At last...

9/9/08
Well we made it. It was a long haul, dealing with air travel, sending our bag to Tokyo, and taking a bus from Osaka, but here we are in Tokushima on the island of Shikoku at the Tokushima Sunroute Hotel. It was 11 hours in the air and 3 hours on the bus with 2 hours in between for little stuff like sending our bag, getting money, buying our bus tickets and going to the bathroom. We are tired, but happy to be here. Watching the flight progress on the small screen in front of my seat was like watching grass grow, time passing at a dull day at work, or waiting for a bad date to end. It seemed like the plane would never reach its destination and then like a miracle, it did. Being in Japan my mind has turned partly Japanese and I thrill myself with my limited ability to read kanji, hiragana and katakana. I am so in tuned to reading Japanese that I read a highway sign as "tow" but it turned out to be merely the icon indicating merging traffic. Sorry that you have to know the character "tow" to get the joke.

Prologue III

It is the last night in this United States of America. The next time I write Emi and I will be in Japan. We are packed and are more than ready to depart. I found the articles stuffed into our modest size bags very revealing. Regarding clothing, it is at the minimum. I am only taking two fast drying underwear and socks, one aloha shirt, three fast drying t-shirts, a pair of gloves, shorts, and a wool cap. All that for 50 days. More revealing was the meds that I needed that marked the trip a geriatric one… let me be more accurate, a GERIATRIC one. In my bag there is a cornucopia of drugs: starting with common fruit flavored antacids, two high blood pressure medications-atenolol and terazosin, soothing valium, pain killing vicodin, pain killer # 2 naprosyn, anusol for you know what and if you don’t know I ain’t going to tell you, a large bottle of Benadryl, Eucerin lotion, Triamcinolone acetonide ointment for rashes and whatevah, and anti-foot fungal ointment for my chronic athletics feet. The only thing I’m not bringing is awa, soma, and Johnny Walker Red. Further, Emi is bringing her own supply of meds. Is this not pathetic or what? The sad thing is that I need every one pill, ointment, and salve and even then I may be home sooner than scheduled.

Oh, and by the way, I am bringing a ukulele.

Prologue II

This is the second prologue before the trip to Japan starts. If it wasn’t enough stress just to go on this ordeal, I had the additional worry about my MRI results regarding my back. I wasn’t too bothered when the first MRI demanded a follow-up, but I became a bit concerned when the second showed a “lesion” on my spine, and then I became more concerned after the third MRI that was done this last Saturday. My attitude drifted from “I don’t want to think about it. I’m too healthy to be sick.” to “It’s a good thing that I have a will.” When I was feeling down, waves of stress swept over me as if I was the Titanic taking the plunge and I waited for the attack that I am so familiar. Yes, there have been times in the past that I thought, through the lens of anxiety; death was dragging me out the door. I can’t tell you how many nights I lay in bed convinced that I wasn’t going to see the sun rise. When I had my first stress attack, I was so sure that I was dying I drove myself to emergency room only to be saved by a massive dose of tranquilizer, so much for a fatal case of whatever. And then there was the time when the lymph nodes under my jaw and armpits grew large for no reason that I or the doctor could figure out. His only comment was yes they are enlarged and the reason is unknown. That condition lasted for some eight months. Of course, I was positive that it was the big C, and death was just outside the door. I only had to let him in.

Well, after many calls to Kaiser (Just today I had to call radiology to get them to read the MRI before the day was over, and I called my NP …again and again and again… to find out his not in, but his back-up, Dr. Alaric Akashi, fellow Konko church member, would talk to me. Wow, I finally got to talk to a real doctor in person. And he read me the results. Are you ready for this? The lesion turned out to be, in his words, “a blip…background noise.” Can you believe that? I have been stressing over a blip. My life came to a crawl over a blip.

