got home after the 30-minute ride from Carrolton to my house in Southlake. But none of them made sense. Mom had driven me from home to school that day. We joked and talked, just like any of our long car rides across DFW. She seemed perfectly fine. Sure, she and Dad recently had a massive argument, but that was a week ago. The chill still lingered, yeah, but they were talking to each other again. The worst was behind them.
So what has gotten into her, and what could possibly happen?

When my dad finally pulled into the garage, I leapt out of the truck and rushed inside. A curtain of choking darkness greeted me. Nothing moved, everything was quiet, and Mom was nowhere to be found. There was something dreamlike, almost sacred, about the whole atmosphere, the silence. Quietly, I waded through the dark to the master bedroom.

I couldn’t see her, but I could faintly hear heavy breathing. I turned on the lights and found my mother sleeping on the bed. Relieved to see her, I sat down next to her still body and reached to shake her awake. Suddenly, the moment my hands touched hers, an electrifying chill shot up into my arms. I jolted back. Her hands were stiff, foreign, and deathly cold.

Not wanting to feel that sensation again, I shook her shoulders instead. To my horror, her head flopped around limply as I tried to pull her out of her nightmarish slumber. Then, she stirred.

“Go away,” she croaked in Korean. “Please, just…let me disappear.”

Then, I noticed the empty case of painkillers on the bedside table. I’d never seen it before. By that point, I knew what she had done to herself, but my mind refused to register it. For a whole minute, I felt no emotion. No panic, no fear. Nothing, until weird thoughts trickled into my head…

She’s never been genuinely happy in a long time. She wants this. Maybe I should just let her go.

No! How could you? She’s dying, your own mother!

But, who am I to prolong her pain? Is it love that compels me to keep her here or is it selfishness?

I stood up and did what I always do when I’m afraid or confused: I ran away.
I didn’t go far, just the living room couch. I collapsed face-first into a cushion and waited, trying to get my mind to go blank. Instead, I felt numb. Frightening images surged through my head: my mother in a casket, my little sisters shrieking, “Omma! Omma!” and not receive a response, my father staring into the distance as Mom’s relatives blame him for her death, my maternal grandparents on their knees clutching their frail hearts as they weep, and me standing in a corner in a black suit and tie, knowing full well I was the one who killed her, that when the woman who brought me into this world and reared me the best she knew how needed me the most, I left her to die.
I stood up. The cushion was wet. I was too numb to notice I was crying. I ran to my father in his study and told him everything – the cold hands, the sinister words, the pills, everything except the fact that I was too much of a coward to help her myself ten minutes ago.

He immediately rushed to his wife, who was by then completely unresponsive. I called 911 and waited outside, listening to the sirens piercing through otherwise peaceful night, growing louder and louder. They were coming for me, I thought. It was surreal feeling, that several police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance were converging at my house. Things like this only happen on TV, never to me. I felt one step removed, like a spectator when I was clearly a protagonist. Or antagonist.

Mom was gone for a week. Though they pumped her stomach, she had already absorbed a lot of the drug and remained unconscious for two days and in a confused daze a couple more. When she was strong enough to talk, she asked why she was in the hospital. She couldn’t remember anything from that night. The doctor said she was lucky to have been treated when she did. Had we called any later, she may have sustained permanent brain and organ damage, or worse. I saved her life. I was a hero.

When she returned, I tried to pretend like it never happened. She probably thought it was because I didn’t want to dwell on the past. She didn’t know that every time I looked at her, I felt a stab of guilt. And she tried so hard to make up for what she had done – cooking my favorite meals, cracking old jokes, apologizing out of the blue – and it broke my heart. Because I couldn’t make up for what I had done.
Today, my family has never been better. My father makes the effort of avoiding direct confrontation when they disagree. He helps out occasionally with the dishes, the laundry, and the long drives. We grew in our spiritual faith: my father attends Bible study courses, my mother and I go to Friday night services whenever we can, and I was confirmed this past Easter. Nobody mentions that incident. It was a merely a stain in our family’s past that helped bring us to new heights.

But I haven’t forgiven myself. I can’t. The memory of my cowardice, as painful as it is, serves as a reminder of the kind of damage running away can do. Turning a blind eye to a problem and willing it to disappear doesn’t mean it will. Some things are salvageable, and it’s never too late to try to set things right.

That Friday night, I may have been a hero. But I was hero who hesitated, and I’ve regretted it ever since.

Don’t regret. Even if you did something special for your mom this past Mother’s Day, don’t stop thinking of ways to make her feel loved. A hug every now and then goes a long way. So does a simple “I love you.” Because she loves you, and it shouldn’t take a death sentence for you to say the same.