August Journal

Aug. 5, 2004 Thurs. 9PM

I generally regard the worst day of my life as that day when I was little and my brother smashed my nose and cheekbone with an aluminum baseball bat, resulting in a horribly self-conscious adolescence and two painful corrective surgeries as an adult.

Today was worse.

On a physical level, I think I feel like what Han Solo must’ve felt like in The Return of the Jedi when he was finally released from the carbon-freezing chamber. Either that, or the Hangover to beat all Hangovers. (Except that I’m not hungover.)

On an emotional level, I feel even worse than that.

Today was --I’m assuming-- my last hospital appointment in Japan. One would assume that this is a good thing (and it would be, were it not for the hospital visits yet to come in America, without a comical Japanese doctor to lighten the mood) but I am tremendously sad to be leaving that place. I had actually come to look forward to my visits there, despite the needles and all the poking and prodding and bad news. The cab rides were always interesting, the nurses were always doting and sincere (though only one of them could speak any English) and Dr. Yamamoto was so funny, he always kept me in stitches. (Oh, come on, that was a pretty good pun.) He was like a living muppet, a cartoon come to life. An angel, I daresay.

For every appointment, the first thing he does is make me step on the scale. It is like clockwork now: I walk into Nurse Miho’s office, take my shoes off, and hop up there. He came out of his adjoining office today just as I was revealing my Pokemon socks and said, “Ret’s see how fat you are today.” I got used to his casual use of the description fat a long time ago, so this did not bother me. It might’ve bugged me a year ago, when I was rail thin and perfectly healthy, but these are different times now.

His eyes almost popped out of his huge glasses. He saw the digital display, and said, “Whoa, rook at dat! You are not so fat anymore!”
I never thought I would be so happy to hear the words, “You are not so fat anymore.” It was the best compliment I’d received in a long time.
“That’s right,” I said smiling, “I am not so fat anymore.”
He shook my hand. “Congraturations,” he said, looking at his chart. “In six weeks, you have lost almost ten kilos. That is velly, velly good. In fact, too fast. You should slow down, right, okay?” In addition to yen and Celsius, I had to learn to convert kilos to pounds. And I know that in six weeks, I lost almost twenty-five pounds.

The happiness didn’t last too long, though, for after that I became the human pin cushion and was poked by about fifty-seven needles. Then I became the human lab rat and was given enough drugs to rival my parents’ medicine cabinet.
I was assisted to the cashier to settle the bill, then was led back upstairs to get all the copies of my medical records for my American doctor. Dr. Yamamoto handed me the copies, along with a flowery envelope. “Dis is from us,” he said, gesturing towards the crowding medical staff. They all smiled and waved, unable to verbally express themselves. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Good ruck to you. You go home and get well. Maybe you come back to Japan one day. You come here to say herro. We are your Japanese famiry, right, okay?” I nodded.

I was so doped up that I didn’t open the envelope until later, after the nauseating cab ride and a nice, long nap. The Japanese staff had all signed a card and written a message (in Japanese, of course, so I have no idea what they actually said). Some contained little drawings of a heart or peace sign. Dr. Yamamoto’s was the only one written in English. He wrote, “Susan-san, I want you be healthy. I worry about you. But I am glad you come here. I think you will never be fat again. Good luck to America!” (I think he meant ‘Good luck in America,’ but the sentiment is precious either way.)
So tonight I am sad. That was the last video-game-like ride to Kobe Kaisei hospital, the last time I will ever see that bunch of head-kerchief-wearing nurses, and the last time Dr. Yamamoto will ask me how fat I am.

But years from now, whenever anyone uses the words, “Right, okay,” in the same breath, I will think of Yamamoto-san, that sweet muppet doctor who once considered me famiry.

Aug. 8, 2004 Sun. 12:35AM

Went to Murasaki (the former no-name Izakaya) with new colleague Byron, an American from Indiana. So nice to finally have an American in the office, especially one who was a teacher before coming on this adventure. He also likes a lot of the same books as I do, so we had quite a lot to chat about. Also he does a great impression of Homer Simpson, which is a good quality in a man. The only impressions I do are of my mother (which is spot on, but cannot be appreciated but by those who know her) and of Yoda, which is equally good but which I never got around to performing.

James and I were talking earlier about the current state of my social life, which has increased and improved considerably in the past few weeks. (James, remember, is the hottie British guy that Hezza always drooled over, the one with the butt that won’t quit.) Our conversation started when I speculated that I have been drinking so much lately that my blood type is now pilsner. I told him that I should probably lay off the booze since I am scheduled for a blood test the very day after I return to the States, and I shouldn’t wear myself out too much by all this partying. He said yes, you have been drinking quite a bit of beer lately. I answered in the affirmative. Then he said, “Your blood sample will probably have a head on it.” I thought that was pretty clever. I told him I would let him know how big my head was. And then he said he would let me know how big his head is. And then I ceased the conversation, because it was taking a very naughty turn.

