Bedlets: Or, I Hope, the Last Time I'll Ever Blog About Bodily Functions

If you can't stomach a little toilet humor, feel free to skip this entry. Apologies in advance.

A while back, I wrote about my uncomfortable hospital bed. It was so hard and small that I had to put two together, which might have worked if they weren't an inch or two apart in height. During my three years here in Japan, I've had my fair share of experiences with beds.

Japanese people have traditionally slept on thin bedrolls called futons, which are much different than the futons I saw back home. Japanese futons aren't cheap, couch-like pieces of furniture that starving college students sleep on. They're basically 1 or 2 inch-thick mats that go on the tatami floors and are covered by some kind of sheet. People typically have a blanket--either a comforter a bit wider than the futon, or a beach towel-ish blanket called a towelket (a Japanese portmanteau of "towel" and "blanket"). While many people have adopted western-style beds, the majority still use futons, due in part to a lack of space in Japanese homes. Beds take up a lot of space, and can't be stuffed into the closet during the day to open up a room.

As a solution, many Japanese people purchase sofa beds. They aren't like the old sofa beds I knew growing up, where the bed folds away into a cavity underneath the couch cushions. Instead, they are typically low to the ground (like most Japanese furniture intended for sitting) and have adjustable backs, which can change from what's close to a 90% angle to a fully reclined, flat position. While not as comfortable as a pillow-top mattress with a box spring, they are often more comfortable than just sleeping on the glorified blanket otherwise known as a futon.

Last year, when Mom and Rory came to visit, they bought a sofa bed at Hard Off, a thrift store chain with a well-stocked location close to our apartment. It was a bit of a tight fit for them, but they managed to sleep better than they would have on the futons we had provided. When they left, we tried to use it as a bed, but it was a little too narrow for our liking. If we had another one about the same height, we figured, we could put them together, lay some futons on top of them, and basically have a California king bed in our room. It worked in theory.

When we actually got the second sofa bed and got it home, we found that it was actually about three inches higher than the old one. No problem, we thought. All we had to do was put another futon or two on lower one, and they'd be just about even. Doing just that, we made it work for a while, though one side of the massive bed was always firmer than the other. Eventually we got tired of the complete lack of space in our bedroom and decided that a change was in order.

We put the firmer and taller of the two sofa beds up into sofa position, and pushed it against the paper doors (partly to hide the giant holes that our kids ripped in them), moving the other one up against the base of it. We stacked the futons on to make it level, and put our pillows on the sofa section. While that configuration was quite wide, it unfortunately wasn't long enough for me. I even tried a diagonal position, but my feet always ended up on the ground. I felt like Ned from One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.

Who am I? My name is Ned.

I do not like my little bed.

This is no good.

This is not right.

My feet stick out of bed all night.

And when I pull them in, Oh, dear!

My head sticks out of bed up here!

We ended up sleeping vertically on the lower bed, with one of us lying up against the crevice between the two beds. It was actually quite comfortable. When Mom came out last month, however, we gave her the lower bed back and kept the other one in sofa form, electing to sleep directly on the futons. It's not so bad--we sleep pretty well most of the time.

We find it a hassle to put our futons away every day, so we leave them out. This attracts all sorts of dirt and crumbs from the kids, which gets quite annoying. Also frustrating is the fact that it's much harder to get out of a bed that's laying directly on the floor than one that you can just roll out of.

Japanese people customarily sit directly on tatami (or on a zabuton, an inch-thick square mat), which I can't stand, having grown up with plush carpet and comfortable sofas. With kids, I have to be ready to get up and help at the drop of a hat. It's difficult for me to do that when I'm laying or sitting on the ground. Being such a tall guy, it takes precisely 3.74 seconds for my brain to communicate to my heart that it actually needs some blood to function. Getting up too quickly causes me to black out; I don't actually faint, but everything goes black and I momentarily lose my inhibitions. Just ask Stef or Mom--I say some pretty silly stuff in the 5-some seconds before the blood makes it to my brain.

Stef and I both agree that it will be nice to have furniture once we get back. Couches, comfortable beds, and carpet--these are all things for which the typical ex-pat yearns. We are no exception. It's neat that, as a whole, the Japanese cherish their past. But it seems so striking that in this country where technology is king, people still sleep on the floor and have paper doors.

Then there's the issue of toilets. Ah, toilets--perhaps the most stark reminder of Japan's dual nature. On one side, you've got squatters. Holes in the ground. Holes in the ground above which you must squat. There's no way to lessen the stomach-churning imagery that arises when you think of or say the word "squatter."

We've got an old apartment, so we're stuck with a squatter. It's actually a step up from the ground, and there's a good 3 feet between the step and the far wall, so we were able to use a plastic seat and convert it to a western-style toilet. It's not quite as comfortable as a standard toilet in America, but it's better than a hole in the ground.

Our friend Paul, who lives in the same building, is not so lucky. He's got the same configuration, minus about 2 feet of space. He's only got about a foot, so it's quite inconvenient for him to use. The following, I believe, was meant to be included in One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish:

Who am I? My name is Paul.
I do not like my little stall.
This is no good.
This is not right,
It's really hard to pee at night.
And when I sit, it's knees-on-wall.
I do not like my stall at all.

Most business establishments these days have a western style toilet or two to go along with the squatters, but there are still plenty of places that have yet to upgrade. Typically, if there's no western style toilet, you can just hold it until you get somewhere else. On a train, however, there's nowhere else to go. I was once faced with the misfortune of having to use a squatter on a train. It's what I believe Sam I Am was referring to when he asked:

A train! A train!
A train! A train!
Could you, would you on a train?

No. You couldn't. You wouldn't. On a train. If there's one thing worse than having to use a squatter, it's having to use a squatter on a train. Or genocide. That's also worse. Or shredding the roof of your mouth on dozens of tiny, whole dried fish that you're forced to eat in front of the children. Okay, so there are a lot of things that are worse than using a squatter. But still, pray that you never have to use a squatter on a train.

On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've got RoboToilet (the official name is Washlet, another portmanteau). While I was staying with Mia at the hospital, I became intimately acquainted with a toilet which, if we're not careful, could likely end up enslaving the world. When I walked in the bathroom, the toilet would sense my presence and open the top lid, ready to do business. With the simple press of a button on a separate, radio-controlled panel, I could tell it that I wasn't ready for any complicated transactions and just needed it to open all the way. When the transaction was complete, it would automatically flush, and then close after a few minutes, lest it accidentally close business in the middle of a transaction.

Some of RoboToilet's other features include water sprays with adjustable trajectories and pressure levels, as well a heated seat. It's really strange to see such an advanced toilet in one place, and then in the same hospital, have a hole in the ground. No matter how many times I use the latter, it doesn't grow on me.

