Sample Translations
Jiwol Choe Days of Bereavement E ng l i s h
Book Information
Days of Bereavement (상실의 시간들) Hanibook Publishing corp. / 2014 / 28 p. / ISBN 9788984318250 For further information, please visit: http://library.klti.or.kr/node/772
This sample translation was produced with support from LTI Korea. Please contact the LTI Korea Library for further information. library@klti.or.kr
Days of Bereavement Written by Choe Jiwol
Day 49
I am alive. This thought came to me as I tried to turn over the calendar only to discover it had no more pages left. I am alive. Forty-nine days have passed and I am still in the land of the living without any ailments. I suddenly feel overcome by guilt. The phone rings and Father picks up the receiver. He greets the caller warmly with, "Deacon Jang..." "Yes, yes," Father says perfunctorily. But before hanging up he makes a hearty laugh and thanks Mrs. Jang for calling. Why does Father seem so grateful for the phone call? “Your mother's friends visited the columbarium today. It’s the 49th day since her passing.� They observed the 49th day memorial rites? In the Buddhist tradition, it is believed that it takes 49 days for the spirit of the deceased to be reincarnated into another body. Once every week for seven weeks, relatives of the deceased prepare a feast so that the departed soul will not be hungry in the underworld. On the seventh day of the seventh week after death, the soul has one final meal before it is reborn into a new body. Therefore the 49th day after one's passing is both a day of final dissolution as well as rebirth. That is why Buddhists end the period of mourning after 49 days. I thought it odd that Deacon Chang would observe the 49th day memorial rites, as both she and my mother were fervent Christians. Mother had been a deacon for over ten years before her passing. Regardless whether they are Catholic or Protestant, Christians do not accept the concept of reincarnation. Instead, they believe that the body you are born in is the body you
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will die in, and that this same body will be resurrected on Judgment Day. Christians believe that the soul is indestructible. Expecting a Christian to celebrate the 49th memorial day would be as unreasonable as expecting a donkey to result from the union between a cat and dolphin. Although I am the sole Buddhist in my family, I never mentioned the 49th memorial day in deference to my mother's chosen religion. Therefore, I was surprised to learn that non-family members had remembered Mother on this day. Father’s gratitude was also unexpected. My cheeks suddenly felt tickled by something, so I wiped them with my hands only to find them covered with moisture. Surely I wasn’t shedding tears out of surprise? I squeezed my eyes shut. As I removed my hands from my face, I noticed that my right eyelid was fluttering involuntarily. As if he had just remembered something, Father said, “Long ago in the villages there was a tradition in which the family of the deceased set out food for the dear departed soul at breakfast and dinner for three years. People used to believe that even the dead needed to eat. If we were to honor the tradition we would have to do the same.” Father was describing a Confucian folk custom. In that cosmology there was little difference between the souls of the living or the dead, as even the latter had to eat. It was believed that departed souls not only ate breakfast and dinner, but also regularly visited their families. After death, souls supposedly returned for the Autumn Harvest Festival, Buddhist All Souls' Day, the Cold Food Festival, Jan. 15th of the Lunar Calendar and other feast days to eat and drink with the living. In order to make the dead a part of the living world, their spirits had to be fed continually. Father and Mother were married for 43 years. Mother was a professional housewife. As long as she was around, Father didn't have to prepare his own meals. When Mother would not be home for an extended period, she prepared all of Father's meals in advance so that he
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could eat by just reheating a few dishes. Although 49 days had passed since Mother had left us, Father was still incapable of preparing his own meals, let alone preparing breakfast and dinner for Mother's departed spirit. “Dad, you're welcome to make breakfast and dinner for Mom's spirit for the next three years!” I stomped out of the living room and into my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me, causing Mother's memorial portrait hanging on the wall to shudder a little bit. My right eyelid wouldn't stop twitching and the spasms spread to my cheeks.
In Buddhist cosmology, the spirit can be endlessly reincarnated into one of six realms. Yama is the first of 10 judges who determines the destination of souls in the next life. Princess Bari is said to lead souls across the infinite realms of heaven and hell to the flower gardens of the Western Paradise and the realm of the Big Dipper where celestial beings enjoy eternal life… I probably know around 10,000 stories about the afterlife, heaven, and hell. Countless saints and philosophers have stated that people do not truly die, contrary to appearances. The soul is immortal. Mother died 49 days ago. Cause of death: heart attack. Age 65.
Day 50
The phone call came around nine o'clock in the morning. I didn't pick up immediately because I had gone to bed at 4 am. “Mom passed away!”
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My younger sister, Eun-hee, practically screamed into the receiver as if I were deaf. After hanging up, I’ll have to wear black was the sole thought I could process. It rained heavily that day. While driving down to Wonju I got a text message from one of Mother's church friends telling me to come to the Wonju Hospital emergency room. I was too numb to question why Mother wasn't already in the morgue or mortuary. I felt like a fog had descended into my head. When I arrived, I saw Father standing stiffly by the front entrance to the emergency room while being embraced by Eun-hee, who was weeping and wailing. There was a crowd of people standing around them. Four or five were Father's friends, two or three were Mother's, and the remainder who stood there looking at me were probably the those who had been in the same party as Mother when she passed away. Was I supposed to cry right now? Or did I need to wear a polite smile and greet those assembled at the hospital? As I didn't know how to act, I just stood there silently. After a while, Eun-hee finally stopped crying. Father entered the waiting area adjoining the emergency room and I followed behind and took a seat. Father sat down next to me. “I found your mother in the morning … she died during her sleep. When I discovered her it had already been three to four hours since she passed away. When I called 119 for an ambulance, the operator told me to contact the police instead. Once the police arrived on the scene, they sent your mother to the hospital.” I didn't ask where Mother was. It was about 11 am. For some vague reason, I trusted that Father had already found a good resting spot for Mother. I assumed that Mother was already resting peacefully in a clean place reserved for the dead, as would be proper, and that we would shortly be led to her. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, Father finally muttered, “What’s taking so long? How many hours are they going to make us wait?”