I must say that I have been doing some serious thinking these past weeks, and I haven’t reached any deep conclusion, no wise words regarding life. The possibility of my life ending made me feel very uncomfortable, as it did in the past. You know that Kaiser tv commercial where the young female cancer patient goes in to a store to buy a guitar and the last words thrown out is “I have cancer; cancer doesn’t have me.” She is a better person than me, Gunga Din. I have to say that it is hard to motivate yourself with the thought of death around the corner. I understand that we should live in the moment, but it’s so hard. I wonder if it’s even practical. For example, Emi and I went to Rick’s Restaurant for their last luau meal and listening to Ka’ala and the group play the sweet, melodic songs of Hawai’i was so moving, I couldn’t help but form a tear of two. And it’s not just that. Everything becomes too emotional with the thought that it’s for the last time. But living in the moment, doesn’t have to mean it’s for the last time, does it? (Just thinking aloud here.) My life is so wonderful that it is hard to say good-by to it. I went to see my minister, Kawahatsu Sensei, and he gave me words of wisdom that I will ponder over; I’m going to have a lot of time to think. If I don’t get an epiphany and if nothing else, I will, as he instructs, repeat “thank you, thank you, thank you over and over. There is so much to be thankful for….such as blips in your life.

Attached to this is a video of our walk in Bolinas to see the elks. This email is a test of our ability to send video and text from Japan.

Happy Birthday!

I’m beginning to think that my father was right when he said, "Don’t ever let the doctors near you." You see my father had this notion that if you ever went into the hospital you’d never get out alive. With that introduction, the result of my second MRI is in and they have identified the mystery spot as a lesion on my spine. Now don’t get excited…yet. As my PT explained to me, the term is a very general one; a lesion could mean anything, a collection of blood vessels to a malignant tumor. They want to look at it again to be sure it's nothing, so a third MRI is in my future. I just don’t know when. Now remember, I went through all of this in preparation just for the trip, and the MRI was an excuse for a pain killer to be shot into my spine, and look what happened. This is like going into the doctor’s office for an itch and walking out needing a hemorrhoid operation.

For the time being, I’m learning how to dance in the rain, because I don’t think this storm is ever going to pass. And I don’t care what this lesion is; I’m still going to do the walk. The trip will just have more significance.

Shikoku Pilgrimage Prologue

Good grief Charlie Brown, it’s already August, and in only 4 weeks Emi and I will be leaving to walk around the island of Shikoku, all 750 miles of it. Some books says the walk is less than 750 miles but who’s counting? It is enough to know that it will take about 50 days walking an average of about 15 miles a day.

In preparation for the walk I have been seeing my people, my medical. I thought that it would only be prudent. After all, I am getting older, and I desperately need all the medical advice that I can acquire to help me complete my future folly of a walk.

I first went to see my nurse practitioner, and his suggestion, in response to my neck pain, was to get an epidural (cortisone injection into your spine...brrr). It didn't sound like fun, but I was ready for anything that would increase my odds in completing the walk, and so I flippantly said, “Let’s do it.” But before I could get the shot, according to Kaiser’s policy, I had to get an MRI first, and so I did. Some days later after getting the MRI, my NP called me and asked, “Are you OK?” as if there was a reason that I shouldn’t be. “Yeah,” I said, a bit apprehensively. I was holding my breath for his next bit of news or doom and gloom; he didn’t disappoint me. “Your back’s a mess,” he informed me. Well I knew that my back was messed up, but with his informative words it suddenly felt worst. “Further," he continued, "they saw some possible problems lower down your back. They want to do another MRI.” We were now well into plan B.

I then saw my Physical Therapist. I told her of my impending walk, and asked her if she could help me in any way to insure my completion of the walk, and she said,” You’re doing what? Bernie, do you remember the bridge that collapsed in Minneapolis?” she asked incredulously. I cringed. This was not going to be a good session. “Duh,” I mumbled not really wanting to say anything. “Well, it worked until it didn’t. Your body is going to be like that bridge. I’ll try to help you, but I’m not a miracle worker.” At this point I must tell you that I like her and respect her work, but she scolds me a lot. She thinks that I’m a bit crazy. She once told me, “You need to more act your age.” I thought but did not say, "I’m going to buy my rocking chair as soon as I get back from the walk."

I needed some encouragement, so I went to my physical trainer. She knew that I really try to stay in shape. She’s seen me work my butt off hour after hour at the gym. I hoped that she would have something good to say about my plans, so I told her about the walk and she said, “Do you have to do this? You should see a sport’s doctor to tell you exactly what you can and cannot do.” So much for positive words.

I then called my friend Greg. He has back problems that make my ills look trivial. Compared to Greg, I’m healthy, so I thought that he would say, “Of course you can do this Bernie. Your back is so genki compared to mine that you can do this walk backwards.” Well so much for fantasy. Greg actually said, “Do you know how much your head weighs?” “Duh?” I replied again. The response is so proper for most questions that I don't have the answer to. “It weighs a lot and you’re going to be carrying it on top of your back the whole way. Do you know what that’s going to do to your back?” I spontaneously started to envision roller skates, large bowling balls, and Japanese hospitals in my mind, not necessarily in that order.