That's not to say that RoboToilet is perfect. RoboToilet is so environmentally conscious that the limited space inside can cause friction in our relationship. Sometimes, at night, I'm so tired that my marksmanship takes a serious hit. As a courtesy to Stef and other people living with me, I choose to sit. With RoboToilet's auto-flush feature, the lack of "depth" toward the front of the bowl leads to some serious breaches of trust. On more than one occasion, RoboToilet decided to finish the transaction early, causing an unexpected flow of frigid water to parts best left unmentioned.

Another inconvenient part of Japanese bathrooms is the need to switch shoes. People here are always switching shoes--when you walk into a home or school, you take off your shoes and put on slippers or other shoes that you only use indoors. When you go to the bathroom, however, you have to change out of the indoor shoes and into some bathroom slippers, which are always way too small for my feet. Sometimes, when the kids are cleaning the bathrooms during their designated cleaning time, they hose down the slippers as well, making for a happy little surprise when you slip your nice, dry socks into them.

Alas, school bathrooms are pretty much the worst part about working at a school. I love kids. I can deal with rowdiness. Most everything about working at schools in Japan has become enjoyable. But bathrooms remain the most difficult challenge for me. Why? It starts with the doors.

Elementary school bathrooms rarely have doors. Anyone can and will watch you go to the bathroom. There are no half-walls to buffer each urinal, and the urinals are in plain view from the doorway, which is in the main hallway. Coworkers and students, both male and female, can see you using the urinal.

To make things worse, the bathrooms for both boys and girls sometimes have the same entrance. You switch into slippers, and then go straight into the urinals right in front of you, or go around the corner to the girls' bathroom if you're female. Either way, you've got to put the slippers on in front of a row of peeing boys. That's got to be uncomfortable for the girls.

Because they're built not just for kids, but Japanese kids, they're extremely short. So short, in fact, that the top of the flusher handle, which is connected to a pipe about 5 inches above the top of the urinal, is lower than my waist. Since I'm so tall, the only way to "hide myself" from the world is to bend my knees and hunch over. Not even this keeps kids from wanting to watch me go.

Today, I was being mobbed by a crowd of excited first graders, when I realized that I had to go to the bathroom. When some of the kids seemed ready to follow me in, I elected to use the squatter stall, even if it wasn't necessary. It was not the first time I've done that--I value my privacy.

At one of my schools, we have a couple kids with learning disabilities, including one boy with Down Syndrome. One time, while I discretely used the bathroom, this sweet boy, with absolutely no ill intentions, walked right up to me and started watching me. I asked him to let me be alone for a minute, to which he responded by sticking his face up near the small space between me and the porcelain. I was so shocked by this that I stopped what I was doing, picked him up and moved him out of the bathroom, and sharply told him to return to his class.

Another time, at the same school, a different kid from the special education class (which is directly adjacent to the bathroom) came and started chatting with me while I was trying to use the bathroom.

"Hey! It's Jesse-Sensei!"

"Yep. That's me."

"Whoa, you're tall!"

"Yep. Mind if I have a moment here?"

"So, anything come out yet?"

"Not yet. And it probably won't if you're watching me. Would you please leave me be for a moment?"

Japan's openness about using the bathroom has been eye-opening. Women have no problem discussing their level of regularity--it's a common topic of conversation. I can't count how many children's books I've seen that focus on using the toilet. Everyone Poops, perhaps the most famous children's book on the subject, was originally written in Japanese. They openly talk to kids about what they need to do to ensure that the plumbing works properly.

That's not necessarily such a bad thing--it's just so different than everything I've ever known. The only time I ever feel comfortable talking about the subject is when I'm discussing my baby's diapers or children who have wet the bed. Incidentally, as I took a short break from writing this last paragraph to change my son's diaper, he peed all over me and my bed for the first time ever. Maybe the Japanese know what they're doing. Perhaps one day, the Japanese will invent the bedlet. I know my kids would use one.

Mia's Surgery Date

Mia's surgery was scheduled for the morning of April 21st. Stef got a ride to the hospital from Kris that morning, then came to Mia's room to hang out before the surgery. The doctors came soon after she got there, then ushered us to a room which acted like a hub between the surgery rooms and the main hall. We took a picture with Mia, then sent her off with the surgical team, telling her that we'd see her in a while. She showed no signs of being upset, though she surely had no idea what was going to happen, except that the doctors were going to "fix her heart".

We made our way back to Mia's room, where a pregnant Stef decided to pass the time resting. With Mia out of sight and in the doctors' hands, there was no way that I would get any rest, regardless of how tired I was from not sleeping at all the night before. Wanting to find some way to pass the time, I opened my computer and called family on Skype. It was nice to distract myself with uplifting conversation with people I love.

Even when you're able to distract yourself, you can never fully get an in-progress surgery out of your mind. I tried to stay positive, but even then, I still envisioned each gut-wrenching step of the process. About 45 minutes to an hour into the procedure, I thought, "Right now, she is probably fully prepped for the start of the procedure." I prayed that everything would go smoothly in each particular step of the surgery. That the surgeons' hands would be precise. That the heart bypass machine would work properly. That she wouldn't bleed too much and need a transfusion. 5 hours of doing that can seem like an eternity.

Before the surgery, Mia and I repeatedly watched a couple movies--Mary Poppins, and My Neighbor Totoro. Both movies focus on the innocence of children and their relationship with their father. In Totoro, two young girls who live with their dad while their mom is hospitalized run around and explore their new surroundings in rural Japan, letting their imaginations run wild. Before the surgery, Mia and Kelsey would run around and play together, much like Satsuki and Mei from Totoro, albeit a bit younger. Totoro became a big part of my life while in the hospital with Mia, as she would ask to watch it multiple times each day.

"What do you want to do?" I'd ask.
"I wanna watch... I wanna wanna watch.. Totoro!" she'd reply, likely looking for some sense of familiarity while stuck in such a strange setting.

It was either that or, "I wanna wanna watch... Mary Poppins!"
"Oh, you want to watch Mary Poppins again?"
"Yeah! Mary Poppins!"

I probably watched Mary Poppins thirty times while Mia was in the hospital, and I never got tired of it. The timeless music, performances, and themes of childhood, parenthood, compassion, and responsibility resonate with me. I can relate to the banker father who needs to be more loving and compassionate with his children. Causing me to reflect on the times when I've been less patient or understanding with my kids than I should be, watching Mary Poppins gave me ample time to consider how I can be a better dad.

