May 9, 2009 — I’m a T.A. at the local university; the class is Japanese theatre. Grades get turned in next week and the Bees come back for an eight-game homestand. The top item on the pile is my overdue Lady’s Choice for April. Until then, hope you enjoy a sampler of the “other players” in my life. . .Your friend in baseball.
Add comment May 9th, 2009
May 03, 2009 — Disclaimer to my dear readers: Today’s topic is another personal recollection of a death and funeral. And a special word of caution for my friends of European-Jewish descent, this tale includes a detailed description of a cremation room.
I was 26 years old before I had a conversation with my maternal grandparents. I’m not counting the single-word exchanges we shared when I was two. I mean a real sit-down chat. Mom grew up in Tokyo, Japan. I grew up in California, U.S.A. My siblings and I spoke virtually no Japanese at home, so our childhood visits had to be chaperoned and translated by Mom or her sister-in-law. As I got older, my interest in Japan grew to the point I took college classes in my Mother’s tongue. A few years after graduation, I bought a Japanese National Railroad pass, International Youth Hostel card and rucksack, and went on a 4-month long tour. Part of the trip included a week-long stay with my grandparents to catch up on those long-overdue conversations.
For several years afterward, I made a solo trip about once a year. I would spend the day sightseeing and then catch the local train in time for dinner with my grandparents, uncle, aunt and cousins. Such a simple, yet marvelous thing, having dinner with my relatives. I’d clumsily describe the day’s adventures in my grade-school Japanese and in turn, struggle to comprehend their stories. Inevitably, the evening would also include Grandma complaining about Grandpa’s manners. Perhaps due to the repetition, I could follow this particular monologue quite well.
“The way he eats. Rattling your teeth! Can you believe the nerve?” She scowled at Grandpa, who pretended not to hear. I giggled. Every time.
One afternoon Mom called with the news that Grandma had passed away. I stood there a moment, absorbing the information. Grandma must have been in her 80s by then. I wondered what happened.
Mom added, “I’m going to the funeral this weekend. Do you want to come too? I asked your sisters, they decided to stay here.”
“Huh? Oh, yes. Definitely.”
I flew down to Mom’s place, spent the night on her couch and the next day was in coach class on a JAL 747 jet. Uncle picked us up at the airport and drove us to their house. Grandpa had the finances and social station for an elaborate funeral, which included a memorial service, open-casket viewing and cremation. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, nonetheless, I knew I was in for something special.
Mom had her hands full trying to remember what she was supposed to do. I should take a moment here to elaborate a bit on the difficulty of her task. Japanese etiquette is strictly codified according to type of occasion, social standing and life stage. The two most important social rituals in a Japanese person’s life are her own wedding and a parent’s funeral. And as mentioned, her father was well-connected in some exclusive social circles. It meant a long afternoon of recalling dozens of friends, relatives, classmates and associates, many of whom Mom hadn’t seen in decades. Because of the high level of formality, the customary dialogue for a funeral service is particularly complicated. It demands not only a special vocabulary, but also an exquisite sense of timing. When to speak is no less meaningful than what is said.
Needless to say, first-year college classes don’t cover much funeral-appropriate Japanese etiquette. Rather, I fell back on years of training from a private-schooled, upper-class socialite. And Mom was a tough tutor. I remember getting a hair brush broken across my shoulder when I was abou 10. I refused to sit still while she was trying to fix my hair. Being unable to speak the language properly actually made things much easier in situations such as this. All I had to do was to bow politely (and constantly), keep my mouth shut, my eyes open and stay out of her way. Thankfully my cousin Hideo stayed close, watching over me I think.
We arrived too late to attend the memorial service, which consisted primarily of sutra readings and monetary offerings from co-workers and casual associates. For the open-casket viewing, the priest said a number of prayers and a sermon. Mourners queued up to light incense and view the body. After the viewing, it was time for the funeral procession to the crematorium. 
The casket was placed inside what looked like a miniature temple built over the bed of a small truck. I remember the hearse seemed to be moving awfully fast; it felt a bit more like a road rally than a funeral procession. At one point, I thought we’d lost them. Then I realized everyone knew the address of where we were going anyway.
