The whirr of the oxygen machine hits you when you enter her room. Its constant low-frequency percussion fills the silence of the room as if the sound of death was slowly creeping its way closer to The Grandmother. On Monday it wasn’t necessary. By Wednesday, it was needed. And here today on Friday, I am coming to terms that The Grandmother will be dead very soon.
My mom called me late last night in tears while she was visiting The Grandmother. She told me what I already knew and am struggling to deal with, that The Grandmother looks to be giving up. It’s a marked change from the normal conversations I have with my mom. Usually she talks about all the food she fed her — after all she has the mystifying talent of getting The Grandmother to eat. But last night she was in tears because she couldn’t get The Grandmother to eat one bite.
When I visited The Grandmother today, she barely acknowledged I was there. With the oxygen tube in her nose, she barely opened her eyes and weakly nodded her head. While I don’t have my mother’s skills in feeding her, I am usually able to get The Grandmother to eat. But she can’t swallow anything. Not the pureed food they serve her at the home. Not even water. Not her medication.
Even though I’m an atheist and my reading Korean sucks, there I was reading her the first chapter of First Corinthians in my broken white-boy accented Korean reading words I didn’t believe but which I hoped would sooth her soul.
Her hospice nurse came by just as I was ready to leave, and we discussed her deteriorating condition. She told me that they were going to change her status as “actively dying” and will now stop by to check up on her every morning. I nodded and agreed with this assessment. Then as I was walking the hall, I broke down sobbing. Then when I got inside my car it became weeping for a good minute. The emotions of it all just hit me.
Reading WebMD’s article on signs of impending death for the elderly, The Grandmother has all the signs:
Increased pain, which can be treated
Changes in blood pressure, respiratory rate, and heart rate
Continued loss of appetite and thirst and difficulty taking medications by mouth
Decline in bowel and bladder output
Changes in sleep-wake patterns
Temperature fluctuations that may leave the skin cool, warm, moist, or pale
Constant fatigue
Congested breathing from the build-up of secretions at the back of the throat, which can be very distressing for family members. but which isn’t painful and can be managed
Disorientation or seeing and talking to people who aren’t there
So we’re down to a matter of days. I’m letting my cousins here in the area know to visit her while she’s still alive. I’ve also let my cousins who live outside of the area to be prepared to fly in pretty soon.
Meanwhile for tonight I am drinking Bombay Sapphire and tonics and not giving a damn.
It was summer 1996 right before my senior year of high school back when my curfew was 10. I spent a Saturday with C who was at a UCLA summer camp. While hanging out in her dorm room and traipsing around Westwood Village, I ended up buying a used copy of Stabbing Westward’s Wither, Blister, Burn and Peel at the Wherehouse. “What Do I Have to Do” was played quite a bit on KROQ, and while I thought it was NIN-lite, I couldn’t deny how catchy and good it is.
I got home a bit late, around 10:30, and that was when I had the worst fight with my mom. She had gone to bed early and woke up when I went to the bathroom. Naturally she asked where I was and didn’t believe me when I said where I was or what I was doing. I kept telling her that I was just spending the day with C at UCLA, and she insisted that I wasn’t. I could only imagine what she thought I was doing. I wondered what I did to make her not trust me — I didn’t drink or use drugs; I was a good student in AP classes. At this point I had only started smoking cigarettes for several months. I listened to dark music. I liked to hang out at coffeeshops with my friends. I had horrible self-esteem. I was loud and angry with role models being Howard Stern and Roseanne. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t think I was off the rails.
How do you communicate this to a mother with just as bad of a temper as you and who refuses to believe you?
It was getting late, and I wanted to go to bed. My mom didn’t want to end the argument. As a 17-year old, I didn’t know what she wanted from me. I knew I was hiding something big, and I had no intention of ever telling her. But my mom kept yelling at me saying I wasn’t telling the truth. Then I blurted it out.
“I’m gay.”
Fuck. As those words came out, I knew it was a fucking mistake. I knew nothing good was going to come out of this and that this argument was not going to come to an end anytime soon. Predictably, my mom went even more berserk perfecting every melodramatic beat from Korean dramas.
I knew I had to just stand there and take it. Then she said it.
“If you ever bring this up again, I will shoot you and shoot myself.”
Everything blurred after that. I knew I was never going to get my mother’s love, that no one was going to be there for me. It definitely explains the relationship I have with my mom, and it probably explains why I have never been in a relationship or see myself ever being in one.
Since then whenever I listen to Stabbing Westward I think about this night.
All of this to say that I did go see them Friday night as they promoted their re-recording of Wither to celebrate its 30th anniversary along with PIG, Acumen Nation (celebrating the 30th anniversary of Territory=Universe) and 16Volt (celebrating the 30th anniversary of LetDownCrush) as a part of Cold Waves LA. It was a great show of reliving the 90s guitar industrial metal and seeing bands I didn’t get to see back in the day. Hell, PIG even played “Juke Joint Jezebel” which I guess you could call a KMFDM cover even though Raymond Watts was the original featured vocalist.
As I cursed my aching 47-year old feet and back standing for hours at the Pacific Electric, I did think back to that argument 30 years ago and wonder what other climatic moments the people around me had. What traumas are the guy next to me exorcising as he is screaming out the lyrics very much off key?
Around 1 am they finished the set with “Save Yourself,” and the house lights turned up. Sure, I’m still carrying all of that baggage, but at least I got to shake my ass a little and enjoy myself a little, pain be damned.
The only reason I really look forward to my birthday is that I get time off from work and that I usually rent an Airbnb out in the middle of the desert in the Joshua Tree vicinity with a pool, hot tub, and no one around for 5 acres. So here I am in Landers (or a bit away from it really) whose claim to fame was that it was the epicenter of a 7.3 earthquake in 1992 just hours before a separate 6.5 earthquake centered in Big Bear hit on a Sunday morning. Wild stuff.
I arrived here yesterday, and on the way had to stop to get gas. Since this stupid fucking illegal war with Iran has driven gas prices sky high again, I’ve mostly been back on public transit again because, fuck that. There I was at the Arco station jaw agape as the $30 went to $40 and on up until it landed at $72 for 13 gallons of gas. Yes, the “cheap” gas.
I’m going to be spending most of the time in or around the pool trying to finish Schattenfroh by Michael Lentz. I’m at around page 604, so I have about 400 more pages to go. I’ll be honest — I have no fucking clue what’s going on in the book. It’s a slow, slow read and demands your attention but not in a painstaking way. It’s a very enjoyable read, but I honestly don’t know how we get from one part to the next. Instead of trying to make sense of it, I’m just riding the wave, going where it’s taking me and try to make sense of it later.
I’ve started working on a couple of things with myself and hope to get better at as I begin my 48th year on this planet: I have started to journal more. It’s the most mundane scatterbrained thing. I hope it doesn’t cause someone’s head to explode when they go through my journals after I’m dead. (How cute. I think I have any importance that people will actually read what I write rather than just dispose it like they should.)
I need to curb my YouTube addiction. I don’t watch tv shows. I don’t watch sports all that much. I don’t use TikTok. I only doomscroll through Facebook at 3 am after I have woken up to take a piss. I am no longer perpetually online. But I will sit down and waste hours upon hours watching YouTube videos. I really need to get that in check.
That’s all I’ve got. Overall, I’m not happy, but I’m not completely depressed. Let’s just call it nonplussed. For someone who feels like a stranger in his own country, I guess that’s about as good as we can hope for.