Absolution and the importance of performing surgery on yourself.

Every time I pull into my parent's driveway, dropping at least one of my kids off, I'd remember how I've been remiss in finding replacements for the two thirty year old heating and air units that came with their house. They've stopped turning on the AC in fear of the inevitable. Whenever I go in their house, I'm greeted by gusts of air from fans and portable air conditioners stationed in every corner of their rooms. As my hair's blown in every direction, my excuses for inaction seemed pretty lame.

Lately, I noticed my dad would stand silently by while I'd hand Shelby off to my mom and chat with her about my 14 month old. He's been so vocal in the past, telling me about his doctor's concerns, his concerns and general concerns of the universe brought about by his latest test results. Then he'd ask if I'd go with him to his oncologist/radiologist/urologist. And I'd go with him. Our car rides filled with silence which would carry over to the waiting room, then exam room, only to be broken by the entrance of the doctor. I can trust in his strong sense of self preservation to let me know what I needed to know and when he needed my help. But this silence is new.

The other day, when I was picking Shelby up, already happy with the thought of seeing my pretty baby at the end of a long day, my dad came up to me, put his cheek against my cheek, and hugged me.

That wouldn't be a big deal usually, except that I can't remember when the last time my dad hugged me. I distinctly remember the first time my dad refused to hug me. It was the spring quarter of my sophomore year in college. He disapproved of my lifestyle. And he suspected I was no longer a virgin. I went to greet my parents after they made the 4 hour long car ride from Cincinnati to Chicago. I hugged my mom. And when I went to hug my dad, his arms hung limply by his sides. At that moment, I learned that love could be conditional.

Since then, every time I tried to hug him, at my college graduation, leaving for Taiwan, returning from Taiwan a year later, leaving for law school 2000 miles away, graduating from law school, passing the bar, leaving for Las Vegas, my first wedding, my second wedding, the birth of my first child, second child, third child, his arms remained by his sides, leaving me humiliated in my unreciprocated embrace, feeling the curious eyes of others around us.

So the simple act of embrace that took place by my parents' front door, was an absolution, for becoming Americanized, for my divorce, for the old house that they live in, for the old car that they're driving, for not making more money, for not giving them more money, for not being there enough during his illness.

I know his expectations are unreasonable. That knowledge comes about with age. But I do cherish his desire to forgive. And the gift that it is. Because not every thing about a parent's love for a child is reasonable. Our self perception is so tied up within the love that we feel for our children. The secret is to separate it. It's similar to performing surgery on yourself. And about as easy.  Sunday, August 16, 2009 at 11:54am

poker players make the best parents

Thursday, August 20, 2009 at 12:01am

I was preparing dinner the other day while Patrick was giving 3 year old Sydney her shot of insulin when she asked the dreaded question. "Daddy, when is my diabetes going away?" I held my breath, continued to look down at the sink, and relied on my husband. It's something I'm reluctant to do, even with my husband.

I couldn't physically turn my head to look at her. I heard Patrick say in his calm gentle voice, "it's not going away baby, you have to have shots of insulin every day and take blood glucose tests everyday." That's Patrick, compassionate in the calm simplicity of his explanation.

Before this, it was Spencer, our 6 year old that asked the expected questions, "when is Sydney going to get better?" And made the expected comments, "don't drink out of Sydney's sippy cup Shelby, you'll get her sickness." And we would gently explain to Spencer that Sydney was never going to get better, that she would always need her insulin. As reluctant as I am to lay such a burden on my 6 year old son, I realize that someday, he may be in a position to save her life because we're not always going to be there. And the education of his sister's physical vulnerabilities starts now. And when she's old enough, Shelby, now one, will be there to help.

I waited for "the question" for weeks. And now that it's said, I'm waiting for "the crying," for "the arguing." Something. Instead, silence. I forced myself to look at her. She's sitting at the dinner table, busy with her toy. Not a trace of acknowledgement of her father's heavy pronouncement. Amazed, I realized that she lost interest half way through Patrick's explanation. Unfortunately for Patrick, that is not as rare of an occurrence as Patrick would prefer. Words caught in my throat, I resisted the urge to explain further. The key is knowing when to stop. I continued to cook. Patrick continued to put away the insulin kit. Each acting what we don't feel, calm acceptance. A couple of poker players bluffing ourselves. Acting any other way would be a disservice to Sydney.

my brother

Friday, August 28, 2009 at 12:07pm

Let it just be said that my dad was married to another woman once. My dad and this woman had a son together. When my half brother was 14 and I was 4, he left our home in Taiwan and went to live with his mother in Australia. After his move to Australia, my brother stopped speaking to my dad. I saw him once since. Five years had gone by and we were in America by then. It seemed the purpose of my brother's visit then was to extend his silence in person.