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I finally snapped out of my trance at Father’s words and realized that something was amiss. Father was waiting ... for what? Where was Mother? I suddenly noticed that Eun-hee was nowhere in sight. I left the waiting area. There was a door toward the front of the waiting area that led to the emergency room, while the hospital information desk and administrative affairs department were located at the opposite end where I could see Eun-hee standing. Her eyes were wide with shock as she stood beside Mother's body. Tears streamed down her cheeks and gathered at the bottom of her chin before dripping down to the floor. Medical personnel had placed Mother's body in a corner of the hospital used for storing broken or unused equipment. Nevertheless, there were two desks with computers installed nearby and doctors and nurses passed through the area constantly. Mother wasn't even covered by a sheet and was still dressed in her pajamas. Her face wore a death grimace -- her eyes were squeezed tightly shut and her forehead seemed to be creased in pain. Her upper teeth were biting down into her lower lip. Whenever Mother's angina flared up she often wore a similar expression while enduring the pain. One hand was on her breast while the other was on her head. The bluish tinge of livor mortis had already set in from the back of Mother's neck all the way down her body. My heart took one beat and then fell to the bottom of my stomach. Lightning struck inside my head. Mother was dead. The reality of the situation finally hit me. Tears started gushing from my eyes. The gaggle of nurses that had been moving about busily around us quietly left once I started sobbing loudly. One of the nurses brought a portable sheet partition to shield us from view. Eun-hee turned to look as me as I cried out in grief. Suddenly, a nurse appeared and covered Mother's body with a sheet. “I’ll be right back after I find out what’s keeping your mother's death certificate.”
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When Eun-hee momentary left the area, a nurse who looked to be in her twenties came by to ask some questions. “What is the patient's name and age?” Why did they call Mother a “patient”? At that moment I glanced at Mother's body in the faint hope that maybe she wasn't really dead, just very sick. I called out, "mom, mom, mom, mom ... get up!" The nurse cautiously tried to get my attention and asked once more, "The patient's name?" I was upset. Why was the nurse trying to rush things? Mother should be able to answer for herself without my assistance. No matter how sick a patient was, she should at least be able to say her name. I grabbed Mother's arm. It felt as cold and hard as marble. The palm of her hand was practically frozen. As I still refused to answer, the nurse asked one more time, this time staring at me as if I were crazy. I mumbled Mother's name and age to the nurse, who wrote this information onto a tag which she attached to Mother's foot before quickly leaving. Why had Mother's body been abandoned in a corner of the hospital? And why was it taking so long for the death certificate to be issued? I couldn't understand any of this. I finally learned the answers to these questions once Mother's funeral was over. Death is defined as the cessation of all mental, respiratory, and physical functions that comes at the end of life. Once a properly-qualified physician has examined the deceased and prepared a death certificate declaring the death of the body, funeral procedures may begin. Once the body is washed and dressed, it is placed in a casket for burial or cremation. These procedures include funeral notifications to friends and acquaintances of the deceased. Within one month of death, the remaining family members must visit their local district office and submit the death certificate so that the death is officially recorded in the family register. They must also contact the telephone company to cancel cell phone service as well as the bank and insurance company to close accounts of the deceased. Through this process a
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person's spirit, personality and identity can be erased from the community, thereby bringing the process of death to a close. The death of a person encompasses both natural phenomena in which all physical functions of the body cease as well as the destruction of a social identity. The end of physical existence also means the end of one’s mental faculty, so the deceased depends on others to complete the process of dying on their behalf. The deceased needs someone to kill them. When Father discovered Mother's body, he called the police who transported Mother to the hospital once they determined that no foul play was involved. Without a death certificate, Mother was stuck in the limbo between physical and social death. She was initially taken to the emergency room while Father cooled his heels in the waiting area adjoining the emergency room for a doctor who could sign Mother's death certificate. Without it, Mother was technically a patient at the hospital although the medical staff couldn't do anything for her as she was already dead. When the hospital administrators first received Mother's body, it wasn’t accompanied by any family members, so she wasn’t formally checked in. The corpse couldn't be left in the emergency room, however, as it would discomfit patients receiving treatment. Mother's body represented the failure and powerlessness of medical technology in the face of death. That's probably why the hospital decided to place Mother's body in some out-of-the-way corner. Once the death certificate was issued and we paid a fee, Mother’s body was moved to the morgue attached to the hospital where Mother finally began to receive dignified treatment befitting the dead. When I went to the waiting area to tell Father that Mother's body would be moved to the morgue, I saw an unfamiliar woman standing next to him. She was wearing a navy blue suit with epaulets and introduced herself as a Korean Veterans Association funerary officer of ceremonies. She was busy saying something to Father.