We pulled into the parking lot where we were greeted by a hostess wearing a western-style business suit—much to my disappointment, I might add. Once the group was assembled, we followed her into a large room. The walls and floors were all tile, the shiny glazed type you would find in a shower or steam room. At the far end of the room were two sets of large steel doors.
I noticed off to the side of the room was Grandma’s casket, resting inside a large metal tray, on what appeared to be a hospital gurney. An old man was standing by gurney. He pushed the gurney towards the doors and then waited. Our hostess was saying something I didn’t quite understand. I leaned over to Hideo and whispered, “What?”
“We’re going to say ‘good bye’ now,” he responded.
I looked back at him and scrunched my face a bit. He pointed to the gurney. The old man had opened the doors to what looked like the inside of a giant pizza oven. He lined the gurney up with the opening and pushed the casket inside. The hostess was turned towards the open door. She started waving and saying, “Bye, bye! Bye, bye!” Soon the the whole group was bowing and waving, “Bye, bye! Bye, bye!” The old man shut the doors and pushed the gurney off to the side again.
This time, when the hostess spoke, I understood a bit better. We were going upstairs for tea and cakes.
After about an hour, she re-appeared with a bright smile and a bow, “Thank you so much for waiting. She’s done!”
We trooped back downstairs and into the tiled room. The old man was wearing heavy gloves. He opened the doors and pulled out the tray. He motioned us to gather around. I looked at Hideo and he nodded. I edged over to the gurney, being careful not to touch the sides of the tray, which radiated heat. Inside was a surprisingly large pile of ashes. Here and there, I could see bones still glowing white hot. The old man started passing out long, metal chopsticks to everyone in the group.
I swallowed. I looked at Hideo, again. He bent his head close to my ear, “We pick up a bone and put it into the urn.”
“Ack! What if I drop Grandma on the floor?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll do it together. I’ll help.”
He watched me as I moved the tips of my chopsticks over what looked like a solid chunk of bone. I put my chopsticks around it and squeezed. He placed the tips of his chopsticks at an angle to mine. I noticed I was shaking badly. I reached over with my left hand and put it under my right to hold it steady. Hideo waited patiently until I said, “OK.”
We slowly lifted the bone up and over the urn, and then lowered it onto the pile of bones already placed. I let go of the bone and my breath with a deep sigh. With a look of relief at my guardian angel, I whispered, “Thank you.”
He smiled back, “No problem.”
We handed our chopsticks to the old man and watched as he used a whisk broom and dustpan to gather up the remaining bones. He put them in the urn. Next he swept up the ashes and put them in the urn, brushing the ashes into a smooth mound. He put the broom and pan aside and picked up a bone he’d obviously set aside for last. It had a rather unique shape, sort of like a butterfly with outstretched wings.
He looked at it for a moment and a warm smile crept across his face. Still smiling, he held it up for the rest of us to see, “This is really beautiful. Usually in old people, the bones are sort of fragile and crumble easily. But this one is nice and solid. That’s very good luck.”
He carefully perched the bone on top of the ashes and put the lid on the urn. Then he tied the urn up in a cloth and handed it to Grandpa, who wouldn’t allow anyone else to carry “Grandma.”
Next came the luncheon. I sat by Mom and listened for scraps of conversation I could understand. Most of it though, seemed to be news of relatives and friends whom I didn’t know at all. I turned my attention to sumo wrestling a slippery piece of roasted eel. (Why is it on formal occasions, when wearing our most expensive clothing, we are also required to dine with treacherously slick chopsticks?) Finally, it was time to go. The hostess led us out the door and back to the parking lot. She stood there until we were out of sight, waving, “Bye, bye! Bye, bye!”
In Uncle’s car, Mom was fuming. “Did you hear that sister-in-law? When Mom’s ashes came out, the first thing she said was, ‘I wonder what happened to her gold inlays?’”
Uncle kept his eyes on the road as she continued, “She was looking for teeth! Can you believe the nerve?” She scowled at my Uncle, who said nothing. I stifled a giggle.
Like mother, like daughter. And granddaughter. . . Yoroshiku onegai shimasu.
