The "Wu Word" Blog
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Miss Mary: Posted on Wednesday, November 28, 2018 8:54 PM
Approximately a year
ago on I am sure what was a cold and frigid day as today or these days, I was
shocked to receive a letter and card from one of my long-lost penpal from Europe. I had not heard from her in at least a year
or more. Since she became a mother
herself and since I became officially biologically motherless from a medically
necessary hysterectomy back in 2015, I could only imagine that our friendship
would fade and fall away. Through neither
of our faults, but through life happening and having to lead and live life as
it keeps on going. This dear penpal of
mine came into my life over ten years ago.
We fervently wrote long and lengthy letters on cute stationary heavily
decked out in stickers and in scented strawberry pens. We kept postal services alive and postal
workers employed. We even met
face-to-face on freezing night in midtown Manhattan, chatting endlessly to
match our lengthy letters. Somehow, we always connected in the cold in the
warmth of our friendship. We kept our friendship going even when it was clear
how vastly different we were when it came to our differences on romantic
relationships, marriage, children, and, above all else, religion and faith.
She was not religious
out of choice, but out of upbringing. Her
mother was a seemingly devout Christian who believed in prayer, baptism, and
church services and worship. As for me
and certainly due to my upbringing of a scientific father and overly religious
biological mother, out of all the places in the world that I felt the most uncomfortable
in, it was in any place of worship.
Growing up, the majority of my friends were Catholics. They always welcomed me to Church services
and particularly around Christmas time. I
felt immensely uncomfortable and like some traitor and sinner when I sat in the
pews in Church. I was told that I was a
sinner if I did not go to Church and if I did not have Church friends, and
there I was in the pews not knowing any of the prayers, scriptures, songs,
psalms, and sermons. I was a stranger in
a strange land. For the longest time
when people asked me what my religion was, I said I was ‘Agnostic,’ not even
truly knowing what that meant. Then, I
would switch it up and say: “Well, I’m spiritual and not religious.” I was not an Atheist. I always believe in God, religion, faith,
miracles, and, above all else, hope.
There is always hope.
Faith changed for me
in 2015 when I was at one of lowest points and beckoned to go to Church to play
music on an abandoned piano. It was my
time and my way of healing and helping myself.
Over time, my discomfort at going to Church slowly changed into a seeker
and searcher to learn about all religions, faiths, and beliefs. I began to go to all different types of
Churches and read philosophical and spiritual works. I even went on a couple spiritual and
relaxation retreats. I wanted to
understand myself and others and what we all believed in or did not believe in
and why or why not.
In the letter from my
long-lost penpal, it was clear that she was struggling with faith and hope because
one of her children was born with a severe and rare genetic illness. Due to the illness, her daughter could not
eat on her own and her speech and physical capabilities were either
non-existent or extremely delayed. In my
friend’s letter, she wrote: “I can tell you all of this because you know what
it is like to struggle and fight for life, and that health is the greatest gift
there is. Some days are so hard and I am
exhausted, but then I see that she has this light in her eyes. She is so happy.”
Without expecting a response
back because of the immense stress she was experiencing, I wrote her back. I told her that there is always hope and do
not give up. I told her that I would pray
for her daughter.
A few months later, I
received a letter response from her again.
She wrote to me: “I am surprised when you wrote that you would go to
Church and pray for my daughter. I was even
more surprised that you now go to Church and these other places of worship to
pray. I do not even know if I believe in
God anymore. If there was a God then why
would he let my daughter suffer? How can
God let a little baby suffer?”
Reading her words
brought me back to many painful and even life and death moments in my life when I was in my absolute
lowest moments in my life and had questioned aloud and in writing: “Why me? Why
do bad things happen to good people? Did
I do something in my past life to deserve this?
Why would you do this God?” I
never came up with a concrete answers. I
did not have the answer to give to my dear friend, but I told her this, “Life
is full of pain and suffering to learn about gratitude, compassion, kindness,
love, strength, hope, and so much beauty that comes out from ugly. Our faith is
tested during these very dark times that we are all go through at some point in
our lives that teach us about being grateful rather than resentful and to be
better rather than bitter. All I can say
is to try to keep the faith, for if there is not hope and faith, then what is there?”
