Remembering Ko | A Tribute Episode

Hello, darling. This week we are remembering my late

son Ko. So today I'm wearing his favorite shirt, Shohei Ohtani's

Samurai Japan jersey, and this heart locket my other kids gave

me. Inside are two pictures, one of Ko and me together, and one

of Ko when he was a baby. This episode is going to be a little

different from our usual happy you happy dog. I've talked about

him before. I've shared photographs and memories. I've

talked about his cooking, his humor, and the things we loved

doing together. But I haven't talked very openly about what

happened to me after he died. Not the version of me that

people saw. The version of me that was living inside it. I'm

going to open up my heart about losing him, the shock and trauma

that followed, and what grief has been like for me,

physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I'm also going to

share about some things people said to me, often with good

intentions, but that were actually very painful. The

unspoken rules about grieving that left me feeling utterly

alone, the additional losses I experienced along the way, and

some very ordinary things people did that brought me warmth when

I needed most. So, if any of these subjects feel too close to

your heart right now, please feel completely free to skip

this episode and come back next week for our usual happy you

happy talk. But if you are in the place where you like to sit

with me for a little while, please stay. By the way, this is

episode nine. Nine was Ko's favorite number, and I didn't

plan that. Ko was my first baby. He's forever 31. He was one of a

kind, funny, ambitious, and full of personality. He was also

Baka, his brothers, and I still call him that with so much

affection, and his laugh-he had one of those laughs that filled

the entire room, and he was the biggest mama's boy. Even in his

30s, his iPhone wallpaper was a picture of his mom. He loved his

mamma very, very much. He was a special one. Ko's a gifted chef.

Food was his calling, his love language. It was such a big part

of his life, and something we shared. I loved cooking with

him. I loved eating with him. We talked about having our own

mother and son cooking show someday, and traveling together,

exploring different places through food. We had so many

things we wanted to do. Some. He was also complicated. He

struggled with his mental health and addiction. There were parts

of his life that were incredibly dark. Just like the meaning of

his name, Ko, he shined so bright. Yet quietly he suffered.

He was fighting a lonely battle inside. Those struggles don't

define him, but I don't want to pretend those sides of him

didn't exist. Everything was a piece of him. Together they made

Ko. He hurried out into this world, he couldn't wait for the

midwife to arrive. He was like Dash, the little superhero from

The Incredibles. He was running before he could walk. He talked

a mile a minute, And then he left this earth in a hurry too.

Ko and I were fighting. I had a friend visiting, so I was out

most of that day. When I came home, he didn't come down for

dinner, and I thought he was still mad. I ate without him.

Then I don't know. I felt something in my heart. I knocked

on his door. Then I opened. Everything is kind of fussy

after that. I remember chaos, paramedics, sheriffs, the

medics. examiner, strangers from community grief support. Under

the circumstances, I was not allowed to be there with him the

way I needed to, and there was something I didn't understand,

the cultural differences. I was only familiar with the

traditional Japanese wake, so I just assumed his body would be

brought back home for us to spend our final time together as

a family. That there would be time, time to be with him. Time

to say goodbye. I didn't understand that when they took

him away that night. He wasn't coming home ever again.

Afterward, there were decisions I couldn't make, questions I

couldn't answer. I couldn't bring myself to go to the

morgue. I couldn't think about a funeral. I didn't want a

funeral. I didn't want any of it.

