Sunshine

Ever since I returned to Taiwan ten days ago, there has not been a day of sunshine. Until this morning.

As usual, I got up around six in the morning, and prepared food and fruits for my dad to 'eat'. It is an ancient tradition that is repeated twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. We do not believe the dead leaves home as soon as he is dead, but usually stays around for sometime, until the spirit of the dead realises that it has to move on to the next realm of existence.

Usually I prepare rice with three dishes, one type of meat, and two kinds of vegetables. For the vegetables, one has to be the Chinese leek (韭菜, 'ku-tsai'), because in Taiwanese the word is a homonymn of the word for 'ever-lasting', As Taiwanese people and culture adore all sorts of symbolism and imageries, the name and lush green leaves of the leek is supposed to symbolically represent the everlasting togetherness of the deceased with the relatives. It happens to be also one of my favourite vegetables.

As I offered the food to dad's shrine, a beam of golden sun ray came through the window, and another, and another, until within moments the whole house was filled with refreshing sun light. The sky looked clearer, brighter, a far, far cry from the dull, gray and depressing days of mist and rain and storms before. When mum woke up, I proposed to take her up to the mountains.

Moments later, I rode the motorbike down the winding road up the Yangming Mountains ( 陽明山). Famed for its dozens of dead volcanoes that give source to various lakes of hot springs, this mountain range forms part of a national park that is merely around ten minutes away from my house. The mountains tower over a thousand meters, and form a tall column of green, sometimes white during the winter months, that leads all the way to the blue, blue Pacific.

We used to go up the mountains every weekend as a family, and take long baths that can clear away all sorts of worries and supposedly prevent and cure all sorts of diseases. This morning, it was just my mum and me.

The smell of sulphur lingered in the morning mist the closer we got close to a valley of hot springs. Down below, I used to clamber on the rocks and buy fresh eggs that would become hardboiled within minutes of putting it in the lake. Yellow vapour spews smoke and dust into the air, and often falls down as refreshing rain, making the area lush with life and plants.

We walked past a few vendors selling fresh mountain vegetables and fruits, the likes of which I have never seen before, let alone can name. The old ladies tending the stalls were so kind and friendly, the kind of genuine friendliness that I can only feel in Taiwan, and that always make me me feel all warm inside. Instantly, two dishes of stir fried wild vegetables were served, to be washed down with hot vegetarian sesame oil soup. For desert, I bought a piping hot sweet potato that was purple in colour, and so sweet and soft in flavour.

One old lady asked for my dad, and was sad to hear his passing. She used to call dad her 'brother', while dad would greet her as 'older sister'. They knew each other well, for my parents would often go up the mountain buy fresh organic vegetables from this lady. She had whitening hair, but a bright smile and soft voice that was calming. "We come and we go," she said, "All we can do is wish him well, and send him loving-kindness." I thought of dad, and how he must have rode the same road as I did, how he must have stood in the same place and chatted to the same old lady as I was doing then...


Throughout the day, more relatives came over and pay respects to dad's shrine at home. As a tradition, people give 'white evelops' with money to the remaining family members. I think it comes from the days when people were really poor, and every little bit of money helps to pay for the funeral arrangements, which can be rather costly (and therefore lucrative) business here. In return, those who visit get a towel (巾), which in Taiwanese has the same sound as 'root' ( 根 / 'gin'). The gift of the towel is supposed to symbolise the cutting off of the 'root of sadness', in the hope that the mourning will soon be over, and that better days will come. Of course, a towel is also always handy to wipe away tears.

Later in the afternoon, we received a phone call. A long awaited phone. From the hospital. After almost a week, there is finally a bed free for my mum to go in and receive her chemotherapy injection treatment. Hastily, her things were packed in a little suitcase with wheels, and we soon we arrived at the ward for cancer patients.

On the bed were linen bearing the same markings as the ones that were on dad's bed not so long ago. He passed away in a building two stones throw away. And now my mum is going in for treatment. She was optimistic, and was not in the slightest way worried or scared. At least, if she was, she was not showing it.

I smiled and joked as we rode the lift to the ward, thinking that I must not be sad or worried for that would make her feel even more so. But deep down inside, I knew the coming few days would be a critical phase of a new infusion treatment, which targets only the cancerous cells, and leaves all other healthy cells intact. So effectively this means there will (hopefully be) less of the usual side-effects of hair loss and tiredness. But the treatment is really expensive, and can lead to higher blood pressure levels, so mum must remain in hospital for a number of days.