I can’t believe I actually had the energy to go to work this morning. Sim and I were out very late at a local bar last night. It was one of our typical outings, the kind that result in mysteriously stained or seam-ripped clothes and a chorus of I’m-Never-Drinking-Again’s. There was a local band there, and after they finished a set I asked them if I could sing a song to Simona. So, with idiot button fully engaged, I got up on stage with that guy’s guitar and sang a song to her. I have no idea if I was any good or not, and neither does Simona. We only know that I sang my heart out to her, and she cried and clapped with the rest of the barflies, and then we left the bar arm in arm (for balance) and went stumble, stumble, stumble all the way home.

I wrote in my journal at the bar last night (I don’t remember doing it but I have the written evidence) and when I read it today I had to laugh at my drunken honesty, my idiocy in print, the Clown inside me who must be comical even during the worst of times. I wrote:

Aug.7. At bar with Sim. Sang a song, just like the old days. I think she is a life-long friend like Hez and Cal and Luc. She keeps kissing me. It’s a Romanian thing, she says.
Wish I didn’t have to leave. I like Japan and life here. Wish I didn’t have illness. Think I will name it Francis.
I hate Francis!!!

Aug. 10, 2004 Tues. 11PM

It tore me up today to say goodbye to Mamiko, my Junior little girl with really long, beautiful hair who loves to play her hand-held video game in class and tickle the other students (and me). For a while now, it’s been just her and me in the Tuesday Junior class, because she came later than the other students and they all got promoted before her. When I told her I was leaving (actually, Kumiko translated for us), she looked at me with the saddest puppy dog eyes and hugged my leg. I gave her a full sheet of American flag stickers, and then she pulled out a plastic ziplock (“gibrock,” a` la Yukiyo) bag with five Hershey kisses and gave them to me. It was the kindest gesture I’ve seen from any of my kids. The adult equivalency of five Hershey kisses is about five hundred dollars, I reckon. You know a kid likes you when they’re willing to part with chocolate. Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever liked a teacher that much. Hell, I don’t even part with chocolate to most of my friends, let alone a teacher who speaks a different language whom I will never see again. Sweet little Mamiko. I wonder what she will grow up to be like.

I miss Heather. And Catherine and Pam. And Calvin and Lucy. As the countdown ensues and the days disappear until my departure next week, I am constantly reminded of the times I had with them, and that, barring a miracle, I will never spend time with any of them in Japan again. Ironically, even though Hez and Pam and Cathy and I all live on the same continent in the same general area of the globe, I feel like returning home will be getting farther away from them. Japan reminds me of them. Home does not.

Sim and I went to Harborland tonight. We ate at a kick-ass Indian restaurant and then rode on the giant Ferris wheel. It reminded me of the time Heather and I went, the same day we went to Arima Onsen (the naked spa). I remember being up there with old Hez, approaching the zenith of the ride, and she said, “This sure is romantic.”

I said, “Yeah, and the next time I go on it will be with a date. You just wait and see.” Heather smirked. Little did I know then how many potentially good men have escaped from my life here in Japan, and I wouldn’t allow myself to take the risk. I think Heather knew I wouldn’t risk it. And now the end of my Japanese journey is at my doorstep, and my closest relationship has been with a bottle of beer and a cactus plant.

Simona may not have been the ideal date, but I did pay for her damn dinner. (And didn’t even get a kiss!)

Aug. 16, 2004 Mon. 10PM

Currently in Hiroshima with Sim. We’re staying at her friend Tim’s apartment. We walked all around the city today, the highlight being the A-bomb museum. But I’ll come back to that.

Last night was my Sayonara party in Amagasaki. In a way, it was just as emotionally awe-inspiring as the A-bomb museum. To look around at all the faces of these people to whom I’ve grown so close, people who have changed my life in their own way, people who were all at this place to give me one last final hurrah, is a profound realization. We all went to Murasaki (the former no-name Izakaya… I think they all know our names by now). I didn’t get upset like I thought I would… I think I’ve become numb in the past few weeks, a self-defense mechanism employed by my brain to shield me from the heart-wrenching goodbyes. I always thought I would turn into a crying mess on my final night, but instead I laughed most of the time (a product of the numbness). I really love all of my coworkers (even Aaron, who didn’t bother to show up) but it’s always been Jeremy who sends me into fits of giggles. In between picking on Liam for being Captain Liam from the Planet Anal (a reference to the comic strip I drew for Heather) and playing mercy with James (I think he sprained my finger, and I think I may have kneed him in the jaw) I started to slip into bouts of introspection, which usually leads to blubbering.

