Family history

I quickly packed a light bag, and hopped on the high speed train. Within three hours of waking up and deciding to go south, I was standing on the platform at Chiayi Station, and breathing in the warmer, fresher air of my parents’ hometown.

It was a last minute decision, as mum had been feeling unwell and thrown up a few times the day before. But this morning, she looked and said she felt better, and encouraged to go. “People are waiting for you…”

Indeed, a whole host of people have been eagerly awaiting my return, ever since they found out that I’ve been in Taiwan. Aunties, uncles, cousins… It’s a sort of tradition of mine to try to pay as many people a visit as I can, so that no one feels left behind, so that no one feels like I prefer one person to the next. Because I really don’t. You may be able to choose friends, but you cannot choose your family, or who you are related to. So I’ve always felt a great affinity toward them, and even having lived abroad for so many years, they are still on my mind (and now, increasingly on my Facebook…) and must-visit list.

I cycle around Chiayi, on a bike with a basket in the front, sometimes ringing happily the bell as I criss-cross and navigate the narrow lanes and streets of this old city. A city where my parents grew up, where my parents met, where my parents got married, where I used to spend all my summers and long holidays, where the family would always gather on special days and on special occasions. The streets of Chiayi are filled with smells, sights and sounds of my childhood, of my grandparents, of those yesteryears of innocence and play with my cousins.

Having grown older, each time I return to this small town in rural Taiwan and do thoroughly enjoy visiting members of my distant and close relatives. I enjoy seeing how everyone is doing, how people are growing and developing in their lives—even if it means I have to recount numerous times how my life is going in Canada, and tell people what exactly it is I’m (supposed to be…) writing a thesis on.

On these visits, I learn a lot about my family, about where I come from. Perhaps being a sentimental someone who attaches a lot of value to the past, learning about the lives and histories of my parents and their parents never ceases to fascinate me. Earlier today, shortly after arriving, my aunt (dad’s older sister) took me on a little tour of where my grandpa came from. It is a backwater and poor village named “Cow Peach Bay” (where according to one story, a village developed where the original settlers used to tie water buffalos around a peach tree), the main source of income was, and still is, from oyster farming.

I wandered through the little alleyways, peeked through holes in rundown and abandoned one-storey red brick houses, and felt like I was going back in time, reliving memories and stories of my grandpa, who passed away when I was only two. Metal shacks and houses no bigger than a few square metres crowded with families of eight or more were the norm those days. Seeing the past makes me appreciate more the present, treasure more what I have and how hard my forefathers (and foremothers) toiled to raise a family and continue the family line. Even though I cannot imagine or know fully what life was like back then, it is intriguing and touching to see with my own eyes the humble and hunger stricken beginnings that my grandparents and their parents worked so they could provide food on the table and education for all their children.

Seeing the past, comparing it to the present, and measuring it against the possibilities future makes a person, a family appreciate life and people more. My grandparents may have already left, my dad may have already departed, but life continues on and on. Life, filled with its sorrows, its joys, its tears and its laughter, continues on and on no matter what, and all the people are mere characters that play temporary (at times too temporary) roles whose paths happen to cross at the same time, sometime for a long time, sometimes for a short time. With the upcoming wedding my brother, who is the oldest and first male of the family, it is as if the story of my family, a story like all stories, complete with birth, marriage, and death, is coming full circle.

For now, with all the attention focused on my brother, I’m able to avoid the questions of when I’m going to get married. But here and there are already voices and whispers: “Oh, with your talents and good looks, you must have lots of girls following you…” “Oh, whoever is your wife will be very lucky…” I just smirk and smile and keep quiet, and maintain my policy of not saying anything unless asked directly. For a number of years at least, I can still stall and say I’m studying, or I’m just beginning to work… but inevitably people will ask, especially in a very family-oriented culture like where I was born and raised in.

 .

Though my personal belongings were just the things I had in my little bag and the clothes I had on me, I pulled a trolley full of goodies and gifts to give.

Homeward bound

 

BR 315, 11.27 TPE time, somewhere above Okinawa in the Western Pacific. The end of a two week trip to Seoul, and then Taiwan. The first few days were spent exploring a bit of Seoul, which I must admit I enjoyed much more than I thought I would. Lots of biking around, and explored the old royal palace by foot. There are many things that reminded me of Taipei, especially the cityscape, and were it not for the different Korean written script, I swear I could feel like I was in Taipei.

What brought me to Seoul was a two day workshop on exploring the nexus between space and nuclear escalation. Poignant topic, especially given the heightened tensions on the Korean Peninsula, but also some attention was directed at the Taiwan Strait. I was invited as a legal expert, and it is really thanks to a former student of mine that I had this opportunity to travel and speak. It really was a prestigious opportunity, especially as it was in part hosted by the UN. It also gave me the opportunity to meet up with two former students from six years ago. It’s heartening to know and hear from them how much of a positive impact, and dare I say influence, I had on their studies. As I told them, I really didn’t do much else, and I was happy to make a little difference.

Honestly, when I was invited over a month ago,  I was quite nervous. Why me, I thought to myself. What do I have to say or contribute to the discussions amongst these other experts and government officials? I remember waking up in Elliston next to B. that day just after the new year, and being delighted initially at the prospects of an expenses paid trip to South Korea (…and our inside terrible running joke about ttsongul). But then what crossed my mind was whether I was capable. It took me another 10 days or so before I had the courage to write back and accept the offer to speak.