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“Funeral and insurance policies are two different things. In the case of a life insurance policy, it pays out upon death but you can still send unpaid premiums to the insurance company even after the funeral. But in the case of funeral insurance, you only receive funerary services according to the amount of premiums you've already paid. Unfortunately, you haven't fully paid all the premiums outlined in your contract. Here's how much you've paid us so far, and here's how much you still owe us. You need to pay an additional 2 million won before we can begin the funeral proceedings. I'm sure you heard all this when you first signed up for this funeral policy.” The lady from the KVA insurance company pulled out a document with fine-print text and showed it to Father. He said, “Why do you need all the money right now? A lot of time is left before the policy expires… first hold the funeral, then we'll pay off the rest of the policy on a monthly basis.” I interrupted their conversation. “Sure, we'll pay. If you don't accept credit cards, I can go to the bank and bring cash.” The lady from the KVA looked relieved. “Also… your father will one day be buried in the National Cemetery, right? And will your mother be buried together with your father?” I nodded affirmatively. “You need to reserve cremation facilities in advance for your mother. If you fail to make a reservation, the funeral procession might have to wait until a spot in the crematory opens up. You should make a reservation now, but this isn't included in the funeral policy. This must be paid for separately, in cash. I will start by making a reservation at the crematory ... by the way, what is your mother's citizen ID number? I need this to make a reservation at the crematorium…” The lady from the KVA looked at Father, expectantly.
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“I don't know,” he said. Father signed all the official documents in our family so he must have known Mother’s ID number, but he turned his back on the lady from KVA as if he didn't want to talk anymore. She turned to me instead. I managed to extract some numbers from my head but after saying them out loud I wasn't sure if they were correct. The woman from the KVA asked for my name and cell phone number just in case. My mind went blank. Name… phone number…? Umm... let me try to remember. My face turned red. I pulled out my cell phone, but my name and number weren't stored on my own phone. I eventually found my phone number by searching through Father's cell phone. When I got in the ambulance that would transport Mother to the morgue, the driver demanded a fee of 60,000 won. He said we could pay by cash or credit card so Eun-hee and I reached for our purses. If I had been alone at that moment I might have been willing to pay 60,000, 600,000, maybe even 6 million won. Still in shock, I followed orders like someone under hypnosis. Father snapped, “Put away your purses! You don't need to pay anything!” According to Father, things still hadn't been finalized with the KVA insurance company, so we could pay later. Things still hadn't been finalized? The driver looked like he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue after seeing how upset Father looked. The morgue was cold. Two well-built men in dark suits were waiting there. As rigor mortis had already set in, it required all their strength to pull Mother's arm down from the top of her head to her side. While we were at the morgue, the lady from the KVA said she would go ahead of us and prepare the funeral chapel. Once we arrived, however, we found the funeral chapel to be much too small. Some of the mourners who had just arrived clicked their tongues in disapproval at the shabbiness of the viewing area for mother’s body. We asked the lady from
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the KVA to find out if other chapels were available. She looked pained when she told us that a more spacious chapel would be expensive. Father stubbornly insisted that the smallest chapel was sufficient. “Who'll show up? No one will come, no one. This place will be fine.� Our family certainly wasn't rich, but we weren't so poor that we couldn't afford to place Mother’s body in a decent funeral chapel. Although the decorations in the current chapel were halfway done, my sister and I decided to move Mother to a larger room. I asked the lady from the KVA to show me the funeral insurance contract once more. Apparently the funerary officer of ceremonies and support staff were compensated from funeral policy premiums. Additional service charges were added for miscellaneous supplies and minor services. The funeral policy covered services such as funeral notices, incense and candles for the funeral chapel, an ancestral tablet written with the name of the deceased, casket, casket cover, funeral wreath, and hearse. Not included in the contract were rental costs for traditional garments of mourning made from rough hemp, the cost of the cremation urn, crematorium usage fee, funeral chapel rental, accommodations and food for guests, columbarium usage fee, wages for kitchen staff, etc. More mourners continued to arrive as I listened to the KVA officer explain these facts to me. At the very least, I felt we needed to provide beverages for funeral guests, and I learned that there was a convenience store on one of the lower floors of the hospital. I called the convenience store and placed an order. The store clerk asked if I wanted to add alcohol to the order. Won't you need alcohol for your guests? If you do, please tell me what kind of alcohol and how many bottles you need. I told the clerk to use his discretion and hung up. How many people would stay for dinner? How many people would come to pay their respects tomorrow? Making such decisions was as hard as explaining the origins of the universe. There were two choices on the dinner set menu for funeral guests: short-rib beef soup or napa cabbage soup.
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Side dishes had to be purchased separately but side dishes with Korean-style pancakes were expensive. There were a dizzying array of price points for even rice cakes and fruit. The family of the deceased was even responsible for such minor decisions as how many pairs of slippers to put out for guests entering the funeral chapel. It felt like everything had to be decided right away even though my mind was still reeling from seeing my recently-deceased mother. In fact, I was given no time to reflect before being forced to ponder whether guests would rather enjoy short-rib soup or napa cabbage soup, whether Baram rice cakes or half-moon rice cakes were more spoilage-resistant, and other choices between price and quality. The whole process felt grotesque. Under optimal conditions I wasn't a quick thinker, but my brain felt paralyzed while managing Mother's funeral. I sat in a stupor, barraged by questions, while Father took issue with all of my decisions. The old funeral chapel was fine, why did we move to this one? At this outrageous price, we don't need flower wreaths around the memorial portrait! The cheapest shroud and cremation urn will do just fine. Choose the cheapest wooden tablet for your mother's name and tell the funeral home to use one hearse, not two. Do we have to pay for everything right now? How much is this? How much is that? If it had been all up to him, Father might have canceled the funeral altogether on the account of cost. Eun-hee growled. “Father, is money so important right now? These are all necessary expenses! Just go over there and sit down quietly!” Eun-hee wanted to write a new funeral insurance contract with the KVA. We decided to order food for 100 guests and wait and see how many showed up the next day before placing a larger order. We also wanted to see a catalog of available urns and decided to hire two more kitchen staff … while dealing with these funerary matters a funeral wreath from Mother’s church arrived at the chapel together with a group of Mother's church friends who were milling about in front.