Both movies provided me with plenty of chances to stave off thoughts of how I would deal with the loss of a child. While waiting for her surgery to end, I couldn't help but hope and pray for a time when Mia and I could do simple things together, like watch a movie. I will never be able to watch either movie, or hear a single song from them without being reminded of the profound love I feel toward my children. I hope they do and always will know that I love them.

The doctor contacted us about an hour and a half before I had expected. Mia's surgery had finished without any complications, and she was recovering in the ICU. He invited us to take a look at her. They said she'd likely spend a couple days in the ICU before being transferred back to the PHCU room where she had been before the operation.

In the ICU, Mia was sedated on a hospital bed with various tubes going into her chest, throat, and inner thigh. They left the breathing machine on for the first while so that she could ease back into using her lungs. The doctor showed us the incision on her chest, which he had intentionally made smaller than usual, and was quite a bit smaller than I had anticipated. She hadn't lost much blood during the operation, and so they hadn't needed to perform a blood transfusion (and wouldn't need to, provided that she didn't develop dangerous levels of anemia).

Stef and I asked permission to take a picture of her, then left so that they could keep administering her post-surgery treatment.

The day before Mia's surgery, I had made arrangements to stay at a special housing place for family members of patients. We expected her to be in the ICU for two nights, the second of which I would spend at the family housing place. Making arrangements was actually quite the ordeal. They sent a representative to the PHCU before the surgery to meet with me and verify with the hospital staff that my child was actually hospitalized. After filling out multiple forms (seriously, how involved does it have to be?), the housing rep explained that I'd need to contact them again during business hours the day I was going to stay. They wanted to show me exactly how to get to the building, and weren't content with drawing a map.

The next day, I had an appointment at the insurance center in Imabari, so Stef and I planned to go back home after the surgery. The hospital staff had given me information about supplemental aid from the city for children who have surgery or disabilities, and I had to go back to fill out paperwork. My appointment was set for 1 in the afternoon, so it was doubtful that I'd be back in time to meet up with the housing people. Given that I would need a place to sleep the next night, I was pretty stressed about making it back in time.

On the way out to the train station, Dr. Fumiaki Shikata, one of the members of the surgical team, accompanied us. He wanted to point us in the direction of the family housing complex, but actually ended up taking me directly to it. I called the housing rep and explained that I knew exactly where it was, and asked them to leave the key at the front desk of the PHCU.

In the end, it was all moot. The next morning, the doctor called to tell me that Mia was recovering quickly and was ready to be transferred back to the PHCU after just one night in the ICU. Also, I don't know how necessary it was to get that aid, since Mia's hospital bills are fully covered until age 6 by our Japanese health insurance. Even though I may have wasted a few hundred yen and some time, it was certainly nice to sleep in my own bed that night.

I needed the rest for what was about to come.

Leading Up to Surgery

We checked in on April 18th, had some tests on that day and the 19th, and met with the surgeons on the 19th. April 21st was the scheduled surgery date, and they needed to monitor Mia for a few days before hand and go through all of the insurance paperwork. The 20th was supposed to be a relaxing day, but it was quite possibly the most stressful day of my entire life.

The night of the 19th was a long one. The day before, Mia had some tests scheduled for the afternoon, so the doctors made her skip her nap so that she would be asleep when they wanted to do the tests. They gave her medicine at 4 in the afternoon, but it was taking some time to kick in. Had they been willing to wait a few more minutes, she would have fallen asleep; they instead gave her a second dose of the sleeping medicine, and she was out at 4:30. She slept for 5 hours, waking up at 9:30 and not sleeping until after midnight, meaning that no matter how tired I was, I couldn't sleep until after then. I ended up getting about three hours of sleep that night.

In order to keep tabs on Mia's vitals, they hooked her up to a bunch of different devices, including a heart monitor, an oxygen sensor, and an IV drip. She was very calm throughout everything, and didn't even cry when they took blood. The nurses were all very impressed with her toughness. The hardest part about having her hooked up to all the tubes was that she still had a ton of energy and wanted to run faster than I could move the equipment.

The PHCU had a play area with a padded floor and some books for kids to read, with a mural of fish on the wall. Mia would run over to the fish and tell me which fish was Mia's fish, which was Kelsey's fish, which was Daddy's fish, and which was Mommy's fish. Something about the fish must have reminded her of us, because she was very consistent about whose fish was which. The hallway leading from the main hospital wing to the PHCU was lined with colorful decals of human feet, which Mia liked to call "duck feet", in reference to "I Wish That I Had Duck Feet", a book we own which was written by Dr. Seuss under the pen name of Theo LeSieg and illustrated by someone else. Up until the surgery date, we could go on walks anywhere in the hospital--after the surgery, we'd have to stay in the PHCU and couldn't go past the "duck feet".

When I wasn't taking Mia around for different tests or going on walks, I was hanging around the room with Mia looking to rest. This was next to impossible, as nurses and doctors kept popping their heads in the room to explain some other disclosure or give me more Japanese paperwork to fill out. Doctors even brought medical students by to see the American patient. I'm sure that it's common for the students to visit patients, but it seemed a bit odd when, on the day before the surgery, more than 25 people (not including me or Mia) all crammed into our small room to see Mia. When you haven't slept for a few days and you're expecting a day of relaxation, it's a bit unnerving to have to deal with a constant stream of people you weren't expecting to have to see.

The talk with the chief surgeon was frightening. He is a very nice man and was very eager to make me feel comfortable, but it's hard to be totally at peace when you are hearing about the dangers of open heart surgery. No matter how hard you try to push the thought of tragedy out of your mind--regardless of the greater-than-98% success rate of the surgery--it's impossible as a parent not to worry that your child might fall into the "less than two percent" of ASD surgery patients who don't make it. When the doctor explains how the heart-lung machine works, and that it will be necessary for them to physically stop your child's heart, there's nothing that can you can do to completely eliminate worry and stress.

Sparing no details, he explained the procedure from start to finish. The procedure itself would take three or four hours from start to finish, with about an hour of preparation time sandwiched around the surgery. First, they would make an incision in her chest, and then cut the sternum underneath to reach the heart. After hooking her up to the heart-lung machine and making an incision in the heart, they would search for the hole, stitch it shut, and then close her up again. He explained the risks of each stage of the surgery and mentioned that about 80% of those who receive ASD surgery require a blood transfusion, which in and of itself carried all sorts of risks.

Of course, they needed me to give my consent for everything, and I was quick to provide it. Anything that they needed to do to help Mia, I thought, was fair game. The nurses and doctors kept asking me if Stef was going to be there on the surgery date, and I kept answering that she would as long as she didn't go into labor. The last thing I wanted was for the stress of everything to cause Stef to go into premature labor again, so I did everything I could to shoulder all the stress. I even avoided telling Stef that they would have to stop Mia's heart for the procedure. In retrospect, it was silly to think that she wouldn't already know, given her medical background. The thought of Stef not being able to be with me during Mia's surgery and me not being with Stef for the birth was just too much, so I did all I could to remain positive.