When I sent out my
letter to her, I found myself dumbfounded at how far my faith and spiritual
journey had come and is still coming along.
The me who was uncomfortable and even fearful of being at Church has now
become the me who is the very first one to go to places of worship of all
different faiths and say to others: “I go to anywhere and at anytime where
there is any faith.” Spirituality is a
vital part of who we are, just as our mental, emotional, and physical parts are
to make the whole of entire well-being.
What is your faith? Why is this your faith? Is it because of your upbringing? Is it because of life experiences or some
life-altering experience? Do you think
your upbringing influenced your faith? What is the difference between faith,
religion, and spiritual? What is spiritual? Are you a seeker and searcher and what is it
that you are seeking or searching for?
Keep the faith, my
friends.
Keep smilin’ until we meet
again,
Mary ;-) |
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Miss Mary: Posted on Thursday, November 08, 2018 4:00 PM
And, just like that,
it is November.
The leaves blanket
the grounds in their rich crimson and golden hues. The air is cool and crisp. It is my favorite time of the year—not only
because of the beauty and glory all around us in Mother Nature’s pristine power,
but because November is the month of gratitude.
For me, and I know you have read
it and heard it time and time again from me, everyday is a day to learn and be
thankful for because as bad as it can be, it can be even worse and the best is
always yet to come.
Many know this little
factoid about me receiving two kidney transplants, which taught me an abundance
of lessons and gave me the greatest of gifts at a young age with #1 being that
Life is a Gift. Every single day, I have
the privilege of opening up this gift by learning something new, getting to
know the familiar, going into the unfamiliar, adventuring, and enjoying my simple
routines that I savor and love the most.
Deep within this gift of life is a privilege of meeting with many organ
donor families and living donors. It is
probably the best part of the gift. I am
like a star struck fan, all speechless or blubbering fool when I am around
organ donor families and living donors.
I never know what to say. I never
know what to do. I hedge on asking about
their deceased loved one and take cues from them as to whether or not he or she
will tell me their stories.
I have had the honor
to meet many organ donor families. Some
have adopted me. Some sport photos of
their loved ones that died and share their stories and memories with tears
rolling down their faces. I cried with
them. I hugged them as hard as I
could. When they share with me, I am humbled and put
in a place of delicate vulnerability of thinking about my anonymous organ donor
families even more. Whenever I am
blessed to meet a living organ donor or organ donor family, I feel full
throttle deep within me that 1) I would not be alive if it were not for my two organ
donors and their families and 2) Grief never ends and it goes in these
waves—some waves crash and knock you over until you are just trying to keep
your head above water and other waves are calm waters that gently wash up to
tickle your toes on the shoreline.
Out of all the organ
donor families I have been extremely blessed to meet, there is one organ donor
mother who I still think about. I do not
remember her name. I remember her. I met her in Houston, Texas at the 2014 Transplant
Games of America. She was of short stature
and had dark cropped hair. Her warm
smile quivered at the edges that turned downward when she shared with me: “My
daughter killed herself.”
I did not know what
to say. I did not say anything. I think my face said it all and more than
words can possibly express.
She continued, “She
was 15-years-old. She had bipolar nearly
her whole life. She heard voices. She finally could not take the voices, so she
killed herself.”
I still was
speechless and wordless and could only muster: “I’m so sorry. That’s horrible. Can I give you a hug?”
I wrapped her in the
tightest hug that my body could manage. She
continued, “When people hear that she committed suicide, they look at me with sadness
and shame. They do not know what to say.
Most people do not know what to say when someone dies, but when someone commits
suicide, it is on a whole other level. People
have no idea how your mind can play tricks on you and betray you. You hear about cancer and, don’t get me
wrong, cancer sucks and all illnesses suck, but there is still a stigmatism
with mental illnesses that will never, ever really go away. They have no idea that my daughter was
suffering just like someone with cancer, but if she had cancer then she
would’ve gained more sympathy than with what she suffered with. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing can bring my daughter back, but my
daughter saved lives, and this is what matters.”
