Seven. In my 23 years, I've been to seven funerals, all of close friends and family. This week would have brought the count up to eight, but as I write on my work break, my parents are making their way up north for my uncle's funeral. His wife decided to take him off the respirator at noon today. My uncle was 46 and left behind his two daughters, ages 13 and 16.
Every time someone passes away, I am reminded of how impermanent this life is. At a young age, we are masked with a shield of invincibility, thinking that nothing harmful can penetrate us. Then we get a bit older and begin to experience people around us dying, some naturally of old age, others robbed of their youth. Although the media exposes us to tragedies every day, there is nothing more poignant than someone personal in your life dying, forcing you to acknowledge your vulnerabilities: I, too, will die one day.
You consequently think about what you've done with your life and what you hope to do with it. Last night my boyfriend asked me if I feel as if my day is wasted when I go home from work and just eat, watch tv and sleep. I told him that I wouldn't feel that it is wasted if I was able to spend that time with him. If I never have a job that I love, a gorgeous home that I own, the opportunity to travel the world, or a winning Lotto ticket, I'll be okay, because I can look back and say that I was able to help the less fortunate and to spend quality time with my loving family (which happens to be the best family EVAR!). Often we attach ourselves to the material, physical, ever-changing world. People tend to forget that we are not measured by what we own, but by how we made others feel. So go ahead. Make someone feel good.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
When is Enough, Enough?
We visited our uncle one last time before we left for home yesterday. It was about 10 minutes before 8 o'clock and we had to sit around in the waiting room while the nurses switched shifts and filed their reports. As the minute hand slowly made its way to 12, we anxiously entered the ICU to say our goodbyes. My uncle's face was skinnier. His cheeks were sunken in, further accentuated by his high cheek bones. The nurse had taped his eyes shut to prevent them drying out. His lips were still swollen but his hands and feet were slightly less swollen. There had been no changes in his vitals, which meant that he had made no improvements. Through her tears and great anguish, my mother held my uncle's hand and read a prayer for my him, her little brother. She caressed his forehead and swept back his hair, telling him that it's okay to let go, that he doesn't have to fight it. Most people would think to tell a dying person that he should fight, but my mom didn't want her brother to suffer anymore.
One person was noticeably absent from the room--my uncle's wife. Where could she be on a Sunday morning? Wouldn't she want to be by his side every moment that she can? The nurse, named Bali, asked us if the wife worked, since she was seldom in the room with my uncle. Bali told us that when my uncle's wife dropped him off at the ER, barely able to hold himself up, she left him afterwards. All alone. Her thirteen year old daughter even went to a dance competition while her dad was in the ICU. And now in his weakest, darkest moment, she was not there for him. If you knew that your spouse, the parent of your children, had a great chance of dying, wouldn't you want to be there by his side, holding his hand, giving him words of encouragement and love, cherishing every second you can with him? When is enough, enough? An hour? Two hours? How do you judge someone based on how much time they spend with their dying spouse? So what if my uncle is heavily sedated and can't respond to my aunt. So what if watching him lay there is too painful to watch. So what if she gets headaches and feels like she wants to faint. Grab a chair and sit down! Everything that my uncle has done was to take care of his wife and kids, and to know that his wife can't even muster up the strength to be there by his side makes me so incensed.
One person was noticeably absent from the room--my uncle's wife. Where could she be on a Sunday morning? Wouldn't she want to be by his side every moment that she can? The nurse, named Bali, asked us if the wife worked, since she was seldom in the room with my uncle. Bali told us that when my uncle's wife dropped him off at the ER, barely able to hold himself up, she left him afterwards. All alone. Her thirteen year old daughter even went to a dance competition while her dad was in the ICU. And now in his weakest, darkest moment, she was not there for him. If you knew that your spouse, the parent of your children, had a great chance of dying, wouldn't you want to be there by his side, holding his hand, giving him words of encouragement and love, cherishing every second you can with him? When is enough, enough? An hour? Two hours? How do you judge someone based on how much time they spend with their dying spouse? So what if my uncle is heavily sedated and can't respond to my aunt. So what if watching him lay there is too painful to watch. So what if she gets headaches and feels like she wants to faint. Grab a chair and sit down! Everything that my uncle has done was to take care of his wife and kids, and to know that his wife can't even muster up the strength to be there by his side makes me so incensed.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Road Trip (sort of)
My family and I usually drive up north to visit my grandparents every Thanksgiving, but today, we had to make a special trip. My mother's younger brother was given two days to live by his doctor. Although the reason for today's trip was different from the ones prior, the drive up remains the same:
1. My parents b*tch at the way my sister and I drive. According to my parents, my sister drives too close the car in front and shouldn't go over 80mph, and I make reckless turns and brake too late.