The night before the surgery, Mia started a fast so that there wouldn't be any excess waste in her body, which can interfere with surgery. She wasn't very hungry for dinner that night, but I painstakingly fed her every last bite, knowing that she might not get to eat for a while.

When your daughter is going to have major surgery, it's impossible to look at even simple events in the same way. You don't know if it's going to be the last time you feed her dinner, read her a book, tickle her, sing a song to her, or go on a walk. Every moment becomes one to cherish--you just want to hold on to her and never let go. But there comes a time when you have to put her fate in the hands of the surgical staff and hope. And pray.

The night before the surgery, during our nightly family Skype call, Stef seemed a bit upset. She was having contraction-like pain and was afraid that the baby might come early. While talking to Stef, I kept a level head and suggested that she head in to her doctor to make sure that it wasn't labor contractions. After all, it's better to get sent home for a false alarm than not go when you need to and have nobody to take you. We called the clinic, and they said that, based on her symptoms, it was likely that they would admit her to the clinic to have the baby. We were crushed. I remained positive on the phone, hoping to calm Stef's nerves--but once I got off the phone, I was a wreck.

I needed someone there with me. I needed Stef there. All I could do was plead on my hands and knees that Stef's doctor would send her back home. I walked to the nurse station and fought back tears as I told them that Stef might not be able to come for Mia's surgery. Though I was terrified, I didn't want to call her and seem anxious about the whole situation, as that wouldn't exude the confidence that I was trying to project. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, I got a call from Stef--she was coming home!

Excited, I informed the nurses of the development and went back to my room to get on my knees and offer thanks that Stef was OK. As I sobbed with gratitude, letting my emotions spill out, a nurse came into the room to ask me something. I sprung to my feet and hit the pause button on my prayer, and finished it after the nurse left the room. She asked if I was OK before she left, and I explained that I was just thanking God that everything was OK.

I prayed a lot that night, as well as the next day--Mia's surgery date.

The Hospital Room

The night before leaving for the hospital, I packed a large suitcase full of clothes, books, toys and personal electronics. I figured I'd have a decent amount of time for language study while Mia recovered in her hospital room. I tried to get all of the paperwork ready, but couldn't find Mia's insurance card, which I had last seen at Mia's previous hospital appointment weeks earlier. Hours of combing through every nook and cranny of our apartment proved futile, so I called the hospital help line and made sure that we'd be able to check in without our insurance card.

The next morning, Kris, our Canadian friend and neighbor, drove me and Mia out to the hospital. We took a mountain road which I had never taken before, and got to the hospital in good time. Kris held Mia as I checked in and tried to explain to the receptionist that I had lost the insurance card. As grateful as I was for Kris' help, I admit that it felt a little strange to feel everyone's eyes on us, likely thinking that we were a couple. Once everything was sorted out, they directed us to the 3rd wing of the second floor of the hospital, the Pediatric High Care Unit.

In Japan, any child's non-ICU hospital stay requires a parent or guardian to stay with the child at all times. There's no full care like there is back home. While I'm sure that helps keep costs low, it sure is nerve-wracking to feel like your own child's well-being while in the hospital is in your hands--especially when you're not sleeping or stressed out for other reasons (which I'll get to later). When I got to the PHCU, I talked to the nurse at the front desk, who offered to show us to our room.

Kris had told me that each of her children got private rooms when they had procedures done at that hospital and stayed in the PHCU. When the nurse ushered us into a room with four sliding curtains to section off "rooms", I started sweating. It got worse when one of the three other patients staying in the room, a little girl under two years of age, started screaming. I looked at the space available in the curtained-off section and my nervousness turned to despair.

There was no way that a bed large enough to fit me would fit into that space. Even if there were a way, there would be no way that I could sleep for two to three weeks with nothing more than a curtain to separate us from potentially three crying children. More importantly, there was no way that Mia would feel comfortable in such a setting.

"This will not work. There is no way. No way," I repeated to myself and Kris as I desperately searched for a solution to the plan. I went to the PHCU desk and asked the head nurse if there were any private rooms available. I was willing to pay if it came down to it. I referred to the hospital information guide that I had received at the front desk, which contained info about private rooms starting at 3000 yen per night. "Sorry, there aren't any of those left," replied the nurse. Not willing to let things be unless they absolutely had to, I mustered the best "worried" face I could and mentioned that I thought that it "might be a bit difficult" to make that room work. The nurse walked away and, after a few minutes, came back with a solution--a private room that was completely empty, but was being used for some other purpose. To top it off, it didn't cost me any extra.

Why they weren't using that room wasn't exactly clear--it's possible that they keep all the patients in the same room to make it easier for them to keep watch. Regardless, I was grateful that they were willing to accomodate me, even if it was clear that I was seen as a bit of a nuisance. After I moved all of our stuff into the private room and said goodbye to Kris, I went down to the basement floor of the hospital to get my bed.

When you stay with a patient, you have to rent all your bedding from the hospital. They won't let you bring any sort of bedroll or blankets, and they clearly make money off of the whole process. Knowing this beforehand, I decided to bring a blanket and pillow anyway, because I knew that I'd have a hard time sleeping on the bags full of rocks that they call pillows. I told the lady down at the bedding rental desk that I didn't need anything but the bed, and they gave me a six foot-long plywood foldout mat with sliver-thin vinyl facing masquerading as a cushion.

There's a problem with six foot-long plywood foldout mats with sliver-thin vinyl facing--and not just that they're as hard as a rock and less broad than my shoulders. They're six feet long. And I'm longer. Much longer. I set it up in the room and tested it to see if I'd be able to sleep on it, and immediately knew that I was in for a rough three weeks. I sheepishly asked the nurse if there was any other solution, and mentioned that I was willing to pay for anything suitable. They brought me another folding bed like the one I had, and told me that they wouldn't charge me for it. I placed them side-by-side and saw that one was about an inch taller than the other. I couldn't lay in the middle of them because of the ridge, so laying diagonally across both beds was the only option, and even that didn't seem to be very comfortable.

I brought my laptop with me hoping that I'd be able to get an internet connection. The hospital offers an free wired connection from 6 AM until 9 PM, outside of which hours you get a message telling you that you need to come back later. When I hooked my computer up, I couldn't even get the welcome screen to pop up. The room truly had not been set up for patient use, so the internet was not yet functional. They sent a networking expert down to get the room set up for future internet use. We spent about an hour trying to get the connection up and running, but couldn't seem to get the network to issue an IP address in that room.

