mistakes done

"What do you really want?"

After two days of sewing blood vessels together under the microscope, I didn't feel like doing anything today so I watched a movie: The Words.  My father had told me I would like it, and he was right.

The story is like looking at someone in the mirror looking at someone in the mirror looking at someone in the mirror; it's about a writer (Clay) delivering a story about a writer (Rory) who stole a story from another writer (the old man).

When he is still young, the old man loses his daughter to illness, and the relationship between him and his wife starts to fall apart.  He endures the lifetime pain by writing about it.  He gives the writing to his wife to read but she ends up losing it.  The old man loved the words he had written so much he had to end the relationship with his wife, the very person who had inspired him to write in the first place.  He sees her once again years later with another man and their child and that's the end of his story until many more years later when he finds his words published under the name of another young man.

Rory, when he finds the story in an antique briefcase he had bought in Paris, is suddenly terrified that he will never become what he wants to be.  The story hits him with such great power that he is forced to accept his limitations.  After he meets the old man (the old man had followed him to tell him "the truth"), he wants to take his name off the book and "put everything right", but is told to live with the choice he has made.  He stole a part of the old man's life; now he has to live with the pain, even if that destroys his most precious things.  "We all make our choices.  The hard part is living with them."

The ending suggests that Clay is Rory, but we never know.  The movie ends almost abruptly with a female student (who Clay has invited over to his place) asking Clay what he really wants (when he tells her to leave soon after they start making out).  I don't think it was only me who felt like being thrown into a deep well.

The theme is sort of the same as Crime and Punishment, but I could relate so much more to this story.  Mistakes sometimes sting so badly.  But you can't always make the right decision.  Life comes with life changing mistakes you can't undo.  Maybe the only thing that can make us feel better is that we're not alone.  We all live with a bit of dark shadow in our hearts.

wholehearted living

Dance like no one is watching.  Sing like no one is listening.  Love like you've never been hurt and live like it's heaven on Earth.

- Mark Twain


Today I read The Gifts of Imperfection (by Brene Brown).  I know a lot of people like this book and say it changed their lives; that's exactly why I decided to read it.  Halfway through the book though, I wondered if it was worth finishing.  I'm going to be honest about it because the book talks so much about how important it is to be true to yourself rather than to seek approval of others and fitting in.

To me, the book was abstract (despite the fact that it had a fair amount of examples drawn from the author's experience; unfortunately I couldn't really relate to them), there were too many definitions (though I understood the importance of them), and it just didn't speak to my heart.  Maybe I've read too many self-help materials that I've become numb.  Maybe my expectaion was too much.  Maybe people like me don't read self-help books in the first place.  At any rate, I wouldn't have bothered to leave a note about it if it hadn't been for the last chapter where she talks about dancing:

...there is no form of self-expression that makes us feel more vulnerable than dancing.  It's literally full-body vulnerability. ...(but) you can see this desire to move in children.  Until we teach our children that they need to be concerned with how they look and what other people think, they dance.  They even dance naked.  Not always gracefully or with the beat, but always with joy and pleasure.

As a kid, I loved dancing.  I took ballet lessons and I remember being comfortable enough to dance in front of my classmates at least up till seven.  Now I never dance.  One reason is that dancing is not prevalent in the Japanese culture.  Schools never have dancing parties.  The Japanese in general are not used to expressing themselves through dancing and I am no exception.  But there was a time in my life when I was not embarrassed at all.  So I must have changed, no matter how much I claim that I usually don't care too much about what people think about me.  And if that -- measuring my worth on the scale of others -- is getting in the way of leading a wholehearted life, I will probably go back to the book again someday when I really realize that.  Right now, I have a vague feeling that my problem (if there is any) lies somewhere else.

