In 2006, at 27 years old, I moved back to Oklahoma from Los Angeles to help my mom take care of my grandparents after my grandfather was diagnosed with dementia. Soon after, I met and married the woman of my dreams, six weeks before her 22nd birthday.
Like most young newlyweds, we were still very committed to family while overjoyed to begin a new chapter in our lives together. My grandmother was in her early 80s and in great health, my grandfather wasn't far along yet and my mom moved in with them just for good measure. We appeared to be well-prepared to help them enjoy their golden years. We were wrong.
In 2010, my mother had a devastating stroke that nearly killed her and paralyzed her entire left side. At this point, my grandfather was really beginning to go downhill. And, as you can imagine, my grandmother's health took a big hit from seeing her daughter in a terrible way.
Suddenly, my wife and I found ourselves caring for three adults, all in pretty bad shape, while trying to maintain full time jobs and two households. I spent many late nights wishing and wondering what it would feel like to be able to reach out to aunts and uncles or brothers and sisters. But, I'm an only child and my mom is an only child. And we're far from having the kind of money that permits all those heartwarming recovery stories you see on the news. Most people are.
My wife and I vowed to someday write about our experiences to help folks like us. We've gone through so many ups, downs, doctors, specialists, hospitals, medications, financial woes, applications, nurse aides, therapists, therapy methods, etc. The list goes on, seemingly forever. But if we can help one person find a resource or feel like he/she is not alone, it's all worth it.
I wanted to begin our story with the end of another, as this event inspired a new hope in our lives.
My Grandmother (born in Ōmuta, Fukuoka, Japan in 1926) loved to write letters. Really, she just loved getting mail. But her valuables drawer was filled with letters from family and friends. Bleeding hearts and stripped souls on neatly folded paper, each page carefully handled by her soft, loving hands. Letters were her treasure and I intend to add one more to a chest already bursting at the seams…
Dearest Okaasan, Oku-san, & Baba,
Imagining life without you has always been my biggest fear. As I sit here, writing this, my eyes heavy with tears, I’m overwhelmed with feelings of joy for all the gifts you’ve given me – none more important than your last. You returned from the hospital during an ice storm. Cold. Relentless. Limbs heavy. It seemed appropriate. I wept as the cherry blossom Grandpa planted for you was crushed under the weight of a deep freeze.
"Those who believe in the Lotus Sutra are as if in winter, but winter always turns to spring."
On the morning you arrived at Eagle Peak, the sun seemed incredibly bright, almost blinding when reflected off the large panes of ice on the driveway. I kissed you goodbye and said “ganbatte" like you did for me every morning you sent me off to school. As you left your castle on Forest Lane for the last time, it began to rain so hard that any ice on the earth below was immediately washed away. But, it wasn’t a storm. It was the sun, embracing the trees, which were singing loudly against the bluest of skies, turning winter into spring before my eyes. And as if this poem weren’t enough, when I saw the cherry blossom turned back toward the sun, I knew you had written it for me.
Suddenly, I was no longer afraid. I had the honor and privilege to witness the culmination of a lifetime of faith and effort. And in one perfect moment, it was all proven to be true.
So, Aloha ʻoe. A hoʻi aʻe au. Until we meet again.