I will visit, and bring her fresh food and fruits.

And bring her good wishes and my blessings too.

Clothes

This afternoon, I sat in a cafe close to home. Around a week ago, I was in the same cafe, having just finished a light lunch, and seated down to enjoy my flower tea which is supposed to soothe the mind. Then the phone suddenly rang. It was from the hospital. Dad's condition went from stable to critical again, and it does not look good. I nearly dropped my cup in my haste and rush to the hospital. I made it, to spend the last half an hour or so with dad. Later dad passed away.

Together with mum and brother, I picked out dad's favourite clothes. Taiwanese tradition says that at the moment of burial or cremation, the deceased must wear clothes that he likes to wear most in order to have a good 'passing' to the next life. At the foot of his coffin, we were also asked to place other sets of dad's pajamas, undergarments, socks, shirts and jackets. Even the deceased need to change.

I shifted through dad's cupboard, my nostrils tickled with the scent of fabric softener, closet freshener, and the scent of dad. It is a mixture of scents which whenever I bury my nose in the fabric and close my eyes cause this strange calmness and tranquility within to take over. I picked out a black tailored suit , which still had the original labels on the sleeves. Dad had them made the year before his retirement, but because he was always so thrifty and so hard on himself, he never wore it. I picked out a white striped shirt, the collar of which was a little gray and worn out. Of the underwear he had, most of no more than rags, and some even had holes in them. Dad would often joke that they kept him cool, especially in the sweltering heat of Summers in Taiwan. Of the T-shirts he had, many I recognise from years ago. One was from more than ten years ago, in the Summer of '94, when we took a vacation to the States... another was a T-Shirt which I got after my high school graduation trip to Spain. Both were worn out, and the markings and wordings have become faded. Dad had taken them to wear, even though there were a dozen brand new clothes lying around unopened and still in their original wrapping. He was such a person, who had a lot to spare, a lot to give to others, especially to me, but never gave enough to himself, and never really had the opportunity to enjoy the luxury and good life he had built up from scratch.

In the drawers were old pictures of dad. Some taken so many years ago, when I did not even exist. He looked so young, so energetic then. He was skinny, like me, and always had tanned skin, which my brother inherited. The oldest son of a poor family from southern Taiwan, he was the first son to go to university and was attracted to the bright lights and big city of Taipei, where he soon became a little bank clerk. Dad worked his way up, gaining promotions and recognition through hardwork and dedication, and eventually won an opportunity to go abroad to work. Because of dad, my life, and the life of my whole family changed dramatically. Without dad, I probably would not be writing this now.

Dad once told me he came to the big city with just two thousand New Taiwan Dollars, which in today's terms can just about pay for a good meal at a nice restaurant. He saved every penny, and sent much to my grandparents for their pension. He married my mum, worked two jobs, bought a motorbike, then a car, then a house, then another house. Dad worked till he fell ill, till he became depressed, and for many years dad lived an isolated life with himself and his books.
I often tried to cheer him up, console him, and tell him that he should enjoy his retirement, and enjoy the fruits of his own success and prosperity. But dad's happiness and health continued to ail. In the past year or so, I heard little from him, and could not easily reach him. Last month, when he entered the hospital for chemo therapy, he was jubilant and had faith in the treatment. He said when he returns, he wants to finally buy the big 44 inch plasma screen TV dad has been looking at for sometime. "If I'm going to be home so often now," he told my mum, "might as well make it comfortable and enjoyable." And then he was gone.

He once told me that when he was young, he could not afford the luxury of good food or relaxation, but now that he can afford it, his health cannot. But even so, he always made sure I had enough, and even more than enough. I held onto the old clothes, and browsed through the old picture albums of me and dad on trips here and there, I began to feel the sadness creep up on me. I feel it oftentimes these days, between rushing from place to place to deal with funeral arrangements and everything that dad left behind. That emptiness and hollow feeling of feeling nothing in a place deep inside which once was filled with something concrete you could point to, something solid you could touch and speak of. Now there are only memories. Memories, and little pieces of paper with dad's scribbles, and little cards and letters I had sent dad in the past to tell him how much I appreciate his sacrifices, and to tell him how he must take better care of himself.

The empty bed, the empty bedroom, and now the empty cupboards and drawers. Remnants and reminders of my dad who worked so hard, but did not have the time or place to enjoy himself.