And it went very well. I was prepared, articulate, and could chime in the discussions and provide (I think) good input and ideas that stimulated discussions. My former student, who was part of the organising panel told me they really enjoyed my company and presence. It was encouraging to hear that.

The day the workshop ended, I headed to Taiwan. It was always my plan, as the very next day was my birthday. The big four zero. A few months ago, I was just dreading what I would be doing, the stars somehow aligned and this trip came, which allowed me to plan a trip back to Taiwan. I really wanted to see my parents on the day of my birthday, and that’s what I did, which was really unplanned and seemed that it was meant to be.

It was not as emotional a visit to Jinshan as I imagined it to be. Two of my cousins took a day off from their work, and drove /accompanied me to the mountains. I think their presence was calming and was a big help as normally I would have been frantically running up and down, trying to wash fruits, lay out goodies and getting ready for the offering ceremony. My cousins accompanied me to see both mum and dad, and I stood there quietly, silently wishing, as I always do, that they are well, and that they will watch over and bless my brother, his family, and all our relatives… that always makes my eyes water. Even after 16 (dad) and 12 (mum) years, the emotions are still very raw. Little memories, little moments in my mind still make the dam of my eyes break, and this intense feeling of longing well up from deep inside.

This has been an emotional trip. After seeing my parents, I went to stay in Tainan overnight and biked around a bit around Anping before heading to Chiayi. What followed was several days of nostalgia and memories.

I don’t know what overcame me. I was so emotional and overwhelmed that everyday, I would well up and cry. The main trigger was seeing “small” uncle on dad’s side. I knew he was confined to a home and a wheelchair for some time, as  the last time I was in Taiwan (in November/December 2022, for “big” uncle’s funeral), small uncle was already in a home. I wanted to go see him, but I could not as there was a COVID outbreak on his floor, and so he was confined (this was just after Taiwan fully cleared mandatory COVID restrictions, being one of the later countries to do so). So I videochatted with him through LINE. He seemed aloof, not fully there.

Then throughout the past year or so, in the family group chat, other relatives would post pictures of his in a wheelchair, sometimes scratchy the lottery, sometimes out somewhere (never really far), as he is now fully dependent on others for his mobility. He gaze always looked like he was absent, not really looking into the camera (but then again, he never really smiled or looked happy. This is worse).

When I saw him finally, I think that broke me. I had not been in touch, or responded much to family chats, not even reacting to photos. Seeing him, being confronted with the reality of his situation moved me so.

He is always the uncle I visited whenenver I want to Chiayi. The uncle who, when I was a child, would take me out, take me to go to the train station to go train spotting, and later, when I could ride a bike, we had a regular route of YuanFu Temple (where grandma’s remains are put to rest), the park for 10NTD per song karaoke (later, the Senior’s Centre, where karaoke is free). It was a regular, predictable routine. On certain days, “big aunt” or my cousin would suggest going somewhere further, like Beigang or the mountains for a drive or to eat something. Little things, but over the years, they added up and are memories in my mind.

He has always been the uncle who lived at the same address as the former ramshackle two storied shack where grandma and grandpa raised six kids (though the house has been built up and modernised). He was the uncle who ate almost the same things, and lived his own life, and known for his temperaments. But he is the same uncle who somehow of all the relatives, is close to me, and even helped me financially to purchase furniture for my first home in Toronto.

On the first visit, big aunt, cousin and  I wheeled uncle out to the nearby plaza of the new Chiayi Art Museum, and then we went to have turkey rice. When we sat down and waited for our food, he took out a red envelop with quite a bit of money. I just welled up and cried. I just couldn’t control it. Later on, as I was saying goodbye, big aunt would also take out a red envelop and stuff it in my hand. Making me cry again.

I don’t know what it is. It’s love. It’s the affinity you feel with relatives, a bond that you cannot describe but can only feel at these moments. My aunt told me later that small uncle also has the beginnings of Parkinson’s, which explains why he is twitching involuntarily at times (though he’s still able to hold utensils and feed himself). She also said that a cousin, the one who comes after me, whose father’s funeral I attended just over a year ago, apparently tried to take advantage of our uncle’s state and steal money. Apparently, some 2mNTD is missing, as far as they know. That adds to the pain and sadness I feel. That cousin even tried to get our uncle to adopt him, a mere three months after his own father passed.

What would possess a person to do that, to just see and covet money at all costs? I thought I found an ally, as he too is gay (and last time, I even stayed at his house, where he lives with his partner. I don’t know if they are still together). Now he has been, obviously, ostracised and relations have soured bitterly. Worse thing, he is a policeman. An enforcer of the law, a public servant, yet one that can engage in such despicable acts of malice and greed. I don’t know if my relatives, particularly my uncle, would want to pursue this legally, as certainly as soon as this gets out, our cousin will lose his career and face prosecution.

I did think, a few years ago, how nice that he seemed to be spending more time with our uncle.  And back in 2019, when uncle was still able to walk and travel, that cousin took uncle to the US and Europe. He later tried to use photos from that trip as evidence of how close he and our uncle is. Perhaps he does not know that my relationship, my history with our uncle goes back much further. And that we are much closer (even though I have been more distant, especially in those years of the pandemic, when I was unable to travel much).

I spent more time with my uncle, the last time, I took him to the train station, where we watched trains. It was as if it was meant to be, as just as we walked in, the Alishan rail was just about to depart, and a commuter train with the “Love Taiwan 2024” aboriginal livery (that got criticised for looking like beetle nut spit) was parked there. We just stood (he sat in his wheelchair) on the platform a while, and a push-pull Tse-Tsiang Express headed to Qidu pulled up, and slowly pulled away. Neither of us said anything. But I captured that moment on video, and I remembered something dad had said to mum, and mum later told me, when they once went to Jinshan. As mum and dad were getting off the bus, dad said, “When it’s time, we all have to get off”. I sent the video to big aunt, recounting what dad had once said. Dad got off far too early.