2. My dad always feels the need to make a stop to stretch his legs, which is code for "smoke break." The rest of the family b*tches about his lung-choking cigarette stench.
3. Before we can even see the cows, we smell their tortuous malodor. Mother always asks my dad the same question: Are they milk cows or beef cows?
As we make our way into San Pablo, CA, we notice a grillz store flanked by a mom and pop Mexican restaurant, liquor store, coffee shop and beat down motels. Grillz?! Too funny! It was the first time that we had been back to my grandpa's house since my grandmother had died last July. The exterior and interior of the house remain the same despite the 20 or some odd years of my grandparents' residing there. Walk inside and you're warped back to the eighties. Yellow-brownish shag carpet, popcorn ceilings with cobwebbs and water damage, yellow kitchen countertops and stove. But my grandpa managed to make it unique in his own way. Ceram wrap covers the wall above the stove to prevent splattering oil from staining it; papers with phone numbers and inspirational quotes are pinned to the wall; and multiple calendars from the previous and current year line the wall, as if they were decoration...and they're in every room of the house.
But I'm not done--I have to go into detail with this oddity--my grandpa has an obsession with compartments. (He's a neat freak and I can see where my mom gets it from...and it explains why I'm a bit anal...but that can be saved for another time.) For every group of items, he groups them together and puts them in trays. DVDs, pens, notepads, medicine, nail clippers, tape, etc. He even has trays within trays. He'll have a pull-out compartment and inside are several trays with different items like q-tips, cotton balls and tissues. There are different colored and sized trays. Some compartments have lids, some are round, some are rectangular, some have handles, some can be linked with other compartments to make a stackable large one. Oh my freakin' goodness! They're everywhere!
Then there's the one quirk about my grandpa that is endearing...or annoying at certain times, but nevertheless, thoughtful. My grandpa takes a camera with him everywhere that he goes. The first thing I noticed when I walked into his house was the new cabinet that was by the doorway. This type of cabinet is usually used to display fine china, but my grandpa decided to exhibit my grandma's photos. It was as if he created a museum to memorialize my grandma. There she was, in seven pictures, playing the piano. But each picture was from a different year. Pictures have a way of being cruel, capturing the changes in aging and sickness, but it also has a way of being giving, offering a precious moment forever frozen in time. The many photos of my grandma hanging from the walls remind my grandpa of the love that he once had and forever will have in his heart.
So back to the reason why we came up here. My uncle. When we were in the waiting room for the ICU, I had planned to not go in his room. I didn't want to see him like that. I didn't want to remember him like that. But I went in. Bags of different liquids and medicines fed through the many tubes that went into my uncle. An oxygen machine sat at the foot of his bed, quietly pumping air in and out of a tube that went through his mouth. Another machine to his left pumped in new blood and took out the old, while different screens monitored his heart rate and other vitals. His black hair was longer than what I remembered it to be. It was smoothly slicked back, naturally from laying on his back all day. His skin was yellow. His eyes were open but there was no movement in his eyelids, no life in his eyes. His chest moved up and down but that was artificially created. Tears streamed down my face the moment I saw all of this. I couldn't hold back. (Damn birth control makes me so emotional!) I saw my mom holding back her tears but the cringe in her face and the intensity in her eyes spoke loudly enough. She spoke to her brother, telling him to get better and go home.
As of right now, we don't know why his body shut down on him. He had nose cancer and was awaiting treatment but his body got infected and his liver stopped functioning. I think the doctors gave a conservative estimate on my uncle's life span. He did show signs of slight improvement. We're just waiting for him to get better. He was a workaholic but he always found time to take care of and spend time with his daughters. I believe that he has the strength to pull through. He loves his family too much to let them go now.
1. My parents b*tch at the way my sister and I drive. According to my parents, my sister drives too close the car in front and shouldn't go over 80mph, and I make reckless turns and brake too late.
2. My dad always feels the need to make a stop to stretch his legs, which is code for "smoke break." The rest of the family b*tches about his lung-choking cigarette stench.
3. Before we can even see the cows, we smell their tortuous malodor. Mother always asks my dad the same question: Are they milk cows or beef cows?