As I was talking to my mother about the book though (I thought about the problems she was facing while reading the book), I came up with a single idea that seemed very convincing.  I've been struggling to find some comforting words the past couple of months, resulting in some pretty nasty fights every time my mother dwelled upon the fact that her life seemed so meaningless.  I thought: well, that's what life is; it's meaningless and it's painful and empty but you live it because that's life.  But today, as I was talking to her, I said something I might want to say to my future self when I hit my own mid life crisis:

Now that you look at how your picture has turned out to look like, you might be depressed to find out that it doesn't look at all like the picture you had in mind or the ideal picture you've suddenly created in your head, but when you were painting the picture, you probably always chose the best color and the best brush every time you added a stroke.  It was always the best stroke.  Even if it seems like a mistake now, it doesn't change the fact that it was the best in that moment, no matter the reason.  There was a meaning back then, and if you can't find it now, it doesn't matter.  Love your picture as it is because it's the best picture you could've painted.  It may not be perfect but there is no such thing as perfect -- if your "perfect picture" had been the reality you would've found that imperfect anyway.  All we can do is live in the moment.  You can't really control the ultimate outcome (in many cases it will not fit your ideal image) but it's still something worth loving because it's the result of those moments you lived that you could not have lived better, no matter what you think of them now or what you thought of them then.

In short, maybe it's almost like the mere fact that you made a certain choice makes that choice good enough -- if that makes any sense.

of human bondage

It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.

A quick note since I just finished the book:  Life has no meaning; it's just like a pattern of a Persian rug woven for no end but the pleasure of the weaver's aesthetic sense.  Anticipation of an ideal pattern, untamed passion beyond reason, sense of shame, severe poverty all become bondages -- obstacles that prevent you from weaving your own "perfect rug".

The protagonist's morbid obsession towards his unrequited love seems to emphasize the human nature of having to live under lack of satisfaction.  Current unhappiness is always unconsciously ignored because the future by definition is bright -- there is a perfect pattern somewhere, waiting to be woven.  The empty cup is always waiting to be filled.  Anticipation builds.  Except that that future never comes.

It's always now or never.  What you should do to weave and complete your ideal pattern (which in fact may be designed by thoughts instilled in you by other people) is not important.  What matters is what your own heart desires now.  Now is the only time you can liberate yourself from all bondage and be free.  And if you can find happiness there and then, if you can allow yourself to do that, the rug you're weaving is better than any other rug you pictured with your lofty ideals.

I think it was one of the best books I've ever read.  I had so many parts I could relate to that it was almost like reading my own thoughts and following the path I've been walking for the past decade.  I'm glad I read it now and not sooner or later in my life.

 

On a side note, I realize the title was taken from Spinoza's Ethics but I'm wondering why the Japanese title means human bond instead of human bondage.  I'd appreciate it if anyone could give me some insight.

aging

Spending a lot of time with my mother and grandmother during spring break, I have realized little by little what aging means: my mother is facing her mid life crisis and my grandmother is almost on the verge of becoming senile -- both my future self if I live long enough.

This morning during breakfast, my mom talked about a conversation between a woman who lives in the same apartment building.  My mom and her are both housewives, but when my mom used to work as a language teacher, the woman used to ask her why she worked so hard.  She asked how much she made with one lesson, and saw no value in keeping oneself busy for so little money.  "We can't do anything much.  We shouldn't expect too much from ourselves"  she used to say.  Every time, my mother thought: I'm different.

But now, she is having difficulties accepting the reality, that she was no different in the end.  She was just one of the many housewives and the realization kills her with regret, shame and bitter feelings.  I can say very little to her that makes her feel better.

On the other hand, my grandma had a very fulfilling life career-wise.  But since she is not used to doing the housework (my mother always helped her with that since she was a child) she finds it difficult to do it now.  She has also become increasingly forgetful.  She still enjoys dressing up and cares a great deal about how she looks, and she also notices small stuff like the small pimple on my forehead (which she insisted was growing: "Are you just going to let it get fatter?") and whatnot, but spending time with her really teaches me what it means to get close to death.  I guess it's a process of losing -- losing memories and skills/abilities and precious people you could share your memories with.

I felt slightly emotional as I watched her practice putting on her pearl necklace she had to wear for a funeral.  Although we discovered that she could do it when she brought the clasp in front of her, she insisted she could do it with the clasp at the back and kept trying.

Looking at it from the other side though, it's the process of learning again, which rewards her (and those around her) with the joy of reaching a small goal every time she finds a way to overcome her new difficulties.