I must have cried more silently as I biked from relative to relative, listening to stories being recounted, listening to how things were with dad and mum. Stories I cherish, for for those little moments again alive in our minds and memories. Those stories make me learn more about them, things that I no longer have a chance to learn about or know. And that is truly beautiful.

While in Chiayi, I stayed with ‘small’ aunt’s place, like I usually would when I am back, and always I’m overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity shown to me. I also visited mum’s step mum in a home, and she seems to be much better, even though her mind is slowly slipping. She is after all 92, and has the beginnings of dementia. She now sometimes says the strangest things, such as the fact that she had to fly on a place from the 5^th to the 3^rd floor to sleep one night, and that she couldn’t sleep as her bed was full of ants.

 

 Also there with grandma, despite the smiles and laughs, I deep down feel a tinge of sadness about how quickly they have deteriorated, and perhaps soon she too will leave this world.

These things are inevitable, of course. I know it. I know it through experience, as mum and dad have already departed, and it has already been over a decade since. I cannot fathom that it has been so long, and that I have also been growing older. I think part of being so overwhelmed and triggered by the sight of  my uncle, grandma and other relatives, is the fact that I am too reminded of my own fragility and mortality. And I do wonder sometimes, what am I doing? Is it enough what I am doing in my life?

It came to my mind that perhaps I would like to spend a few months in Taiwan this year. Not that I can do much. But perhaps (if my university allows it), I could be around at least to see my uncle in particular, and just spend a bit of time with him. Before it’s too late. Not for personal gain or because I want anything. As I told big aunt and my cousin, I haven’t done much or spent much time with dad, but perhaps I could do something for my uncle, as we are all relatives. He has always been so kind to me, so generous as well, not asking for anything. What is spending some time with him, when he is not in a good state and deteriorating?

I know, I have my own life to lead, my own future to plan. But if I could combine working on my PhD and being there, just making a little difference to the quality of life of someone dear,  why not?

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Chiayi

04052012.0304

Arrived in the late afternoon, and first stop was my aunt's place. She (dad's older sister) was surprised, but happy to see me, for it's been a while since we last really connected and talked. Last time I saw her, earlier on Monday, I did not say goodbye, but quietly left after the farewell ceremony. It's part of tradition here: you don't say goodbye or keep the guests for longer than necessary. You just leave.

We caught up on news, and my aunt revealed how in the last month or so of my uncle's life, she was constantly in hospital, afraid to even go home. He weighed 46kg (or so) when he passed away. Before, he was a strong man who stood almost as tall as me...

"He told me he wanted to see the grandchildren grow up..." she said, after I showed her pictures of my nephew and said what happiness children bring to a patient's life. Children give them smiles, hope, and positive energy. Her eyes became red and moist.

I left a little later to visit my uncle (dad's youngest brother). A bachelor still at 62, he's the oddball of the family. I spend a lot of time with him whenever I am in my parents' hometown, because he's by himself, but also because he likes to bike around like I do. We took our usual route, to visit my grandma's resting, and later went to the old folks' community centre for a session of karaoke. I can't sing for my life, but as it was just me and him, I sang- at times mockingly and with a funny taiwanese accent, at times with soul and feelings, especially songs about love and longings for an illusive partner.

I am spending the night at my mum's youngest sister's place, the one who over the past few years has periodically gone up to taipei to be with my mum whenever she needs help around the house. She was a great relief over the past few months, and without her I would have not gotten the few hours of solitude and time to go home go shower and rest.

My aunt and I chatted, mostly about mum. Earlier, when I spoke to mum she said the doctor told she can be discharged as early as tomorrow. But she is worried to go home, for who will take care of her? She can barely walk a few steps, let alone clean herself well or cook for herself. Who will take care of her and look after her needs, something she took for granted at the hospital for she had access to a 24hr carer? I'm leaving in three days, I can no longer be around and keep a constant ear and eye out for mum's well being. And Brother certainly is not up to the task, as well intentioned as he may be. As for my sister-in-law... Well, she's just very distant and handsoff, and she has her hands full with taking care of my nephew...

My aunt said she will go up in a few days, and told me not to worry too much. "Go back and co concentrate on your exam. Your uncles and aunts will take care of things here..."

I don't know what will happen, but my aunt mentioned that around two weeks ago, mum expressed interest to come back down south back to her hometown, where most of her siblings are, so she can have people to look out for her and take care of her in this crucial period of recovery. Mum never mentioned this to me, but if she is willing, if she really means what she said to my aunt, then it may be a good idea, for she needs all the family support and help she can get, and tree is no better place than back here in Chiayi, where all her closest family members are. But mum has a thing with being picky, and being difficult when it comes to asking for help... Maybe she said things back then for the sake of it, because she really never mentioned any of this to me.

Day six of the illness

6 Feb 2014

060214.2144

Day six of my illness. Woke up to more coughing, body aches and my head that continues to spin and an inability to stand steadily. Two days ago (was it two? Days and time seem to have so little meaning and are so blurred...), I called my older cousin to come get me and bring me to the emergency room. Actually my auntie called on my behalf. I could barely muster the energy to get up on my feet, let alone speak. Originally, my auntie wanted to take me to the hospital by motorcycle, but I I cannot.... I cannot hold on to the handle and was afraid I'd lose my balance and fall off. I was that weak...

