Englewood Cliffs, NJ

I'm not doing a recitation of the Tibetan Book of the Dead for my father. He wasn't spiritual at all as far as I know, much less did he pay any mind to Buddhist teachings or mindfulness practice. There's no proscription against reading it for non-Buddhists or atheists, but the times that I've done it were for people far distant from me.

In my thinking, having no guidance or instruction whatsoever, the concern is to not disturb the consciousness of the deceased, and with someone distant there's reason to think there would be minimal affect anyway. Even if there was a mental impression from their name being called repeatedly and then exposure to the teachings, there's no personal connection to disturb the consciousness.

In my thinking, if there's a personal connection, the deceased could be distracted or disturbed by the recognition, which could lead to feeling negatively, wondering what I was doing. I wouldn't do a reading for my brothers if they died, either, because it might be an affront to their sensibilities.

I am, however, taking advantage of my father's death, since it is so proximate, to track the stages of the recitation to get a sense of what goes where and when; what makes sense to me. For me it is mindfulness practice to meditate on and visualize the death process, even though I have no formal training in the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

The first few (about three) days are focused on various root and aspirational prayers and introductions to the death-point bardo. The reality bardo recitations begin on the fourth day, and the injunction that the recitations be done "three to seven times" is fulfilled (in my thinking) by staggering the daily recitations so that each day/section is ultimately done three times total.

So on the first day I recite day one. On the second day I recite days one and two. On the third day I recite days one to three. On the fourth day I recite days two to four, etc. Each "day" gets read three times. I don't know if that's the way it's supposed to be done. It's almost assuredly not right, but that's what I do.

The Tibetan Book of the Dead mentions that a source of distress for the deceased may come when the family gathers for meals but doesn't set a place for the deceased and the deceased feels despair and abandonment.

To counter that, the practice is to set a place for the deceased and to provide meals. The important part of the practice is not only to ease their despair or sense of abandonment, but to help the deceased realize that he or she is dead.

The experience in the death bardos is described as being very confused and turbulent and the deceased may not even realize he or she is dead. Setting their place at meals and even calling them to come for the meal can help them realize they are dead when it occurs to them they cannot partake in the meal.

We did that until yesterday. I got a sense that he had already realized he's dead a few days earlier and has moved on, but we did it for a whole week just in case. I mean you never know and too much practice is better than too little.

I continued sitting meditation every morning when I was in New Jersey, partly helped by back-end insomnia, whereby I never got a full night's sleep when I was there. There were two days in those initial days after my father died where I got the sense to help him move on.

On those occasions during sitting, I clapped my hands loudly to get his attention and called out aloud, addressing him as I normally would (and would be familiar to him) and said, "Ba! You are dead, you have died. You have nothing to fear so do not be afraid of anything you are experiencing now. You must move on, you can't come back. Focus on being reborn in a human life".

The Tibetan description of the experience of the consciousness after death resonates with me as being possible or plausible. After the consciousness is released from the body and the concrete sensations that informed the mind and existence cease to function, it enters a state of being (maybe an energy state) whereby it is buffeted by confusion and disorientation. Mmm, buffet. Oh, but of confusion and disorientation. Ixnay on the buffet.

Deeply ingrained habit senses kick in and the consciousness is drawn to what was habitually familiar, so it is drawn to places and people that were familiar. In my father's case, he would have been habitually attracted to the house and to my mother, and since that's where I was staying I was in a unique position to intervene if I sensed the opportunity. That's what I was doing.

Englewood Cliffs, NJ

There was no funeral. He went straight from deathbed to morgue to oven in three days flat, including the mandatory 24-hour postmortem in-hospital waiting period.

No announcement, no obituary, no gathering, no public grieving. no processions, no tributes, no old war stories, no beating of chests nor gnashing of teeth nor ripping of clothes. No need. My mother is making the deliberate point not to tell anyone. If people find out he died, it was not because of anything she did.

It's curious. He accomplished how I would ideally want to go: low impact, little to no notice, as anonymous as possible. One of my ideal scenarios is to just disappear. But it's taking an awful lot of effort to make any of it happen the way I want. My father seems to have hardly put any effort in at all.

It's as if there was little ego involved in his postmortem considerations. As much ego anyone else has while alive, neither legacy nor being remembered seems to have mattered at all to him. Me, I have a long way to go. Even my desire to be low impact and go without notice is eyeballs deep in ego.

When I go, I still have a few indirect or abstract contacts who might catch wind and go, "aw gee, well that's too bad". It might not be so, but it seems to me that there might be people in my father's past who upon hearing the news of his death would go, "who?". He may have been known for his professional standing, not for his social graces.