Jinshan

“When you get on a bus, you have to get off too,” my dad once said metaphorically, as he arrived at the seaside resort of Jinshan (金山). This little town perched on the Pacific Ocean is probably one of his most favourite places. Located on Taiwan’s magnificent North East Coast National Scenic Area, it is a wide valley which faces the blue, blue sea, with its back against lush, green mountains that is often adorned with clouds and mist. Dad loved the local seafood, often caught early in the morning, and freshly prepared to be eaten in the many restaurants along the white sandy beach. He also loved the delicacies of duck and goose, especially the wing bits which he loved to nibble on.

When I was little, I was told, we went to Jinshan on a family outing. Probably not more than three, I was petrified of the water, even though I was safe in a raft, and dad walked within hand’s reach beside me. I cried and cried and wanted to be taken ashore again. It was a terrible experience, watching all these giant waves crash against us, I think I must have feared that my loved ones would be swept away and lost forever. I cried and cried, and made my dad promise that we would never go near the sea again.

I rode the minibus today, and watched the same waves crash against the barren beach this morning. Indeed, a loved one is now lost forever. The ocean was not pacific as I remember, but murky and gray. The waves were violent, tumbling in a white rage, as they battled against the jagged rocks. The wind was piercingly cold, dampness wound together with salt. An island shaped like a tortoise poked its body not far away from shore, almost surreal in the thin layer of haze. Rugged cliffs wound along the shore, revealing a different kind of wild and raw beauty that this little island has to offer.

We headed up a mountain overlooking Jinshan, towards a tower that potentially could serve as the final resting place of dad’s urn and ashes. In recent years, a number of majestic temples have been built in and around scenic areas with good ‘feng-shui’ with the purpose of housing urns containing remains of the deceased. ‘Spirit and Bone Tower’, these buildings are literally called (靈骨塔, lin-gu ta), and they are grand structures normally containing a great hall with statues of various Buddhas and Bodhisattva, and on the different storeys are rows and rows of little safe-like containers where you can purchase a spot and place the remains of the deceased in.

Like in real life, an ‘urn safe’ is hard to come by, and are as hot as real estate. The best positions are often taken, especially those closest to light or the window, or those not too high up or not too low down. You can purchase a safe and you will receive also a Certificate of Ownership, which is (ironically) for life. According to local customs, every person is born at a different time and date, and these details read together with the horoscope determine which position and direction is the most suitable for a restful stay. Certain people, like my dad, must have a place facing the North, while others, like me, will fare better if I were to face West.

So together with my mum and brother, we wandered through the many hallways and corridors of this gigantic building in search of a suitable place for my dad. Again, like in real life, a safe for the urn does not come cheap. You can choose to be squeezed together with many others in an appartment-styled complex, or choose to have a more quiet VIP-mansion treatment with your personalised box with a window view to the sea. The difference is the price tag, which can amount to thousands or tens of thousands of Euros. The funeral business is a propserous, and apparently profitable one, here in Taiwan.

Dad was always a thrifty person, and he never wished for luxury or excesses. We picked a place for him in the standard urn room, which is fairly reasonably priced, and located in a good place suitable for his person. But before deciding anything definitive, I proposed that we ask dad for his opinion.

It may seem crazy and pure mysticism to a foreigner, but there are ways you can communicate with the deceased. Since dad’s death, a temporary shrine has been erected in our living room, and it is before this shrine that we offer fresh fruits and food to dad twice a day. You can ask the deceased simple questions, like whether he has finished his meal before taking the food away, or complicated ones like the ones I plan to ask dad about what he thinks about the temple we visited today. Tradition holds we take two coins and flip them into the air. A head and a tail means yes... two heads means that the deceased is humoured at your question and laughing at you, while two tails is a definite no, and may be interpreted as being angered if it appears too often consecutively. One must wait a few more moments before asking again. Some say this is just about probability, about chances...but I have come across (personally) times when a head and tail does not appear, even after ten or twenty throws. This, people say, may be because the spirits are angry or unhappy about something...it may be because the proper rites have not been followed, or maybe because not everyone in the household is present, or maybe because a drink is missing. So tomorrow after dad has his morning meal, I plan to ask him, and I am curious how he will answer.

Tou-chi

Dad is supposed to come home today. According to tradition, on the first seventh day after death (頭七), the deceased would return home to visit loved ones. During the first seven days, the spirit of the deceased does not realise it is dead yet, and wanders the world living and believing as it it were still alive. Then comes the realisation that the spirit has already moved into another plane of existence hits, and the spirit goes home to take one final look, before finally moving on.