As we make our way into San Pablo, CA, we notice a grillz store flanked by a mom and pop Mexican restaurant, liquor store, coffee shop and beat down motels. Grillz?! Too funny! It was the first time that we had been back to my grandpa's house since my grandmother had died last July. The exterior and interior of the house remain the same despite the 20 or some odd years of my grandparents' residing there. Walk inside and you're warped back to the eighties. Yellow-brownish shag carpet, popcorn ceilings with cobwebbs and water damage, yellow kitchen countertops and stove. But my grandpa managed to make it unique in his own way. Ceram wrap covers the wall above the stove to prevent splattering oil from staining it; papers with phone numbers and inspirational quotes are pinned to the wall; and multiple calendars from the previous and current year line the wall, as if they were decoration...and they're in every room of the house.
But I'm not done--I have to go into detail with this oddity--my grandpa has an obsession with compartments. (He's a neat freak and I can see where my mom gets it from...and it explains why I'm a bit anal...but that can be saved for another time.) For every group of items, he groups them together and puts them in trays. DVDs, pens, notepads, medicine, nail clippers, tape, etc. He even has trays within trays. He'll have a pull-out compartment and inside are several trays with different items like q-tips, cotton balls and tissues. There are different colored and sized trays. Some compartments have lids, some are round, some are rectangular, some have handles, some can be linked with other compartments to make a stackable large one. Oh my freakin' goodness! They're everywhere!
Then there's the one quirk about my grandpa that is endearing...or annoying at certain times, but nevertheless, thoughtful. My grandpa takes a camera with him everywhere that he goes. The first thing I noticed when I walked into his house was the new cabinet that was by the doorway. This type of cabinet is usually used to display fine china, but my grandpa decided to exhibit my grandma's photos. It was as if he created a museum to memorialize my grandma. There she was, in seven pictures, playing the piano. But each picture was from a different year. Pictures have a way of being cruel, capturing the changes in aging and sickness, but it also has a way of being giving, offering a precious moment forever frozen in time. The many photos of my grandma hanging from the walls remind my grandpa of the love that he once had and forever will have in his heart.
So back to the reason why we came up here. My uncle. When we were in the waiting room for the ICU, I had planned to not go in his room. I didn't want to see him like that. I didn't want to remember him like that. But I went in. Bags of different liquids and medicines fed through the many tubes that went into my uncle. An oxygen machine sat at the foot of his bed, quietly pumping air in and out of a tube that went through his mouth. Another machine to his left pumped in new blood and took out the old, while different screens monitored his heart rate and other vitals. His black hair was longer than what I remembered it to be. It was smoothly slicked back, naturally from laying on his back all day. His skin was yellow. His eyes were open but there was no movement in his eyelids, no life in his eyes. His chest moved up and down but that was artificially created. Tears streamed down my face the moment I saw all of this. I couldn't hold back. (Damn birth control makes me so emotional!) I saw my mom holding back her tears but the cringe in her face and the intensity in her eyes spoke loudly enough. She spoke to her brother, telling him to get better and go home.
As of right now, we don't know why his body shut down on him. He had nose cancer and was awaiting treatment but his body got infected and his liver stopped functioning. I think the doctors gave a conservative estimate on my uncle's life span. He did show signs of slight improvement. We're just waiting for him to get better. He was a workaholic but he always found time to take care of and spend time with his daughters. I believe that he has the strength to pull through. He loves his family too much to let them go now.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Dream Wedding?
This picture looks like a typical wedding photo--a bride in her white dress and flowing veil, a groom in his sharp suit and tie. But then you take a closer, longer look. There are two couples getting married--why? The brides are awkwardly leaning in, or away, not sure what direction the photographer is telling them to go. The left groom is holding the bride's arm, not in a loving manner, but in a controlling way. And the guy on the right--well, he's just goofy looking... Or perhaps I'm being too analytical and the camera guy happened to catch the couples off-guard.I came across this picture in the NY Times accompanying an article about young Vietnamese women marrying Korean men. The headline didn't sound bad at first. Sure, they're making the Asian gene pool look even more homogeneous than it already is, and will be combining two potent ethnic creations to make the next weapon of mass destruction--fish sauce/nuoc mam and kimchi. But as I started reading the article, I became disheartened. Older Korean men are paying marriage brokers to introduce them to a room full of hopeful Vietnamese women in their twenties, and some young as 18.
You can read the article to get a social and cultural context of the situation, but what it basically says is that the Korean men are having a hard time finding suitable marriage partner, so they travel to countries that are typically poor in search of their brides. The key word here is poor.
These women lack opportunities in their own country and are desperate for better lives, even if it means moving to a foreign country with a complete stranger. The men usually prefer the less educated women who will devote their time to taking care of the house and family; after all, those are the same men who were probably rejected by the women in their country who have higher expectations of their husbands-to-be. Though it seems like both parties get what they want, it is the women who end up disadvantaged. She doesn't speak the husband's native language and will most likely depend on him for financial support. She can't turn to her family or friends for emotional support, albeit it would be on the phone.
