The Idea of Mortality (and Cherry Blossoms)

It's currently cherry blossom season in Vancouver. Might as well enjoy it before finals season begins!

For the most part, I can still remember exactly what happened on the 31st of May, 2014.

Up to this point in my life, I don't believe I have ever seen my mother so frantic before. I was slightly confused, as my brother and I usually had tutoring on grammar on Saturday mornings (but come to think of it, I believe it was discontinued after that day). But then, she said the following words as we took a taxi to the hospital:

"Your grandma will die within the next few hours."

The news shouldn't have been as surprising as they were. We already knew she was going to die. We've all had to watch her slowly die from cancer over the course of the past few years as her appearance deteriorated, as her body just feebly laid in the hospital bed, and as her grip on our hands just grew weaker and weaker and weaker...

Yet, the news still hit us like a truck because we never imagined her death would be happening on that day.

I'm afraid to admit that I did not know her very well at all. But I was told she liked paying special attention to me, since I am her only granddaughter.

There were some things I remembered about her for the most part.

I'm positive she adored roses and carnations. She would insist us to never purchase white, green, or blue flowers because they would remind her of bouquets that were commonly displayed at funerals.

Oh, and she disliked yellow flowers as well.

There was a point in my fifth (or sixth?) year of being alive when she got a jade bangle for me. I would stare at all the rubies, emeralds, and sapphires in the display windows - trying not to hyperventilate from the pain as my left arm was lathered in soap and had the bangle forced up it.

"This is for protection and luck," she had said.

...It cleanly split in half in December 2011 when I ran and tripped in Fukuoka.

I also remember my dad fretting over her well-being as she mumbled about being cold, even after being covered with multiple blankets.

And I remember just praying for her to die sooner because it was painful to just watch her suffer in agony.

After around an hour of watching her raspily take her last breaths, my parents arranged for our domestic worker to escort my brother and I out of the hospital - and we were just about to leave when she got a phone call from our mom, who was shrieking that the doctors said our grandma would die in the next few minutes.

So we ran.

The second I stepped into her hospital room, she passed away in her early 60s.

She died in the very hospital I was born in.

And though her last moments were agonizing, at least she died surrounded by her loved ones.

Everything was finally over, but were we truly ready to say goodbye?

I remember witnessing my aunt weep over her body, sobbing as she apologized for all the arguments they'd had.

Will I feel the same way when it's my mom's turn on the hospital bed?

And nothing could have ever prepared me for the morning of the next day, when I overheard my dad while reading a North American field guide on wildflowers in the living room - who I had known all my life to be a calm, rational man - scream and cry for his mother who was no longer there. It was the sound of a man who was alive, but didn't wish to be, and I had hoped I would never get to hear it again anytime soon.

---

My dad had asked to talk to me a few days before she died.

He had asked me a question, that if it were him on the deathbed and I had to make the final decision in his stead - would I have gone with an excruciating treatment that would keep him alive longer, or another treatment that won't be as painful, but I would have much less time to spend with him?

I refused to answer the question. It wasn't a topic I wanted to think about too much at the time. What even is supposed to be the correct one? And what could I have possibly done as a child if I had to watch my parents die?

But as I grew older, I knew.

I would want their suffering to be over as soon as I possibly could.

I am ready to pull the plug on their life support when they can no longer support themselves.

Or at least, I've told myself this so many times to the point where it feels like the truth that I'm already prepared to say goodbye to them.

---

Then, as I looked further into options for end-of-life care, I started to have some questions about my own.

How would I like my life to end when my time comes?

I know I would want it to be quick. I would want it to be painless. Even if my mind has told me otherwise before.

In sixth grade, I came across the topic of Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) and found it pretty appealing as an option.

And before you ask, no - this isn't the only reason why I chose to return to Canada. It was an important one, however.

So I began talking to my parents about my options on the subject.

They immediately refused to hear me out, for understandable reasons. It is quite messed up for a parent to bury their child, after all.

...This has led to a series of very complicated thoughts on my end, considering I had nearly done that to them. But, that is a story for another time.

---

Yet there is a certain part of that story I'd like to talk about here.

Namely, the thought that I wish to die on my birthday in fifth grade.

It was quite a bizarre thought to have, until I later took some time to slowly deconstruct it for myself in an attempt to figure out what I was thinking at the time.

Birthdays are always a happy occasion for me. My parents showed my brother and I that they are something to be genuinely celebrated - so anything we wished, it would happen as long as it's a reasonable request.

And there were even certain "traditions" that we had in our family. For example, I would receive a bouquet of flowers every year because of how much my family knew I loved them. Ever since I told my family what my favorite flower was, alstroemerias were always included in them.

For example, last year - I finally got to check off an item from my bucket list while visiting the Butchart Gardens in Victoria.

They are also days when I would get to talk to my friends a lot more than usual as we always made an effort to remember each other's.

This doesn't even get into the part where I get to celebrate my twin's birthday as well (even though celebrations would be a little difficult to coordinate this year considering one of us is in Australia and the other in Canada).

So what, really, is so bad about dying on the day when you know and can feel that you are loved by the people you care about?

At the same time, I knew that those were definitely not the thoughts I had initially as a child. Instead, something more dark and depressing had lurked underneath.

No points for guessing what had happened next when I allowed those thoughts to fester.

---

For the longest time, I was debating over whether or not I had the time to attend the events of this year's cherry blossom festival until this thought came to my mind and decided everything for me:

No, I need to get drunk and existential.

Cherry blossoms signify the fleetingness of life and the beauty of Spring, with their short lifespans of only 2-3 weeks giving a message for us to enjoy what we have and live in the moment. I figured that by taking time out of my schedule to look at them, I would be able to snap out of my writer's block, be more inspired, and be able to articulate more thoughts I have in a more artistic manner.

I have had the privilege of watching the cherry blossoms bloom in the days before Blossoms After Dark (an annual event in Vancouver where cherry blossom trees are decorated with colored LED lights). And I had gotten to witness their blush deepen under the warmth of spring. But beauty is fickle, and time never hesitates. Here they were now before my eyes, breaking apart, drifting into the cold embrace of water, vanishing beneath the weight of an indifferent world.

Some petals, though soft, have begun to curl inward and turn brown.

What does it mean to die? To fall and be carried away? To dissolve into the earth until everything and everyone has forgotten about you? The flowers did not resist their fate. They let the river take them, vanishing without grief, without question. Was that not the most genuine kind of peace one could experience?

But as humans, we cling. We carve our names into stone, weave our stories into ink, build up houses to defy storms and our bodies to defy disease. But in the end, do we not all return to earth in the end, as the petals do?

I can imagine such a place - where spring never faded, where flowers never knew decay, where laughter never dissolves into silence. Is that the definition of a paradise? Or would it be a prison? If nothing ever changes or ends throughout time, then what meaning can we give to everything around us?

Perhaps that was the lesson of all the falling flowers that surrounded me on that day, that things are precious because they end. That to love something is to grieve its passing, and yet, to admire it for what it is in its time all the same.

The cherry blossoms certainly couldn't answer for themselves. They only swayed, silent and unknowing, until the waters pulled them beyond my sight.

I could remain alone in the dying grove, waiting for spring to return. But I already knew, deep in the quiet chambers of my heart, that even if it did, the flowers would never be the same. And neither would I.

Everything is just constantly changing, and that is a fact I am content to accept.

Happy Spring, everyone.