The "cold" did not subside, not with the cocktail of over-the-counter pills that a pharmacist had prescribed me. To think of it, I had no clue what the pills were. He just asked me for my symptoms, and there and then put something together and asked me to pay nt$150 (approx $5). It was dodgy, but I thought little of it except to get better. But I did not get better.

For two days I languished. Sores, heavy coughing and difficulty breathing. The discomfort was unbearable, and every morning I'd wake up with much phlegm that was thick, toxic and dark. Then, the morning I decided I needed to check myself into the hospita, I really felt I was dying. I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I had trouble thinking straight. I tried to do simple sums in my head, but could not. I tried to answer simple questions, like what is my name and where I am, but could not. My body was sweating profusely, my clothes and the bedsheets were soaked with my sweat. I needed medical intervention, as much as I resisted and despised going to a hospital (especially after losing both my parents in one....) 

I staggered downstairs and lay on the sofa. My friends were chatting away and preparing to leave. I was in a foul mood and could barely speak. I felt terrible unable to join them for the rest of their trip, for they were leaving the next day. But I knew if I were to accompany them and head to the north, no body would be able to take care of me if I got worse. I needed to stay in the south, in Chiayi where at least I have a network of relatives who can care for me and help me if something terrible happened. 

I lay there and felt my head and body burning as I waited for my older cousin to come by with the car. My auntie gave me some broth with vegetables and clams to restore some energy, and I asked her to warm up some tomato juice. Luckily I did not throw up, because the night before I did, and all I had for dinner came pouring out. When around midnight I felt really hungry  and tried to have a slice of cake, I took one bite and barely had the time to swallow when i felt the nauseating feeling of my stomach rising up to my throat. I had to spit the piece of cake I bit on and stop eating. I had not eaten since then.

I asked my auntie for some pen and paper. I scribbled a note to my friends. I felt apologetic that I could not be with them, and thanked them for coming all this way to visit me and be with me. At the end, I wrote down two things: "everything" and an arrow pointing to the name my nephew, after that "20yrs, 30yrs, 40yrs"; and the name of my cat and an arrow pointing to the name of my ex, and the word "love" after his name. 

It may seem so silly and so ridiculous. But at moments, I really felt I was not going to make it. Those two simple lines lay out my will and final wishes. Everything i have to my nephew, whom I love and cherish, and who is perhaps the closest I will ever have to a future family (at this point...), to be given in three installments, so that there's no risk of evrything being wasted away when he gets too much all at once. And the cat, my loyal feline companion and love, to the greatest love I've ever known, regardless of what we are now to one another, regardless of the fact he has already moved on and made clear we are just friends now, and because of the fact (as I have been told by so many...) I am still so naive and so loyal and unable to move on... On the brink of death (or at least what you imagine or feel it to be...), all is forgotten, all can be forgiven.

We drove to the Chiayi Christian Hospital, ironically right opposite the Nice (that is the name....) Hotel where mum and I stayed one of the last times we were both down here. I have memories of me waiting for her at the train station for her to arrive, and how happy I was to see her step off the train and to know she arrived safely... I have memories of us having a lovely breskfast together in the lobby, a healthy buffet of congee and an assortment of traditional dishes and drinks and plentiful fruits... It felt like ages ago, but I still can remember the joy I felt when i could see mum eat healthily without vomiting and the joy I felt to see her wake up in the morning after a good night of comfortable and relaxing sleep... 

It took less than ten minutes for me to register and be seen by someone at the emergency room. The efficiency of the medical system here never ceases to amaze me. A nurse first asked me of my symptoms and details of my travels and contacts with people, and then I was seen by a doctor who determined it most likely is (as I suspected and so dreaded...) the H1N1 influenza. A bed was assigned to me and I was told to keep my mask on (which I've been doing more or less since I started to cough four days earlier). They planned to give me some IV drips to replenish lost nutrients and fluids, and I need to undergo a rapid screening to see whether I indeed have the potentially deadly virus. 

The nurse stuck a need into my left arm. I cringed, and was reminded of the many times I saw mum (and to a lesser extent, dad) having needles stuck in their arms. She prepared the needle for the drip and connected me to a flask containing clear liquid that hung on a hanger. The tube dyed red as my blood flowed back through it due to the sudden pressure changes. A good backflow is a a sign that the connection was done well, this much I knew from the dozens of times I've seen it done on mum and dozens of times I've had to monitor whether the IV drip is working properly. 

I felt my arm go numb then prick with pins and needles. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, and let the noise and hustle of the ER ward wash over me. Doctors and nurses shouting commands and orders, patients moaning, relatives and friends chattering and some asking questions in attempts to understand the full extent of the pain and suffering of their loved one. The hospital is a place filled with human suffering, blighted by the (for the most part...) human experience of illness and struggle against death. But  it is also a place where human compassion and love can bloom and manifest. I watched the "white angels" scurry around the ward trying to keep abrest of each patient's vitals while constantly maintaining an air of cool and patience. I saw the dark, thin and twisted bodies of patients lie on several beds, all hoping for a cure or at least some kind relieve from the mental and physical pains this constantly aging and vulnerable sack of skin and bone is bringing them. At the hospital, regardless of wealth or origin, regardless of background or upbringing, we are all brought together by illness and death, by hope of betterment and prolonging our lives. 