That afternoon, Mia had some tests, including a blood test, a heart ultrasound (echocardiogram), and a chest X-ray. I had to leave to take care of that, but told them that they could work on it without me there if they so desired. When we got back from the tests, the computer was connected to the hospital network's welcome screen, ready for me to enter in a username and password. I was ecstatic to have an internet connection, but sure that I wouldn't be able to Skype, since I figured that it the hospital blocked the ports necessary to use it. To my surprise, even Skype worked.

I feel really fortunate to live in this day and age, where I can talk to and even see people that are far away as though they're right next to me. It was a life saver to be able to see Kelsey and Stef, and have them video chat with Mia. As long as it wasn't after 9 PM or before 6 AM. There must have been someone manually flipping an internet switch every morning and night, because I got the "outside of usage hours" message all the way until about 6:45 AM every day, and it didn't actually get disconnected until some time around 9:45 at night. It would have been nice to have the connection all the time, because I typically couldn't get much done while Mia was awake. When I had the most free time for study or blogging, the internet was unavailable. Still, I'm glad that I had it during the day, as it helped to keep me occupied for the first couple of weeks.

That first night was not a good night. All out of medicine for my rhino-sinusitis (Latin for "inflammation of the rhinoceros horn stuck in your face") and unable to take my mind off of Mia's surgery and the craggy "bed", I did not sleep at all until about 5 AM, when I became so exhausted from the previous day's events that I could have slept on a bed of nails, broken glass and hot lava. Surprisingly, Mia slept through the night in her unfamiliar surroundings. I was expecting a bit more resistance from her in her prison cell hospital bed. The nurses came in at 7:30 to get us up for the day. We had more tests (including a CT scan) on the docket, as well as a meeting with the chief surgeon to explain the procedure and all its possible risks and outcomes.

During that meeting, he asked me if there were any worries or concerns I had. I admitted that I was worried about whether or not I'd be able to sleep well, since the bed was a bit small and I was out of medicine, but shrugged my shoulders and said that I'd keep on keepin' on. He asked for my height and then asked the nurse to help me find something more comfortable. They pulled an electric examination table out of one of the exam room and asked if that would be sufficient. It was just long enough, quite a bit wider, and actually had a cushion. I was thrilled--it was much better than what I had before.

I felt a little guilty about asking for stuff when the other patients' parents made do with what they were offered. I apologized profusely for inconveniencing the staff, but deep down, I was glad that I went to the trouble of asking for help. It's often true that the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

Mia Admitted to the Hospital

On April 13, I got an e-mail from Mia's doctor at the university hospital in Matsuyama. We had been waiting to hear about her heart surgery, and began to worry that we might have to get it done after the move back to America. I had sent an extremely polite Japanese e-mail to the doctor about five weeks earlier, but didn't hear back. Tired of waiting, I contacted Mia's doctor at the local hospital and asked him for his opinion. He promised to contact the other doctor and have him contact me. A couple days later, I got this response: "How does next week sound?"

Just five days later, on April 18th, we admitted Mia to the hospital for heart surgery.

The few days leading up to her hospital stay were jam-packed with stress. First, I had to notify the board of education and each of my schools that I wouldn't be coming in to work for the next few weeks. Having previously verified that I had a month's worth of paid time off saved up, I was surprised when my request was met with a bit of resistance. One person even asked me why I didn't just have my wife stay with Mia. My wife. My 34 weeks' pregnant, non-Japanese speaking wife. Not likely.

We figured we'd know about the surgery at least a month in advance, since we would need multiple visits in order to store enough of Mia's own blood in case she needed it during or after surgery. The doctors, however, felt that having blood drawn in and of itself was taxing for a toddler, so they opted to just bypass that step and use someone else's blood in the event of a transfusion.

(Edit: May 24) Bear with me as I jump around over the next few entries. I'll try to keep everything in chronological order, but I'm going off of sparse notes that I kept while in the hospital.

Mia's ASD Procedure

A few weeks ago, we took Mia in to see her doctor here in Imabari. She hadn't been to the doctor for a while, but we wanted to them to take a look at her heart to see how it was doing. A chest x-ray showed an enlarged heart, taking up over 60% of the width of the chest cavity. Optimally it should be less than 50%.

Mia was born with atrial septal defect, a hole in her heart that allows blood to flow between the left and right atria. We've had to keep watch on the hole to make sure it doesn't get too big. Since the beginning, we've known that she'd likely need some kind of heart procedure before starting grade school. There are two procedures that can close the hole in the septum, and the size and location of the hole dictate which of the two procedures will be done. The first one, available to children of almost any size, is a traditional form of open heart surgery, where an incision is made and the hole is patched. The second, less risky procedure, involves running a catheter up to the heart with an expanding umbrella-like device that plugs the hole.

We stayed a third year because the doctors told us that she should be able to get the procedure done once she reached 22 pounds, which is about what she weighs right now. When we took Mia in a few months ago, they casually mentioned that she could possibly get the procedure once she hit 33 pounds. Needless to say, we were upset, since there's no way she'll be 33 pounds by the time we leave. However, they said that the hole didn't seem to be getting any bigger, so we were somewhat relieved, holding on to the hope that the hole might close on its own without any intervention.

Having not visited the hospital for a good while, we were a bit surprised when we saw the size of her heart. The doctor, fearing that the hole might have widened, suggested that we set up an appointment for Ehime University Hospital, where they did her heart exams in the past. When we went in for her appointment, we found that the hole has gotten bigger. The doctors think that it would be best for her to get the surgery in the next year or two, and unfortunately don't think it will be possible for her to get the catheter procedure.

The procedure itself takes a few hours, but they figure she'll need about 5 days of preparatory hospitalization before the surgery, and a 2-3 weeks' stay after the procedure. There's a 0.5% mortality rate in Japan for ASD surgery--we feel confident that Mia will be OK. We definitely want to get it done before we move back home, since the procedure itself would be free in Japan, given Mia's age. I still haven't lined up a job for when I return, so it's unclear how long it'll take for us to be insured and able to cover such an operation. But now that we've given them the green light on the surgery, we're faced with a few problems (other than the obvious ones associated with risks and recovery).

The first is that we still don't know when they'll be able to carry out the procedure. About a month ago, when we had the appointment, they mentioned that there might be openings for surgery in April or May, and that they'd let us know. I've e-mailed, but they haven't been able to give me any sort of detailed response--just the run around. It's doubtful that something as important as approving a heart surgery would be processed very quickly in Japan. If it takes two or three seals of approval every time I get my $10 ferry tickets, I'd imagine that it takes the approval of various doctors at several different levels of authority.