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“You should probably go out there and greet the guests,” said Eun-hee. I stood up. Mother had attended a Methodist Church for over 25 years and was a deacon who belonged to the church's missionary society as well as volunteer corps. When I was little, I attended church together with Mother. I stood at the entrance to Mother's funeral chapel and willed my neck and shoulder muscles to go through the motions of bowing while my mouth ran on autopilot. All the mourners seemed to know me; although they didn't know me personally, they could tell that I was Mother's daughter. “My condolences.” “How did this happen?” “Why did this happen?” “When did this happen?” I answered all their questions. Mother suffered a heart attack in the middle of the night, but Father didn't discover her until this morning because he was sleeping in another room. They followed up with more questions, of course. “I didn't know your Mother had heart disease! How long has it been?” “You had no idea? Why didn't you take her to the hospital?” “Over all those years she seemed perfectly healthy to me. What medical problems did she have?” The vibes that I got from Mother's friends were confusion, fear, anxiety … and anger most of all. They all seemed angry. An undesirable and tragic event had occurred, so they felt that the situation required explanation, rectification, and punishment. The mood in the crowd was ugly. To make things worse, their witch hunt started with me. “When was the last time you spoke with your mother?” “When was the last time you saw your mother?” “What were you doing last night?”
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They interrogated me like homicide detectives looking for clues. The gaggle of old married women were now engrossed in reconstructing the final moments of Mother's life. I was their prime suspect. Under Confucian funeral rites, it is considered rude to ask detailed questions about the final moments of the deceased or to question family members about the circumstances or causes of death because this can remind them of their loss and increase their suffering. But it has already been over a century since the end of the Joseon Dynasty, so no one in Korea today observes such rules of decorum. “I talked to her just before 10 pm last night. She told me she had visited the sauna in the evening and promised to prepare some side dishes for me over the weekend and send them by courier. We promised to call each other the following day. That was the last I ever heard from her.” “I saw Mother two weeks ago when we chatted on Skype. I wanted to show her my new hairstyle.” I answered all of their questions without raising my voice or changing my facial expression. Although my eyes stung, I didn't cry. All the people before me were unfamiliar. After the age of 10, I had never cried in front of strangers. From the looks on their faces, I could tell that these middle-aged women were unsatisfied. Who knows, they might have been expecting a different response, something like, "I feel so guilty, Mother sacrificed everything to raise me with love but I wasn't good to her." If I bawled and collapsed onto the floor the women gathered before me would cluck their tongues and attempt to comfort me with banalities such as, "It's too late for regret. Why didn't you treat your mother better while she was still alive? Don't worry, your mother's in heaven now. The living must go on living." My answers seemed to both reassure and disappoint Mother's church friends. Father was their next target. Why didn't your parents sleep in the same room ... why didn't your father realize your mother
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was having a heart attack during the night ... when couples grow old they must sleep together just in case one of them has an emergency ... I was caught in the middle of their inquisition. At a certain point in their marriage, Mother and Father stopped sleeping in the same bed. Both of them had different bedtimes, different TV programs they liked to watch before going to bed, and different waking times. Father was a heavy snorer. Mother sometimes woke up at 4 am to attend early-morning church services. I didn't find it odd in the least that they slept separately. They weren't a love-crazy couple in their twenties nor were they a couple in their thirties counting the days to ovulation for the best day to conceive a baby. But most importantly, their sleeping arrangements were their own business. As someone living in the 21st century, I value personal privacy and believe that some matters should be free from the interference and the commentary of others. As a daughter, I have no desire to hear or talk about my parents' marital relations. While part of me felt that Mothers' acquaintances were being rude, my curiosity was piqued about Father’s whereabouts while Mother lay dying. Was Father blameless in Mother's death? I strained my ears to hear his response. Father said that he had no idea Mother was having a heart attack. “On the day of her death, she went to the sauna and seemed to be enjoying herself. She seemed so healthy and active that I never expected her to die like this…” Father spoke as if he had no knowledge whatsoever of Mother's heart condition. “Although the doctor had prescribed medicine for her, all of us know that our bodies aren't what they used to be as we get older.” If Father was to be believed, Mother was in impeccable health but had died for no apparent reason. I wondered how Father could be so disingenuous. Mother had suffered from heart disease for a long time. Just like Father, she needed to watch her diet. She also suffered from stress and overwork. Shouldn't Father have taken better care of Mother while she had been alive? How was it possible that Father could be so ignorant of Mother's health? I didn't stay