Is it not in brushes with illness and death that we experience higher states of understanding? It is bizarre, for I could barely think straight from the fever, profuse sweating and another cocktail of medication the nurse asked me to ingest. But in that haze and fuzziness of my mind, there seemed to be this clarity of thought, a clarity best summed by the words: 

"It is only so much. 

It is only so much. 

Life is only so much..."

I had similar realisations as I watched my parents slowly lose their signs of life in my arms. In the end, nothing, not the anger you harbour, not the fears you dread, not the unknowns you fear matter. In the end, a clear conscience and the knowledge that you have done your best and lived your live to the fullest with no regrets matter.

I closed my eyes, felt the sweat soak my clothes, roll down my cheeks and dampen my hair. A dull, dull pain seemed to vibrate through my body and affect every body and muscle. I watched my breath, as short and laboured as it was, and tried to br aware of each moment. What else can you do when you are under tremendous physical and mental duress and pain but try to calm the mind and be one with the moment and remind yourself nothing will last foreever, even this pain and this moment?

The nurse came back with a thin white tube that had some sort of brush on the end. "I'm going to do a nasal examination to determine what type of influenza virus you have. It's going to hurt a bit but do not sneeze under any circumstance!"

She stuck it into one nostril first, and I felt this sharp discomfort, this prickling sensation in my nostril as she slid the tube in deeper and twisted it around inside. She then removed it and repeated the proceedure in the other nostril. All the while I closed my eyes and let her probe, swallowing hard and holding in the tears until she removed the tube. There was yellowish mucus on the brushy end of the long thin plastic tube. She said it would take around 40 minutes to an hour for the results to come out. 

My cousin sat next to me.  Even in great physical discomfort, I felt bad taking up her time, as she has two young children at home and it's right in the middle of her vacation. But she reassured me family don't think or say such things as "being a burden" or "causing trouble". She told me to just rest.

But rest I could not. I closed my eyes, but could feel the transparent tube feeding into my vein and body. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and my vision became blurred. I remember the nurse coming to check on me a few times, and seeing my cousin there next to me every time I opened my eyes. I remember hearing a middle aged man shout loudly at someone, presumably his wife, lying in the bed in front of me who was unsconscious and was unable to respond. I remember my cough causing tremendous pain that spread around my body.... I remember staring up at the ceiling and the white fluroscent lighting. I remember the last few words I wrote, and wondered if they were enough to express what I wanted if I were to no wake up again... I thought about my loved ones, about those dearest to my heart, and how I had kept news of the severity of my illness and the fact that I've been taken to Emergency quiet. Even to my own brother, who by then had boarded a plane and left on holiday, I did not tell, for I did not want him to cancel a trip that he and his wife have been looking forward to for a long time. And I told my cousin not to tell her mum (my aunt, dad's older sister), so as not to worry her. She's already undergoing some kind of medical treatment, and is herself very weak, so I didn't wish to alarm her.  Besides. if I were to go, I want to go quietly...

I don't know how much time passed when I suddenly heard my name. My cousin told me the news. I have indeed contracted the a potentially deadly influenza virus, a strain of the H1N1 mutation that is simply called "Influenza A". Dozens have died from it already this flu season, and a strain of it killed thousands back in 2009. Yet another strain of it killed over two hundred million back in the early twentieth century. Commonly known as "swine flu" or " avian flu", H1N1, or so variation of it, is cobstsnlty evolving and adapting and spreading in the human population, even though it's origins may have come from swine and birds. Left untreated, the patient's immune system will continually weaken from the constant fever, causing delirium, extreme exhaustion, muscle pains and sores as well as severe coughing. Other symptoms may be diarrhea, vomiting and stomach upset (and strangely, possible constipation....). Children and the elderly are especially susceptible. But it appears people like me are not immune...

The nurse came by again and handed me several pills. One was a capsule, yellow and grey in colour, and there were three other round pills, one of which was bright pink, one of which white and one of which was orange. She gave me some water and told me to take the pills and assured me I will be alright and can be discharged the very same day, pending my fever subsiding. The pills and IV drips, and the fact that I was constantly breaking out in sweat, are supposed to help cool my body down. 

More time passed in the din and bustle of the emergency ward. The nurse appeared again and handed me a pamphlet, and said I could go home. She told me to stay home and avoid public places, and that I need to keep a constant watch on my body temperature. Any more signs of fever and I need to return to the hospital for further treatment. 

I thanked her and was relieved. I had I needed to be quarantined or something. Indeed, on board all flights into Taiwan, the government makes the airline play this health awareness video which warns all inbound travelers to report to the authorities should they fall ill within a week of arriving in Taiwan and have symptoms of fever, coughing and body aches. I have all the symptoms, and should have perhaps gone for a check up much much sooner instead of languishing in bed for almost three days... Better late than never, but the longer I didn't seek proper treatment, the more damage the virus was wreaking on my body.

Still weak and sweating profusely, even though the fever was gone, or at least under control. 

Little did I know, the following few days would be a physically tormenting experience. Most of the time, I lay in bed, getting up only to eat and to drink and to use the washroom, drifting in and out of sleep, coughing profusely especially at night and feeling the discomfort of large quantities of phlegm stuck in my lungs and throat. Memories of mum and dad drifted in and out of my mind, and there would be moments when I would cry from the physical discomfort and the regrets of having fallen so ill and uncertain what would happen to me. In several dreams I had during this period I would see my parents.  A part of me wanted to Join them, to leave this world, because frankly I don't see much meaning or purpose with my life. All the things and people  I care about seem to have settled down and are fine without me. My family, my nephew, the ex... No more worries about their happiness or well-being, no more "missions" to fulfill, like unused to have, In which I would try yo bring a smile or add some colours into the life of someone I care about deeply.  Besides, a rough  will has been drafted, along with a letter of appreciation for all I am grateful for in life. What else is there left to say...?