In a feeble voice
that sounded probably even more pathetic, I said: “Well, your daughter is a
hero.”
She tipped her head
slightly and said softly, “I meet many transplant recipients. They want to live forever. They will fight for life. My daughter could not because of her
illness. She wanted to die. Maybe there is another mother now who has
their daughter alive from my daughter.
To me, it is not about heroism.
It is about doing the right thing.”
Recently, a donor son
and donor sister both said the same thing to me that he never gave their
kidneys to their mother and brother, respectively, to be recognized or to be a
hero, but, as they said: “I did not
think twice. I knew it would be me. If
someone you loved needed help and you could help then you would do it. No recognition or heroism. It’s not rocket science. It’s the right thing to do.”
I have been thinking
a lot about this organ donor mom and what she said to me. I have been thinking about these other organ
donor families and living donors I have met and about heroism and what really
makes a hero. We can know the right
thing to do, but to do it can be immensely difficult and takes a courage that
maybe we never knew we had within us. I
have been thinking about how the place people are in, the frame of mind, the
situations, the emotions, and even more and beyond would push people to be the
perpetrator and the victim all in one.
This organ donor mother is right—I could not ever imagine and cannot
ever fully grasp not wanting to live and wanting to end it all because, to me
and because of my organ donors and their families, life is such a gift and from
this gift is hope and a fight and deep passion to live.
This is my tribute to
all the organ donor families and living donors I have had the absolute
privilege and honor or meeting. This is my mere attempt at gratitude in November
but in every single day. Meeting them
and thinking of my organ donor families daily makes me want to be the best of
me and makes me realize just how powerful love, kindness, and giving really
are. Meeting them also brings me to
place of vulnerability of the struggles that each of us deal with day in and
day out and to the point that a person may not want to live anymore. As for ‘Hero,’ what does this actually
mean? How far will you go for the person
you love the most? Or for someone you do
not even know? A complete stranger? Who do you identify as a hero? Have you known the right thing to do but
could or could not do it?
Keep smilin’ until we meet
again,
Mary ;-) |
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Miss Mary: Posted on Saturday, October 27, 2018 2:47 PM
According to my
father, my first trip outside of the USA was when I was Mexico and not even
1-years-old. My muddled memories flood
me that my very first trip outside of the USA was to Hong Kong to celebrate my
9th birthday with relatives that I met for the very first time in my
life. Hong Kong always holds a special
spot as overseas trip for me; It was the first place I traveled alone to when I
was 15-years-old, met my grandparents for the first time, attended and
participated in a wedding for the first time, and paid tribute to my
grandfather for my first experience in death of a loved one. I still feel the
oppressive humid heat of Hong Kong that can knock you over with dripping sweat and
then the blast of arctic air from the air conditioners cranked up in public
places. I remember all my visits to Hong
Kong at 10-years-old when my uncle was getting married and I was the flower
girl in a puffy pink dress, 15-years-old when my sister was living there for
her very first job, my grandfather’s passing away and thrown into culture shock
at his Buddhist funeral ceremony services.
I spent one summer
with my aunt in Canada after my parents’ messy divorce. The area she lived in was predominantly
Asians and Cantonese-speaking. I discovered
and devoured new foods and tastes that I never had before: fleshy pink salmon
encased in crispy skin, spicy hot Asian-styled spaghetti, and bitter fresh
vegetables. I learned how to used
chopsticks at 11-years-old. My aunt
taught and told me: “You never know until and unless you try.”
