dead and alive, living and dying

My late grandfather

Over the weekend, my mom and I visited Yamagata, where she grew up. The main purpose of the trip was to see her mom, my grandmother, in the hospital. From what we'd heard from my aunt, mom's sister, we thought grandma would be weak and groggy, probably not able to tell who we were, but when we got to her room, she smiled and grabbed my hand with strength that surprised me.

"Do you remember her?" my aunt asked, pointing at me. It'd been five years since I'd last seen grandma.
"Of course!" she said a bit indignantly. "But I didn't recognize her." She looked at me and gestured with her hand, "She was so little when I saw her last time!"

So she remembered me only as a little girl. She'd shrunken, and her hands were pale and bony. But her eyes had twinkle of a sane person, her words sharp and humorous.

For all we knew, my grandmother was dying. She is. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer two years ago, and the doctor told her family (she doesn't know) that she'd only have a few months. Since then, in our minds was always the question, How much longer will she last? When my mom and I planed this trip earlier this year, she asked my aunt, who told us visiting in February would be a bad idea because of the snow, "Will we still make it in time if we visit in March?"

Once when I was teaching English, my student and I started talking about adjectives about living and dying. As I explained the differences between dead and alive, and dying and living, a realization hit me, and I said, thrilled, "So when you're dying, you are actually living, too. Dead and alive don't happen at the same time, but dying and living do." 

That's what I saw in the white, small corner of the hospital room. Dying people are living, not dead. My grandma, though her body might be decaying little by little and she might've been the closest to death among the four of us, was still there, living.

She ate a dorayaki (which is a type of Japanese sweets) we brought as a souvenir slowly. My aunt and my mom were engaged in a conversation about their relatives. Grandma glanced up at me a few times and lifted her eyebrows in a smile, which made me feel as if I was the little girl she remembered. It was a fuzzy, happy feeling. Embarrassed by the assumption I'd made about her dying, I held grandma's left hand in my hands as she spoke with my mom, for she'd told us that the left side of her body was always cold. The talk went on, and my arms grew numb, but I kept my hands in the praying position feeling her hand, frail like a baby bird, gaining warmth, slowly, but surely.

an american day

On a cold rainy day, my friend took me to Costco.

It was my very first time to visit a Japanese Costco. Funny how a mixture of two familiars can be disorienting; all those Japanese products in a huge warehouse interior I've known from California for long.

Not everything was Japanese. In fact, it was the American products that appealed to me now that they aren't as common and boring as when I was in the States. I saw the rotisserie chicken I'd never tried though I'd always wanted to. The selection of cheese, ham and sausage was amazing. Out of habit, I almost bought the 36 rolls of Kirkland toilet paper and a huge bottle of orange juice that would last for weeks. But, in the end, I only bought a box of Campari tomatoes on a vine, which used to be my all-time favorite purchase at Costco.

My friend dropped me off two stations away from my place, so I had to take the train home. I'd never realized how much interest people have in tomatoes in this country; carrying twenty or so mid-sized tomatoes in a clear plastic box, you get serious staring (or glancing and looking away, in Japan's case).

Earlier on the phone, my mom, who had just strained her back this morning, nicely declined my offer to cook dinner and made a specific request for the food I could buy on the way home.

So I did.

Costco and McDonald's. What an American day it was!
(Well, at least, there's no teriyaki burger in the US.)

is this finally happening?

A few days ago, we had such a nice spring day , the sunshine pouring down from the sky, the wind gushing through our hair (we call it "haru ichiban"--the first wind of the spring). I couldn't help but go out to take a stroll (in my TOMS!).

As I walked down the winding narrow street near my house, I started to feel some itch in my nose, then my eyes began to feel heavy. Soon I was sneezing, with my throat slightly sore.

I have the same symptoms with cat allergy; whenever I snuggle my cat, sneezing and coughing attack immediately. But this time, it was happening outside without my kitty, or any kitty. I went home and reported this to my mom, who uttered the much-dreaded word, kafunsho (hay fever).

It's dreaded because it's incurable. Once you get it, you suffer for years and decades. Though I've been allergic to some things, cats and dust namely, I felt lucky that my allergy didn't seem to apply to pollen. Finally, however, it may be happening.