 

The illness just compounded the pain and made me realise if I were to leave, I would leave now quietly and without much attachment or noise, without much fuss or fury. It's how I would want to go. I could go so quietly, and nobody would really miss me, nobody would really ache or hurt. And that is a good thing. Nothing is more painful than being too attached and the hurt of someone who is left behind. Nothing. 

Go quietly, as quietly as I came into this world, without regrets or pain or concerns. Solitude and being alone too long can have such a terrible effect on a person's soul and mind. Solitude and being on the brink of life and death (or so it feels like...). 

Journey South

The train sped through the across the land, rice paddies and banana trees fuzzily flew past outside my window. Cities that previously took hours to reach are now merely tens of minutes apart. As a train fan, this huge transportation revolution was much anticipated, and I remember a few years ago I went to a special exhibition to gather as much information about the Shinkansen 700-T as I could. Though I was exhausted from the accumulation of lack of sleep and running around, riding the new 300km/hr Taiwan High Speed Rail (台灣高鐵) made me extremely giddy and excited.

Just hours before, Dad's urn was placed into the 'deposit box' in a temple in Jinshan. It would be his final resting place, and it seemed that the whole procedure went on smoothly. As we rode up the mountain to the temple, it was drizzling, and gray. But after dad's bones and ashes were set in place, the sun began to shine. A good omen, tradition says. The door of the deposit box was sealed, and we stood there momentarily, each silently speaking to dad.

Almost exactly one month after dad passed away, entering the urn temple was (for the time being) the last ritual that has to be observed. We had carefully chosen an urn cut from amber-coloured marble. The piece most likely came from Taroko (太魯閣), a naturally formed gorge cut throughout the millennia by a stream that runs down from the towering mountains of central Taiwan down towards the Pacific Ocean. One of the last family outings with dad two years ago was to that very area.

Rituals and rites command observance and respect, flowing from practice that has passed down from generations ago. They offer comfort to people, for the performance of certain rituals is believed to ward of bad luck and bring prosperity and good fortunes, for the living and the dead. Yet at the same time, some rituals are at times constraining, if not incompatible with modern life. What use is all the chanting and prayers, all the paper money burning and offerings? Why must the relatives of the dead stay home and mourn for exactly 49 days? Is it not enough that each person remembers the deceased in his own way? Death is such a natural and simple matter which everyone will experience sooner or later... why make it so complicated and difficult?

So it was sort of a relief after everything was over and done with. With only around two weeks left of my stay here Taiwan, we decided to travel a bit to pay relatives and friends a visit, and also to thank them for their support throughout these difficult times.

First stop was Chiayi (嘉義), where my dad was born and where most of my relatives are. A little provincial city, most famous for its “chicken rice” (actually made from turkey meat) and for the nearby Alishan mountain resort, it is a must-go place for me. The relatives greeted us warmly and made us feel right at home. We thanked them for being there for dad, and taking care of dad all these years, and over sumptuous feasts, we talked about dad and the things that made him special. The food was exquisite, and there was more than enough for everyone who sat around the big round table which is supposed to symbolise the unity of the family. But I was not hungry, and only eating as much as I could, smiling as much as I must. Some told of the last time they saw dad, of how happy and energetic-looking he still was not more than two months ago. And now the empty extra chair looks especially empty.

It was a whirlwind trip, and I saw everyone that I wanted to see, and even visited the ancestral shrine to pay respects to my grandparents. They were the ones who raised my dad, and his five other siblings, through simply repairing bicycles and washing clothes for other people. I remember the little workshop still, which was not much bigger than perhaps 10m squared. I used to play there, and flip through the cupboards and drawers to find all sorts of rusty repair tools and nails and cogs and bike chains. And there were huge rats too, gray and swift that would run from one side of the room to the other while nobody paid attention. And then there were the stray dogs that nobody wanted, but which wandered past daily, because my grandma would kindly leave leftovers for them to eat. I spent many summers in that little house, keeping my grandma company. And only now and then would any of the children come home to visit.

That little workshops is now a brand-new four storey apartment. There is nothing left of the workshop, or of the dark, narrow corridors of the house where my dad grew up in. instead outside is the main thoroughfare, and the first floor is rented out to a lottery shop, which attracts hundreds of fortune-seekers everyday. How times have changed! All that remains are two portraits of my grandma, and my grandpa, who I have no memory of because he passed away when I was just two years old. Yet, the more I look at grandpa’s black and white portrait, the more I am reminded of my dad… the same thin, high cheeks and high forehead, the powerful eyes and bushy eyebrows, and the same faint smile.

I left Chiayi, left the hustling cars and motorcycles and the neat rice paddies that stretch on for as far as the eyes can see, and headed toward central Taiwan. Our destination was Puli, a sleepy town surrounded by mountains and famed for its scenery and unspoiled environment. Back in 1999, when one of the fiercest earthquakes in recent years struck, the region was the most devastated. Over two thousand people died, most instantly from fallen buildings, others from mountains that literally imploded or solid ground that shifted for kilometers. Today, the barren mountain tops entering Puli carry a memorial to the devastating force of nature, but slowly green is returning to land that were for many years just soil.