I traveled around the
world from home by writing to people in other countries, or penpalling. In the
day of the digital, I still love nothing more by to curl up on my couch and
travel to another country when I receive and read a letter from a dear friend
across the oceans and continents and decorate stationary sheets to my dear
friend overseas. Starting in roughly 2006, I started traveling
alone to my “penpals” or people I never met face to face, but felt like I knew
from our long, personal, and in-depth hand-written letters. I went to England and Holland where I finally
met and spent time with my penpals, only for them to crash and burn. I also traveled to Germany and Portugal and
Spain where friendships only strengthened as more than merely “penpals.” In all these trips, I made it a point to go
to places where I could climb to the very highest to see and soak up all the
beauty of a country from the very top while also feeling every step on the
ground I was walking on that held history at my feet. From these solo adventurous travels, I learned
that there is still NOTHING more important than spending and meeting with
someone face to face and in person. I also
made it a point to travel around the USA in east coast to west coast, north,
and south, overseas, and declared whenever our wicked wintry weather hit New
York: “That’s it! I’m moving to sunny
California!”
For as long as I
could remember, I traveled. I think I
traveled because my father traveled and told me, “There are some people who
have NEVER traveled and do not even have a passport. It is a lot of work, money, time, and energy to
travel and even more so now than before, but so well worth it to see the world
and understand more about others and yourself.”
I wanted to see and taste the world and inhale any and all customs,
cultures, languages, and life of the unknown and what seemed as “odd.” In all my travels, I wondered about this world
and where was the perfect place for me.
Although I was fearless to travel around the world, I had never moved to
anywhere else different and new in my life.
I was born, grew up, and am still living in the same small suburban county
that is a mere dot on the map of the entire state of New York. I had thought about and even spoke about
moving somewhere and anywhere because the mere thought of just packing up my
crap and leaving everyone and everything behind to start anew where no one knew
me and where I could “find myself” was invigorating and thrilling. What does “find yourself” actually mean,
though? Do people find themselves by leaving
and traveling or by committing themselves to where they are and with who they
are with?
I once asked my aunt
who took care of me in Canada and who now lives in Hong Kong: “Where is the
perfect place? Do you like Canada or
Hong Kong better?” She responded, “It is
never about the perfect place. It is
never about the place. It is about the
people. You can travel and see the world
and it is important to do this, but being a traveler and visitor is different
from where you eventually live and commit to. You will live with the people who mean the
most to you, and the where will not matter.” My mere conclusion then
is: “You live where love is” and the ‘loves’ or ‘love’ in your life differs from
person to person and in the places and periods you are in your life. I traveled to see the world BUT I never moved
because the perfect place was about the people and NOT the place. How important is it
to travel and see the world versus not? Have you moved around to different places and,
if yes, what led you to pick up and start a new life in a new place? Do you think you have to travel far and even
around the world and different places to find yourself and understand yourself
better? Or maybe as a way to escape? Can you find and understand yourself if
you grew up in the same place all your life?
Where is your perfect place?
Keep smilin’ until we meet
again,
Mary ;-) |
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Miss Mary: Posted on Sunday, October 07, 2018 6:10 PM
I was half asleep on
a weeknight at around 10PM getting ready to go to sleep. My usual nightly ritual is tidying up and
getting ready for the next work grind morning so I am not rushing like a
chicken with my head cut off the next day.
My garbage happened to be overflowing that night. I figured that I could bring it out the
morning and so I put my hand right on top of the garbage to push as much of it
down.
Big Mistake.
Suddenly, I felt
something sharp slice and break through my skin. I let out a feeble yelp. The next thing I knew, bright red crimson
blood was bubbling from my top right ring finger and spilling over on to the
kitchen floor. It turned out the one of
kitty cat can lids had sliced right through my finger. Immediately, I washed my hands with soap to
try to disinfect and then grabbed paper towels and lifted my arm straight up
like Lady Liberty to try to stop the blood flow. But the blood would not stop. Paper towels soaked through. Droplets of my blood had made a trail from
the kitchen to the bathroom in my panicked attempt to stop the bleeding. Worst of all, I was all alone.
I kept muttering to myself
as I tried to take deep breaths, “Do not freak out. You can stop the bleeding. It is just a small cut.”
