Funeral Service | October 4th, 2021

A few years ago I read a short fiction story, I don’t remember the title, but it was about whales and hummingbirds. Both animals were given a set number of heartbeats before they would die. The whale’s heartbeats are slow, and so it lives many many years before it uses up all its beats; however, whales also move slowly. They do fewer things in a set amount of time, as opposed to hummingbirds. Hummingbird hearts beat quickly, and so they use up their beats and die sooner, but with their fast little wings, they also move quickly and can do more things in a shorter amount of time. In terms of experiences, both animals live a full life though one may seem shorter than the other.

In my mom’s case, she was like a hummingbird. She zipped towards every opportunity life had to offer, and did everything she was called to do much sooner than the rest of us.

She was hardly ever still. I remember, on multiple occasions, trying to make my mom breakfast in bed, but I could never wake up early enough. I’d have to wake up at 4 am to start cooking, because she wakes up at 5, even on weekends, and even then she would hear me in the kitchen and get out of bed to help. She was a really light sleeper. I’m sure it came from her conditioning as a single mother.

She would tell me the story of when we moved into our house. I was 2 years old, and she bought a house on her own. She told me she was so scared that she placed cans beneath every window in the house in case someone tried to break in and for a while the two us of would sleep on the floor in the living room. She just replaced the cans with extra sensitive hearing, and we were good to go. Once she worked through her fear, there was no stopping her. In that particular scenario and throughout her life.

She did everything she wanted. Ate whatever she wanted. Went anywhere she wanted. Bought whatever she wanted. All of this is within reason, of course. She was also very responsible, but she knew how to enjoy life. I remember her waking me up because she wanted waffles from this place in Lake Arrowhead, so we packed up and went within the hour.

I can go on and on with the memories. We shared so many little ones that now mean so much. Like walking to church every Sunday, or playing tennis in the mornings, or trying new restaurants downtown, or sitting in her room and talking for hours. We were friends. There are also so many things I want you all to know about her. If I got it all down, I would be up here talking for hours.

But, for the sake of time, I’ll try to narrow it down.

*My mom was born on November 22, 1964, to [her parents]. She [has two older siblings and one younger sibling.] In 1971, they moved from Manila, Philippines to the house [in Los Angeles.] She married [her pen pal] and together they had me, Jessica, their only child, in 1995. After divorcing two years after my birth, my mom was free to raise me on her own terms, which included 13 years of Catholic school, figure skating lessons, voice lessons, piano lessons, ballet, basketball, and, believe it or not, a few more. We went to museums on the weekend and spent lots of time with family. She loved her family, and she showed it.

My mom adored my cousins. She would take them out whenever possible, but also she made sure to talk to them. Made sure that they were okay. Made sure that they felt loved by her. She always wanted 8 kids of her own. Knowing her knack for children, I’m sure she could’ve handled it, but I’m glad she was able to care for my cousins with as much love as if they were hers.

She made sure to spend time with each of her siblings and their families, and her cousins and their families. Weekly mahjong nights, Vegas trips, spontaneous lunches, or simply just hanging out at the mall chatting over Cinnabon, she made time for her family, and she loved it. She was close to everyone. Always so friendly, so patient, and so positive, with a youthful energy that brightened any room. It made for a lot of happy times. Even when life got difficult, her attitude always got her through it.

One of the most impactful memories I have of her was when she was caring for my grandma last year. Tatay and grandma were living with me and my mom, and grandma’s health was declining, plus COVID was in full swing. It was just the 4 of us in the house, I’ve never seen my mom work so hard. I’ve seen her work hard my entire life, but it was nothing compared to watching her care for her mother. She was up multiple times in the middle of the night every night helping my grandma use the restroom while still working full time during the day. My mom would cook the food for all of us, feed my grandma, then eat last. I watched her make so many phone calls for doctor’s appointments, and I’ve watched her administer medication, and I watched her lift my grandma and dance with her and laugh with her. But, I’ve also watched her cry at night, because she was so tired. She thanked God that He gave her the opportunity to care for her mom, but she was so tired. I saw it, but I never really understood it until I had to do the same thing.