To be fair to the other side, things can work out. But my concern is more on the shortage of opportunities for self-sustaining growth in these poor countries. People aren't concerned about accumulation of material goods; they're worried about whether or not there's enough food to eat and that they can have the bare necessities to survive. So I can understand why any opportunity to leave the lifestyle that they have is better than staying where they're at. They don't want to leave. They have to leave. It's just unfortunate that young women have to uproot themselves from their families, which is the most important entity in traditional Asian countries. What happens when there's a shortage of single women for the single men?
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Dark Clouds
My eyes are dry from the tears I shed. I didn't think that I would react that way after listening to my sister tell me that my uncle, my mom's younger brother, had passed away from liver cancer. For the past several years, my uncle had been virtually non-existent to my family. He didn't return my ailing grandparents' calls and didn't take his children to visit his lonely parents. He even missed my grandma's funeral because he was unable to catch a flight from Singapore, where he frequently traveled to for work. After my grandmother died last June, my grandpa would call him about a broken refrigerator or pipe. My uncle didn't talk much to my grandpa, but he did buy him a new fridge and fixed anything that was broken. Perhaps that was his way of expressing his love for his dad.
He wasn't always like that. When my sisters and I were kids, we would make the eight hour drive to visit our grandparents each summer in San Pablo, a suburb on the outskirts of San Francisco. My uncle, whom we called Cau 5, would pick us up and take us to Discovery Zone with his two daughters, who are seven and ten years younger than me. His wife took us to the YMCA to swim and cool off from the summer heat. When we grew up, so did the distance between my uncle and my grandparents, and inevitably, my cousins and me. There was some drama between Cau 5's wife and his older brother's, Cau 3, wife. Legend has it that they used to be best friends, but somehow jealously ensued between the two women, eventually tearing up their friendship as well as their relationship with my grandparents, ultimately separating the two brothers. Seems like the women wear the pants in the Vo house... I'm sure my grandpa's short temper had to do something with Cau 5's wife not wanting him or her kids to visit my grandpa, but then again, no one will ever know the true story because there were too many people involved to get a comprehensive, objective picture. Does it even matter anymore?
At my grandma's funeral, I was angry with my uncle for not being there. He wasn't there for my grandma when she was crying out for him, saying how much she missed him, or when she was in excruiating pain, praying for her immediate death. When he showed up the next day for dinner, I couldn't even look at him, let alone greet him. It is considered extremely rude to not greet an adult in the family, but I didn't care about what he thought. My grandpa's face lit up when he saw him, welcoming him with open arms. I could see the sadness in my mom's eyes. She does everything that my grandpa asks, even when he's yelling at her, demanding her to do it right away, his way. But he would never yell at his youngest son, never bring up the past or correct him for his wrongdoings. I remember telling myself that day that I don't consider Cau 5 my uncle anymore.
When I got the call from my sister this morning, I emailed my mom to see how she was doing. She replied saying that my uncle actually didn't die yet, but he's about to go any time now. He wants to be cremated within a day of his death. At that moment, the heavy blanket of sadness was lifted up, as if I had some hope that a miracle would happen, that he would somehow survive. I have to remind myself that life is impermanent, intranssient, that the breath that we breathe now will not be the same as the breath that we take later. I don't mean to downplay his demise; I just want to see the bigger picture...or maybe I just need a way to cope with death. Typical lessons come from people's death--live life to the fullest, don't take people who you love for granted--but the living tend to quickly forget those sayings. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people.
I don't regret not talking to my uncle or not giving him a hug the last time I saw him. I just hope that he can rest in peace and that my cousins will be able to handle life after he is gone.
He wasn't always like that. When my sisters and I were kids, we would make the eight hour drive to visit our grandparents each summer in San Pablo, a suburb on the outskirts of San Francisco. My uncle, whom we called Cau 5, would pick us up and take us to Discovery Zone with his two daughters, who are seven and ten years younger than me. His wife took us to the YMCA to swim and cool off from the summer heat. When we grew up, so did the distance between my uncle and my grandparents, and inevitably, my cousins and me. There was some drama between Cau 5's wife and his older brother's, Cau 3, wife. Legend has it that they used to be best friends, but somehow jealously ensued between the two women, eventually tearing up their friendship as well as their relationship with my grandparents, ultimately separating the two brothers. Seems like the women wear the pants in the Vo house... I'm sure my grandpa's short temper had to do something with Cau 5's wife not wanting him or her kids to visit my grandpa, but then again, no one will ever know the true story because there were too many people involved to get a comprehensive, objective picture. Does it even matter anymore?
