Written March 22, 2017, after the passing of my father due to pancreatic cancer in Scarborough, ONT.
I
have dreaded phone calls. But lately the phone calls have gotten
desperate. These have been mostly all thorough the day. Phone calls
would come in the day when I was making a filling, or answering
questions about how best to approach a dental problem. Of course, it
got more desperate when my dad was being sent back to the hospital at
the emergency room, or that he suffered a massive episode of fever
and chills, or that he just got briefly comatose.
Of course the worse phone call is that one that announces his final passing. Dad is gone and there is no more pulse. I can feel the tension and the mourning on the end of the line.
The next day I got up after I had made a lot of phone calls that night. A call was made to Pei my cousin in Vancouver. Pei is like my own dear sister and my Vancouver's Tong family is the most endearing through this ordeal. She would make a call every day to talk to my mom. And of course, I called Hui Mei my cousin in Taipei. Cousin Hui-Mei is the eldest daughter of my first maternal uncle. And then I made another call to talk with Ivan and Doris. They live in Montreal, and Doris has been most wonderful in the making of this little service manual. Her Chinese translation of my own meagerly written text, improves and humanizes it in a much more depth than I can ever do. Thank you. And a lot of time was spent on the basic structure of this liturgical approach, which would be his own funeral arrangement.
The next day I got up, and I was reminded of my duty as a small organic farmer. Chickens. Chickens had to be fed. The day before, the Monday, I was too exhausted to get up after a long fight which landed me in Logan at 8:25 PM but the P & B Bus was not there till 9:15 and got me safely back to the Cape at 12 AM. That next day was about trying to take care of patients and this special patient who was to celebrate her 101 birthday, but her front tooth fell out a few days before. I got there just in time. That afternoon, the dreaded phone call came. I had top go home to wait for more information.
Of course the worse phone call is that one that announces his final passing. Dad is gone and there is no more pulse. I can feel the tension and the mourning on the end of the line.
The next day I got up after I had made a lot of phone calls that night. A call was made to Pei my cousin in Vancouver. Pei is like my own dear sister and my Vancouver's Tong family is the most endearing through this ordeal. She would make a call every day to talk to my mom. And of course, I called Hui Mei my cousin in Taipei. Cousin Hui-Mei is the eldest daughter of my first maternal uncle. And then I made another call to talk with Ivan and Doris. They live in Montreal, and Doris has been most wonderful in the making of this little service manual. Her Chinese translation of my own meagerly written text, improves and humanizes it in a much more depth than I can ever do. Thank you. And a lot of time was spent on the basic structure of this liturgical approach, which would be his own funeral arrangement.
The next day I got up, and I was reminded of my duty as a small organic farmer. Chickens. Chickens had to be fed. The day before, the Monday, I was too exhausted to get up after a long fight which landed me in Logan at 8:25 PM but the P & B Bus was not there till 9:15 and got me safely back to the Cape at 12 AM. That next day was about trying to take care of patients and this special patient who was to celebrate her 101 birthday, but her front tooth fell out a few days before. I got there just in time. That afternoon, the dreaded phone call came. I had top go home to wait for more information.
But
the day after my dad's passing, I had to get up and feed the
chickens. Chickens,
there are lots of them, numbering more than 50. We have had them for
awhile now. They are eager to see me, make their welcoming noises,
after I put out the watering buckets, and dispense five large scoops
of feed, plus whatever left over rice and scraps from the kitchen day
before, the chore is done. Washing frozen waterers, and getting food
to them, this is my chore everyday. And shutting down the coops and
making sure our chickens are safe, this is the duty of my teenage son
Christian. He is the only one who is responsible now. The others
have more “important” things to do. Christian my son is the
responsible chicken farmer all through the time we had him feed
chickens during his Middle School years.
Feeding chickens becomes the chore on “the day after.” They rely on you for food and protection. Life is often like this. Simplest and most mundane chores define us. Looking into the abyss of death helps us to know we too, are finite. Our days are numbered and we cannot increase them even if we beg and plea. These short and finite chunks of time will be spent one way or another. Some spend their chips of time on making money, making themselves grand. These are shakers and movers of history. Others tend to family and work, still, others run from family and personal chores. Others spend the time in hospital and sickness. There is no telling what life and what the deck of cards it dispenses. We each get a chip and we have to figure out what to do with it. I feed chickens and tend a family of 7, plus a large number of patients who help us to make a living here on Cape Cod.
Chickens. Lots of them are still awaiting me this morning. Chores as simple as these define who we are on this green earth. And feeding them and tending them, making me a better person, and thereby complete the cycle of our dependence on nature. God is good, after all. The kingdom is not far from us.
Chickens
beckon. I have to go feed them now.
Do you want chickens?
Do you want chickens?
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