2 comments May 3rd, 2009
April 26, 2009 — The night before Dad went into surgery, I had a chance to talk with him. Just the two of us in his hospital room. We talked about random things. I was careful to stick to the generic and inconsequential. Heavy conversations made Dad squirm and I wanted to keep him in good spirits.
I’d emailed Dad’s hospital room number to his fraternity pledge brother, Ivan, who called that evening as well. “Uncle Ivan” told Dad a number of funny stories about their old college mates. They hadn’t spoken in over 20 years—Dad was too embarrassed to let his Ivy League classmates see him after the drug days. Dad had a warm, broad smile on his face by the time he hung up the phone.
Despite my efforts, though, it wasn’t long before the dreaded question arose. In a pleading voice he asked me to improve my relationship with my siblings.
A sigh of exasperation slipped out. For as far back as I can remember, the family game has been a surreal “Can You Top This?” competition in which the child who could claim the most calamitous personal disaster would win the prize for being the most lovable, and be showered with money and attention from both parents. And I kept screwing things up by refusing to play along. Hence my siblings’ longstanding declaration that I had a serious problem of acting like I’m better than everyone else.
These thoughts flashed through my mind as I tried to think of something more diplomatic than a reflexive, “Yeah, right. Whatever.”
Before I had a chance to answer, he laughed sadly, “You know, you’re a hard act to follow.”
I snapped my head around to glare at him. Unqualified praise coming out Dad’s mouth was not something I was used to hearing. Operation or no, the gloves were off.
“For chrissakes Dad! Don’t you get it? I’ve pushed this hard and worked my *ss off, for you. My personal and career successes, that’s my way of showing how grateful I am for everything you’ve done to give me a better life. All of that, everything, is for you. For all the bullsh*t you’ve put up with.”
He started crying. I started crying and laughing at the same time, “Look, I’m sorry if they don’t like who I am, but that’s not my problem. I’ll try to get along with them better. Remember, it takes three to make it work, not just me. And you know d*mn well I’m doing all the work in that department. You know that and I know that.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s just, . . .I just want you guys to get along, OK?” The end of the question was practically a whimper.
I rolled my eyes upwards and stuck out my tongue like I was trying on a hangman’s necktie. Just then his primary physician, who is also my cousin Paul, walked into the room. Perfect timing.
In a flash, Dad changed into his tough-guy face and snorted, “So, how serious is this d*mn operation? Should I really risk it?”
I rolled my eyes again. Dad was a fearful guy and this was a typical response—immediately try to put the other guy on the defensive, either verbally or physically. Dad had a violent temper when threatened too far.
“Oh for heaven’s sake Dad, it’s 11pm. The poor guy comes after his rounds to visit and say ‘Hi,’ and that’s the greeting he gets?”
Without a pause, I turned towards my cousin, “Hi Paul.”
We all laughed. At that moment I realized Dad didn’t really know “how serious” tomorrow was going to be. Paul and I both knew Dad’s chances of surviving the surgery were roughly 40%. It was that serious. And while the surgery odds were lousy, without it, his chances of surviving the cancer were next to nothing.
Paul spoke with a quiet, measured delivery, “I wouldn’t have recommended this operation if I didn’t think it was the best option. Remember, we’re cutting to cure.” Perfect answer. Paul understood Dad’s self-destructive nature would hone in on any excuse to give up and quit.
“Yeah, Dad, lighten up will you? Aren’t you supposed to working on a positive attitude the night before surgery?” I growled with the same macho bluster. I can do a pretty good imitation of Dad. Then I poked him in the arm for emphasis. More laughter. A few minutes later Paul left. I gave Dad a hug and said I’d see him after surgery.
I kept my promise and visited several times, although Dad didn’t know it. He never regained consciousness after the first surgery, or the second. Three days later, Paul and I were talking on the phone when Code Blue page came. I could hear the muffled sounds of the loudspeaker and people rushing around.
“Hey Anita, um, . . .I gotta go, . . .that’s for Jack,” and Paul hung up.
For all the faults he had, and there were a ton; for all the suffering he caused, for me, for others, for himself; for all that, Dad’s last gift to his first daughter was nothing short of an 11th-hour miracle. I worked my whole d*mn life to be good. This time, I got lucky. . .Your friend in baseball.
1 comment April 26th, 2009