Hence the elaborate ceremony this morning, with a three person-recital of Buddhist sutras, clash of symbols and rhythmic knocking of a woodblock. The purpose is to send prayers of goodwish and wellbeing to dad, so that he will have a speedy and troublefree passage into the next life. Offerings of fresh fruits and food, together with the burning of wads of 'paper money', paper lotuses and scent of incense is done to ensure that dad does not go empty-handed and empty-stomached. And of course, the diety standing at the first gateway of the Underworld needs offerings of fruits and paper money, so that dad can easily go through.

It took almost two hours. Throughout, my brother, two cousin and I stood in front of dad's temporary shrine, hands together before our chests in a prayer position, and now and then knelt and bowed in reverence to dad. In a cold drizzle, we burnt the offerings, and watched the smoke rise and rise into the heavens.

Last night, I slept on the floor in a little room right behind dad's shrine. In the first moments before falling asleep, I meditated and suddenly felt something never felt before. It was as if I felt my body dissolve into nothing, felt my arms and feet and torso and head evaporate into dust and disappear into everything else around me... I have heard of people describing that moment close to nirvana in similar ways, how body and matter simply disappears. How emotions and feelings become so insignificant, as one realises the inter-connectedness and natural way of all things. But then, I remember feeling afraid and foreign at the whole experince. I am not sure how long it lasted, but I knew I was frightened before finally falling asleep, and sleeping into the earlier hours of the morning. The scent of incense burning filled my lungs, and the chanting of nuns echoed in my ears.

With almost two weeks of holidays due to the Lunar New Year festivities, many things are closed here in Taiwan. And today we received news that the cremation can only take place at the beginning of March, almost one whole month after dad's death. Tradition dictates that the day of cremation be carefully chosen, and has to coincide with the date and time of birth, in short the horoscope, together with the date and time of death of the person. The Lunar Calendar (農曆月曆) acts as a guidebook of when to do what, when and how. This is important to ensure that the deceased can rest peacefully, and in doing so, the lives of those still living will not be adversely affected. Also the 'feng-shui' (風水) of the ultimate resting place of the urn is extremely important... each person has to be facing a specific direction (north, south, east, west), and the timing and place of storage must be carefully planned and coordinated too. They say a peaceful resting place has repercussions on the success and properity of the decendants, and so whether dad's urn is put to rest at the right time or place is supposed to have much influence on the future success and happiness of me and my brother.

To be honest, I simply go along with the rituals, and admire it for its ability to continue for thousands of years till this day. That a tradition could survive so long must have its merits and meanings. But then again I think to myself why one should exert oneself to such extremes? If your heart is not pure, if your mind is not still and contains ill thoughts, what is the purpose of pompous processions and ceremonies? What better way is there to pay respects to the deceased than remember him in your heart, and to be grateful to him for all that you have? I watched the paper money and paper lotuses burn in the fire cauldron, as choking smoke rose to pollute the atmosphere.

I accompanied mum to the Household Registration Office in the afternoon. I rode the motorcycle in the pouring rain. Taiwan has never felt so damp and cold in my memory, as I rode the winding streets that coiled along the misty mountains. I love to look up at the mountains, watch the lowlying clouds float by and shroud the mountain tops in a thin, thin veil. Part of this love comes from being able to imagine the pretty, timid face that is half hidden.

Dad used to ride the same motorbike up the mountains and down to the seaside nearby in those two short years from his retirement to his recent passing. He loved the feel of speeding on the motorbike, and the freedom of going and coming as he pleased, even though it were the same roads he had travelled over and over again. Perhaps he loved it as much as I loved riding my bicycle back in the Netherlands. Today, I rode that motorbike, and felt how easy it was, despite the raindrops on my glasses and the piercingly cold wind, to feel liberated.

Within five minutes, dad’s name was taken off of the official records. His ID was taken away, and my mum was issued a new one. Where previously the space after the word ‘Spouse’ was written with my dad’s name, now stands an open and gaping space. Mum's eyes watered and she fell silent. Taipei City government gave us a bag with a condolence card, a free picture frame gift, and a booklet containing all the laws and regulations and essential information about inheritance. How very attentive and thoughtful.

My mum looked at that, and her eyes watered again.

Memories

I went back to the hospital that dad passed away in barely a week ago. This time, it was because of my mum, who has an appointment to undergo the second phase of her chemo therapy. She had to postpone it, because the funeral arrangements will most likely take up the better part of this and next week, and the doctor said he will schedule a time soon for her to go in and receive her injection of toxins necessary to kill those cancerous cells.