I've been detaching and distancing from people to lessen attachments. And come to think of it, that's exactly what my father accomplished. He was detached and distant from everyone except his wife, and in the end no one was particularly attached to him except his wife. That couldn't be avoided, he needed her for just about anything that involved . . . living.

At least I know the theory works. If you keep people at a distance long enough, eventually they're not going to be too affected when you die. I don't feel like I lost a father, I don't feel like I lost anything. It's the old cliche of you can't lose something you never had.

Not saying anything bad about him, but his functioning as a father was pretty bare-boned and basic. Otherwise he was just a presence with the nominal social identification of father. Really, Luke's reaction to finding Darth Vader is his father was so unrealistic. Luke should've been like, "So? What do I care? You were never around". Instead he got his panties all in a twist and his hand lopped off. Par for the course, dad.

As for my mother not telling anyone the news, I myself may have already been a leak. I mentioned my brother's initial email to me on fb and I'm "friends" with a cousin on my father's side. She's his niece, daughter of his younger brother who died a long time ago, but they have no relationship whatsoever.

Well, she knows what happened. She's hardly a gossip and I'm not sure to what extent she's in touch with the rest of the family, but if she mentions it to anyone, then everyone on my father's side of the family in Taiwan will know. Maybe there will be shitstorm backlash against my mother, or maybe they'll say, "aw gee, well that's too bad". 

Englewood Cliffs, NJ

I don't have any what can be called real memories of my father. Just mental snapshots or short video clips of daily life unintentionally gathered through the years. He was a presence, but that's about it. Nothing stands out. He didn't say much, he reacted minimally. We never had a conversation. He was a background character who never loomed large. Ooh, there's my toast if I had to give one.

The mental snapshot of him when I walked into the ICU room at the hospital Thursday was pretty grim. My mother repeatedly said he looked like he was sleeping. I had to take her word on that; to me he looked as dead as they get, aside from the ventilator doing the breathing for him.

He had a hematoma on his left forehead the shape of Devil's Tower in Wyoming rising about an inch and a half above the surrounding landscape. It was where he hit the ground with such impact that his cheek bone fractured. They said it was twice as big when he came in.

It was a massive stroke at about 2 p.m. the previous Saturday. The bleed out filled his skull and he was dead before he hit the ground, which is why he hit the ground with such force. He literally . . . dropped dead!

I imagine he might have felt the initial moment of the stroke, some sensation without processing it intellectually, but then lost consciousness within a second or two as blood drained in a cranial torrent, and dying by the time he was going down.

My oldest brother observed that if it happened 12 hours earlier or 12 hours later, he would have died "peacefully in his sleep" of what would be called "natural causes". Usually when that happens, it's the result of a stroke or a heart attack, so I don't know about the "peaceful". There's violence in there somewhere, even if no one experiences it. I digress.

No, he didn't look like he was asleep. He looked like he would never move again. He looked like a model for a death mask. He also had a black left eye, presumably also from the fall. It was grotesque, if I had to describe it. With a machine breathing for him.

The prognosis was that he would never regain consciousness. He was brain dead. There was discussion about the result of removing the ventilator and if he kept on breathing on his own. That was taken into account, but it was medical consensus that he would never wake up again.

Now that I had arrived, it was time to remove the ventilator and my brother drove up from Philly and an uncle from central Jersey, and finally my oldest brother after he finished up at his office. They're all doctors so they were the medical consensus.

It took several hours for everyone to arrive. I suppose it was a vigil of sorts. I kinda automatically went into walking meditation which probably looked like pacing, a cliche in hospitals, just very slow.

I don't think any of it was awkward or surreal aside from the lack of expressions of grief. There were times my second oldest brother appeared solemn in thought, maybe even sympathy, but any conversation was just a slightly bit hushed under what we may have had anywhere else.

My mother was obviously sad, but more as stoic exercise than overt expression. Maybe she kept it in for private, but I wouldn't be surprised if this was the extent of her emotional expression. Either we're not that close a family or we're not that emotional a family. Take your pick.

We asked for a neurologist to make one final examination and prognosis, and she only confirmed the medical consensus, but added that there was still neurological activity. It meant that the breathing centers of the brain could still be functioning and he might be able to breathe on his own for a while, but not to expect more beyond that.

With that we requested he be taken off the ventilator, all of this having taken place in a family waiting room. When the ventilator came out, we were rushed into his room as he was breathing on his own, but it wasn't clear how long it would last.

That was as dramatic as it got. The pressure for the ventilator had been set fairly high for a good reason at the time, but the result now was that he was struggling to breathe without the ventilator. It was a hideous, noisy, snore-y labored breath. It was the brain's breathing center functioning mechanically. It was organic, but the last vestige of function of life.

We stayed a while longer as his breathing rasped on and it seemed he wasn't going to die right away. His breathing seemed to settle as morphine the nurse gave him likely kicked in. We decided to go out for dinner, after which my mother returned to the hospital and my uncle went home. That was Thursday, the day I arrived.