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mad at Father for long, however, because their was no time to ruminate. A dense fog settled in my brain as I continued to greet the guests at Mother's wake. I was startled out of my stupor when someone grasped my hand. “You're still in shock from the loss of your mother, but as time passes you, too, will grieve. I was the same way when my mother died.” The face looked familiar. It was one of Mother's more intimate church friends. Before taking my college entrance exams, this lady had brought me some taffy, which is traditionally given as a good-luck charm to test-takers. The colored paper wrappers were printed with the message “Good Luck on the Test” in white lettering. After Mother's friend left, Mother told me angrily that the candies were surplus inventory sold by the neighborhood convenience store and that the candies were inedible. Mother was right; the taffy was so hard I couldn't make a dent in it with my teeth. It all went into the trashcan. Mom became friends with this lady through the mutual assistance association formed by church members after I moved to Seoul. When I called home and asked Mother if there was any interesting gossip, she sometimes told me about her church friend. "Yang Jeong-sook did this ... Yang Jeong-sook's children are... Deacon Yang moved to a new place, …" Regardless of the relationship between Mother and Mrs. Yang, I had no connection to her except for a bunch of spoiled taffy I had received almost 20 years ago. We were complete strangers. I said politely, "Is that so?" Perhaps my complete composure seemed strange. I had to fight the urge to yank my hand from her grip. She gave me a quick look from head to toe and said sharply, “Seok-hee, you forgot to wear socks or pantyhose. Don't you think it would be better if you covered your feet?” I glanced down and saw a flower print summer skirt partly obscuring the view of my toes. It was then that I realized I was wearing a thick winter blouse with a summer skirt. I left the house in the morning without washing my face, so I must have looked dreadful. My hair at
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that moment was practically a bird's nest. Mother had always nagged me about my appearance. Isn't that dress too long? Those pants look too tight. That blouse is ugly. You're too skinny. When did you get so fat? Get a perm. Don't go outside before doing your makeup. Brush your hair. Can't you wear something a bit more feminine? Had Mother been alive, she never would have allowed me to present myself to her friends in my current state. 16 Day 51
I got out of bed at daybreak. It was time for Father's breakfast. He takes his meals three times a day at specified hours. Father also has snacks in between mealtimes. When he goes hiking in the mountains, he carries a packed lunch. For the past 30 years, Father has suffered from type two diabetes and for the past several years he has also suffered from chronic renal failure and high blood pressure. His renal disease is so serious that doctors are thinking of putting him on dialysis. To postpone the day when he will have to undergo regular dialysis, however, Father has been on a strict diet. Eating small portions is the first step. In order to limit sodium intake, Father must avoid foods seasoned with salt or soy sauce. Due to his diabetes, he must also beware of sweet foods. Due to his weakened immune system, infection by parasites or viruses could be fatal, so he is forbidden from eating sushi or raw foods. He must keep dairy product consumption to a minimum as he is at risk for cerebrovascular disease. As consumption of excess potassium can exacerbate renal failure, he cannot eat vegetables, mixed-grain rice and must avoid eating fruit. As Father's kidneys are incapable of properly filtering his blood, he cannot take any health supplements. Although he is unable to eat to his heart's content, he must eat enough food containing various nutrients to avoid starvation. Mealtimes are always a battle because of the contradictions between what Father must and must not eat.
Father is unable to cook for himself. He is unable (and unwilling) to clean the house, do the laundry, or even shop for groceries because he is ignorant of how to buy the necessities of life at reasonable prices. He is unable to iron clothes or operate a washing machine, and doesn’t know that he needs to take new blankets out of the closet at the beginning of each season. Father is incapable of doing the things necessary for daily living. Now that Mother is no longer by his side, Father needs someone to teach him how to do all these things. Because my eldest sister So-hee immigrated to Canberra, Australia with her husband, she was only able to stay with Father for just a few days after Mother's funeral. My younger sister Eun-hee works at a pharmaceutical company and had to use almost 10 vacation days when Mother passed away, but now she has to go back to work. I'm a writer of romance novels. As I am self-employed, unmarried, and have no children, I have more free time than my sisters. For 100 days after the official end of the mourning period, I was given the responsibility of helping Father adjust to life without Mother. Last night for dinner I prepared chopped carrots and bell peppers boiled in water. The vegetables must be soaked for over two hours in a large pot of water in order to remove most of their nutrients and potassium. I then stir-fried the swollen and waterlogged vegetables along with a little bit of chicken breast and some mushrooms seasoned with curry powder. Instead of potatoes, I put pineapples in the curry. Curry with tart pineapple was a low-calorie, low-sodium dish. Lately it had became Father's main entree. From the refrigerator I took out pickled garlic and radish as well as some pickles, eggs, and onions roasted with chicken. I made fried eggs from just the egg whites for Father. He wasn’t allowed to have soup or kimchi with his meals. No matter how bland one tried to make soup, its salt content was much too high for Father. In the case of kimchi, it was made of vegetables and pickled in salt, so Father definitely wasn't allowed to eat it.