His cremation took place about a month after he died, and when I

saw him, it wasn't him. I've been told that I kept crying

out. That's not my Ko. Over and over. I don't remember much of

that. There are whole pieces of that time missing from my

memory. My family has told me things I did that I don't

remember. Apparently, there were times when I would wake up and,

for a moment, believe Ko was still alive. I would run to his

room, and then I don't remember. Again, I barely slept. I barely

ate. I wasn't really living in the world I knew anymore, and

there was food in my refrigerator. Food Ko had

cooked. I couldn't eat it because once I ate it, there

would be no more food. Made by his hands, so I left them

exactly where Ko left them. I kept them even after they all

went bad, and I do regret that. I regret so many things. I

regret not knocking on his door sooner. I regret not saying

goodbye the way I wanted. I regret not eating his food. I

regret things I did and things I didn't do. People have tried to

tell me that I shouldn't feel guilty. That it wasn't my fault,

that I did the best I could. But those feelings were there. They

were real. They were my truth. And being told not to feel them

didn't make them disappear. I had lost my son, and somehow

even grief seems to have some kind of rules people wanted me

to follow. I didn't know there were right ways for me to feel,

right things for me to do, right ways for me to behave, and

apparently wrong ways too. I had just lost my son, and suddenly

everyone seems to have an opinion about how I should

grieve. Be strong; he is in your heart. Time will heal. He is

always with you, and one that was especially painful. At least

you still have your other children. I love all my sons,

with every part of me. But I had lost Ko, my first baby. How

could he be replaced? I remember people telling me that some day

something beautiful could come out of this. That I could turn

my pain into purpose. That I could help other grieving

mothers. I didn't want a purpose. I wanted Ko, and I

didn't want to be strong. I wanted to fall apart. I wanted

to scream. I didn't want to eat without him. I wanted to say I

was broken. After so many years, I had proudly said, "I am not

broken. I am not a victim. Those words had meant something

important to me. They were part of how I understood my own

survival after traumatic experiences. But losing Ko was

different. I felt broken, and when I said that, I didn't want

someone to correct me. I wanted someone to hear me. I remember

one friend telling me to stop crying. She believed that my

tears could keep her soul from reaching heaven. I know she was

speaking from her own understanding, but I was sitting

outside the room where my son was being put in the plastic

bag, and even my tears seemed. To be wrong. I was also told

that Ko wouldn't want me to be sad, but I didn't know that. I

couldn't ask him. Actually, knowing Ko, he would have wanted

me to be sad for losing him. He was like that. He was selfish

when it came to his mama. I had spent most of my life believing

in spiritual guidance, in signs, in messages, in the divine plan.

But in those moments, none of those explanations gave me what

I needed. I wanted not an explanation, not a beautiful

meaning, my Ko. And then there were the questions. What do you

need? How can I help? I know those questions came from

kindness, but I didn't know what I needed. I couldn't even

understand what had happened to my life. I couldn't make

ordinary decisions. I couldn't think, and somehow I was

supposed to know what to ask for. As time passed, I became

quieter. I stopped telling people what I was feeling, what

I was thinking. I stopped talking about my regrets, my

guilt, my hopelessness, my sadness, my despair.

Because so often, when I tried to share those feelings, someone

would try to make them better, or explain them away, or tell me

what I should believe instead. I lost friendships, some of them

were people I had considered family, and that was another

kind of grief. I was already living in the world without Ko.

And now, I was learning how lonely that world could be.

There was no safe place any more. For more than 30 years,

spirituality had been such a big part of my life. It wasn't just

something I believed in; it was something I lived, something I

shared with others. I believed in divine guidance, in angels,

in signs, and serendipities, in messages from loved ones who had

passed, I was the person who would notice 1111 on the clock

and smile. I believed there was a divine purpose, that even when

I couldn't see the bigger picture, somehow things would

work out. Always, I used to say this or something better now

manifests for me. All is well. I even taught people about

limitless Possibilities, and then Ko's life was cut short,

without a single reason. I can't call his death part of a

beautiful divine plan. I can't turn it into a lesson, or a

blessing in disguise. I don't want to turn the worst thing

that had ever happened to me into something meaningful. For

so many years I had connected with the spirit world. I'd

experienced things that shaped my understanding of life and

death. I'd helped other people find comfort through messages

from loved ones. But with Ko. Nothing. I haven't had the kind

of signs or messages from him that I once would have expected.

I haven't been able to connect with him the way I had connected

with others on the other side, and I don't know why. Knowing

Ko, I think his soul hasn't left, that he hasn't ascended.