On July 12, 2021, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. It was already in the liver, abdomen, and lungs by the time we caught it. She played tennis earlier that day. She was ineligible for any treatment, and we were given just a few weeks. I started grieving on July 12, 2021. I knew that the future I always envisioned with my mom was no longer going to happen, even under the best circumstances. I remember hugging her when we got the news that it was terminal, knowing that these hugs were numbered. We spent every day since then telling each other everything we ever wanted to say. She told me how proud she was of me, and I told her how proud I was of her. Lots of “I love you’s.”

For the next few weeks, after being discharged from the hospital, I was in charge of her care. Administering her many prescriptions, troubleshooting pain into the night, all while processing the grief I was feeling. I would cry every day, throw things at walls, and wonder how my mom did this for my grandma with such grace. Now, I only cry when I think about her in pain. My mom took her last breath with Andrew, my boyfriend, and I singing The Sound of Music songs by her bedside. She was soon surrounded by her dad, her siblings, and my cousins. All the people she cared for so deeply. Like a hummingbird, Melanie Garion, this energetic, tiny, powerhouse of a woman, had reached the end of her life on earth, a life that she lived so well.

Lastly, I’ll finish off with words my mom asked me to say. We were lying in her bed maybe two weeks before her passing, and I asked if she wanted to write something that I could read aloud at her funeral. She replied, “Originally, I wrote something down that’s a little longer, but now, I think I just want to remind people to, “Always say, ‘I love you.’”

Memorial Service | September 11, 2022

When I first decided to have this memorial, I knew I wanted to take a few minutes to say a little something. I couldn’t figure out what to say, which is why I ended up writing this at 3 am this morning. 

I couldn’t figure out what to say, because, this isn’t a funeral. I wasn’t going to write a eulogy. I already did that. I already talked about her life, her 56 short years that overflowed with more love than some people experience in longer lifetimes. I already talked about her infectious energy… her unparalleled independence….her unmatched work ethic, compassion, patience, thoughtfulness. 

I already talked about how she worked with quiet competence, like a tree with deep roots. She kept her efforts humbly beneath the ground, while the fruits of her labor spoke for themselves.

This is not a eulogy. This is more like… an epilogue, where we discover what happened after the events of her life.

How has her legacy affected those she left behind? What has become of them?

I can start.

My mom was my air. She was everywhere, all at once, keeping me alive. And the thing about air is that you don’t really realize that it’s there until it’s gone and you’re left gasping. 

One year ago today, my partner, Andrew, and I sat beside my mom’s bed, singing songs from the Sound of Music. We sat there for hours talking, singing..crying, while my mom lay unresponsive, her chest still moving with her faint breathing. I remember taking my eyes off my mom for a moment to look at Andrew and laugh at something funny he said. We laughed for the first time since we sat. Then I looked back down to see my mom’s chest completely still. And she was gone.

Oftentimes I wonder if that was what she was waiting for. To hear laughter. To know that she wasn’t leaving a broken child all alone. That joy was possible, even in the face of death. It felt like an unspoken agreement between me and her. That her peace was contingent upon my own. That I do not wallow, but instead continue to seek joy in all that life has to offer, even alongside sadness and mourning. 

Even when the doctors told us that my mom was dying, my mom and I frantically tried to say everything we wanted to say only to realize, that we already knew everything about each other. I didn’t need to rush a connection with her because we already had one.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s been painful. My mom was my mom, but also my best friend. We would play tennis together. When our washer broke for a few months, we would go to the laundromat and shoot our dirty clothes into the machines. We ran all our errands together, even into my mid-20s. She gave me lots of hugs and told me she was proud of me all the time. We ate out a lot and talked a lot.

So it hurts. It hurts to know that the person who knew you best isn’t here. Isn’t here to care for you when you catch a cold or to check up on your when it’s 3am and you haven’t come home yet. She won’t be here to help me choose a wedding dress or babysit my future children. And I live with that burden; however, I do so in the midst of countless moments of guilt-free joy. Joy from long talks with friends. Joy from meals shared with family. Joy from dipping your feet in a cold river. Joy from learning something new. Joy from good food. Joy from God’s creation. A splendor my mom can reap everlasting.

My mom was my air. She was everywhere, all at once, keeping me alive. And the thing about air is that you don’t really realize that it’s there until it’s gone and you’re left gasping. But, one year later, you realize the air is just thinner and over time, you learn how to breathe again. 

^{*Edited for privacy}