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“You're setting the table, I see.” Father shuffled into the kitchen and circled once before opening the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass of milk and took out a bottle of ginseng extract. Before I could stop him, he scooped out a double teaspoon's worth from the bottle. “Father! You're not supposed to eat that. The doctor said not to.” Father frowned and said loudly, “This much won't kill me. Besides, I eat less of it than I used to. It will protect me from the common cold this winter…” “Don't eat it!” Before I had a chance to stop him, Father put the teaspoon in his mouth. “When I catch a cold it lasts for a long time. If I take ginseng, it warms my body, protects me from viruses, and keeps me from coughing.” Father and I had fought about ginseng dozens of times already. In the beginning I used a didactic tone when emphasizing the importance of his diet: “You mustn't eat that because …” Later this was shortened to, “Please don't eat that,” and finally, “Don't eat that for Christssake!” If things proceeded any further, I might do more than just yell. I decided that when Father wasn't around, I would have to remove the bottle of ginseng extract. Father sat down at the dining table. I set the side dishes on the table. Perilla leaves, radish kimchi, and seasoned sweet potato stems were for me. I had received these from one of Mother's friends. I told her that Father was on a strict low-sodium diet, so she prepared these side dishes using only a little salt. Unfortunately, the vegetables' potassium content made them too dangerous for Father to eat. Father snatched away one of the seasoned sweet potato stems with his chopsticks. “I'm just going to have a taste.” Before I could stop him, he tried to quickly bring the chopsticks to his mouth. He ended up spilling food on the table but scooped it up with his hands. He also tried some radish kimchi.
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“Father, don't eat that!” Scowling, Father shoved a big mouthful of radish kimchi into his mouth, distending his cheeks, then chewed it before gulping it down. “Eating just a little bit is fine. How can I survive without it? I've eaten kimchi my whole life.” I could certainly sympathize with Father. His strict sodium diet didn't apply to some expensive and rare dish; he was forbidden from eating kimchi, the humble pickled cabbage, the staple condiment beloved by all Koreans. Koreans eat kimchi their entire lives. If you asked me whether a meal without kimchi could be called a meal at all, I would be hardpressed to answer. But if you asked me to choose between kimchi and living, I would definitely choose the latter. I cleared all my side dishes from the table. If Father was unable to exercise self-control, I had no other choice. While I was noisily putting the side dishes back into the refrigerator, Father meekly ate his food as if nothing had happened. He missed his mouth with the chopsticks and dropped a pickled radish onto the floor but picked it up and ate it. “Don't eat food that's fallen on the floor! It's dirty!” Father glared at me while gripping his chopsticks tightly. “It's not dirty. What's so dirty about eating food off the kitchen floor? I can't see any dirt or dust here. It looks perfectly clean to me. You shouldn't waste food. You've never gone hungry, so you wouldn't understand. In the army, it's sacrilege to leave food on your plate. When I first joined the army if any soldier left food on their plate, they were force-fed leftover scraps. There was no mercy even if they started crying and begging for forgiveness. This made soldiers mentally tough. The lesson was, food is very precious.” Here he goes again. Whenever Father was in a tight spot he almost always brought up stories from his army days. Father had been a career soldier for 33 years. Although it had
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been almost 20 years since he had retired, he still thought of himself as a soldier. To Father, the army was The Truth. “The pineapple slices in the curry are too big. The curry is bland, so these pineapple slices are the only seasoning in the whole dish. You should cut them smaller so I can enjoy more spoonfuls of pineapple. Chop them more finely next time.” Several years ago Mother traveled to Busan on the southern coast of Korea and from there onward to Japan with her friends. When Father asked her about her trip she said, “We ate lots of fruit. It was a great trip.” Unsatisfied by her reply, Father asked her once more what she thought of Japan, and to describe the sights, but Mother just went on about fruit. Mother and Father were so different. Mother was very patient and understanding regarding the many foods Father was forbidden to eat. Foods that are allowed under a strict no-sodium diet are generally bland. Father often complained about the taste of the food Mother prepared for him. He threw temper tantrums and was uncooperative when he wasn't allowed to eat what he wanted. Mother couldn't just let Father eat anything, however. To do so would be tantamount to allowing him to eat rat poison before her very eyes. Father's whining wasn't confined to just one or two meals for one or two days -- his petulance was an ever-present burden on Mother. Meals consistent with Father's diet had to be prepared every day. In the beginning, she prepared low-sugar meals for Father's diabetes, but later his renal failure necessitated a low-sodium diet as well. After complaining to me about the size of the pineapple slices, Father offered no more protests and ate quietly. He wolfed down his food and seemed unconcerned whether I ate or not. In the army, the goal is to eat as much as possible in the minimum amount of time. Father stood up from the table. Behind me, I heard the sound of water being poured into a cup followed by the sound of an empty cup being slammed onto the counter. I then heard
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Father smacking his lips as he used his tongue to try to remove pieces of food stuck between his teeth as he walked into the living room and turned on the TV. Father stared at the screen with his neck extended forward. Father's empty plate and eating utensils were still sitting on the dining table along with my bowl of rice from which I had eaten only a spoonful. After Mother's funeral, a dishwasher was installed at Father's house. All Father had to do was load the dishwasher with dirty dishes and press a button, but he was unwilling to do even that much. It was now my responsibility to tell Father why he mustn't eat ginseng extract, why he had to avoid salt and vegetables at every meal, and why he shouldn't eat food off the floor. I bought books for Father on renal failure and printed out materials on low-sodium diets, but once was never enough. It was a constant struggle to go through the motions without getting angry at him. Nevertheless, sometimes I did get angry at Father. Although Mother had already passed away, Father should live a long, happy and healthy life, right? Did I truly wish that for him? The joints in my jaw ached. Recently, I had gotten into the habit of clenching my teeth. I went to my room and changed clothes. As I came out of my room, Father looked surprised and asked, “Where are you going?� I walked past without saying a single word.