I first came to Puli (埔里) in the cool of early Autumn around two years ago. There lived a Theravada bhikkhu (Buddhist monk) in the mountains, they said. Many go to him seeking counseling and the Dharma, and many return home happy and temporarily enlightened by his wisdom, I heard. I went there not knowing what I would find, and only had clothes for two days. In the end I stayed for three weeks, and went back again two more times to stay there more.

It may be the magnificent scenery, overlooking a valley surrounded by mountains that change their moods as the weather transforms from moment to moment that attract me. Perhaps it is the amazing sunset, or the call of insects and croaking of frogs, or perhaps the swift, free motions of little swallows and watchful eagles circling in the skies. The loving dogs that live there make great company too. But I think, most of all, it is the tranquility that makes me so grateful for being able to discover such a wonderful place, and it is the warmth and love of those there that make the place a home I could return to whenever I wish.

This time around, I was able to take my mum and my brother along with me. Throughout all the things that have happened in the past month, and that are still happening now, I wanted nothing more than show my family this wondrous place, and let them come into contact with the bhikkhu who has been there, either in prayers or in mails, to support and cousel me whenever I am in need. Indeed, upon arrival my mum and brother became relaxed, and took in deep breaths of fresh air and the surrounding scenery, as their thoughts seemed to let go of the troubles and noises in the city.

I found some of the answers I had been searching for. Ever since dad passed away, to be honest, I have not felt much sadness or shed many tears. I feared it was simple indifference, that I was losing my 'human-ness', especially in the light of an event which would normally make any one distraught. But no, my silence and calm is not indifference, I learned, but a natural reaction which comes when you know you have done the right thing while the person was alive. Because you have nothing to regret and nothing to be remorseful about, you are able to face the death of someone with a tranquil mind and heart, like I did. Instead of sadness and tears, I smiled and at the thought of dad's kindness and felt warm just thinking of the many sacrifices dad had made. Indifference is when you feel nothing, but truth be told, I did, and still do feel dad's passing.

The bhikkhu counseled me, and I felt refreshed and touched from the fact that he could see into my mind and speak my thoughts like very few could. Once again, as with so many times in the past few weeks, I felt this surge of gratitude I cannot express... the kind of gratitude that arises from such simple acts or words of kindness from a complete stranger... from the care of nurses who were with my parents while they were in hospital... from the support family members who were there to stand by me as we struggled through difficult times. And in Puli, I felt deep gratitude toward the bhikkhu, and others, who offered my family and I shelter and comfort in times of distress and confusion; who offered us the time and the compassion and understanding so that we are able to heal gradually from having the fortune to come into contact with so much beauty and kindness.

How does one 'repay' such kindness, such compassion and support? By doing the best we can, by being kind to others, by seflessly helping and being (for)giving to others in need, or even when they are not in need. It is like that movie Pay it Forward, which stresses what goodness the kindness of an individual can bring to the world and make it a better place.

I waved and hugged my friends and relatives goodbye. I would turn back occassionally to wave again and again as I slowly went further and further away. One thing that is certain is that life is uncertain, and who knows when I will return , or whether I will see these people again... but as I waved goodbye, my mind was once again awash with the pleasant thoughts of the warmth and gratitude I feel towards these people.

bound for Canada

16 July 2025

JL 56 

NRT-ORD

It was such a beautiful day, clear and the sun beat down heavily already at 8am when I was checking in. Upon leaving, I was rewarded with the view of northern Taiwan, the mouth of the Danshui River, the Yangming mountains at the foothills of which I grew up, and also the Jinshan area, where I could just about make out the temple complex where mum and dad are resting. 

Taiwan looks beautiful, it is beautiful. As I looked at the calm of the Taiwan Strait below, I wondered whether (or perhaps when...) this would be the scene of an invading enemy force. This beauty, is it lasting? Could it all be just wiped away in the blink of an eye due to the mania and obsession of a dictator and despicable regime? What untold suffering and pain would the people of this beautiful island have to endure...? What awaits their lot in life, and in history?

These thoughts do creep up on me as I walk/bike the streets of Taiwan. In the faces of its warm, kind-hearted people, I shudder to see the lurking shadow of the terrible torment and ruin that may one day be. In the lives of my relatives and loved ones in Chiayi, a part of me wonders whether the time I say goodbye may very well be the very last time... 

Things are changing and happening quickly. NATO has declared China a threat. The Philippines, Japan, and the US are performing drills (allegedly in Australia) to counter China. Australia is being forced to take a stand, even though the wishy-washy Albanese while visiting China has declined to make any affirmative comment on whether Australia will ever be involved in a Taiwan contingency. Time is ticking. It's already mid 2025. The projection of an eventuality may be 2026l7, just before current president Trump, who has been fearlessly undertaking drastic measures in all fronts to isolate and cut China off. What is going to happen...? 

Where should I be? 

What would my role be?

Will I see my homeland again, and will I continue to enjoy the freedom of just dropping in to visit my relatives on a whim, like I have done for so many decades? 

This time around, I mainly wanted to see grandma (mum's step mum). For months now, I've been receiving news that she's not well, and about to pass. Which may be true, as she is already 93 and in a care home. She recognised me when I visited, twice in this short week. 

"You have such heart! (有心)", she said to me when she saw me. "It's expensive to fly from overseas". It was the first time I saw her since she had a nasal feeding tube installed. It means she's no longer eating. How awful that is. And her hands have these big gloves around them, to stop her from scratching herself, but I think mainly to stop her from taking the feeding tube out. I hear it's very uncomfortable, but for some reason it's what is commonly done in Taiwan. The old lady directly in front of Gran (she shares with 3 others a room) has had a feeding tube as long as I've been visiting that "care" home. I put care, as they really are just doing things to keep them alive, as from what I can see, there is little quality of life. They are being kept alive, and not living their lives, as a cousin of mine said (過活，不是過生活).