My brother got married to an Australian woman. And I got accustomed to my dad's complaints about his son. I imagined to myself that somewhere in Australia, a patient Australian wife is listening to the same complaints while skinning a crocodile with a large hunting knife. After my dad's diagnosis and with the birth of my brother's first child, I decided to take my dad to Australia to meet his grandson.

I pictured myself going on vision quests and befriending kangaroos. Then the possible remained an abstraction when my dad told me that Johnny had moved to Rome with his wife.

I continued my cases at the Public Defender's Office and got my teammates to cover cases that I couldn't continue. To save money, I had bought tickets with a lot of lay overs and arranged to share a room with my dad. Navigating though all the stop overs, I should have appreciated the foreshadowing my dad was providing me from his lectures on the dangers of constipation.

My dad was obsessed with remaining regular during the trip. Somehow, the trip was seen as a great interruptor of normal digestive functions. So after we arrived in Rome and through the haze of jet lag, I barely noticed my dad munching on metamucil crackers, drinking prune juice dissolved with metamucil powder, eating bowls of bran cereal, sprinkling his cereal with prunes and eating his cereal with whole milk.

Chinese people are lactose intolerant.

And so I became lactose intolerant through my dad's milk intake. I became intolerant of the loud farting sounds coming out of his rear at all hours. They kept me up at night when I tried to sleep in the next bed. They made me part of the Italian stares as he walked next to me on our cultural sojourns through the streets of Rome. They kept me company as a brave few on the same tour tried to hold conversations with me. Really, the farting became a social experiment unto itself. What do people do when they hear something socially unacceptable? Well, now I know because it was answered for me over and over again. The Italians stared contemptuously. What they said to each other was beyond me but I imagine it was nothing favorable towards Chinese tourists. I wondered if they knew that we were Chinese American, would the American part soften the blow (or blows)?

We got to meet my brother and his small family. The visit was about as awkward as my dad's farts. My brother and his wife went on to have another beautiful boy. I now am married myself with 3 kids. My dad survived his digestive ordeal and regards the trip as a failure to this day.

He never thanked me for the trip. If anything, the complaints about my brother intensified. Since then, I have learned from being a public defender that you help people not for the reassurance of positive feed back. You help people because it's the decent thing to do.

The white of my bones

Sunday, September 20, 2009 at 11:54pm

It's Wednesday and I am at lunch with my 3 favorite friends. Having salad with the girls. Lunch time is me time. I check my cel and see a message from Sydney's school. Her blood glucose is 258. Those numbers, they cut into me. I wasn't thinking about Sydney at that moment. I shouldn't have made lunch plans. I didn't even drive. Not wanting to be a drama queen, I turned to my friend and asked if we could leave a little early and why. She says sure. She's concerned but she's taking my lead in the casualness of my delivery. Lori is so wonderful that way.

Suddenly, I'm being teased about needing a caucasian friend to help me interpret with my dad. My dad and I had been fighting over his course of cancer treatment. I felt my words weren't reaching him. This knowledge was gained from something I had told the trusted friend in confidence. I asked her to take it easy on me. She whispers something to me. The salad I had looked forward to suddenly taste like sandpaper in my mouth. Lori and I get up to leave, I explain calmly about why I had to leave early to the other 2. I can tell I'm not believed. I walk away, her words still stinging in my ears, cutting into me.

It's Thursday and I'm at my parents' house. Sydney's blood glucose is off the roof again. I send Sydney off to wash her hands for the blood glucose test. I hold my baby close to me while watching TV with my dad. He turns to me and tells me I'm shouldn't be on so many diets, that's why my babies are so thin from my nutrient deficient breast milk. Old cuts reopened. I explain that he must be only talking about Spencer, that he lost a lot of weight when my mother would replace my breast milk with formula then blame me for his weight loss. He nodded and laughed, unconscious of how his words just cut into me.

It's Friday and I'm at the preschool. Sydney's glucose level is too high again. We give her an adjustment shot.

I get back to the office and got a call from the DA that has a trial with me this coming week. He asked if I conveyed the offer for negotiations to my client yet. I explained that I missed the jail visiting hours because I had to go to Sydney's school to give her an adjustment shot. He's polite, but uncomprehending. I didn't expect any sympathy. My reason was unprofessional. He gives me a deadline of Monday at 10 am to convey the offer.