***
When I was three years old, my family moved to the city of Wonju. During move-in day, Mother was busy. Father was at work, so he couldn't help out. My older sister So-hee was busy repairing some of our toys while Eun-hee, who had been born premature, was asleep in a baby harness on Mother's back. I was bored, so I walked out the front gate surrounding our
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house without telling Mother. After plodding down the sidewalk for quite some time I finally exited the narrow side-street and came out onto a wide thoroughfare. Cars whooshed by. I looked up and saw unfamiliar buildings all around. My earlier sense of wonder and adventure disappeared now that my legs hurt and my stomach was empty. I sat down heavily on the sidewalk. The faraway sky was frightening, the trees lining the streets looked alien, and I resented the glances that strangers gave me as they walked past. I began to cry. I cried without tears as I opened my mouth wide and let out a wail that was as loud as a siren. I cried so hard I almost lost my breath. After some time had passed someone lifted me into their arms and asked me where I lived and why I was crying. It was a man wearing a khaki uniform complete with military cap and boots. I often saw Father in the same attire. It was a military uniform. I stopped crying and pointed toward the way I had come. In the distance, past the end of my finger, I saw Mother running toward me with a scowl on her face. In fear of Mother's wrath, I started crying again. This is the first thing I can remember from my childhood. For the next 16 years, I lived in Wonju before moving to Seoul when I was accepted to university about 20 years ago. After walking aimlessly for a while I stopped at a wide intersection from where I could see the top of a large building with a Lotte Mart. I also spied a bar, a coffee shop, a park, and another bar. The multiplex cinema with its integrated shopping center and the scores of shops lining the side streets seemed foreign to me. When I had left Wonju 20 years earlier, none of this had existed. Wonju, which I considered my hometown, had become an
unfamiliar place
filled with strange roads and people. Here, if I lost my way, there was no Mother who would come running to find me.
***
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Mother was diagnosed with heart disease about 10 years ago. She often found herself short of breath and her pulse would sometimes race for no reason. She also suffered from intermittent chest pains. When these symptoms first started to appear, she visited a neighborhood clinic run by an internist who prescribed medicine for her stomach. When Mother complained about stiffness in her chest and shoulders, the doctor told her to apply muscle relaxant cream to the affected areas. Mother asked the internist if she needed to visit a general hospital but he replied that it was unnecessary and refused to write her a referral. Because the angina came and went, Mother thought nothing more of it for some time. The internist had studied the digestive system in medical school, so it was no surprise that he viewed all ailments from the perspective of digestive problems. Mother referred to the internist as a “good person” who was “trustworthy.” Mother's symptoms failed to improve as time passed, so Eun-hee tried several times to convince Mother to visit another hospital. Finally, Eun-hee succeeded in taking Mother to a heart center in Seoul for diagnosis. The hospital conducted an ECG and ultrasound exam of Mother's heart. Her protests that it was wasteful to spend so much money over nothing were silenced when the diagnosis confirmed heart failure. Only 30 percent of her cardiac function remained. Although Mother was treated at this hospital in Seoul for several months, she eventually decided to receive treatment at a general hospital in Wonju because the bus ride to and from Seoul took two hours each way. Father started accompanying Mother on her visits to the hospital in Wonju but he didn't sit with her during her medical consultations, preferring to stay in the waiting room until she came out. Several doctors were assigned to Mother's case. In the beginning, I wrote down the name of Mother's treating physician, but I eventually lost track of who her doctor was because they changed so often. The reasons ranged from leave of absence for medical training to going
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into private practice. Each physician assigned to Mother prescribed a different mode of treatment. Mother’s visits to the hospital occurred irregularly, sometimes once a month, sometimes once every three months. Several times she received experimental drugs from clinical trials and underwent tests for which she knew neither the reasons nor the results. This spring when we all went to Jeju Island for a family vacation, Mother bragged that her physician had told her that because she was healthier and more active than any of his patients she only had to visit the hospital for checkups once every six months. I became immediately suspicious because heart disease only gets worse with time, not better. Maybe her doctor was giving up on further treatment, but Mother didn't allow me to broach the subject further because she wanted to believe what the doctor had told her. After the funeral, I found the reservation slip for Mother's next medical checkup, which would occur in two months. I visited the hospital's administrative affairs department and received a refund of 12,320 won for canceling the appointment. Would Mother's physician even notice that one of his patients had canceled their checkup? Compared to dentists or plastic surgeons, shouldn't cardiac specialists have a greater sense of responsibility for their patients? Couldn't Mother's physician have told her to bring her family along for a consultation to discuss further treatment options such as surgery? "Woulda Coulda Shoulda‌" these suppositions are the source of madness. The belief that fate does not exist, that life and death are determined by one's choices and actions, that we all have the freedom and power to determine all outcomes, is the spring from which infinite rage spews forth. Even if I bear a grudge against Mother's cardiac specialist, whose face I have never seen, it won't bring Mother back. While repeating this to myself, I was able to let go of my anger with some difficulty. The truth of the matter is complex. Mother's heart disease wasn't caused by her physician.
