Throw Away the Half That Eats
"I missed the fantasy of retaining the last blood connections to my cultural heritage and identity."
“But Ninang said, ‘No matter what happens, I will always love you,’” my child reminded me, after my sisters and mother refused to answer our calls.
“Well, she does love you, but um. Sometimes people are not nice.”
I was still trying to figure out why my two sisters and mother didn’t speak to me anymore. After I texted them in late 2021, that I was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer, none of them texted me or called me back. No card, no email, just silence. There was a financial reason: my mother had sold our family home in California for $1.2 million. Fiscally, it made sense. Of course my family disowned me. Splitting the house four ways, without me, equaled more money for my mom and sisters. Were they that hard up? All of them had corporate jobs, were married, and homeowners. I assumed capitalism, getting ahead, and screwing others just for cash was more important than their relationship with my little kid, and with me.
But then there was the other reason: If I could have only shut up about the childhood abuse, the bruises, and the scars. If I had only chosen not to become a professional artist, maybe they would have loved me. They might have accepted me.
Even though it hurt, I missed the idea of having a family that I could have enjoyed Filipino food with, during birthdays and holidays. I missed the fantasy of retaining the last blood connections to my cultural heritage and identity.
I agreed to sit through a stupid 45-minute pyramid scheme timeshare hotel presentation that pissed me off because I was too broke to afford to be here without listening to their lies. I was in excruciating pain from chemotherapy treatments. But I wanted to bring my only child on vacation. I loved that we were able to spend so much time together, well taken care of. To get through this, I created another narrative. Maybe we were billionaires or famous artists. We were regulars at Seattle’s finest restaurants, ate sushi in Los Angeles, and explored New York City museums, not because I had extra time because I was sick, but because we had support. We were a part of a legacy. I liked this fantasy, it made our true narrative hurt a bit less.
Later that day, we left our spot by the coral reefs, and walked past a big Asian-American family who laughed and splashed in the water. Aunties and uncles sat on beach towels. Lolas passed around food in containers. They took group pictures, arms intertwined. They said, “Cheese!” and smiled at the same time. I passed them again at sunset. They sat around the pool and grilled food their dad or maybe their grandpa had marinated. The smell of lemon juice, soy sauce and the char of chicken reminded me of when my father was alive, when he made the most delicious Filipino barbecue. Perhaps I would be on vacation with my own relatives, if I did what they did—remained married and miserable—maybe I could be part of a happy, smiling family photo, too.
I pretended to look at the hotel as I walked, but my peripheral vision eyed the Korean family that sat around the pool. They brought deli containers of poke, fresh from Foodland (the best take-out poke on the island) and, like professional partiers, their own rice cooker. I was supposed to stay away from poke while I was in chemo. It contained too much mercury. It was deadly to my bloodstream. For others, that level of chemical was fine. They hadn’t accumulated enough toxins in their blood to make them sick—yet.
I touched the metal port installed under my skin, right under my left clavicle. Nurses had used it to pump in the chemotherapy. It felt bumpy under the pads of my fingers. I feared I would die from it. My cousin, who was only a year older than me, had breast cancer. Subsequently, she had a port installed, which eventually got infected. She went into a coma and passed away.
When she died, my mom said, “Well, she was still smoking till the end anyway. So.”
This insanely happy family around the pool licked their fingers as they ate off paper plates. They laughed and talked. They probably believed in the same magic. Perhaps, they attended church together. Probably not all of them believed. Kids ran around screaming. It was pure vacation joy. My eyes grew hot with jealousy. Media, books, and music have told me that family never leaves us. Reality has shown me otherwise.
We were on the plane. On our way home to Seattle. I was in the middle seat. My little twelve-year-old had the window. The lady to my left had her foot in my legroom underseat area. Instead of staring at her and her foot placed under my leg, I ignored it.
It was fine. Everything was going to be fine. How else could it possibly turn out? Death? That will be coming to me anyway, but today? I have right now. Thirty minutes later, the lady removed her foot from under my area, without me giving her a dirty look.
My child, oblivious to my thoughts, turned to me and said, “That was the best Hawaii vacation yet, Mommy!” and gave me a hug.
“Throw Away the Half That Eats” is an excerpt from Zurbano’s memoir, Throw Away the Half that Eats, which follows her search for family and belonging within intergenerational trauma.
—
Thank you for supporting us in big & small ways since 2015! Paid memberships allow us to pay our contributors and create a sustainable future. Help us reach our first goal of 100 paid annual members. Invest in amplifying the parenting & personal narratives of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other voices from the global majority at our many intersections.
Before you go, leave us some love by tapping the ❤️. Also, restack & share! Help others find us. We’re @raisingmothers all over social media.