So everybody thought that I was crazy...except my chiropractor. He said that I should stay active and that my body would tell me when to slow down. I told him that I don’t always listen to my body and I don’t. Did I ever tell you of the camping trip that I went on just after getting a vasectomy? I asked that doctor if I could go on a camping trip and he said yes with the warning that my activities would be self-limiting. He didn’t know me very well. If he did, he should have locked me in my room. Anyway, my chiropractor is going to give me stretches for me to do every morning before walking and at regular intervals, and if they don’t work I’m going to catch the bus. I don’t want to be like that bridge in Minneapolis.

sing a song for me

It’s been almost a month since I’ve been in Ka’ala’s singing class, and I have learned a lot, like my limitations as a singer, but a man must know his limits. Isn’t that what Dirty Harry said to the bad guy just before he blew his brains out? I’m not writing today to discuss my shortcomings. Instead, I want to discuss the joy, the pleasure I’ve received listening to my fellow students and Ka’ala sing the sweet melodies of Hawaii. Yes, I admit that I am biased when it comes to my preference of na mele Hawai’i. How can I not be? It brings me back to my childhood, growing up in Hawai’i with my entire family. Looking back everything seemed perfect at the time even though it wasn’t. Nostalgia has a tendency to dismiss the bad, emphasize the good, and there was a lot of good; the weekly outings to the beach on the windward side of the island, the entire family (6 kids and the family dog) riding in the bed of the family pick-up truck; the daily walks around the neighborhood when several blocks away from home seemed like a foreign country; the consumption of bar-b-q sticks that tasted better than any steak that money could buy, and on and on. So when I hear my fellow students sing, the romance, the tenderness, the beauty of the songs goes straight to my heart and I am so touched by their renditions suffused with honest emotions, effort, and talent. I am so touched that it would not be impossible to get a bit misty eyed, but I wouldn’t because I must be macho, and even if you happened to see a tear in my eye I will only claim it’s because of my allergies.

These thoughts take me back to the time when I sang for Pat when she was dying, and how she cried and cried. I was a bit dense then, and could only think that it was related to my inability to sing and play well. I get it now, for if I were in her place, my reaction would be the same. The songs itself are so sweet that it brings back all the wonderfulness of life, the sheer joy of it, and you cry for it was so great, and then you cry with renewed vigor because you will soon be leaving it all behind. It is the ultimate of a bitter sweet emotion. Even with these bitter sweet thoughts now in my mind I invite one and all to sing for me while I am in my deathbed, and if I cry it is not to be taken as a critique of your singing. Look twice for you will see me smiling even while crying.

Last installment of NW trip

May 11, 2008

We are on the way back to San Francisco via the sleeper car of the Amtrak Coast Starlight train. To ride the sleeper, is to go first class which is a novel experience for the both of us. If you’re not first class, you sit the whole time; no beds for you, like the accommodations in the airplane. I’ve never gone first class in anything much less than the train. I didn’t even make it to first class while in the Boy Scouts; only got to second class. Second class is the story of my life, but let’s not go there. Riding in first class meant that we sat in the private waiting room before boarding the train, where they provide newspapers, soft drinks, cushioned chairs. I liked being there, away from the riffraff, the common people, the plebeians. The other privilege of going first class is the choice of white or red wine once you’re in your berth. That was a very nice gesture, even though we had brought our own bottle of wine in response to advice received at the tea house that we had visited in Seattle, but we had to be careful. Before departing, there was an announcement that there was a zero tolerance policy against drunkenness and bad language. I needed a drink upon hearing the warning. Oh my god, I thought to myself. They’re talking about me. I’m going to be kicked off the train for sure.

The compartment is cozy, and I use the word appropriately. It is not a regular room by any means, but in airplane terms, it is huge. There is more room in the average closet. But there is a door that you can close for privacy, and if you want more there are drapes that you can close with Velcro to ensure complete privacy. My imagination runs wild with what some people do behind these drapes.