But there’s something magical about Jeremy. He pulls me out of that. I don’t know if he means to, if he can recognize my changes of demeanor and subsequently launch into a funny poo story to bring me back to the land of the light-hearted, or if he just has impeccable timing. Either way, Jezzer saves me from plummeting too much into my reality, and that is a rare and precious quality in a friend. While at Murasaki (before we went to the karaoke place) we all held up our monster beer glasses for a toast. They were probably toasting me (I can’t recall) but I toasted Jez.

I told him he was my Scarecrow. In The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy has to go home, she must first say goodbye to all her friends. She says to the Scarecrow, “I think I’ll miss you most of all.” She met the Scarecrow first, just like I met Jeremy first. I can’t believe I shared that with him without breaking into a sob, but like I said, Jeremy’s presence suppresses my tears and hauls out the laughs. As we clinked our glasses, Jezzer smiled, and so did I. It’s true: I will miss him most of all.

Back to Hiroshima and the museum. It was one of the more humbling experiences I’ve had in my life. Being an American, I felt like dirt for the first half hour (seeing as how we dropped the bomb and all), but the more I saw and read, the more inspired I became.

Out of all the horrifying exhibits, it was the rusted tricycle that caught my eye. I walked over to it and read about its significance. Apparently, a man found his three-year-old child’s dead body beside his beloved tricycle shortly after the bomb was dropped, and decided to bury him with it in their yard. Years later, for whatever reason, the man decided to give his son a proper burial. He dug up his son’s remains, along with the tricycle, and buried him in a more appropriate grave. The tricycle was donated to the museum by the family.

I’ve been thinking about that tricycle all day. It sure does put some things in perspective. It makes me realize that no matter how bad I might be feeling right now about having an illness and having to leave Japan, my problems could never compare to that father’s. Imagine having to lose a child, bury him yourself, then do it all again years later. I’ve often wondered, out of all the billions of people who have ever lived on this Earth, who had the worst life imaginable. I think we’ve all wondered who that person is, the one person, who, when people said, “Things could always be worse,” could respond in all honesty, “No, they couldn’t.” I imagine that person might be that father, that poor soul whose unfathomable pain is now sitting in a museum in the form of a rusty tricycle.

From now on, when people say, “Things could always be worse,” I will think of that tricycle and that father, and I’ll be reminded that I’m one of the luckiest people in the world.

I had a kick-ass Sayonara party last night and a damn good time in this country. Seriously, how much luckier does one get.

Aug. 19, 2004 Wed. Noon, at airport

So my Japanese experience comes to a close.

I had my final Sayonara party last night (this makes, oh, about five now?) Karen and the guys from work came down to Kobe and had the Nakamura experience. (Mr. Nakamura cried when I told him I was leaving Japan. He and waitress Masako wouldn’t stop bowing.) Then the guys came up to my apartment for the evening. They were originally just coming up to look at some pictures on my laptop and then head out to catch the last train, but Rodney decided to buy some liquor at the Lovely and things went downhill from there. I knew when he walked into my apartment with a beer resembling a Chevy Impala gas tank that they wouldn’t be leaving until morning. It was a huge beer, even for Rodney. It was the biggest beer I’ve ever seen. It was a mini-keg with a handle. I’ve seen leaf-burning barrels in the south smaller than that beer. And Rodney actually drank it all, using mostly one hand. He’s a machine, that guy.

He and Byron finally collapsed into lumps on my living room floor, and Jeremy slept in my room on my extra futon. The next morning, the lumps were gone, but Jez stuck around to help me pack. Around 9:45am, I was having one last look at the view from my balcony, trying to take it all in before the airport shuttle came to whisk me away. I was staring into the street when Jez popped his head out the screen door and said, “What time are they coming to get you?”

At that precise moment, the intercom buzzed, and my heart sank.

Jeremy was the last person I saw in Japan. He helped me carry my bags downstairs, gave me a hug goodbye, and reminded me to learn some new songs (songs “full of angst”… the kind Jezzer likes) for when I return to Japan and we start our band. The numbness hit a peak. I couldn’t articulate anything. I couldn’t think. All I could do was listen to Jeremy’s voice somewhere far off and stare at the shuttle van, the sadistic vehicle that would momentarily rip me away from all I’ve known this past year.

I looked back at Jeremy, but I couldn’t cry. I could only smile. Magical Jeremy, the Scarecrow. The one I’ll miss the most.

Goodbye, Notorious #602.
Goodbye roommates, Nakamuras, Lovely store.
Goodbye Jeremy.

I am sad, but I know things could always be worse.
Sayonara, Japan. Until next time.