In Memoriam

Brief moments with my father in his final months.

June 5
My brother Nic updates me on Dad’s condition with metastatic cancer before we arrive home. The house is quiet when I enter. Dad sits in a maroon armchair and looks up:

“Byron?”
“爸爸, 我回家了.”

He holds my hands for a long time. It reminds me of when Toru Takemitsu met Igor Stravinsky. Takemitsu said that Stravinsky’s hands felt like gigantic marshmallows. Dad’s hands feel similarly kind and soft, even though he has lost more than 50 pounds since I saw him last.

June 15
My questions to Dad often go unanswered. Our interactions are instructions to move him from the bed, to his wheelchair, to the dining room table, to the maroon armchair, or to the bathroom. I find comfort by organizing.

Here are two shelves with jujubes, mushrooms, and other dried food placed into reused containers. My sister-in-law Kimi helps write the 汉字 as we organize shelves and label: Dried Food, Protein Powder, Empty Containers, Hot Pot Grill, Noodles, Canned Food, Snacks, Baking, Sauces and Seasoning, Baking, Oil, Drinks, Flour, Cleaning Supplies.

Oh, and the maroon armchair, he calls the “red chair.” This reminds me of the “red house” we sometimes lived in with a bunch of UW students when I was a child. Even though the house was maroon, we called it red.

June 30
Cones, moss, and seeds remind me of childhood walks growing up in the Pacific Northwest. I gather these as I walk around a suburbia surrounded by woodland areas. Dad stays inside all the time now. He won’t even let me open the door to look outside, so I bring him these natural treasures and he smiles.

July 1
To keep his mind active I ask him if he remembers any poems. Dad thinks, starts to write, then becomes frustrated when he can’t remember all the characters.

I find Quiet Night Thoughts (靜夜思 Jìng Yè Sī), by Li Bai (李白) online, so he can recite the entire poem. I ask if I can record him as he reads:

床前明月光
Chuáng qián míng yuè guāng
(bed forward bright moon light)

疑是地上霜
Yí shì dìshàng shuāng
(suspect is ground frost)

舉頭望明月
Jǔ tóu wàng míng yuè
(lift head see bright moon)

低頭思故鄉
Dītóu sī gùxiāng
(lower head think home village)

<a href="https://medium.com/media/ff784dc9efa539431e103e10c33f0fd8/href">https://medium.com/media/ff784dc9efa539431e103e10c33f0fd8/href</a>

Listening to him recite, I only understand a few words. Dad helped me with all the Chinese titles in my musical compositions. Language becomes a tenuous generational connection.

July 12
My friend Frank helps builds planter boxes from cedar planks. I tend tomatoes, cilantro, squash, cucumbers, peppers, and other vegetables and herbs with my stepmom. We ask Dad if he wants to sit in the garden, he shakes his head, no.

July 26
Wide-eyed Dad says he once knew an archaeology professor in Cairo. He tries to remember his name. I asked him if this could be Indiana Jones, and he exclaims, “That’s the guy!”

July 28
Initially it was: “1, 2, 3,” (lift, stand, balance, walk).

A few weeks later he starts to repeat the numbers: “1, 2, 3,” (lift), “1, 2, 3,” (stand), “1, 2, 3,” (step).

Now he repeats: “1, 2, 3, 4,” as I lift, he stands, then steps, gingerly with a quiet determination.

August 1
They look like boats and trees—folded paper from items Dad touched, such as rice cooker manuals and yellow pads. This reminds me of my 阿妈 folding paper joss ingot gold bars for 阿公.

August 4
“Who are you?”
“I’m Byron, 爸爸.”
“Oh… get me to bed?”
“But you just finished breakfast.”
“Get me to bed.”

15 hours later, Dad sleeps with his mouth wide open as if in awe. I wrap his bare feet in the comforter and he awakes.

“Byron, you’re here.”

We smile.

August 5
Dad shouts in his sleep, then opens his eyes.

“爸爸, who are you yelling at?”
“爸爸?”

He closes his eyes and snores.

August 6
He wiggles in the wheelchair.

“My butt hurts.”
“Do you want to lie down or sit in the red chair?”

Dad shakes his head, no.

“You’re sitting on two pillows, 爸爸.”

He stretches his neck, elongates his back, looks up, then crumples holding his head with his hand.

August 9
Relatives visit. They talk about Ensure Protein Drink. Dad asks for boiled water and tears paper napkins.

August 11
I fold envelopes containing medical information and notice patterns inside.

August 17
My stepmom says, “爸爸说有人洗了他的脸然后跑走了.”
(Bàba shuō yǒurén xǐle tā de liǎn ránhòu pǎo zǒule.)

“What?! Who washed Dad’s face, then ran?” I ask.
“An angel?” My 9-year-old nephew, Kenneth asks.
“Why would someone do that?” I wonder.
“Maybe 阿公’s face was dirty,” Kenneth offers.