I do not know if it
was panic or being all alone with what was quickly looking like a crime scene
or I really had cut myself too deep, but I started to break out in a cold sweat
and feel extremely dizzy and nauseous like I was going to pass out. I could see the headlines now: “Woman passed
out and bled herself to death from a
kitty cat can lid.” I chuckled to myself
at the thought! As the blood kept
flowing, though, I knew I needed help. I
never ask for help unless I truly and really need it.
I no longer go to my
parents as my first source of an emergency or help. In fact, as I have gotten older and fiercer
about my sense of independence, my parents have become my last resort or even
no resort at all. Also, I reasoned, they
lived 20 minutes away, and I needed someone right here and right now. I did not have time for 20 minutes. I started frantically calling all my neighbors. Finally, on the last call, one of my
neighbors immediately said, “I’m coming over right now.”
My neighbor tried to
distract me and calm me down with stories of her children while we struggled and then waited to try to stop the
bleeding. She was convinced that I did
not need to go to the emergency room and I probably bled so easily and so
quickly because I was on immunosuppressant medications. It took at least ten minutes (but it felt so
much longer) for the bleeding to stop. I had a restless sleep from my finger
throbbing in pain. The next morning, my
finger was experiencing such pulsing pain that I went to the emergency room all
on my own. When I moved out almost ten
years ago, my father said one of the most important places for me to live near
was the hospital because of my health. He wasn't joking. My
finger was cut deeply, but not deep enough that it needed stitches. It was not until I left the emergency room
that I started to share with my parents and a couple others what had
happened. For two days, my right hand
was bandaged up and then it took almost a month for my finger to fully heal.
I always thrived and
truly love living alone, but this incident suddenly put a thought and even
worries and fear in my head that still stays and has made its own room and
place in the back of my mind: What would
have happened if my neighbor had not picked up or if I had fainted? Who would have found me? What would I do in the event of an emergency
with me living all alone and my parents eventually gone? Who would I go to? Who would actually do the dirty work and be
there for me to DO something when I really needed help?
One of my earliest
life lessons I learned after my second kidney transplant was that people are
there for you when it is fun and easy and when there are lots of laughs, but people
rarely stick around when it is really hard and really tough with lots of
tears. It is even rarer to find those who
quietly and without complaining do the “dirty work” to actually DO something to
really help rather than SAY something. It
is easy to say anything just like it is easy to be there when it is easy, but
it hard to do something just like it hard to be there when it is really
hard. And, yes, life is hard and it gets
even harder as we get older. People
provide their sympathies and maybe even listen for a short time to your woes,
but that is it—no offer to really help. In
my life, with the exception of my parents, my circle has shrunk to the number
of people I can really turn to for help and especially in an emergency. I find more and more people are less and less
able to help. I think people genuinely
do want to help, but people are increasingly limited and struggling/fighting
with our own problems and issues. After
all, how can we help others when we cannot help others? We are all limited in a limitless hurried and
harried world. We can only do the very
best that we can.
It is easy to be
there when it is easy, but it is hard to be there when it is really hard. Who is there for you when you are down and
out? Do you have someone or some people
you can go to in the event of an emergency?
Who will actually DO the “dirty work” for you and not just say or speak? Are you perhaps the one who does the “dirty
work” more so for others than vice versa?
Keep smilin’ until we meet
again,
Mary ;-) |
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Miss Mary: Posted on Sunday, September 16, 2018 7:30 PM
“Do you want this
bottle of wine? I can’t drink two
bottles of wine.”
I looked up from the
Seattle, Washington map that I was studying.
A petite girl with
long dark hair was directing this question to the guy next to me and not to
me. Good thing she was not asking me
because my idea of alcohol to get me tipsy was a wine cooler. The guy next to me looked up at her and said,
“No, I do not drink alcohol because my father was an alcoholic.”
The girl’s eyes and
mine met. Clearly, our eye gaze read the
same thought: We were both bewildered that this guy was so open about sharing
his personal business about his father.
The girl then asked me and I played the game as the guy next to me of
revealing all to complete strangers, “No, I do not really drink alcohol. I do not like the taste of it and, plus, I
have had two kidney transplants and just want to keep healthy.”
That is when the girl
and the guy next to me both stared at me.