Less than an hour later, school called again, Sydney's blood glucose was 39. She's incoherent, could barely chew the glucose tablet hastily shoved into her little mouth. They fed her juice. She got better. But it's too late, the low blood sugar has left it's imprint to manifest years later. Her pale little face lit up when she saw me. Her smile cut into me. I wasn't there when she needed me.

I understand that people don't realize how their words cut into me. I feel like pin head from Hell Raiser but with a better make up job. I understand that people are lost in their own pain. My dad's in pain everyday from his cancer. And my friend has private pains of her own. What I am envious of, is their blindness to other people's pain. I'm not asking to be blind, I just wish I needed glasses.

I'm tired of being cut. But it's something I've had a lot of practice at. I've been sliced and diced since my family and I moved to this country. You would not believe how sharply "gook," "slant eyes" and "chink," can cut a kid down on a daily basis. I wear those scars like an eagle scout wears his badges.

To all those that need to cut, listen up. You can cut me. You can even cut me to the bone. And when you do, you will see the whites of my bones glaring in the sun.

Cut away until your arms tire. Still, you can never cut me any deeper than I can cut myself, whenever I let the pain from your cuts blind me to the beauty of my children. 

A story of reproductive sex in eleven parts

Sunday, January 10, 2010 at 5:44am

Part One

I wanted a baby. Bad.

Part Two

I armed myself with clomid, pregnancy tests and an ovulation kit. Patrick dutifully reported home for "nooners." Only time he missed noon time basketball. I could be on fire and he'd tell me he'll call 911 on the way to basketball. What was he going to do, he's no fire expert.

Part Three

I stared down at blood. I didn't know I was pregnant until I miscarried.

Part Four

We kept trying. Patrick's basketball skills waned.*

Part Five

The plus sign on a pregnancy test stared back at me.

Part Six

My legs are in stirrups. Dr. Chen is looking at the ultra sound screen. There's no clock. He asks me again when my last period was. I answer. He keeps looking.

Abruptly, he pushes back his chair, breaking the silence. "There's no heart beat. There should be one by now." He tells me to schedule a D and C within a week. He didn't explain why or what a D and C was. I understood. The lifeless baby inside of me needs to be removed before infection set in. I nodded. Walked out of his office. Got in my car. Called Patrick. Disappointment streamed down my face.

Part Seven

I'm driving to Dr. Sarah Newton's office. Wife of Patrick's coworker. Agreed to see me at last minute for free. Too overwhelmed to appreciate the enormity of her kindness, I mutely sit in her exam room.

She's tall like her husband. I was to find out over the years how gruff she can be but right now, her voice is soft. My legs are back in stirrups. She looks at the ultrasound screen, clears her throat and leaves the room. She brings back another machine. I watch her. She's a terrible liar. She knows already. She examines me again. Same words, different voice. She hugs me.

Part Eight

I tell the mothers from play group. They know.

Part Nine

Marnie, one of the mothers from playgroup calls. It's the night before the D and C. She wants me to wait. Doctors have been wrong. Her voice is shaking.

Part Ten

Patrick is at Dr. Chen's with me. The drive was a blur. Dr. Chen walks in and does one last ultra sound. The exam room is cold. I lay there dumb with pain.

"Well, this is a first." There's a heart beat. The small exam room wracks with the sounds of my sobbing. The vaginal ultrasound wand is still inside of me, making the screen one big blur of joy and relief. Dr. Chen chuckles, embarrassed by my display of emotions.

"We need to make a prenatal appointment!" Never was an appointment so enthusiatically made.

Part Eleven

The good stuff is coursing through my veins, keeping the fresh incision an abstraction. Her head is covered in a knit cap labeled Mountain View Hospital and she's bundled tightly. Before I breast feed her for the first time, I put my ear to her chest. We already knew her name was going to be Sydney. Sydney, your heart beats are strong and steady.

(*Patrick disputes to this day that his basketball skills have ever waned. If anything, he claims that all those nooners had actually improved his game.)

being a parent

Thursday, July 15, 2010 at 1:23am

He holds his arm up for me to put his jacket on. As docile as a child every mother dreams for. His thin arms slide easily through the sleeves. We take him to his doctor's appointment. He sits obediently. Not interrupting. Decisions have to be made. I turn to him and patiently explain. He sits, uncomprehending. Frustrated, I repeat my words. He catches on to one word, nods emphatically in agreement. Dr. Burris sighs. He disagrees but leaves the decision to us.

We leave the doctor's. On the way home, Patrick, my husband suggests a trip to Denny's. "Oh, he'll like that" I thought. "It'll be a treat." Patrick pulls up to the door. I take him by the arm and guide him to the door. People waiting for tables stop and take in the scene. They reach a realization and turn away.