Knowing his personality, I think he is hanging around with me,

but I can't feel that. I can't know for sure, like I used to.

And even if that's true. I still want him here physically. I want

to hear that ridiculous laugh. I want to eat something he's

cooked. I want to hear him talking a mile a minute. I want

to see his signature sticking his tongue out face. I want to

hug him. I know people mean well when they say he's forever in my

heart. I know he's in my heart; he always will be. But that

isn't what I'm missing. I'm missing Ko, his stupidness, his

bad habits, his manipulation of me. All of it, all of him. I

haven't stopped being a spiritual person, but I don't

have that same certainty I once had, and there are things I

simply cannot explain anymore. For a long time, I was the

person who could find meaning in almost anything, who could see

possibilities, who could offer comforting words. But I couldn't

find words that made this okay. Nothing made sense anymore. But

there were people, people who didn't tell me to be strong, who

didn't try to teach me how to handle this journey. My boys,

they were going through enormous loss, their big brother, and for

the first time in their lives, they were seeing their mom fall

apart and not come back from it. The mom they'd always known had

come back stronger, no matter how hard life got. They told me

later that back then they were terrified that they might lose

their mom too. Sho and you held me. Joe cried with me. I think

about that sometimes. How much pain was inside Our family. How

each of us had lost the same person, and yet not in the same

way. Some of my closest friends flew in to be with me. My best

friend stayed as long as she could, one friend following just

for a few hours, just to cook for me, Japanese seaweed soup

and rice. She knew I would have that, at least take a sip. There

was another friend. Who came to see me every day? She helped me

bathe. Helped me change my clothes. She brushed my hair. I

don't remember all of it. A lot of what I know about those days

came from what my family told me afterward. There was also a

counselor in the grief community who said something that stayed

with me.

I don't remember his exact words, but he was gently sharing

his thoughts with me about how grief and love are connected.

The deeper the love, the deeper the grief. My grief was so deep

because I loved Ko that Much. I had spent so much time hearing

what I should do, say, believe, how I should feel. But the

moments I remember most tenderly were often the moments when

nobody asked anything of me, and in those moments, I didn't have

to be resilient. I was safe to miss Ko, in whatever way I

needed to. It was okay not to be the Coco everyone knew. During

the first year, there were moments when I looked like I was

doing okay, at least to the outside world. I was still

showing up for people, for things. I even kept up my

eyelash extensions Appointments. People admired my strength. They

told me I was inspiring. But I wasn't okay. I was running on

empty. My body ached. I had trouble saying at night. I'd

wake up with ringing in my ears. I would get dizzy. My head would

start pounding. I remember telling my therapist about them,

and she simply said, "That makes sense. She also asked me if

there was anything helping me get through the hard moments. I

said Mana and the babies, and I also told her I eat sugar. My

therapist laughed, and I laughed too through tears. At that time,

I needed whatever got me through the day, without shame, without

judging myself. For me, the second year was much darker. I

felt completely lost. I felt completely alone. But I didn't

want any company except my fur babies. I stopped doing the

right things. I stopped pretending. I stopped being

strong. I stopped forcing myself to move forward. I felt broken.

I was no longer whole, and I didn't want anyone to fix me. I

wanted Ko. I wanted Ko to fix it. Even as simple "How are you?

became too complicated to answer. I've always been an

introvert, but with grief. Even ordinary days out in the world

became difficult. I found comfort in my little cuckoo.

With Mana, Hoku, Sora. And Haru. It's been a few years since that

night. Home with fur babies is still my safe haven. Ko's keys

and his hat are still by the door. Ko's apron is still

hanging in the kitchen. I laugh, I cry, I make his chicken soup.

My freezer is still full of ice cream. Sometimes I wonder if

he's really gone. Sometimes I miss him so much, I don't know

what to do. I wish he was here with me today. He would have

gotten a kick out of his mamma having a podcast. I love you, Ko

Chan.