he would always say "gambatte!"

[ back | up | next ]

dateline: oZtorium

31 october 1996 11:03 p.m.

I find this Halloween night that I am haunted not by the hoardes screaming, three-foot goblins, lions and Pocahontases outside, nor the whispers of my curtains as they dance out of the way of an uncharacteristically brisk, cool Waikiki breeze. Instead, the specters and shadows dancing in my mind are that of a mere man. My uncle died on Sunday. And since I heard my mother's soft, measured voice that afternoon -- in a phone call that dashed the day's plans for merriment -- I feel like I've been living the life of a screen door derailed off its well-worn groove. It's like haven't been in this universe for eons. I'm not sure if I'm back yet. In my mind's eye, I can see myself, sitting here, tacking at a grimy plastic keyboard... it feels as if only now I am visiting home after years of an all-pervading spiritual exile. That evening, I found myself driving my mother to Wahiawa General because she didn't feel coherent enough to drive herself. On the way up, I was dumbstruck by what I was feeling. And that was nothing. Nothing at all. A lot was on my mind -- especially what wasn't . Instead of being wracked with sorrow, or empathy, or something, only cold, useless thoughts seemed to fill my mysterious mental desert. I wondered how long we'd be there. I wondered if I'd be able to get my Hawaiian homework done. I wondered how to get there, then wondered where to park. I wondered, out of pure ettiquette, what I should say to my aunt. I wondered if I should even go in, to attend what turned out to be a devestatingly awkward makeshift service in a tiny white room run by a round-faced Filipino priest who muttered to himself while random parts of the hospital spontaneously rang and beeped and slammed and whispered. It was over when the priest left, but it took five minutes before we realized that. There was nothing to say. All that night I remember my gaze steadfastly locked on the floor, and even now the most vivid image I can recall is of the generic speckled floor tile. Finally mom and I shuffled away, turning back a million times, wondering if we were expected to stay. I looked back at my aunt, nodding slowly at her mother- and father-in-law, in whose faces I easily saw faint echoes of my uncle's smile. It was his third heart attack (I hadn't heard about the second). He'd actually been very weak since the first at least three years ago, which was serious enough for his doctor to warn the family that another could -- and did -- easily take him. Since he was retired -- I don't know how old he was but he often joked that he was thought a cradle-robber when he started dating auntie -- I rarely saw him outside their house both before and after that heart attack. He seemed permanently planted in his faded, fuzzy gold rocker which he would spin when he wanted to get a full view of the living room. (I can almost hear the rude noises his feet would make as they rubbed against the plastic-covered footrest that folded out and up at the push of a button.) As of that night, my mother and her sister were both alone. My cousins joined me in a world without a father. It stung my heart to know that they'd never find the joy I do in that fact. But really, I felt nothing. Driving my mom home, I wondered where I could stop to get a bite to eat. I can still feel the hug I gave my mother that night. I remember thinking how small she suddenly seemed despite her ever-present strength. But at the time I was only eager to get home and do something. Anything. I fell asleep easily, finding comfort in the fact that family things always sort themselves out in the end. On Monday, I still felt nothing. I didn't tell anyone that day, in part because my uncle's death still didn't weigh heavily in my mind. Even if it did, I thought, it shouldn't. I barely knew him. When my first cat, Coco, passed on when I was maybe ten, I couldn't stop fits of sobbing for days. Although he was my uncle, I didn't feel the same loss. Things felt almost normal. It hadn't hit me; not yet. I see that now. But white noise had already begun to cloud my mind even then. I can remember little of that day except for getting a "B" for that paper and having a rotten day at work. I also don't remember eating. My mother's voice, frighteningly low and level, woke me on Tuesday. It was a 5 a.m. call to tell me that the funeral was that night, in Nu`uanu. She told me my cousins would be there, and that I should be strong for them. Right then, something bigger than me tried to leap up my throat. But I stopped it. And it festered all day. Now, I knew something was eating me. Now, I felt something. But I didn't know what. I thought I was doing fine. I was still primed to charge through my daily routine despite the somber ceremony that woud follow. I even looked in the mirror to be sure that, yes, I could still smile. Then I realized I had to call work to let them know I wasn't coming in. When that thought struck, so did another, but I swallowed it and picked up the phone. Then I had to say the words. "My uncle died this weekend." And the person at the other end, a stranger, said he was sorry. And suddenly, so was I.