Additionally, Mia will need to visit the hospital twice to have blood taken for use in the operation--the first visit being four weeks before the procedure, and the second two weeks later. They'll also have to insert a catheter to find out if they need to take any other precautions during the surgery. The later we find out, the later the procedure will actually take place. My contract ends on July 28th or so, which is about when we'd like to head back to the 'States. We'd need her to get the procedure done with enough time to get her post-surgery checkups and medication done here in Japan.

The second issue is that Stef is currently due to give birth on June 2nd--less than three months from now. We'd prefer to not have Mia hospitalized while Stef is giving birth. This also means that I'd likely need to be the one to stay with Mia in the hospital in Matsuyama. I'm not looking forward to the idea of being away from Stef while she's close to giving birth. My mom is coming out here around mid May and stay for a few weeks. We're hoping she'll be able to help out a bit with the baby while she's here.

I wasn't sure if I'd have enough vacation time available to take a couple weeks off to be in the hospital with Mia, and my supervisor told me that they wouldn't give me any special paid leave for my daughter's procedure or the birth of my child. According to my contract, it's possible for them to give me paid leave whenever they feel it's appropriate--like they did on the island when Mia was born. However, there's just too much bureaucracy, as well as a general uneasiness for all dealings relating to foreign employees out here. Even though my supervisor would like to help, his supervisors won't let him. I don't blame them--our contract has a lot of clauses that they themselves might not have in theirs, so it probably doesn't seem fair to give special treatment to the foreigners.

In the end, it all might be moot, since I was told by my helpful and supportive supervisor that I'll actually have my PTO clock reset in April, replenishing my balance of 20 days' worth, in addition to the 10 or 12 unused days that I'll be carrying over. When it's all said and done, I'll have enough PTO left that I could take a whole month off if I so needed. That was a pleasant surprise, though I'll be careful not to abuse the privilege of having so much PTO. The last thing I want to do is make life inconvenient for my coworkers just so that I can be comfortable. That said, I'll use what I need to use.

These last few months are going to be pretty busy. We're certainly not taking Mia's condition or the surgery lightly. But we feel good about her getting the procedure here, as long as we can work out the schedule.

Mia herself seems so happy, and she's developing so quickly. She shows an amazing capacity for music and language--she's been singing her ABCs for months, and she's able to string strikingly complex sentences together. She and Kelsey like to make up songs, improvising melodies and creating their own lyrics to narrate what's going on around them--something that I did while was growing up (and still do). Naturally, Mia's also quite a handful, being in the "terrible twos" stage and all. We feel very blessed to have such cute little girls in our family, and look forward to watching both of them grow up together.

Earthquake and Tsunami in Japan

With all of the commotion in Japan, some of my loyal reader (singular) might want an update on our situation. First off, we're safe at home in Imabari, which wasn't really affected by the quake or the tsunami. Now that that's out of the way, here's how I saw it unfold.

At about 2:20 yesterday, I finished teaching my final class of the day and went back to the staff room to study kanji characters. While I was plugging away, a call came in telling us that there had just been a massive earthquake in northern Japan, and that we should turn on the news for more information. I was so wrapped up in my study that I didn't really notice what was going on. I had heard about an earthquake in Japan sometime in the last week, so I figured the images that were being shown on TV was archive footage.

My desk is across the room from the TV, so I couldn't hear all the details, but I could see from headlines and subtitles that it was actually more recent. The few teachers that were with me in the staff room surmised that the magnitude was probably somewhere in the 6.0-7.0 range on the Richter scale. I pricked up my ears--knowing that such an earthquake could potentially be very serious--and opened my web browser to get more information. At this point, they were reporting a magnitude of 7.9.

To put such force in perspective, the Kobe quake of 1995 which claimed over 6000 lives and caused over $100 billion in damage was measured between 6.8 and 7.2. The Richter scale has a logarithmic base of 10, meaning that for every 1 point increase, the amplitude of the seismic waves is actually ten times greater. The amplitude of a 7.9 quake is 10 times higher than that of a 6.9 quake.

Yesterday's quake has actually been measured at 8.9, meaning that its amplitude was actually 100 times that of a 6.9 quake. The direct damage from earthquake was somewhat mitigated by the fact that the epicenter of the quake was 80-some miles off the coast of Japan, whereas the Kobe quake was about 12 miles from Kobe. While the earthquake damage doesn't look to be as bad as that of the Kobe quake, we still don't understand the extent of the damage caused by the resulting tsunami, which has frankly been the most terrifying part of the whole ordeal (I say this having not experienced the earthquake firsthand).

Back in the staff room, we started to get a picture of the sheer force released by the earthquake. NHK's live feed showed the scene in Iwate prefecture, where cars slowly drifted alongside boats. Warnings of a tsunami over thirty feet high started popping up for various prefectures, and the tension in our office started to build up. The number of people glued to the TV grew as each teacher came back from class, until about thirty people crowded the front area of the staff room.

Worry and concerned curiosity quickly turned to horror as the live feed switched to a helicopter shot of Sendai, where a monstrous wave of debris swept cars, trucks, and houses away, each becoming a new part of an increasingly dangerous wall of unstoppable destruction. Stifled shouts of "Oh, no!" and "This is horrible!" bounced around the staff room as cars and trucks attempting to outrun the reckless wave vanished in an instant. The drivers didn't stand a chance. I can't shake the image of a man standing on the high point of a raised road, on the back of a flat-bed semi truck, pacing back and forth as the tsunami approaches. It seemed to slightly change course at the last minute, possibly sparing the man's life. The TV station cut to a different camera before we could see what happened.

As I watched the peaceful farmland of Sendai disappear as it was engulfed by the tsunami, I couldn't help but notice how similar it looked to the fields and homes of Imabari, by which I ride my bike on my daily commute to work. Some teachers wondered aloud if the waves en route to Imabari were big enough to reach us at the school. Tsunami warnings were issued for pretty much the whole country, though Ehime prefecture didn't seem to be as high on the list as other places. Still, even a 2 meter wave could wreak all sorts of havoc out here. One of the teachers mentioned that the tsunami might hit us here a little after 5 PM. It was 4:15.

My thoughts turned to my family. What would we do if the waves did reach us? I had to go.

The front exit, through which I usually leave each day after saying goodbye, was so congested with people watching the TV that I slipped out the back exit without saying a word, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I raced home as fast as I could, with strong winds opposing me all the way home on my 30 minute commute. I told myself that everything would be fine, but resolved to get home and prepare my family. As I approached my apartment I realized that there had been ample time for warning, yet there were no signs that anything was amiss. Did all these people driving around have any idea what was going on, or did that mean that we were safe?