Life is maybe an endless learning process until the very moment death picks you up.

on death and dying

Death is just a moment when dying ends

-Montaigne

Finished reading On Death and Dying by Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.  It's a study on death and dying -- how each individual patient copes with his last yet greatest ordeal in life.  It contains many dialogues between the interviewers (the author with the hospital chaplain) and the patient who found  the interviews as a chance to let out their suppressed concerns and emotions as well as to teach the medical professionals and pass something on.

Several things I want to remember (mostly from the last two chapters):

1. Terminally ill patients are aware of the seriousness of their illness whether they are told or not.  Those who are not told explicitly know it anyway from the implicit messages or altered behavior of relatives and staff.  Those who are told explicitly appreciate it unless they are told coldly and without preparation or follow-up, or in a manner that leaves no hope.

2. Leave hope when telling the truth.  No matter the stage of illness or coping mechanisms used, all patients maintain some form of hope until the last moment.

3. We have to take a good hard look at our own attitude towards death and dying before we can sit quietly and without anxiety next to a terminally ill patient.  The most important thing is to let him know that we are ready and willing to share some of his concerns.

4. For the patient death itself is not the problem, but dying is feared because of the accompanying sense of hopelessness, helplessness, and isolation.

5. Dying patients has the need ro leave something behind.  They want something that will continue to live perhaps after their death and become immortal in a little way.

On a side note, the Japanese translation of the title is 死ぬ瞬間 which literally means "the moment of death".  I haven't read the translation so I'm not sure what the translator meant but this book is not about the moment of death; it's about the suffering and eventual acceptance that comes before that moment in life; it's more about dying - the last process of living - than about death itself.  But then again, I think there's no such word as "dying" in Japanese.  Interesting.

understanding pain

Today I went to a mental hospital to listen to a public lecture on dementia only to doze off until the lecture was over and people started asking questions.  My mother had come too, and curiously, we ended up having very different impressions on the director who gave the lecture -- she thought he was overbearing and that he looked down on patients' families; I thought he was humorous and had a deep understanding towards patients (or maybe accepted the fact that he did not understand them fully).

An old man (probably around 80) asked a question about his wife who was taken care of at the hospital but was about to be discharged.  He was concerned about her roaming habits and asked if it was a good idea to hang a cell phone around her neck and put a name tag on her shirt, to which the director answered that in the first place, we all had to remember that no one roamed because they liked it.  Patients roam around because they are anxious; they don't know where they are, they don't know who they are, and so they roam around.  He added that maybe the patient didn't want to have a cell phone hanging around her neck; maybe she didn't want to have a name tag on her shirt; and maybe she didn't want to walk around shouting at the whole world that she had Alzheimer's.  Maybe she still wants dignity.

My mother pointed out that the director had an overbearing attitude towards the old man who was desperate.  He was clearly worried about how to take care of his wife.  It wasn't like he didn't think of her as a human being anymore; he was just... worried.  He didn't need a lecture on how to let her live with dignity.

A care worker also asked what she should do when patients asked if they could go home.  They asked every day, over and over, and she didn't know what to do.  The director said that was normal.  They were after all "abducted" and thrown into a hospital.  We all had to acknowledge that it is practically impossible to convince the patients that they were better off "here" than back at home.  We should never pretend "here" was "home".  If we let go and just listened to them and accepted their anger and grief, then the patient would eventually find his own way to convince himself about his own situation.

Again, my mother thought the director was looking down on the care worker who probably already knew all that and was still asking the director for his insight.  I could see that my mother had felt exactly the same as how I had felt towards the brain surgeon who talked about brain death and organ transplantation last month.

Maybe the director did look down on families.  After all, he was a pro at taking care of patients with mental problems while families were always amateurs struggling to accept the unacceptable -- the process of losing someone they love -- and trying to take care of them while dealing with other problems in life; of course they were not going to be perfect, they were going to be inconsiderate towards the patient at times.  But as my mother said, that doesn't mean the doctor can just sit back and give them a lecture like he knows everything.

When I said I didn't really think the director was that high-handed and added that it might have been because I was the same kind of human, I didn't really mean it, but my mother said maybe I was right.  "You're too good at everything."

I don't know what she really meant, but I hope I can become a doctor who can understand the pain of both the patient and his family.