Saying Goodbye to My Father From Shanghai

 My father (right), during our 1987 China trip, in Beijing.

As the anniversary of my birth quickly approaches, along with the end of this year, I find that I have much to write about. The most recent posts here are about my father’s path to recovery after a stroke.
My father did not regain his ability to speak or walk, and in the last few months of his life, he suffered greatly. For a very long time – six years – I could not write about what that felt like and that he was no longer here in this world with me. That I could not talk to him. And I found that what I wanted most after his stroke, was to talk to him. But the stroke left him paralyzed on one side of his body, he could not speak, and was eating from a feeding tube. I wanted to talk to him about the small things, like the weird person on the train, what I ate, or what happened at work. But also about more important stuff. About his life in L.A. His journey to the U.S. from Shanghai and Hong Kong and what his life was like before me and our family existed.
I have been working and living in his native Shanghai since January of this year and celebrated his birthday and marked the anniversary of his passing here. There is a large park and a small restaurant with the most amazing crab xiao long bao (XLB), which are soup dumplings, near the street where his family’s home once stood. It is within walking distance from the hotel our family stayed at during our 1987 visit. I’ve been in the area multiple times now, and sitting on a park bench, with a view of the hotel and other landmarks near the popular Nanjing Road East pedestrian street makes me feel like I’m home. It makes me smile and shed a few tears. I would love to have a conversation with him about my time in his hometown so far. The beauty, the strangeness, the difficulties, and how much I’ve enjoyed (most of) my experience here. All of this has been on my mind, and I finally decided that this was the time to write about it. I also wanted to share a post that I wrote one year after he died. At the time, I was unable to make it public.

The hotel we stayed at with my father in 1987, during our family trip to China. It’s walking distance from where his family’s home used to be. Photo taken in April 2023.
Saying Goodbye
(Written in 2018)
My father died last year on Labor Day. It was a Monday. And it was quiet. The only noises in the hospital room were the beeping of the machines he was hooked up to. The streets were empty on the ride home because of the holiday. The morning commuters whose cars normally clog these streets were nowhere to be seen.
His heart had stopped beating on a Sunday in September, and he was rushed to the hospital. There I watched the slowly ticking clock as his heart rate continued to plummet. The doctor told us he would not make it through the night. There was nothing more to do for him. His body had finally had it. After a massive stroke in March 2015, physical, occupational, and speech therapy, as well as acupuncture and acupressure sessions, rides back and forth to each, a bout with shingles, countless appointments with specialists, and two hospitalizations in the last two months of his life, my father could fight no more.
The Thursday before he died, I dreamt of him.
In the dream, I was in a hospital waiting room. My youngest brother had spoken to the doctor and was told my father had no brain activity. As the dream continued, I watched myself converse with my brother and walk over to my father’s room. I stood by his bed and I saw my father’s spirit rise from his body. I was not afraid. I just watched. Sound did not come out of his mouth, but he was speaking to me. He apologized. He said he could not hold on any longer. I wanted to cry, but I managed to respond. I said that he had nothing to apologize for. That I wished things had gone differently, but I knew that it had been an extremely difficult few months for him and his body. I said I understood and it was OK. He thanked me for helping him. I don’t remember the rest of the dream. But I was suddenly awake. Breathing hard and crying. Afraid and despondent, I did not want to acknowledge what I seemed to already know.
It has taken me some time to muster the courage to put something on paper and send this out in the world. I initially could not describe the loss and the sudden emptiness and strangeness that come when a person leaves your life. It did not matter that he had been so ill the last few months; that the stroke had robbed him of his ability to walk, talk, and live independently. We had bonded during his treatment sessions and doctor checkups. If anything, the most recent hospitalizations came in stark contrast to the previous months when he was doing so well — writing in Mandarin, joking with his therapists, and seemingly ready to start the long process of being able to swallow consistently. He answered affirmatively when his occupational therapist asked him in Mandarin if he wanted to eat again.
But he is gone. Despite all my efforts, all my time, and all my pushing and prodding of nurses and administrators at the skilled nursing facility, he could not recover after his July hospitalization. By August it was clear to me that I should prepare for the worst. While my father could not communicate verbally, I was closer to him in those last two years of his life than I had ever been. Perhaps because there were no words to wound each other with, we were able to share in each other’s lives. Accompanying him to his therapy and acupuncture sessions are not moments that I will ever forget. It was amazing to watch him will his body to do things it could once not do. And it was great to be a part of the relationships he was establishing with his therapists and acupuncturists.
The following is what I said about my father at his 2017 service:
My Father
My father’s most recent stroke in 2015 rendered him speechless, paralyzed the left side of his body, and robbed him of his ability to walk and swallow.
As his caretaker for the last two years, I accompanied him to his appointments and spoke on his behalf. Ironically, this once bombastic and fiercely independent man was now dependent on those around him. We were on speaking terms before his stroke, but we still fought. But in watching and supporting his progress in occupational, physical, and speech therapy, and during acupuncture treatments, something changed between us.
Now, as I witnessed his efforts to command his body to move or force sound from his mouth, the past seemed further and further away. The hurt, the anger, and the annoyance became less and less important. What mattered now was helping this battered and imperfect man before me.
When he was able to say “hao”, which means good in Mandarin, in a low raspy voice after a speech therapy appointment, we both became emotional.
When he moved his paralyzed left arm, I congratulated him.
When Michael (one of my brothers) and I were hitting a balloon back and forth with him, my father laughed with us when I blamed my brother for the break in our rhythm.
We are all imperfect. We will continue to stumble. But to hold on to anger and resentment is the greater failure. To share in someone’s life, no matter how limited the time, is a great gift. I regret that I did not have more time. But I will remain forever grateful for the past two years and the opportunities to spend time with a man who has continued to shape my spirit.
Zàijiàn (see you again) Yun-Nie.

My father’s Hong Kong passport photo.