He died on Friday, Nov. 18, around 4:30 p.m., soon after being transferred from ICU to palliative care. My mother spent most of the day with him and was there when he died. My brother and I rushed to the hospital when we got the call to go right away. He was already dead when we got there and our oldest brother arrived soon after.

The nurse told us to take our time to be with him for the last time, but there wasn't any sentimentality or emotion. There was some possible gruesomeness involving photos with the body and cutting off hair as keepsake. I had nothing to do with that. We didn't stay long, just long enough to take it all in and then realize there was no point in staying any longer.

By law, the body had to stay in the hospital for 24 hours. On Saturday, arrangements were made for cremation on Sunday. There was nothing ceremonious about it. The body was delivered in a hearse and when they were ready, we were brought to a room where behind a window the ovens could be seen.

Ovens? Is that the right word? When we drove in, we followed signs to the "Crematorium", and I thought how awful and tactless it would be if the sign pointed to the "Ovens". But I don't know if there's a word for the actual burny things. Cremators? Cremadors? Creme freshalators?

We got a short explanation of the process and then were instructed that when we were ready, to flip a switch that would start the burn which would last about four hours. We watched the body brought in in a plain box and entered into the oven. Again, we only stayed long enough to realize there was no point in staying any longer.

My brother from Philly went directly home from there. He had taken exactly four days off from work, from my arrival to the cremation. That's some uncanny planning whereby there was zero disruption to his life (his life was disrupted earlier in the week, though, as he rushed up when the stroke first occurred). No disruption to my oldest brother's life, he finished appointments at his office before he came to anything. Not that disruptions are a gauge of anything, I'm not suggesting anything of the kind.

My mother suffered the biggest disruption, of course, but she's going on an already planned-on cruise next Saturday with her brother and sister-in-law, minus my father. Mind you, it's a very good idea for her to go ahead with the cruise and everyone's glad she's not canceling.

Me, I didn't even want to come. I didn't want my life disrupted and that's how I viewed having to come here. I had planned on a short trip, returning after the Thanksgiving break, but as long as my mother will be on the cruise for the whole week and the house will be empty, I decided to change my flight and go home a week later, making the disruption worth it.

I don't know what's going on in anyone's head, but it's a passing that seems to hardly be registering any notice whatsoever.

Englewood Cliffs, NJ

November 12, from my oldest brother:
Dad had another stroke and will probable (sic) not survive. Mom asked me to email you to make arrangements to fly back.

Nov. 13, from me:
What does it mean from a medical point of view that he will probably not survive? Is he expected to regain consciousness?

Nov. 13, from him:
The main stroke bleed is very large. A breathing tube was placed by the EMTs and it is not clear if he will stop breathing immediately when removed. He will never walk. He probably will not regain consciousness with about 99% but not 100% certainty per a neurosurg.

with a follow up:
I talked to mom this morning and she mentioned that in her mind she would like to wait until you arrived before trying to remove the breathing tube.

Nov. 13, from me:
OK, so is the expectation that I fly over asap?

Nov. 13, from him:
That was mom's request.

Nov. 14, from me:
OK, I'll arrive Thursday morning and take the EVA shuttle from JFK to Wash Br. Plaza around 2p.m. and can walk to the office and get picked up by Grace or mom if that works for you.

Nov. 14, from him:

Mom wasn't too happy about the date of arrival. So if you can get standby on an earlier flight she would probably appreciate it.

The A train would be faster (about an hour) and although not free is not that expensive. Mom might want to pick you up if I let her know your flight info and she knows you will arrive at 9:45am

Nov. 14, from me:
I'm going to stick to my itinerary as decided. Just say you haven't heard back from me. And I really don't want to be stuck in a car with her for an hour after I arrive.

Communications with my second oldest brother were decidedly brief:

Nov. 13, from him:
Not sure if anybody has been able to get in touch with you yet but dad is in the hospital. He had another intracranial bleed and is on a ventilator. Things look pretty bad - unfortunately his chances for significant recovery are dismal. Please give us a call or email when you can.

Nov. 13, from me:
Yea, Tom emailed me and mentioned me flying back, but I'm still wondering if that's really necessary or if not going would be really improper. Thoughts?

Nov. 13, from him:
Hard to say what the timing will be but my recommendation would be to come.


This family has never been big on communication. At least not with me. And I admit I'm not big on asking for information. If there's something they expect from me, I expect them to tell me. And when they don't and surprise me with something they expected from me, I never have regrets about coming across as an asshole.

And that's how it usually works out, too, I shouldn't wonder.

The reason why I posted the whole conversations is because I was trying to get information on what I should do, while also wanting not to come at all. I don't know if what I did was unreasonable, so I put the whole thing up for posterity.

