A monthly phone call and an annual visit to Japan — that’s how I’ve kept in touch with my maternal grandparents my whole life. Since I was five years old, summer has always meant staying at my grandparents’ house in Japan for a month, and the school year has meant setting time aside to call them every few weeks. Even that never felt like enough time spent with them.
When I used to call my grandmother as an elementary schooler, we would play word games, discuss the niche animals we both liked and laugh at our inside jokes. My grandfather, on the other hand, liked comparing Japan’s weather, natural disasters and school system to California’s — topics that aren’t exactly tailored to children — but I still enjoyed talking to him. My grandfather’s other must-discuss topic was his heart disease. He’d often update my mom and me on the frequency of his symptoms.
Even in high school, our conversations are practically the same — minus the niche animal references — and my grandfather still gives his monthly report on his heart condition. Last year, he told us it had worsened to the point where his doctor forced him to get heart surgery. Although the surgery itself was successful, it didn’t cure his symptoms permanently.
A few months ago, I realized I hadn’t spoken to my grandfather for a long time due to the hectic nature of school, so I decided to give him a call. It was perfect timing since December is when my grandfather likes to confirm that my mom and I are planning to go to Japan the following summer, though the answer is always yes. He usually gets excited and starts planning things we could do together way in advance.
However, this year was not going to be the instant “yes” that my grandfather and I had both hoped. For a few months at that point, my mom and I had been constantly fighting about whether or not we’d go to Japan the summer before my senior year. I desperately wanted to go because I’ve come to associate Japan with positive feelings — relief from the stress, pressures and fears I’ve come to equate with the U.S. My mom, to my displeasure, firmly believed that this upcoming summer was too pivotal for college purposes, so it was best that we skip this summer.
The conversation with my grandfather started off as usual: “How have you been?” followed by the inevitable weather report — very Japanese of him — and an update on his heart condition. He said that his symptoms had become far more frequent, so his doctor prescribed him an even stronger medication. Then he approached a topic I’ve never heard him touch on before: Death. In the past, he’d always said that he wanted to only live until 70. Once he turned 70, he changed it to 75. Now he’s 76. But this time felt different. It didn’t feel like the age goals that he used to talk about. It felt like he genuinely didn’t know how much longer he’d live, and he’s already come to terms with it.
Don’t get me wrong, he has a serious heart condition, but he isn’t actually dying soon. In reality, he’s witnessing many of his elderly friends begin to pass away, so he’s come to the point in his life where it’s time for him to question when his turn will come.
A few minutes later, my mom picked up the intercom, and my grandfather asked her his usual question for that time of year: “Are you coming to Japan this year?” And, of all things she could’ve possibly said, my mom started reciting her speech on how she thinks that we shouldn’t go this year to focus on college. I immediately fought back. After several minutes of my mom and me arguing on the intercom as if my grandfather wasn’t listening on the other line, my grandfather told us to stop arguing — “It’s fine, I understand,” he said. But his devastation sounded so apparent to me that it was as if he had blatantly told us.
Of course, my mom didn’t hear the part about my grandfather’s recent thoughts of his life coming to an end, so it makes sense that she suggested prioritizing college instead. But I couldn’t erase the pang of guilt in my stomach — the reminder that we had just told a man who questions how much longer he’ll live that his daughter and granddaughter couldn’t even take a week out of their lives to visit him. My eyes wept these thoughts onto my pillow.
A few days later, I explained my grandfather’s recent thoughts to my mom and somewhat succeeded in convincing her to visit Japan this year to see my grandparents again. I called my grandfather after and told him the news. He still repeated that he understands if we can’t go this year, but he quickly began talking about researching places that we could explore together.
I hadn’t realized just how much society had engraved the idea that college is life or death into my mom, though I had felt the thought seeping into my own mind for a while now. Yet my grandfather reminded me that family members actually live and die — life grants you decades to rebuild from the death of a college dream, but only a gravestone for those you love.