When I got home at 4:45, I got on the computer at once to check the reports and see if we had to make any plans. The Japanese web sites said that Ehime could expect the tsunami to hit at around 6:20, though it wouldn't even be a meter high by that point. I breathed a little easier, but couldn't pull myself away from the news. Who knows if an aftershock might trigger something else that affects us more directly?

What would I do in that case? I've had a bit of time today to think about how I can prepare for such an emergency. I need to make those preparations while the image of this disaster is still fresh in my mind. We basically have our TV unplugged here, so we don't get the news. If we did need to evacuate, who would tell us? We don't have smart phones or any other way to stay updated when we're out and about. I'd imagine that the majority of the people whose lives have been taken in this disaster either didn't know about the coming tsunami, didn't have enough time to prepare, or didn't take the tsunami warnings seriously enough.

We're lucky to have not been affected much by this. These people, swallowed by a tsunami in the blink of an eye, had their own lives. They each had their own quirks and talents, their own friends and family, their own goals and dreams. And now they're gone, leaving a hole in the hearts and lives of the people who are left scrambling for any information as to their whereabouts.

As soon as I was pretty confident that we'd be safe, I posted messages to Facebook in anticipation of the flood of calls or e-mails we might receive. It really does mean a lot to me that our friends and family thought of us when they heard about the disaster. I'm happy to report that we're fine. But many people still haven't heard from their family members in Japan. We appreciate the thoughts and prayers from everybody, but please don't forget to include those truly affected by this catastrophe. I'm sure they can use any monetary donations we all can muster. I hope and pray that that man who stood on the back of that truck made it out OK--for the sake of him and all those who love him.

I Think I'll Never Turn Japanese

I consider my time here in Japan a big success. I'm learning more and more about the Japanese language and culture every day, and I've come to a level that I can confidently call "fluent in Japanese". My grammar is strong, and as long as the topic isn't Japanese politics or a complex technical one like "Grooves on a Metal Substrate", I'm quite capable. But every once in a while, I have a moment were I realize that there's so much more to a communication than just speaking the language.

Recently, I spent a couple class periods at one of my schools helping a couple kids prepare for a debate about the necessity of cell phones for junior high school students. I spent a good chunk of time with one of the kids coaching him on pronunciation and trying to get him to understand possible objections to his points. When it came time to hold the debate, he got really nervous and couldn't remember what he was supposed to say. I tried to give him hints, but he wasn't even willing to mimic my words. Frustrated with the knowledge that he really could say what he wanted to say, but was too afraid to make a mistake, I grimaced visibly. I encouraged him to use what we had prepared, and told him not to worry, since there were only 4 people present--him, another student, and two English teachers. He tensed up and shook nervously, unable to produce a single sound. Then the dam broke.

I sat, stunned, as he clenched his fist and repeatedly bashed himself in the side of the head. The other teacher eventually asked him to stop, which he did, and then calmly continued with the debate as if nothing had happened.

It's certainly not my fault that the kid punched himself. I don't know what examples or other influences this kid has in his life, or what kind of personal issues he deals with. I do know, however, that less pressure on the kid to perform and better control of my facial expressions could have possibly prevented the outburst. Japanese kids often seem to expect perfection of themselves, to the degree that they won't speak if they're not 100% positive that they're right. But in classes with fewer than 5 students, the same kids are forced to answer, whether or not they're confident. That must cause a mighty mental struggle for some of them. English class often compounds the problem by demanding that the students instantaneously adapt western behavior even though a different kind of behavior has been drilled into them from a young age. Perhaps if I had been a bit more sensitive to all these factors, things might have gone differently.

Before I came to Japan, I dreamed about going out and working with the missionaries out here. I figured it would help my Japanese and give me opportunities to serve. Unfortunately, it just never worked out. At first, when there were elders here, I lived on the island, too far away to really do anything. When I finally moved to the mainland, the elders were transferred out and they brought sisters in instead. After few months ago, the elders came back--but I've been too busy to get anything done. Yesterday, I finally had a chance to go out with the missionaries and do some work.

It's interesting working with young missionaries after having served a mission of your own--you feel a sense of inferiority, since they have the responsibility to serve and are much more dedicated to missionary work, and are likely much more sensitive to spiritual things. However, they haven't yet learned all the tricks that you learned back when you wandered around in a shirt and tie. They haven't learned how to be bold and confident, and certainly don't have all the life experiences that you get post-mission.

One of the missionaries is a 20 year-old from Utah who's having a hard time learning the language. The other is a 24 year-old from Japan. While both are very friendly, they both seemed a bit timid (I'd imagine that it was a combination of timidness and Japanese politeness). I came away feeling like they needed to trust their message more--if they believe it to be true, they should be willing to be bold in teaching it. My church Japanese isn't nearly as strong as I'd like, but I definitely have the confidence to say what I feel to people. Perhaps that came from serving a mission in a place where most people share similar beliefs. Maybe my way was too bold for some Japanese people. I'd guess that there needs to be some kind of balance between good ol' Japanese politeness and western boldness.

My experience knocking doors yesterday was a bit different than it was for me in Guatemala. Here, people are a lot quicker to shut the door in your face without needing a reason for doing so. A lot of people said they were too busy or not interested. Some people just said they were sorry and shut the door. Most people didn't even open the door, as they have these little intercom boxes with cameras on them that let them filter out any salespeople or Mormons. One old lady just said, "Chigaimasu," which literally means that something is "different" or "incorrect", but can be interpreted in many ways. I imagine that she was basically saying "Nah, I don't want to deal with you guys," but it came across as, "Sorry, you've got the wrong house." After she shut the door on us, I jokingly asked the missionaries what was incorrect--it certainly wasn't our message. The Utah missionary kindly reminded me that I have to be careful of what I say, as the walls are pretty thin out here. Apparently, he once got chewed out by an old man for making the same exact comment after getting rejected with "chigaimasu". It's considered very rude to question your elders out here, especially when they can hear you.

I admit, I was a bit embarrassed. I'm well aware that living with Americans out here doesn't always allow me to know what's culturally taboo. That's one of the reasons why I always hoped to spend a little time with the missionaries. A Japanese coworker will almost never be bold enough to tell you that what you've been doing for months actually annoys the living heck out of them. An American missionary, however, will likely have been corrected by his companions, and will thus offer a wealth of knowledge of Japanese etiquette.

