Mooncakes
I stood staring at the row of small crouched imperial figurines built into the roof design of the elementary school across the street. As I traced the carved shadows where the morning sun had not touched, my mind wandered. A spurt of cold air leaked through the window frame and I turned. I found my abandoned coffee on my desk. A bloom of powdery gray and green mold with tiny black pockmarks grew on its surface. I carried my cup to the kitchen sink and struggled to keep the old coffee from spilling. When I poured the brown water down the drain, I noticed a small splotch of mold on the inside of the cup. We didn’t own a dishwasher, so I held the cup under the scalding hot water till the porcelain was clear and my hands a deep red. Although the cup looked clean, I continued to rub my wet thumb back and forth across the smooth curve where the mold once was.
It was my habit during the cold winter in Beijing to drink coffee as I went through my email each morning. Ten days earlier I read an email from my sister Kathy sharing the news that our father had late stage gastric cancer. She said it with more kindness and clarity but who remembers the words before or after “Dad has cancer.”
The one way communication of the news held a furious power. That day, that moment, I felt my spirit move to the edge of a cliff. The vast unknown was in front of me and a swirling wind I could feel but could not see moved about. I lifted my eyes away from the computer screen as if this might be able to stop the rushing pain flowing into my heart. I looked up to God and then around my study, flashing past objects, hoping something would grab and hold my mind still: my Chinese character workbooks, my square-framed photo of my niece Chloe, a stack of my kids’ corrected math homework, my cherry wood ink brush stand with two bamboo and horse hair brushes, my glass indian ink well with its slightly tarnished sterling cap, my purple stapler, the gray leafless treetops beyond my windows, the futon with the ill-fitting burnt orange and yellow print cover. My spirit broke loose, as fear, sadness, and fury flew out of me. I was helpless to rein them in.
Moments or maybe minutes later, I looked at the clock. It was almost 6:30am. My parents were 12 hours ahead. I opened my Skype and dialed home.
My Mother answered.
I softly replied, “Hi Mom" and waited.
I could hear worry and exhaustion in her few words, “Hold on. Your father wants to talk to you.”
“Hi Diane.” My Dad sounded okay, just less buoyant than his usual ‘fine and fantastic’ tone. I started us off. I told him I read Kathy’s email and wished I was home. He said he wished I was home, too. He went on to fill me in about the latest test results ruling out sciatica and degenerative disc problems. His doctors confirmed he had gastric cancer, likely for some time. He and I spent the next 20 minutes trying to recall what we heard or didn’t hear the doctor say the previous summer when I took him to Cape Cod Hospital for unrelenting, severe back pain. Twice.
Over the next six months, my siblings, mother and I followed my father’s lead, did what we could to support him as we continued to talk of miracles and an unwillingness to accept his place on this rapid, downward trajectory. In July, when I was home visiting with my kids, he said to me with a crackling voice, “I am not ready to leave your Mom.” Tears rolled down my smiling face as I looked at him, acknowledging his profound and faithful love for his wife, my Mom. He looked back at me, his eyes soft, his bottom lids full of love lapping at the brim as he tried but could not muster a smile.
When my kids and I flew home to Beijing, we all felt sad and depleted. Soon, my best friend Sandra and her family would arrive. This infusion of love and distraction was a wondrous gift. The clan of 17 came and watched Sandra’s oldest son Clay compete in the Olympics. Clay was the captain of the US Men’s volleyball team. We went to every match decked out in red, white and blue, waving our flags and homemade signs. The hope and belief the US team would rally and rise grew and grew over the two weeks of competition. Yet privately, after I woke each morning and before I slept each night, I would check my email for updates on Dad. I was aware of the fragility of his condition and planned to fly home soon after Sandra’s family left. Clay led his team playing above and beyond expectation. The US team went on to win gold and Clay was named MVP. Being an American celebrating loud and proud in a communist country was exhilarating.
Sandra and her family left two days later and all the spectacular distractions of the games seemed to flutter to the ground like the silent end of a fireworks display. That same night, I checked my email. Kathy had written, with replies from Linda-Marie, Steve and Joey, discussing the need to get home. By the end of the email chain, I realized only Joey and I hadn’t booked a flight home. I called Joey. It was a short call. He would be at my father’s side by morning. I woke my husband telling him I needed to go home. Now. My husband called a friend in the airlines who got me on a flight the next day but would I need to stop in Tokyo, then Detroit before reaching Boston. It turned out to be a harrowing 22-hour slog including a 4 hour delay out of Tokyo and an unexpected hold-up in Detroit.
Even with the delay from Japan, I knew I could catch my flight to Boston if I was quick off the plane. I anticipated I would buzz through customs as I had packed the bare minimum. My carry-on bag had only a few items including two beautiful, elaborate boxes with mooncakes. I bought the pastries at my favorite bakery, Wei Dou Mei. The treats were gifts to thank the caregivers who had stepped up and supported my Mom and Dad. As I went through customs, the agent told me she needed to check the mooncakes with egg yolks. She asked me if I knew which ones had egg yolks? As I didn’t, she began to unwrap, then break apart one mooncake at a time. I lost it after the third mooncake. I screamed at the custom agent through my tears, “Do you see the black dress? Keep the mooncakes. I don’t want them.”
My dam broke. Words and water spilled out.
“Please, just give me my bag. I am going to say goodbye to my Dad. He’s waiting for me.” Shocked yet understanding, she pushed aside the boxes and quickly zipped up my bag and gave it to me.
I ran to catch my plane. I saw my gate, 100 yards ahead, the area empty except an agent at the counter. The gate door was closed. As I reached the agent, I could see beyond her, out the window. My plane was just backing up from the jetway. “Please, please, please let me on.” I began to sob with more air than tears. I looked at her, hoping she would call the pilot. “My Dad is dying and I need to get home. They are keeping him awake for me. Pleeeease.” I was a six-year-old girl needing my Dad.
The plane left without me and it would take another 6 hours to get home. I learned later my Dad had passed while I was sitting on the floor waiting for my plane out of Japan.
Experiences like these challenge me spiritually. It was hard to write this story, harder still to record in audio. I hope it might be healing in some way - I’m not sure. I don’t dwell on it. I do linger and return to my favorite memories of my Dad. I often return to our vacations together on Cape Cod. My Dad and I would jog to West Dennis beach in the early morning and walk back home together talking about the details of the day and the events of the world.
Dad, Mom and a couple of grand kids on West Dennis Beach
In 2014, one Saturday night, on the way to divorce and feeling particularly vulnerable, I wrote a note to myself channeling my father’s words and wisdom for me, his youngest daughter. If you would like to read it, click 'I miss my Dad today'