Flashback

None of us could have anticipated the events of that night.  Our outing was meant to be a fun, casual dinner.  The five of us were at a local ramen shop in Rikuzentakata.  The two girls, my adopted daughters whom I love like my own, and mom and dad all sit around the table negotiating how many bowls to order.

"It's a big bowl," mom says to the girls.  "I don't think you can finish it."
"Yes we can," younger sister protests.  "Yeah.  Mama, please?"  Older sister chimes in.
"You never do," dad objects.  "You'll have to finish what they don't eat," mom says to dad.
"Again?"  We all laugh.
"Can we have gyoza, too?"  The younger one is determined to eat tonight.
"Do you have any appointments tomorrow, Amya-san?"  I'm taken back my mom's question.
"Appointments?  Why?"
"The gyoza here is really garlicky," dad says.
"Oh."  I think for a minute.  I do have meetings tomorrow.  How garlicky are they?
"I'll just have one," I reply, not one to pass up good gyoza.

We order, continuing to chat.  When the bowls arrive I am shocked at the size.  This is possibly the biggest bowl of ramen I've ever seen.
"Woooow," I say, looking down at what's in front of me.  Turning to the girls, "You're really going to eat all that?"  "No," dad says as the girls say, "Yes!"  We laugh again.

Silent except for the slurping, none of us notice grandpa sitting at the bar.  Suddenly, there's a buzz.  The chefs come out from the kitchen, moving quickly.  One of the servers is standing near grandpa, calling out to him.  Grandpa is slumped over.

"What's going on?" The older girl starts to get up.
"Sit," mom says.
"Be right back," and dad jumps up heading towards grandpa and the small crowd.

Fast forward three minutes, we piece together what's happening. Grandpa is unresponsive.  A chef is spooning sugar into grandpa's mouth.  "Diabetic shock," mom says to me.  I nod.  Soon we hear an ambulance.  Mom and I exchange looks.  I see mom looking at the girls sitting on either side of me.  I look down at them, first left and then right.  The younger one is in tears, trying hard not to show how upset she is.  The older one is pale.  It's the first time I've seen someone this white in a long time.

"It's alright," mom says to the girls.  The older one nods, trying to be brave.  I sense the younger one on my left quickly wiping her tears.  I touch her head and say, "Do you want to sit on my lap?"  She nods.  I pick her up, move myself in front of the television we've all been ignoring, and turn my back towards grandpa.  "You sit on Amya-san's lap, too," mom says to the older one.  I move younger sister onto my left knee, and pull older sister onto my right.  She's shaking.
"It's alright.  Everything is going to be okay," I say and turn them more towards the television, talking about the AKB girls we see.

The ambulance arrives, puts grandpa on a stretcher and quickly leaves.  The girls try to sneak glances towards the paramedics, but I bring their attention to the television screen each time.

Once the restaurant is quiet again, we all sit around the table.  The girls are no longer hungry.  Mom says in a very soft voice, "I know it's scary for you to see ambulances.  It reminds you of daddy being away with the fire brigade, right?"  They nod.  Dad is a volunteer firefighter, and was out for days following the tsunami, looking for survivors, recovering bodies.  The girls don't fully understand what dad was doing, but were worried sick.  Emergency vehicles now scare them.

How an unexpected incident can turn an otherwise happy outing into a traumatic experience is a stark reminder of the power of memories.  In this case, the fear over a father's safety in the aftermath of a tragic and terrible disaster ruined not only our night out, but served as a trigger bringing back buried pain.

I hope for those in Tohoku we are all able to find a realistic and robust mental health plan that allows for lasting healing.  In the mean time, I will keep hugging these girls.  Mom and dad, too.