Riding on the train I have ample time to reflect on our trip. Emi and I don’t travel much. We go to Hawaii and Japan, but not for touring, sightseeing. The last time, maybe the only time we actually played the tourist was at Washington DC. Sightseeing there is rewarding, because there is so much to see. It is not your typical sightseeing destination. To me, it is the ultimate adult Disneyland, and it is for real. Seattle and Portland are nice places to visit, but if it were not for our interests, biking and hiking, I don’t think that I would want to go there. I’ve come to realize that if I go somewhere, there has to be a particular reason for the visit other than just to see the place. I need to climb a mountain, bike a route, attend a class, study a subject, etc. Therefore, Seattle and Portland were nice because they were great places to bike, hike, and study NW Indian carvings. If not for that, I’d be doing just as well by staying home. And yet while we were sitting there watching the view move past our window, I stupidly mentioned to Emi (I must have mentioned here that our breakfast companion brought up the idea.) that it would be great to fly to Boston and drive up to Quebec like the guy said, and she had to remind me, “And what are you going to do there besides look at the sites?” Emi knows me so well, and puts up with my nonsense. She had me at checkmate, and I had nothing to say, but after we got home, I thought of the idea of riding bikes from Boston to Quebec. That would hold my interest if not break down my body. What can I say except that a fool only know how to think like a fool.

I’ve previously talked about Seattle, so let me say a few words about Portland. It is a nice place, if not a bit small; Emi and I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in not a long time, and we did. On the same day, we rented bikes and peddled from one part of town to another. I really like the biking trails. There were no cars, just an occasional rain to refresh you. And speaking of rain, it seems that the people up here do not alter their activities just because it’s going to rain or is raining. It’s not a big deal. We’re a bunch of wimps compared to them.

Emi and I liked walking through the farmer’s market. It seemed all of Portland was there. I particularly liked the plants that they were selling. I bought some bare root toad lilies. Such a deal, 3 for $10. I hope they grow (and they did, by the way) The seller had just gotten back from SF’s garden show and she thought that the people of SF were so nice and happy. She wondered how we could be so happy with the high prices of everything. I didn’t even know how to respond. I know nothing about prices except paying.

Sometimes I am so taken by some of the homes up here. The fancy ones are huge, beautiful, and always seem to be located with a body of water as their front view. I fantasize selling our home and buying one of these majestic homes as if they would make my life richer, and then I think again. If I pause for just one minute, it becomes obvious that my present home gives me all that I need, and that, having a bigger house, a bigger garden, more of anything is not going to change my life at all. Further, San Francisco is my home, not Seattle or Portland. But if you want to talk about Hawaii….well that’s another story. But for now….”Click your heels, Dorothy and repeat there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

We’ve stopped at Eugene Depot, elevation 428 feet, 123 miles from Portland and 610 miles from San Francisco. It is now 5:21 PM, and our dinner reservation is for 6:15. Our eating companion is an elderly man, even older than us, and that’s old. He makes for interesting dining, and he tells us the story of his life. I am amazed at one recounting: his solo bicycle journey from Banff to Los Angeles. That was just one of many stories. The most entertaining aspect was the impromptu guessing game. Roy had trouble remembering locations. He knew what was in his head, but couldn’t remember the name, so we had to guess. “Is it North or South of San Francisco. In the wine country? By the Russian River? Further East? Napa? Further North? Healdsburg? Santa Rosa? Santa Rosa it is.” I think I see my future, but my thing is names. So if I see you and don’t call you by name, give me a clue like it starts with R and rhymes with joy.

Added is the completed mask that I carved. It is a Northwest Indian Raven. I’m satisfied with the results. I have no immediate plans to start another project like that although I do want to carve a totem pole and defrwschest one day. The only question is when.

May 11, 2008

We are on the way back to San Francisco via the sleeper car of the Amtrak Coast Starlight train. To ride the sleeper, is to go first class which is a novel experience for the both of us. If you’re not first class, you sit the whole time; no beds for you, like the accommodations in the airplane. I’ve never gone first class in anything much less than the train. I didn’t even make it to first class while in the Boy Scouts; only got to second class. Second class is the story of my life, but let’s not go there. Riding in first class meant that we sat in the private waiting room before boarding the train, where they provide newspapers, soft drinks, cushioned chairs. I liked being there, away from the riffraff, the common people, the plebeians. The other privilege of going first class is the choice of white or red wine once you’re in your berth. That was a very nice gesture, even though we had brought our own bottle of wine in response to advice received at the tea house that we had visited in Seattle, but we had to be careful. Before departing, there was an announcement that there was a zero tolerance policy against drunkenness and bad language. I needed a drink upon hearing the warning. Oh my god, I thought to myself. They’re talking about me. I’m going to be kicked off the train for sure.