Hospitals are never a happy place. All those ill people and sick patients, the stale air, the masks, and coughing... it makes me feel somewhat just being in the hospital. Imagine how dad had to spend many, many hours and days at the hospital, and all alone by himself.

I heard more about dad's final days from my mum. Ironically, tomorrow dad would be going into the hospital for the second part of his treatment. He had so much faith in the doctors, but his body did not. His body failed him, and could not take the poison any longer. He was nauseatic and dizzy after the last chemo therapy session. He went home, and stayed in bed for almost ten days, throwing up and unable to eat or drink. Just the thought of food made dad sick and throw up. It was as if his body rejected the drugs intended to kill the cancerous cells that had spread to his lungs. And in doing so, dad's body could no longer cope and slowly shut down.

His kidneys were already failing, and his liver functions too. And he was getting extreme pains in the chest area, for his lungs had slowly begun to be infected with cancer. But even so, the when he was taken up in hospital, he would beg my mum to take him outside for a cigarette. She did as dad wished, but felt embarrased, as dad always chose to smoke on a terrace right next to a sign which explicitly says that smoking is prohibited. I went to that place, and stood there for a while, imagining dad puffing away at his cigarettes, his arm wired to the infusion tube. In the bushes I found a cigarette butt bearing the markings of his favourite brand.

Next mum took me to a place where dad once stood and waved goodbye to her at night. Whenever she came to visit, dad would tell her to go home and rest, worried that mum might tire herself out. Dad would accompany mum to the main door, and stand there while he waved goodbye. Once, he stood there, but could not hold his urine in, and had to urinate there and then. This happened a couple of times as his illness worsened in those final days. Dad was too embarrassed to tell anyone, too embarrassed to let others clean up after him. But if only he had realised it was only natural and nothing to be ashamed of...

Despite his ailing health, dad remained humble and grateful. Mum recalled conversations they shared while he was in hospital. He thanked her genuinely for her company, and for her support and care. Once, even though he was already so frail and so weak, he even got out of bed and thanked the doctors for their attention and treatment. By his deathbed, in those final moments as life slipped away, I held his hands and told me how thankful I am for his being and his presence.

According to Taiwanese tradition, the deceased would wander the world for seven days and not realise that he has passed on to another plane of existence. And on the seventh day, which is tomorrow, the dead comes back home to revisit family members.

Will dad come back tomorrow?

Dad's room

I sat in dad's room and looked around. Piles of clothes folded on the table, his old duvet, neatly arranged at the bottom of his bed. The pillow casing littered with strands of his hair, hair he was beginning to loose from the chemo. If I were to lie in his bed and close my eyes, the scent of the sheets, and warmth of the blankets would together make it seem as if dad were next to me still... but of course, he is no more.

I took on the task of cleaning out his clothe cupboard. All the shirts, underwear, trousers, suits, ties, socks... each one a little memory, each one a piece of dad's life, and the moments that I shared within them. Some were new, brand new, and still inside their packaging. Dad had a lot of clothes, but most of the time he wore just a few, that became his trademark. This meant that a lot of T-Shirts were little more than rags that if you tore at them, they would simply rip.

Some clothes I had worn before, but dad had taken into his own closet to wear, because he did not think it necessary to buy new clothes for himself. This is the kind of self sacrifice dad made, so that I can live and lead a better and less worrisome life.

Most of the clothes I packed into a bag, ready to donate to charity. But others, I folded and piled away, as momento... Folded and piled away, like the pillowcase containing strands and smell of his hair.

Next were the medicine... dozens and dozens and dozens of packets of medicine for his illnesses, most still unopened and unused. There were needle-heads too, and wound cleansers, would he needed to inject insulin shots and keep dad's sugar levels under control. Mum said that dad lived the last few years of his life constantly under medication, constantly needing to go to the hospital for check-ups and diagnosis. But a lot of times he did not want to take the medicine. It was as if dad had given up... which explains the packets and packets of pills and tablets still unused, still unopened.

Later in the afternoon, dad's one of his three sisters and one of his two brothers came by to pay respects to dad's shrine. They had journey hours, standing all the way on the train journey from the south of the country, braving the holiday crowd all trying to get back home after the long vacation, just for a glimpse of dad.

We sat down in the living room, bowed before dad, and worshipped him with incense sticks, while we remembered dad for all he was, and all he gave.