We're seated. I ask him what he wants to eat. I decipher his answers and order for him. When the food comes, I cut his food for him. I bring the fork to his mouth. I put a straw in his milk and hold it up to him. He dibbles egg on his sweater. I wipe his mouth with a napkin.

He wants to see a movie. I suggest Avatar. Lots of action, good looking blue chicks and life affirming. Can't ask for more. He won't go without my mom. We take him back to the house. My mom refuses to go. Uses an ailing knee as an excuse. Suggests that we wait for my dad's brother to fly in from Chicago to go see the movie. I told her, in an even tone that dad may not have until Saturday.

I hear a cracked voice say, "I know I'm dying. I know she doesn't care about me." Lucidity is a bitch. I can barely contain my anger. Even Patrick is frustrated. Ashamed that my outburst brought forth such awareness from my dad, I decide to see a movie anyway. My dad won't go without my mom.

Patrick and I sat through the movie together. We enjoy it. The glare of the sun greets us outside the door and reminds us of what lays ahead.

I'm at the oncologist. My dad's youngest brother from Chicago and my friend Vida are with us. The four of us fill the small cozy examination room. Dr. Goodman walks in, radiating calm and hope. He's puzzled. My dad hadn't come in to see him for more than 5 months. I calmly explain to Dr. Goodman that I had just discovered that my dad has eschewed any medical treatments and have been eating asparagus paste, convinced that's what will truly cure his prostate cancer. However, he has been unable to eat, drink or sleep for the past couple of days. The cancer has metastasized to his bones. He's in constant pain although he refuses to admit it. Dr. Goodman takes in the information silently.

He examines my dad. I explain to Dr. Goodman that my dad now wants chemotherapy and not hospice per Dr. Burris' suggestion. That was the word he grabbed onto in Dr. Burris's office. Dr. Goodman nods, explains that tests need to be done. Arrangements are made. We walk out together. Vida hugs me goodbye.

I'm at the hospital with my dad. He's angry. He doesn't understand why he's there. I explain he wanted chemo. Can't get chemo without tests. Fastest way to get tests done and results back was at the hospital. He's unimpressed with my explanation. Pulls out his IV. Blood everywhere. I track down a disinterested nurse to put it back in. I take a break. I hear dad hitting my uncle, yelling that he deserves to be free.

They want a urine sample. They hand me a pitcher to hold over my father penis. My head spins. My uncle volunteers. I'm grateful to a man that I only met the day before.

Only the notches on the clock differentiate between the hours of monotony that is my dad's belligerence. He alternates between pulling his IV, exposing himself, hitting whomever is near and rebuking all that would listen.

I'm grimly prepared to stay the night. My uncle volunteers. He's as exhausted as I am. I call my mom. She refuses. Too tired to deal with the enormity that is behind my mother's behavior, I take up my uncle's offer shamefully. Suddenly dad demands roast duck. Ok, I can do that. Patrick picks me up and we go to Sam Woo's for duck, pork, pig's ear, stir fry spinach and rice. We get back to the hospital. I carefully debone the duck for dad. I run to the restroom. Coming back, I found my dad gnawing on the biggest piece of duck bone he could find.

It's the next day. I'm back at the hospital. My uncle is beyond exhaustion. He's been fighting the staff all night when he wasn't fighting my dad. He's been trying to keep the hospital staff from putting a catheter in my dad. He understood his eldest brother's need for dignity. The ability to urinate on his own. He lost in the end. He couldn't speak a word of English. I had the staff take the catheter out, knowing the implication for me once my uncle leaves.

My uncle leaves. And I take on the nightmare that was just my uncle's. Patrick stops by with my dad's prescriptions. My mom was reluctant to give them over. Patrick had to be insistent. I'm filled with rage.

Anna visits. Sits with my dad while I run to the vending machines. I scarf down a bag of pretzels. My dad exposes his ass to Anna and yells what is to be ashamed of, we all have the same things. Anna couldn't agree more. She chats with my dad. My dad's reluctantly placated. She hugs me goodbye.

All but one of the tests are done. We're discharged. Helping my dad put back on his clothes, I recognize it from a few days ago at Denny's. I see the same egg stain. My rage replenishes. I drive him home. I go home to my kids, haunted by my lack of strength to launder my dad's clothes.

I find the two Montessori books that I had ordered a couple of weeks ago. I pick one out carefully and hide the other book in my room. Holding the book close to me, I walk to my children's room. We read about God, different faiths and all that is life affirming. The kids soak it up.