That is when I realized that this is how you get with strangers. You just start sharing your stories with
strangers because you will probably never see each other again so you have
nothing to lose. In a hot, stuffy, and
sweltering common room in a hostel in the heart of Seattle, Washington with the
fan blowing on high blast but not doing anything, these strangers and I ended
up chatting about our lives. The guy who
shared about his alcoholic father was from Ohio; He went on to tell us his
marital woes with his wife who left him after finishing up her chemotherapy
treatment. The girl was actually with
her boyfriend, and they were from northern California and were here for the
Pearl Jam concert. As for me, I was there in Seattle, Washington
all by myself in a bare necessities hostel and in a dormitory room with three
female strangers that would save me over $200 in the heart of Pike Place Market
to fulfill a two-for-the-price-of-one Live List item that crept up on me about
six months ago when I was making travel arrangements to go to Salt Lake City,
Utah for the Transplant Games of America:
Live on less and little to realize how much I truly have in my life.
Six months ago, I
tried to recruit people to come travel with me, but no one could commit or no
one had the financial or time off from work abilities. If there is one thing I learned long ago and
I know it sounds terribly selfish, but I do not put my life on hold or wait for
anyone. If I wait around or depend on
someone to travel with or to do something with me, I will probably end up
waiting forever. And, ‘forever’ is not
something myself or any of us have. If I want to do something, I will do it—with
or without anyone.
My friends and even
the transplant center somewhat scolded me for traveling all alone and in not
the most hygienic of places with strangers.
Hostels do not get the best of reputations—especially dormitory hostels.
I had stayed at hostels before, but they were either alone in the room or with
a good friend. This was the first time I
would stay in a dormitory setting. In
fact, it was the first time ever in my life I was going to be in a dormitory
setting because I did not experience that in college. Granted, hostels are not 4-star luxury hotels
or even a motel, but they get the job done as a place for me to sleep, go to
the bathroom, and even eat breakfast. I
was going to sacrifice comfort to save money and gain life experiences.
The three strangers
ended up inviting me out for weed and cannabis.
Marijuana is legal in Seattle. I
learned that the hard way when I arrived.
I was already having a hard time breathing and was all congested in the
mornings in the stuffy hostel from lack of air circulation/no air conditioner and
from the scent of weed. I kindly
declined. They looked disappointed. I joked, “You have extra fun whiffs for me!”
For the two nights I
was in the hostel, I was sweaty and craving the comfort of my air
conditioner. I was the only one to put
the small fan attached to my bunk bed on full blast. Not having fresh air in the room made me all
the more grateful for the somewhat fresh air when I would go out to walk in
Seattle at breaking dawn. I walked more
than I had walked than when I was at home.
The aches and pains in my feet made me all the more thankful for now
having a hip replacement so I could actually walk now more than I ever could
growing up. I happened to meet a girl
from Italy on a food tour who was also traveling alone. We bonded over people questioning us single
women: “Oh…why are you traveling all alone?
That is sad.” I am sure that if I
was a guy, I would not be asked this or receive a piteous reaction.
On the contrary,
traveling all alone brings you to place of such freedom. I highly recommend it to everyone. You see things, people, places, and
experiences in a whole different enlightening and eye-opening light that you do
not get to experience when you travel with the familiar. You talk to people you would not normally
talk to. Your senses are heightened and
on more of an alert than if you were with someone else. Your natural instincts kick in of who you can
talk to and who you cannot and where you can go to and where you cannot where
safety is put first. It is purposefully putting yourself in a vulnerable place to come out stronger and much more open to adventures and experiences. It is unfamiliar,
uncomfortable, thrilling, and exhilarating. It is life on less and you gain all the more. It is when we have little
or less that we realize how much more we really have. Have you ever purposefully put yourself in a
place of hardships and challenges to test your strength and abilities? Have you ever hit rock bottom only to realize
how much you really have and how truly fortunate and blessed you are? When have you had ‘less’ to see how much you
really have?
Keep smilin' until we meet again, Mary ;-) |
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