At my grandma's funeral, I was angry with my uncle for not being there. He wasn't there for my grandma when she was crying out for him, saying how much she missed him, or when she was in excruiating pain, praying for her immediate death. When he showed up the next day for dinner, I couldn't even look at him, let alone greet him. It is considered extremely rude to not greet an adult in the family, but I didn't care about what he thought. My grandpa's face lit up when he saw him, welcoming him with open arms. I could see the sadness in my mom's eyes. She does everything that my grandpa asks, even when he's yelling at her, demanding her to do it right away, his way. But he would never yell at his youngest son, never bring up the past or correct him for his wrongdoings. I remember telling myself that day that I don't consider Cau 5 my uncle anymore.
When I got the call from my sister this morning, I emailed my mom to see how she was doing. She replied saying that my uncle actually didn't die yet, but he's about to go any time now. He wants to be cremated within a day of his death. At that moment, the heavy blanket of sadness was lifted up, as if I had some hope that a miracle would happen, that he would somehow survive. I have to remind myself that life is impermanent, intranssient, that the breath that we breathe now will not be the same as the breath that we take later. I don't mean to downplay his demise; I just want to see the bigger picture...or maybe I just need a way to cope with death. Typical lessons come from people's death--live life to the fullest, don't take people who you love for granted--but the living tend to quickly forget those sayings. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people.
I don't regret not talking to my uncle or not giving him a hug the last time I saw him. I just hope that he can rest in peace and that my cousins will be able to handle life after he is gone.
Year of the Oinker!
The great part about being Asian is that you get to celebrate two New Year's. February 18th was Chinese New Year, year of the pig. Although I am Vietnamese, we use the same lunar calendar as the Chinese...all Asians come from China anyways ;) According to the Chinese zodiac, there are 12 animals on their 12-year cycle, which helps you determine my age--a number that is a factor of 12. I should jump in jubilation because it is MY year. That's right--I am a pig. Not in the metaphorical sense where I am lazy and like to roll around in the mud all day, but as in the Chinese sign of zodiac. People born in the year of the pig are typically described as polite, honest hardworking, loyal, and damn sexy. (I'm writing this blog so I can make up anything I want!) They are also considered to be lucky, but until I win the million dollar lotto or have a tropical island with a full-service staff to myself, I wouldn't believe that corny folklore. But then again, it's not any better to believe the Vietnamese's superstitious tale that if it is the person's year of zodiac, BAD luck will fall upon them for the year.
I personally don't believe in superstition. What I look forward to the most during New Year's is the convergence of families, not that it is any different from any other weekend. My dad lives right next to his brother and his two sisters live down the block across the street from one another. There are a string of traditional things that we do for New Year's. Plates of fresh fruits are placed on the Buddha's and ancestral altar and for Lord Earth (or for some protector of the house), and incense burns before them. We get dressed up and go from one family's house to another to wish them good health, abundance in wealth and good fortune. Adults give kids red envelopes with new, crisp dollar bills in them. (Unfortunately I'm considered an old fart and don't get any more envelopes; it is my turn to give money to my younger cousins, but I'm too lazy to go to the bank to get new currency. Hmmm...maybe the zodiac description is right...) After, we drive off to the cemetery to visit my grandpa and then make our way to the temple, where we pay reverence to the Buddha and to the ancestral altar. To tie it all up, we head back home and eat with the family, perhaps play some bo-cua-ca-cop, or in English, cow-crab-fish-tiger, a roulette-like game where players place money on a character on a game mat, and the dealer throws the dice to see which two characters turn up. If the dice matches your character, the dealer has to pay you.
The best part of all of this is being able to spend time with my parents and silly aunts and uncles, and especially my 80 year old grandma. To know that my grandma will not be with me forever and to know that the adults are aging each day make those moments even more precious. The customs and traditions that we carry out are as much a part of our culture as it is our unique identity. Without them, we lose our heritage and the gift that our parents gave to us.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Berkeley
There was something about this tree that caught my eye. The way that it was bent over, reaching for the ground as if to hold itself up, or perhaps to simply take a rest. This old tree has endured decades of nature's touch as well as man's, and when we are gone, it will still be in the same place, but never in the same light.
The Campanile is the tallest building on Cal, towering 18 stories above campus. My cousin told me that people have committed suicide by jumping off the Campanile before bars were put in place. 
On a clear day, you can see as far as the Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz.
The time on my cell phone was five minutes off so I was expecting the bells to ring at 11am. Needless to say, it scared the ish out of me when they went off.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
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