In 2012 I used my
old blog “Taste of Chicago Buddhism” as a personal journal instead of reporting
what was going on at the temple since I was in Texas to care for my terminally
ill sister. Here are three posts from that time.
Monday, February 27, 2012
I thought “constant change” (mujo = not-always) would be an inspiring theme for the new year,
but impermanence is a big pain in the oshiri
when you need to make travel plans. I didn’t want to blog about my personal
issues, but my being away from Chicago does affect the people at the temple.
I’m scheduled to do a 4-week course “Brief Introduction to Buddhism” in March,
but at this point, I’m wondering when I’ll be back in Chicago.
Back in mid-February my sister’s health took a turn for the
worse and she asked if I or my brother could come down to Texas to help her
settle her affairs (which included setting her up on a hospice program). I paid
for a one-week round trip ticket to Austin but it looks like I definitely can’t
go home that soon since it’s taking time to set up all the hospice care
arrangements. In some moments my sister is busy putzying around and seems able
to do most things herself (she expressed that she does not desire the constant
company of me and my brother) but other times she’s weak and in pain and I
would hate to go away even with a caregiver visiting her daily.
In the daily e-mail I receive from Tricycle magazine, they had a quote from (one of my big idols)
Thanissaro Bhikkhu saying we should keep up the intention to be skillful in our
every thought, word and deed. It hit home with me in my present situation – I’m
pretty clueless and clumsy dealing with all the things my sister needs to have
done. I’m so bad at making efforts and so easily distracted by entertaining
trivia (like watching the Oscars).
At one of the Maida Center retreats, Rev. Ken Yamada of the
Berkeley Higashi Honganji Temple told his story of driving his wife to the
hospital when she became critically ill. He was speeding but it seemed like the
route was full of traffic jams and aggravations and he was getting more anxious
and swearing at all the other drivers. Then Naomi told him, “Whether we make it
to the hospital quickly or not – it’s all up to Amida.” To hear her calm settling
into true entrusting (shinjin) helped
Rev. Ken let go of his anger and drive more sensibly. Everything turned out
okay – Naomi received treatment and recovered.
As Amida means the unbounded power of conditions and events
beyond our control, then Amida includes the reality of one’s own limitations
and inabilities. We can’t will ourselves to suddenly become strong and
competent and without years of intense monastic training, even our intention to
be skillful goes off track more often than not. I’m finding out that the Namu
in “Namu Amida Butsu” doesn’t just mean “bowing down” – sometimes it means
tripping over and falling flat on your face.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Don't try to be too wise; don't
always try to search for something profound to say. You don't have to do or say
anything to make things better. Just be there as fully as you can. And if you
are feeling a lot of anxiety and fear, and don't know what to do, admit that
openly to the dying person and ask his or her help.
From The Tibetan Book of Living
and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche
I was surprised that the “Caregiver’s Guide” pamphlet from
the hospice service (providing care to my sister dying of cancer in Texas – see
previous blog entry) had two quotes from recognizably Buddhist writers – one
was Jack Kornfield and the other Sogyal Rinpoche. The latter’s quote in the
pamphlet was short so I Googled it to read a fuller version (link no longer
available).
Being here fully is just not happening. I find myself
forgetting every little thing, even things that used to be routine with me. I
try to write down important things dealing with my sister’s care, but the
sheets of paper and sticky notes are all piled here and there in disarray – as
the to-do list gets longer. And I’m not talking to my sister about my fears and
anxieties, since she lets me know she has enough on her mind and doesn’t want
to hear my troubles.
As much as we say we want to be “there” for someone – we are
elsewhere a lot of the time. And the internet makes it easy to be other places
mentally while you are physically in one place. I’ve been taking care of a lot
of temple correspondence by e-mail, mostly about the Buddhism Intro class which
I’ve postponed a week. Yesterday my husband e-mailed me a scan of the
handwritten note sent to me by a temple member, Mr. J, an elderly Japanese
American.
When I read Mr. J’s note I realized I completely forgot
about performing a memorial service on the anniversary of his wife’s death as
he had requested a month ago. Mr. J had been hospitalized for a while and was
not up for the drive from the western suburbs to the temple, so I offered to go
to his house to do the memorial service and asked his son to set it up. The son
called me later and said his father didn’t want that and so I intended to
comply with Mr. J’s original instructions to just do the chanting on the date
without his presence.
(Photo by Joanne Kamo)
As it turned out I had to come to Texas to deal with my
sister’s declining health and the memorial date of Mr. J’s wife had come and
gone. Mr. J wrote the note as a reminder to me of his original request but he
began reminiscing about her death twelve years ago: “I took her to the hospital
for heart valve replacement. We had never thought it would be the end that
night. We made a recovery room for her by the window so she can see birds and
squirrels. Never entered our mind of the outcome that day. I thank you for
being there that night.”
That night when my husband and I went to the hospital we saw
Mrs. J was unconscious and hooked up to a breathing machine. At one point the
family said it was getting late for us and nothing much was happening – I
wanted to go home and get to bed but my husband said he had a feeling we should
stay a little longer. We stayed and maybe it was about an hour or so later when
I saw the monitor by Mrs. J’s bed go “flatline” and the alarm went off. It was
the first time I was in the presence of a person at the moment of death. After
the medical personnel completed their procedures, the family gathered around
Mrs. J’s body and I conducted the Makura-gyo
(“pillow sutra”) service. [Customarily the service is done within a day after
the death since ministers are called after the fact and often end up doing the
service at the funeral home.]
After reading Mr. J’s note, I got out the chanting pages I
tuck away in my appointment book and I went to a window in my sister’s house
that looks out on her back yard, thinking of the recovery room Mrs. J’s family
had set up for her. I saw birds landing and flying around the patio with all
the plants my sister had cared for. I didn’t have a bell with me, so for the
gong-striking parts of the chant, I tapped with my fingers on a metallic angel
figure that was by the window. A couple days late, but I performed the memorial
service for Mrs. J – grateful to be reminded of what I had forgotten: tariki, the power beyond self.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
You would think any seriously practicing Buddhist would have
their ojuzu (meditation beads) in their hands at least some time every day,
especially if they’re a minister. But during my stay in Texas to take care of
my sister, I only took my beads out of my purse twice. The first time was for
the improvised memorial service at the request of a temple member (see previous
blog entry). The second time was last night – as the two mortuary workers, a
young woman and man, carried my sister’s body wrapped in a white sheet from the
bedroom to the gurney set up in the hallway. My brother didn’t want to see it.
He had just arrived that afternoon and was able to spend several hours with our
sister while she was still conscious.
He went to the front door to hold it open as the two workers
wheeled the gurney out of the house. With my hands in gassho (palms together)
and the ojuzu around them, I walked behind in the same manner as a minister
following the coffin in a funeral recessional.
I wanted to keep my hands in gassho, but before leaving the
house, the woman from the mortuary extended her hands to me. I let her take my
one hand in hers. “Sorry for your loss,” she said. Then she did the same with
my brother.
Namu Amida Butsu. Sorry – loss – ours.