August 20
Dad is in another phase of not eating. My stepmom continues to cook.

August 21
I fold magazines Dad had from 2011. They remind me of tree cones.

August 26
A full-electric hi-low hospital bed and alternating pressure pad is delivered. The pad fills with air. Dad lays down and smiles, “that feels good,” he says.

August 27
Dad sees a butterfly.

“I don’t see a butterfly, 爸爸.”
“Behind the napkin holder,” he points.

We look. I still don’t see a butterfly, so I imagine beautiful wings flying.

August 30
Dad goes for “a walk,” by nodding his head left or right with me pushing him in his wheelchair. We end up at the front door. Usually he would want to turn around, but this time he lets me open the door, then he looks outside.

“Does the warm air feel good, 爸爸?”
“It sure does,” he says.

He sits there for a long time. I notice evergreen trees behind homes across the street. They wave to us.

September 3
“Can I have coffee?” he asks.
“It’s 11 p.m., 爸爸. How about tomorrow?”

September 4
My stepmom brings Dad out in his wheelchair.

“Good morning, 爸爸.”
“Can I have coffee?” he asks.

I make a mug of coffee then pour a quarter of it into a small cup.

“This smells good,” he sips and smiles.

September 5
A new experience these past weeks is lifting Dad’s torso and legs into bed. There’s a heaviness touching the bones.

September 6
Dad passes away in the red chair. Family gathers before funeral home attendants arrive at 6 p.m. to take his body. My stepmom asks for a knit cap.

We run around the house and see only baseball caps. My brother Nic, finds a Seattle Seahawks cuffed knit hat with a gigantic pom pom. Will this work?

It will keep his head warm.

Later that night, my brothers, their significant others, and I look through photos from the 1980s. I find one of Dad waving good-bye.

Postscript
The day after Dad passes a moth appears in the house. For many Chinese and Filipino families, butterflies and moths represent the soul of the departed. The moth hangs out on the ceiling in the living room as my brothers and I watch a movie.

The next day, the moth sits on a wall overlooking the kitchen table. Kenneth asks if it is 阿公. I reply, yes.

Obituary
Mike Au Yong (1941–2021)

Mike (Kok Shu) Au Yong passed away at home surrounded by family on September 6, 2021. He was born in the Philippines in October 1941, to Au Yong Shu and Uy Kun Eng. His parents were teachers who fled Xiamen, China in 1938.

Mike’s niece Jocelyn writes: “My mom shares that Uncle Mike was extremely smart. When they were younger, he surprised everyone by winning 1st place in a competition he learned by himself because no one knew he entered the contest.”

Mike was the first in his family to immigrate to the United States. In the late 1960s, he studied at Seattle Central Community College, where a chemistry professor encouraged him to apply to the University of Washington. He received his M.S. in Chemical Engineering from the UW in 1969. Mike then attended the University of Pittsburgh, where he studied for a Ph.D.

He moved to Los Angeles in 1972, where he held various jobs before moving to Seattle and completing a real estate license to work as a commercial agent. In 1982 he married his second wife, Sheng Ming. A few years later, he moved his parents to the United States to live with them. The Au Yong household would include a number of extended family members as they completed school or transitioned to the United States. His nephew Eldy writes, “Uncle Mike was the bedrock and pillar of the family. He gave you the feeling that everything was going to be okay.”

After filing for Chapter 11 in 1989, Mike began work in construction management. He helped build commercial and multi-residential units in Lynnwood and Seattle. In 1998, Mike co-founded StoneWorld LLC to serve contractors, designers, and homeowners.

Mike was the most proud of his six sons. His son, Benjamin recalls their dad being strict. This was balanced with his great sense of humor and positive outlook on life. Benjamin’s wife Kimi writes:

“Family traditions were important to Mike. Some of our favorite memories include playing the dice game on Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋节), celebrating Chinese Lunar New Year (中国春节), and eating birthday noodles.”

His son Oliver writes: “Despite working six days a week, Dad found time to spend with everyone. He would play basketball with us and help us with homework. He watched Chinese shows with Mom and basketball, football, and even superhero cartoons, such as the Justice League, with us kids. Even after he stopped working, Dad continued to be sharp and competitive when we played board games together.”

In his spare time, Mike enjoyed playing basketball, reading Chinese literature, and watching Jackie Chan movies. Family members describe him as benevolent, calm, knowledgeable, generous, loving, scientific, and selfless. Mike’s nephew Gary writes, “He showed me what it means to give without asking for anything in return; what it means to be family.”

Mike is survived by his siblings Sutuan, Shan Shan, Robert, Shirley, and Sandra, along with his wife Sheng Ming, his sons Byron, Jenz, Nicoli, Benjamin, Oliver, and Jason, their significant others, as well as his grandson Kenneth.

A celebration of life will happen on Wednesday, September 15, 2021, at Acacia Memorial Park and Funeral Home in Seattle, WA.