I was fishing for any urgency or immediacy of the situation in hopes of finding a way out if there wasn't any. They both said I should go back, but neither said to get my ass on the next flight out. There was the "mom's waiting . . ." bit, but no indication that I might miss a window of consciousness if I delayed or why I should rush back.

So I was left with "come asap", and no direction and completely in my discretion what "soon as possible" meant. For me, I went as soon as it was possible for me, which meant moving slowly and decidedly and in my comfort zone.

My refusal to even consider changing my flight is based on nobody giving me guidance on what would be preferable. I made my decisions based on their sparse information, and if they wanted me to go sooner, they should have said so before I booked a flight. And I didn't exactly rush to book the flight. There was plenty of time for feedback.

And what no one knows is that I was pretty set on resisting going, but my cousin Audrey called from Switzerland pretty early on during those email exchanges convincing me to go. We were on the phone for about an hour and a half (at around 4 a.m. for me) and I told her I didn't want to go but she changed my mind, so that my resistance to going was actually pro forma. I was already going to go unless they found there was no need.

I want to say something crazy happened with running in the past week or two, but maybe it's perfectly natural and normal and the result of a (finally) good training regimen. Suddenly I'm running at a surprisingly brisk pace (for my age and health/diet) and injury seemingly being kept at bay.

I've kept expectations at rock bottom since I ventured back into running two and a half years ago when I joined World Gym; a week into which I injured my Achilles tendon. Both Achilles dogged me for the entire two years of gym membership. Never both at once, always one or the other; and not the whole time, but the worry was always present.

Recently, not just improved speed and lack of injury, but extended distances beyond the almost daily 3-milers and occasional 4-milers and even rarer 5 miles. Things were going so well I ran 6 miles for the first time possibly since I was doing 10k races in the Bay Area in the late 90s!

I don't know if it's a fluke. I'm still worried about injury. I'm constantly monitoring any sensations of possible discomfort in my Achilles tendons and knees. Knees were the problem back in 1999 which stopped me running after my second San Francisco Marathon and had me switch to cycling.

It's a little strange the way it happened. After my gym membership ended in June, I decided to just fuck it and hit the riverside bikeways and try running short 3 mile distances as slow as comfortable but as often as possible. That might be the training regimen that's working if this holds up.

All summer I've been plodding and jogging along at whatever pace was comfortable, slowing down even more if I felt like vomiting, which was often. I was hardly impressed by my performance or improvement. Sometimes I'd put in a respectable run, but then go back to mostly jogging.

Then a couple weeks ago I went out not feeling great, but every runner has experienced not feeling great at first but then doing pretty well, and vice versa. How you feel going out doesn't determine how well you'll do. So not feeling great didn't deter me from going ahead with a planned 4 mile course. It was slow. I felt it was slow and wasn't gonna get any faster. But my principle was to go however felt comfortable, so I kept plodding on and didn't let it bother me then or after the fact how slow I was going.

And it was really slow, averaging 10:30 miles. When I started in June, I knew I was going to have to allow for 10+ minute miles, but after four months training I wasn't doing much of those anymore. I could at least break the 10 minute mark. And mostly I was jogging in the 9 minute mile range.

The next day was a rain-out, but the day after I went for a 3-miler which was easy and averaged 8:28 per mile. *blink, blink, blink*. OK, I have done 8:30 mile range runs over the summer, it wasn't beyond credibility. But they never felt as easy and they were one-offs, and this was probably, too. Then the next day, 8:14 miles easy and feeling fresh. Then the following day telling myself to slow down to avoid injury, 8:41 miles easy. 

I was feeling so good that the next day I decided to do 6 miles. I don't even have a 6-mile course except in theory. The theoretical 6-mile course just goes past the bridge I cross for my 3-mile course (coming back on the other side of the river) to the next footbridge, and it turns out that it meshes so perfectly with the 3-mile course that the ending points are just meters apart. I won't say six miles was la-la-la easy. I was pushing against slowing down (meaning going against just being comfortable) and in the end I did it averaging 9:19 miles. Which is far better than the 10+ miles I was allowing for. Every time I've upped my miles this summer my expectation was over 10 minute miles and that was usually the case.

And since then, every run I've gone on has been in the 8 minute range, including a 5-miler. Individual miles have even fallen under 8 minutes. I am a bit astonished. I would never have thought I could feel like a runner again, especially with my age and alcoholism. It doesn't mean anything. I can encounter any number of injuries I'm prone to at any time. Injury might even get me back on my bike and try a winter season now that summers are too hot to ride in. 

It's not like I'm trying to achieve anything. It's just what I'm doing for however long it lasts. And I don't expect anything to last. That's more of a reality than ever.