"Maybe it's a cold," I said.
"Yeah, of course. Probably." My mom went along.

Today was another warm sunny day, and my nose itched as I walked in the street. My throat also itches, but well, maybe that started after I got home and played with the kitty. At least I'm not crying as some people with hay fever I know do...

Yes, I'm still in denial!

needed catching up

I stayed up until five in the morning. I heard my mom in the kitchen when I got out of the shower, so I went downstairs to give her some things I bought for her yesterday. I ended up sitting on the kitchen floor while she fixed her lunchbox, with the kitty on my lap purring, happy that she had someone to give her attention, someone free of chores. There was a lot of talking to do, for my mom and I hadn't seen each other for the past three days (she was gone when I got up and I was gone when she got home). I ate the food that didn't fit in the lunchbox for breakfast.

It's eight o'clock now and I'm wondering if I should go to sleep or just stay awake for the rest of the day (and if that's possible).

same mistake

Coffee in the evening. Regret in the early morn.

夜にコーヒーを飲むと朝方まで眠れません。

toms

 
I've seen hipsters of the mission district in San Francisco wearing TOMS. Those little canvas slip-ons with cute pattern inside I saw in every store on Valencia. Never a big fan of slip-ons, I avoided buying them, until when my friend convinced me to buy a pair when we visited Whole Foods in LA before I left for Japan.

"Not that you have to buy them, but they are pretty reasonable," she said. "And really comfortable. Like, extremely."

I mean, who doesn't want a pair of extremely comfortable shoes?

I stuffed the new shoes in my backpack in case I felt like wearing them on the plane, but my Saucony sneakers were comfortable enough. The winter weather in Japan has been more suitable for boots, so my first TOMS have been sitting in the shoe cabinet for the past month.

But a sunny and relatively warm day like today is perfect to put on a brand-new pair of shoes!

My friend was right, they are extremely comfortable. They fit nicely, and they are super light. I wouldn't go on a hike in them (they are canvas slip-ons after all), but they are perfect for strolling around on a sunny, or even cloudy, day (no, they are not rainy-day shoes). And most importantly, they are cute.

What an awesome feeling to find another favorite pair of shoes! It totally adds to life's joy. My TOMS will be out more often as spring nears.


Oh, and it's also cool to know that with every pair of TOMS we buy, they give a pair to a child in need (One for One Movement) --of course, San Francisco hipsters love 'em!

en

En is a Japanese word I like. The best way to translate it would be "connection by chance." Some may say it's "by fate," and the word certainly has the sense of "being meant to," but to me, "fate" is too strong a word. En is more like paths crossing, the luck of it, and the connection that stays after you go different ways.

Moving around and going through some goodbyes, I started believing more in en. You meet someone, and the connection remains after a goodbye.

So yesterday, I had a plan to meet up with my friends from college. I was just having brunch when I thought of another friend, Jodi, whom I also met in college when she was here as an exchange student. We'd known each other since then, nearly for eight or nine years, though we'd only seen each other twice after she'd gone back to Vancouver. We'd kept in touch mainly thanks to the fact she's such a good letter writer, and now, I knew, she was living in Tokyo though she'd said she was going to visit Vancouver till mid Feb.

Just on a whim, I texted her, along with my number, asking if she was back yet and saying we should hang out if she was. She called right away and said, excited, "Oh my god, I just e-mailed you like five minutes ago!"

Turned out she'd sent me an e-mail to my PC asking for my cell phone contact info literally five minutes before I sent out the text. Some synchronicity, isn't it?

We ended up meeting up in Shinjuku, shopping and walking around the city while catching up, and having dinner and drink with the college friends in our college city. I hadn't seen Jodi in four years and the other friends in almost six years, but it felt as if nothing had changed. "You haven't changed at all!" we all told each other.

There were, of course, things different from the "old days"--different make-ups, talks of career, loves lost and found--that told me we were not the college students who would drink and fool around all night, but what we'd had was still there.

It's not even about keeping in touch. You may hardly talk, or never, even (I hardly talked with my college friends while I was gone), but the fact you met and shared some time of your lives won't go away, and when luck has it so, your paths cross again, and you pick it up where you left it off.

That's en, and, I tell you, it's a great thing to believe in.