It's the next day, I just made lasagna. I wrap it with foil and we head to my parents. We get there, I serve the lasagna. My uncle's never had lasagna. He eats it out of curiosity. My dad doesn't touch his plate. He's beyond the ability to eat. The kids eat noisily. I clean up the table, clean up the kids, wrap up the food, wrap up the kids and usher them to the door. As an after thought, I walk back, kiss my dad on the forehead and tell him I love him. Already, my head is filled with everything I had to do the next day.

It's the next day. My aunt calls. Something's wrong with dad. They need me. I call Erin. I ask her if she could watch the kids. I fill the time waiting for Erin by putting make up on. The phone rings. I pick up. A paramedic with a kind voice is on the other end and explains that dad hasn't been breathing on his own for the past 40 minutes. He is being taken to Desert Springs. My uncle's with him. Erin arrives. It's only been 15 minutes since my call to her. The kids immediately chat her up.

Patrick and I are in the car. We drive to Desert Springs Hospital. My uncle is waiting outside. He's tight lipped. We're ushered in. The staff is courteous. Too courteous. The doctor tells me what I already knew. I am shown which bed was his. It's behind the curtains. I walk through the curtains and stand by his bed. His eyes are closed. His mouth is open. My husband is on the other side of the curtains to give me privacy. My uncle, uncomprehending, stands next to me. He watches me bend down to hug my dad's already stiff shoulders, kiss his cold wizen cheeks and whisper that I love him.

Patrick and I drive back home. Erin apologizes for not cooking dinner. I pull out the book that I've been hiding. Patrick and I sit in a circle with the kids and we read about death together.

Pulling a Helen Keller

Wednesday, July 14, 2010 at 11:17pm

Checking out your new born for the first time has got to be one of life's coolest. Skinny or fat? Long or short? BIrth marks? Moles? Impossibly tiny little fingernails. Went through it three times. Every time a hoot. And that soft beautiful skin. One of the few physical manifestations of purity and innocence we're allow to glimpse in life.

Spencer was and always will be my first. The first inevitable scratch on his beautiful olive skin was a calamity of epic proportions. But boys will be boys. And boys tumble and fall. And when he did and that soft skin would bleed, my heart would bleed.

Sydney's skin when she was born was a surprise. She had creamy skin in contrast to her brother's olive skin. The Chinese have always coveted pale skin. It was a sign of affluence back in the days when you're considered lucky if you didn't have to work in the fields under the hot hot sun. If you're pale, that meant you live a life of luxury, free from hard labor. Similar to those European days when being Rubenesque meant you lived a life of luxury.

Luxury plays no part in a court house. Sometimes, when I see my clients in court, I'll see their needle marks. Payments for chemical pleasure. I'm not there to judge what people are capable of when they're desperate to make another payment, I'm there to protect the rights of the accused.

But like an intravenous drug user, I've learned how many places on a body I can stick a needle in. Such is the life of a parent of a diabetic. Left arm, right arm, stomach, left leg, right leg, left butt cheek, right butt check. Each area can only take 4 shots because a three year old's body parts are only so big.

I'm to avoid spots where I've given her previous injections on the same day. Unfortunately it's been easy to do that. The bruises left behind by the needles help guide me. Bruises on her legs. Bruises on her stomach. Bruises on her arms. Bruises on her butt. My beautiful little porcelain doll is covered with tiny bruises made more apparent by the creaminess of her skin. And in order for me to nonchalantly call to her, joke with her, pull back her clothes, find a spot, pinch her skin, hold my hand steady, empty my mind, jab her with the needle and repeat at least three times daily, I have to turn a blind eye to the bruises. It's the same eye that will be trusted to look to the future and to see what her skin will look like in 5, 10, 20 years, well after I'm long gone and no longer able to trace my fingers along her tiny bruises, mourning of a time when her pristine skin was a symbol of her health and longevity.

There's not much that's pristine in a criminal defense attorney's world. But in a mommy's world, my children are everything true and pure. And when I see the ugly discolorations on Sydney, I can hear the crashing of my two worlds, leaving ugly stains of needle marks and bruises on my daughter. Sounds of collision drowning out the knowledge that a blind eye is a necessity.

*Sydney's on the pump now. I don't have to give her 3 shots a day anymore. She has a needle like tube embedded under her skin that needs to be changed every 3 days. Even though the pump avoid the daily chore of shots, it's also a sign that her diabetes have advanced and that the "honeymoon" period is over. I had written this note quite awhile ago and couldn't finish. Decided to finish it today.