The compartment is cozy, and I use the word appropriately. It is not a regular room by any means, but in airplane terms, it is huge. There is more room in the average closet. But there is a door that you can close for privacy, and if you want more there are drapes that you can close with Velcro to ensure complete privacy. My imagination runs wild with what some people do behind these drapes.

Riding on the train I have ample time to reflect on our trip. Emi and I don’t travel much. We go to Hawaii and Japan, but not for touring, sightseeing. The last time, maybe the only time we actually played the tourist was at Washington DC. Sightseeing there is rewarding, because there is so much to see. It is not your typical sightseeing destination. To me, it is the ultimate adult Disneyland, and it is for real. Seattle and Portland are nice places to visit, but if it were not for our interests, biking and hiking, I don’t think that I would want to go there. I’ve come to realize that if I go somewhere, there has to be a particular reason for the visit other than just to see the place. I need to climb a mountain, bike a route, attend a class, study a subject, etc. Therefore, Seattle and Portland were nice because they were great places to bike, hike, and study NW Indian carvings. If not for that, I’d be doing just as well by staying home. And yet while we were sitting there watching the view move past our window, I stupidly mentioned to Emi (I must have mentioned here that our breakfast companion brought up the idea.) that it would be great to fly to Boston and drive up to Quebec like the guy said, and she had to remind me, “And what are you going to do there besides look at the sites?” Emi knows me so well, and puts up with my nonsense. She had me at checkmate, and I had nothing to say, but after we got home, I thought of the idea of riding bikes from Boston to Quebec. That would hold my interest if not break down my body. What can I say except that a fool only know how to think like a fool.

I’ve previously talked about Seattle, so let me say a few words about Portland. It is a nice place, if not a bit small; Emi and I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in not a long time, and we did. On the same day, we rented bikes and peddled from one part of town to another. I really like the biking trails. There were no cars, just an occasional rain to refresh you. And speaking of rain, it seems that the people up here do not alter their activities just because it’s going to rain or is raining. It’s not a big deal. We’re a bunch of wimps compared to them.

Emi and I liked walking through the farmer’s market. It seemed all of Portland was there. I particularly liked the plants that they were selling. I bought some bare root toad lilies. Such a deal, 3 for $10. I hope they grow (and they did, by the way) The seller had just gotten back from SF’s garden show and she thought that the people of SF were so nice and happy. She wondered how we could be so happy with the high prices of everything. I didn’t even know how to respond. I know nothing about prices except paying.

Sometimes I am so taken by some of the homes up here. The fancy ones are huge, beautiful, and always seem to be located with a body of water as their front view. I fantasize selling our home and buying one of these majestic homes as if they would make my life richer, and then I think again. If I pause for just one minute, it becomes obvious that my present home gives me all that I need, and that, having a bigger house, a bigger garden, more of anything is not going to change my life at all. Further, San Francisco is my home, not Seattle or Portland. But if you want to talk about Hawaii….well that’s another story. But for now….”Click your heels, Dorothy and repeat there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

We’ve stopped at Eugene Depot, elevation 428 feet, 123 miles from Portland and 610 miles from San Francisco. It is now 5:21 PM, and our dinner reservation is for 6:15. Our eating companion is an elderly man, even older than us, and that’s old. He makes for interesting dining, and he tells us the story of his life. I am amazed at one recounting: his solo bicycle journey from Banff to Los Angeles. That was just one of many stories. The most entertaining aspect was the impromptu guessing game. Roy had trouble remembering locations. He knew what was in his head, but couldn’t remember the name, so we had to guess. “Is it North or South of San Francisco. In the wine country? By the Russian River? Further East? Napa? Further North? Healdsburg? Santa Rosa? Santa Rosa it is.” I think I see my future, but my thing is names. So if I see you and don’t call you by name, give me a clue like it starts with R and rhymes with joy.

Added is the completed mask that I carved. It is a Northwest Indian Raven. I’m satisfied with the results. I have no immediate plans to start another project like that although I do want to carve a totem pole and defrwschest one day. The only question is when.