On Death and Selective Visual Intake

One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to me yesterday saying he has something to tell me.  Ichiro has the ability to know when to be serious and when to cut loose.  Because I like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my favorite people in city hall.”  That said, I enjoy his company immensely.  With each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me.  I like my co-workers.

Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette.  I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow.  I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s talking about.  Ichiro switches to the man’s last name.  “XXX-san,” and I nod, “he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed away.”

I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second.  Here was one of those moments.  I’m struck by two facts immediately.  There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall.  I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest.  Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names.  I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku.  At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply.  We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age.  Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names.  The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.”  Instead they referred to this man by his first name.  I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to.  Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.

This second fact hits me hard.  As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall.  I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence.  It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.

What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look.  I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself. 

Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant.  At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.

“Look,” I say and point.  “Here are pieces of a bowl.  Here’s a cooking pot.  Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.”  He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him.  These were homes.  People lived here.  People died here.  Then I see it.  A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds.  I point it out to him.  That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved.  Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere. 

I was just here last week, at this exact same spot.  I was here several times.  How did I miss these?  The slippers, pot, and shards I remember.  The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to.  The wasabi?  No.  The bra?  There’s no way these were there last week.

I glaze.  Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t.  I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking.  Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items.  Did they not register?  Did I not see them?  Was I glazing?  Did I choose not to see?

Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest.  I didn’t see these before.  They’ve surely been here all day.  All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.

Lilies are not my favorite flower.  They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin.  Let me rephrase.  I hate lilies.  All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.

Routine and patterns;  when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details.  It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.”  If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.

I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself.  If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience.  I have to block things out.  Right?

Or do I?

I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku.  I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

When Someone Dies

David Remnick of The New Yorker says of the sudden death of James Gandolfini:  "In the dozens of hours he had on the screen, he made Tony Soprano--lovable, repulsive, cunning, ignorant, brutal--more ruthlessly alive than any character we've ever encountered in television."  Except for the major crush I developed on the character he's most famous for, I don't know James Gandolfini.  With that said, I have a feeling he'd like to be remembered for creating a character that was known as "ruthlessly alive."

This post is less about James Gandolfini than it is about death.  Unexpected and sudden death.  Just so we're clear, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the day I will die.  Nor do I contemplate how, when, if I'll die alone or with someone else, whether it will be quiet or tragic.  I have at one point or another wondered all this, but in the space I allot to what goes on in my mind, my personal death does not take up much space.

Except that it does.  Sometimes.  I contemplate this when people around me die.  My uncle's death ten years ago rocked our family in ways we've still not recovered from.  My brother's death when I was very young has left a hole in my immediate family that cannot be plugged.  Even with the deaths of those I don't know, the finality of their newly created absence makes me wonder what people will say about me when I've moved on--because at one time or another we think about the day we leave earth.  We talk about those who have left us.  We talk about them as we mourn, reliving the marks they've left on those left behind.

When the choice to end our lives is of our own making, remembrance is messy.  Our sadness is mixed with anger, confusion, and often guilt.  Suicide in Japan is a social phenomenon where statistics show approximately 30,000 people terminate their lives and have been for the past fifteen years.  Except for a report stating the numbers dipped below 30,000 for the first time last year, these numbers remain steady.  What's going on in Japan?

It gets worse.  Research shows those who are successful in ending their lives (if suicide can actually be called a "success") are 10% of those who try.  Do the math.  This means there are 300,000 people in Japan who choose this way to die.  Should we be glad only 10% are "successful"?  What, if anything is done for the 270,000 who failed?

I bring this topic up not to suggest I have answers or that there exist simple solutions.  "It's complicated" are two words often used to describe that which we cannot control.  Without helpful input to offer I'm in no position to say, "That's not good enough," but I will.  

Perhaps one way to address the problem of suicide in Japan is to focus on two aspects of Japanese culture often used to modify behavior:  shame, and meiwaku.  A powerful force of social order, shame is an often-used tool to instill right from wrong.  Do not bring shame upon your family, school, organization, or company.  What if we said about those who were close to the one who took their life, that they failed in some way?  Perhaps the stigma of failure maybe isn't enough. What if we add shame to the emotions felt to those left behind?  If we knew those left to pick up our body felt shame because of our decision, would that change anything?

The same concept applies to meiwaku.  The catch-all word for gross inconvenience we cause others, by taking our own life surely we cause meiwaku do we not?  In centuries past perhaps suicide was noble, the ultimate in taking responsibility.  What if we made sure children growing up thought of suicide as a cop out?  That there was nothing heroic about falling on one's own sword?

It's not that easy, I know.  Change is never simple.  So I'll end with this thought:  I wish the collective Japan could recognize how big of a deal it was for Tony Soprano to get counseling.  Fictional character aside, the decision to put front-and-center the life of a troubled and truly human mob boss who chose to get help, that this was a cultural phenomenon on American television warrants another look.

 

 

 

 

"We needed to keep her alive."

Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources. 

In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato.  I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers.  I have an appointment with him next week.  More on this in a moment.

We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do.  It's lovely.  I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.

"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely.  He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved.  I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him.  He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.

Her friend was a student of hers.  "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata."  Now I'm confused.  Her friend was washed away?  As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived?  I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it.  Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people.  Hence my confusion.  She was "washed away" and then treated later?

"It was a miracle," my friend says. 
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake.  The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami.  The woman was at home with her three children.  After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape. 

"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says.  "Bad luck, you know?"  I nod.  "She had to turn the car around.  By that time, the water engulfed the car.  The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it.  My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet.  That's the last thing she remembers."

The woman survived.  All six of them were tossed out of the car.  She was found later, the only one breathing.  Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.

"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law.  Six people.  Everyone in her family.  She's the only one who survived."  I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?"  I'm not sure I would.
"I know.  I know.  Right?  We needed to keep her alive.  We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend.  Here again; women helping women.

"She's not doing well now.  It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve.  It's not good.  She's not well.  At all."

Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.

The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."

The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon.  The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach.  We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain. 

Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories.  And repeat them.

The Long Black Coat

"We knew it was you when you were at the other end of the block."  One of the socialite women I'm taking up north says to me as I hand her husband my bag that has created permanent creases in my hand.
"Oh?"  I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me.  None.  Right?  Of course they knew it was me. 
"How did you know it was me?"  I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat.  It's too long."  And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in.  "It's not too long.  It's just very long.  None of us in Tokyo dress like that."  Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag.  "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds.  "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me.  "You look nice.  Very east coast America.  Very New York.  Very Boston.  Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent.  My confusion is still with me.  They evidently now pick up on it.

"But, it's good," I'm reassured.  I decide to believe them. 

Or so I thought.  One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center.  The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato.  They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals.  I was their tour guide.

Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books.  It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side.  The kids have long since stopped listening.  I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me.  I just brought them here.  They're the ones bringing books.  I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san.  You speak, too."

I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice.  They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back.  I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food."  And then it happens.  One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing.  I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher.  The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap.  Everyone laughs.  I'm mortified.
"Oh, no!  I'm so sorry!"  And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.

This is a first.  I'm stunned.  I made a girl cry?  Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium?  And spoke English?  Wow.  This has really, truly never happened before.

We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry."  More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?"  Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat.  It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.

Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this.  At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip. 
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first.  I high five, pat heads, smile.  And then I hear it.  Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."

Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan.  Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos."  Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?"  I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.

For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire.  (I did actually put thought into this.)  None of my other coats would have been appropriate.  My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again.  All this over a coat!  Living in learning in Japan.  Still.  One day at a time.