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Mother's heart got worse when she hit menopause. At that time, women's eggs are all depleted and estrogen levels hit rock-bottom. This is associated with rapid physical changes. Several times a day, Mother was tormented by mysterious fevers that caused her face to redden. She also began to experience intense sweating, which had never happened before. Her skin became thinner and started to crack around the heels of her feet. She also suffered from bladder inflammation. Mother's anemia worsened. She became hypertensive and gained weight. Her eyesight deteriorated. Mother became depressed for no apparent reason and her mood swings worsened. Around the time of Mother's menopause, Father retired from the army, So-hee got married and immigrated to Australia, I was experiencingn repeated bouts of unemployment, and Eunhee had just enrolled in a PhD program. Father, who was now retired, started to concern himself with domestic matters. Fearful of losing his position of respect after having maintained it for many years in the army, he wouldn't tolerate any diminution of his status at home. Mother had managed the family's finances since marriage but Father suddenly took over money matters after retirement. Although Mother had been the master of household affairs for several decades, Mother now had to ask Father for money whenever she went to the market to buy bean sprouts or even a block of tofu. The arrangement of furniture and other fixtures had previously been left to Mother's discretion, but now Father began to interfere with such minor matters as where to hang calendars and picture frames. Father ignored the principles of indoor foot traffic, rational arrangement of furniture and decorative consistency in his grab for domestic power and control. What Mother had decided was all wrong; everything had to be done his way. Do this, do that, put this over there... During his 33 years of military service as prison guard, MP, and commander of a detached investigative unit, Father had always been a mid-level manager issuing orders. Father took it for granted that he would issue orders that Mother would obey.
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Yet Father never moved a finger to help with cooking, cleaning, doing the dishes, doing the laundry or any other housework, which he considered to be the domain of women. For one year after Father retired, my parents fought vigorously and frequently, which was unprecedented. Father finally agreed not to move anything, even a broken bowl, without Mother's permission, but he still refused to do any housework. Mother redoubled her church activities during this period, while Father took up the hobby of mountain hiking and even founded an Alpine Club. Instead of concerning himself with troublesome domestic affairs, he hiked in the mountain like it was his job. But even hiking cost money. Mother also needed some cash in order to pay membership dues for various social circles which her church friends participated in. Upon retirement, Father chose to receive a lifetime annuity from the army instead of a lump sum severance payment. His annuity was capped at just 70 percent of his annual pay as an active duty soldier, not including bonus payments. At that time, my parents still had debt in the form of interest-free school loans for my sisters and I. We still weren't economically independent when Father retired, so we weren't able to give Mother any spending money. Domestic expenses had increased but income had decreased. The army was a special organization, so the skills Father learned there were not directly applicable to civilian trades. The skills that were applicable to civilian life required physical strength, which disqualified Father, who had become an old man. The choices available to him were to start his own business, do simple physical labor, or work as a security guard or apartment caretaker. These were all low-prestige jobs which couldn't provide the level of respect he had become accustomed to during his military career. Father decided that he wasn't willing to throw away his pride even for the benefit of his family. That's when Mother started a small business making and selling potato cakes. The proceeds from this business covered day-to-day living expenses, went toward our future dowries, and paid off our school loans.
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Making potato cakes was hard work. Although Mother's will to work was strong, her youthful husband had been replaced by an irascible old man who required a caretaker. So-hee, my eldest sister, got married and moved to Australia. Since Mother could not understand the dynamics of living in a country where people spoke English, she couldn't sympathize with the difficulties So-hee experienced, nor could she help her. Although Mother was proud of my youngest sister, Eun-hee, who got a PhD in molecular biology, Mother couldn't help Eun-hee with her problems either, as she wasn't familiar with that domain. Likewise, Mother was powerless to help me in my career, with its repeated setbacks and my frequent changing of jobs. To Mother, the lives of my sisters and I operated under principles unknown to her. All the good things that had comprised Mother's life had disappeared with age. Throughout her life Mother had been kind-hearted and worked hard to live the good life, but with the decline in her health, she experienced helplessness and loneliness. All of us experience these emotions as we grow old, but Mother began to experience a racing pulse, shortness of breath, exhaustion, and depression during menopause, which made things much more difficult for her. It isn't surprising that Mother ignored these symptoms, assuming they were caused by stress. In fact, stress might have caused Mother's heart disease. After being diagnosed with heart disease, Mother recalled seeing my maternal grandfather collapse in the middle of a rice paddy after grabbing his chest in pain. An uncle from Mother's side of the family also suffered from heart disease, so Mother probably knew that heart disease ran in her family. Mother's unfortunate death during the middle of the night was the result of all these various factors discussed previously.
***
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Many years ago when we first bought a color TV, I recall Mother cleaning and polishing the TV repeatedly. “Isn't it amazing? It's like magic! What a wonderful world it is!” Mother's eyes shined brightly as she expressed wonderment while humming to herself. I shared Mother's sentiments and felt that the new TV was truly a wondrous thing. To Mother, a world in which such goods could be bought and sold was a wonderful place. She felt that living in such a marvelous world was worthwhile. Mother never talked solemnly about her life principles nor did she discuss the meaning of existence. Her sense of wonder alone was good enough for me. When people behold something wondrous and splendid, no one asks “why.” Beauty is an answer in and of itself. When I returned home after Mother's funeral, I noticed a flat-panel TV was mounted on the wall. Mother had changed the living room furniture to match the style of the TV. Finelycarved tiny flower patterns decorated an elegant light-brown chest of drawers with rounded corners. According to Father, after Mother discovered that chest of drawers, she visited the furniture store four days in a row before succeeding in haggling the price down by 15 percent. The television and the chest of drawers sparkled and shined. Mother clearly polished them countless times. This is what I remember most clearly about her. Even in her old age, for her the world remained a place of wonder producing new shiny things. Mother wanted to live for a long time. That’s why I'm saddened that she could only spend 65 years on earth.
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