We (a cousin, an auntie and an uncle the first day, and then two of my cousins the second time I went) took her down in a wheelchair. The mp3 player I bought her back in early 2024 is still there, and we played Japanese songs. Granma would Bob her head to the tunes, even hum and sing along a bit. 

Mentally, she's there. In between moments of confusion from Alzheimer's, she's still able to recount moments in the past. Her questions show her curiosity, and also how much or how little she remembers. For example, she remembered I lived abroad, even said Holland. But she asked where my mum was... At one point, she told one of the cousins (the one who used to go help her clean her house and help around the kitchen around new years or big festivals) what there is in the fridge, and what to take out to get to room temperature before cooking. It's bitter, and sweet to see that interaction. And then she would descend into this confused state, and tell us it's already very late, even though it was 3pm, and still very bright out. 

What does that feel like? The confusing? The foggy memory, muddling through and unable to tell what is "real" and what was a memory, a thought, a premonition? Is it frightening? Does it fill the person with remorse knowing that at one point, they were able to do, think, speak as they wished, and yet now they are confined to a bed most of the time, with diapers and a urinary bag? How is that to be strapped to the bed by the staff to prevent them from wandering off (really, it's to minimise risk and liability)?

What a retched existence! What a way to end life, with this tube in your nose, to be nourished and kept alive through the nose and staring at the ceiling most of the days, unless some relative happens to drop by...

I remember a few years ago, when she first went in, granma was still able to walk. At least with her wheelchair. Once when I was leaving, and not sure when I'd be back, she walked me to the elevators, and said "Next time I may not be here when you come visit..." She knew what she was saying. At the time, she had been just admitted to the home after attempting to take her own life, after repeated failed attempts to have a carer go live with her. She was terribly upset that she was sent there, and said the carers were unpleasant and didnt feed her. Whether that is true or not is another matter...

 It's been around 5 years now I've not seen her walk. Her legs have probably lost the ability to walk. She has definitely shriveled and lost a lot of weight. Besides her wrinkles, and old people spots/tags on her face, she was like a child... Do we just revert to a childlike innocent phase unable to know or tell what is real and what is fiction as we decline and shrivel up?

I left her, as she said she was very tired and wanted to sleep. I suspected that may be the last time I will see her. I have that image of her in my mind... But I didn't have a chance to really feel what I was feeling (or thought I would be feeling). Especially as I was with other people, and the hum and buzz of our own lives took over as soon as we left the gates of the "care" home. 

It was that intense for about three days. Besides granma, I also went to visit my (paternal, the "little") uncle three times during my stay there. He's not in better shape, especially physically as he's been confined to a wheelchair for most of the past 5 years (pretty much since the pandemic in 2020 that spread from Wuhan, China). With occasional bouts in and out of hospital, he's at another home that's close to the Chiayi railway station. 

Uncle's mind slowly degenerating, as his brain was affected by a stroke he had. It triggered the onset of Parkinson's, which causes involuntary bodily movements. They've shaved his head, even though he had a head of hair, still very dark for his age. Like dad, who had a head of hair, and their dad before them. But at the home, they shave the residents because, I imagine, it's easier to clean and maintain, and prevents the spread disease. 

When you go into a place like that, you lose your autonomy, you lose your freedom, you also slowly lose your dignity. It's as if you go in, and you're just waiting to die. What a very depressing thought that people end their lives in such a place, surrounded by many other strangers who are infirm, barely conscious, and perhaps full of lament and misery...

The staff are kind (at least at the home my uncle is in) but they too are limited by what they are able to do and offer, which is often just a bit more than the minimum to sustain their lives and well-being. I fault more the system for treating the aged and infirm this way, for the staff can only offer what support they can with the resources they have. Some do go the extra mile, like the head nurse in uncle's floor, who plays and jokes with the residents. There are still those with a kind heart and humanity to see the residents as people, not just as patients or skeletons waiting to pass... 

One day, I did take uncle out in a mobility taxi. Originally, I intended to take him to where grandma and grandpa are resting, but the place was closed to the public to mark the birth of the Bodhisattva. Instead, we went to another temple that I know is accessible for people in wheelchairs.

And we just happened to be there at the same time as vice president Hsiao, who was visiting the area to donate blood and oversee the clean up efforts post typhoon Danas. What a coincidence. Thanks to my uncle, people let us through and even to the very first row to watch performances and speeches. We sat just metres away from the vice president, mayor, county mayor and other dignitaries. 

It was hard to imagine, that my uncle and I, simple civilians were able to be so close to the second in command of Taiwan, who herself dressed so simply in sneakers and spoke in Taiwanese. There was not the least a sense of grandeur or the feeling that she was superior to us, or that the common people are riffraff to be kept at bay. It was an inspiring and spectacular experience, which showed the maturity of this society and democracy that commoners can be seated so closely to people in power. It is the people who put them in power, and this should be the case that they are on par with the people they represent. 

The usual heaviness of leaving Taiwan was countered by the excitement of another plane journey. An unexpected one that I've been planning (by frantically looking for award tickets and considering all the possible options). Fortunately, I was able to get a Premium Economy redemption through AA on mostly JAL from Tpe-nrt-ord-yyz on one ticket. Instead of having a stopover in Chicago and/or Tokyo, this was a through ticket, though it does involve 24+hrs of being on the road /in the sky.