On the subject of Japanese coworkers and embarrassment--the other day, a teacher approached me to collect money for school lunch (kyushoku). She mentioned that I couldn't make any changes in the month of March, and that I needed to pay beforehand. Typically, I pay after the month has ended, since I don't know what kind of schedule changes I might have. For example, I might have to go to Tokyo for a meeting, or take a sick kid to the hospital. I mentioned that I have never had any problems paying after-the-fact before, and asked if something had changed. Paying for kyushoku in advance is not a huge deal, but I wanted to know if it was a one-time thing, or if I'd never be able to make changes to my lunch schedule ever again. When I asked the teacher for an explanation, she started talking to me in broken English. When I told her that it was OK to speak Japanese to me, her face went red, and she replied that it wasn't her job to deal with such questions, and that I'd have to take it up with the vice principal. She mentioned that it said in a letter somewhere that I wouldn't be able to make any changes, but I didn't get to actually read the letter to see what it said.

We walked over to the vice principal, and the teacher started by saying, in Japanese, "It appears that he can't comprehend what I'm trying to tell him." I explained that I was merely trying to understand if it was just March, or every month in the future, that I couldn't make changes. The vice principal explained that it was just March, and I went back to my desk, semi-satisfied with the explanation. While pondering how something so simple could get so uncomfortable for everyone so quickly, I realized that the reason they couldn't make changes was likely that March is the end of the school year, and balances need to be settled before job transfers, which happen April 1st.

Such an explanation, while so simple, is not something that a typical Japanese worker would ask for. When someone comes to collect, you pay without asking questions. Even if they were to make changes to the schedule, they would likely pay, regardless of whether or not they missed any meals. It's just the way they do things here. It's embarrassing when you don't know something that seems crystal clear to everyone else.

While I've actually become quite good at acting like a Japanese at work, I'm sure that there are many things that I'll never learn. It's easy to get discouraged about not becoming entirely Japanese; I will likely never get to a point where I do nothing that offends anyone. In the end, however, is that really such a bad thing? I will always identify with my mother culture more than any other--any time I analyze Japanese or other world cultures, it's through the lens of an American--and I don't think that's anything to be ashamed of. Most Japanese people will be viewing me through their own Japanese lens.

The more Japanese I act, the more people expect from me. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing--people just tend not to realize that I don't always know the Japanese way to do something, since I haven't given them cause to believe that in the past. While I know that I'll never quite be able to forget that I'm an outsider out here, I do admit that my coworkers have been wonderful about making me feel respected. In my mind, respect for each other, regardless of cultural differences, is a much more attainable and desirable goal than full assimilation into another culture.

FREE KETCHUP!

I originally posted this on a sports blog named after the fact that the Oakland A's don't offer free sauerkraut at the Coliseum. I figured I might as well post it here, too.

There are some false ideas about service here in Japan. Granted, flying JAL is probably going to be a bit more pleasant than flying USAirways, but the stereotype that Japanese customer service is better than American customer service does not always hold--and restaurants are at best a mixed bag. At McDonald's today (it's edible in Japan), I asked for a packet of ketchup and was told that ketchup is only for people who order fries. I replied that I always ask for ketchup and have never had a problem, to which I got an uncomfortable stare, since most Japanese people don't respond after getting "no" for an answer. I motioned to another employee, who deferred to the manager, who gave me the single packet of ketchup I had requested.

I've been denied a refill on water once before at a big city location, and I've been told after requesting water after already having ordered that I would need to purchase something else. But never before had I been denied a packet of ketchup at McDonald's.

I'd also like to address the idea that I can somehow only have ketchup if I order fries (which I don't usually do). When you order fries in Japan, they don't give or offer ketchup. You have to specifically ask for it. I have not once seen a Japanese person eat fries with ketchup. Besides, ketchup is not just for fries--some people prefer a little more ketchup on their burger, or to add it to something that doesn't normally come with it.

Full disclosure--I actually am not a big fan of ketchup. I actually order it so that my daughter will eat her chicken (they have breaded, fried pieces of chicken on the 100 yen menu here--much cheaper than the 300 yen McNuggets, and better). That's how she wants to do it, so that's how I order it.

I'm a pretty level headed guy (in America--I'm the Incredible Hulk from a Japanese perspective). I don't like to complain when my order isn't perfect, and I generally just prefer to leave people alone when they don't do things exactly how I ask. I'm not driving through the drive through again or going inside to talk to a manager if they don't give me extra pickles or if they accidentally give me a chocolate shake instead of a strawberry one--if they overcharge me or don't give me something I paid for, that's another story.

Anyway, in the friendliest voice I could muster, I said, "It's hard to imagine not being given ketchup at McDonald's," causing the embarrassed employee to apologize. Later, I saw her going through the store policy documents with the managers, hopefully learning that ketchup is not such a precious commodity that it must be preserved with an iron fist. I'm sure there are a lot of aspects of the service industry in Japan which I'll miss (not having to tip, for example), but the faux politeness and bureaucratic unwillingness to adapt or make exceptions are not things I'll be clamoring for when I'm back on American soil.

The idea that the customer is always right is surely a western one. While I don't necessarily always agree with it, it's nice to know that many American business do take it into consideration. They realize that it's better to take a minimal loss than to lose a customer. Also, they give free refills on drinks. Hooray for America!

Please Shoot Me if I Ever Use "Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow" as a Blog Post Title

Until I cut my curly hair recently, all the kids would ask me if I had permed it (since it’s unfathomable for a Japanese that such hair could be natural). The question actually bothered me, since I’m not the type of person to get my hair professionally treated. It turns out that the kids not only aren’t able to fathom hair that isn’t straight and black, but also aren’t allowed to have anything else. If your hair is wavy, curly, or not-black (or extremely dark brown) by nature, you have to receive a permission slip from a doctor showing that it’s natural.

I’ve heard stories of a Japanese girl in the area who was so embarrassed of her naturally wavy brown hair that she routinely died it black and got a straight perm so that she wouldn’t have to get a note from the doctor explaining that it was OK for her to be different.

So, now that my hair’s all gone, the kids have decided to ask me “why” my eyes are blue. How the heck do you answer that question?

Going to Get the Fam (Part--Ah, Screw It)

Having arrived at the port, I waited in line to get off the ferry, when over the PA, a voice announced, "The somethingsomething exit is for people with cars. The rest should wait in the other line." I wasn't sure which line was which--so I just followed a bunch of people that left the line in which I was standing to go to another exit. I'm sure there were signs indicating which line was for car-less passengers like myself, but I was too tired and anxious to see my family to care.

Taking the escalator down to the main exit floor, I walked out a door into a parking lot, realizing that I had taken the wrong exit. I walked across to the side where the pedestrian exit was, and was instantly first in line to get off the boat. I almost felt guilty for skipping to the front of the line--for a split second. Leaving the boat, I set off for the train to Nanba station, where I'd be taking care of some banking.

My first goal was to search for Shinsei Bank, where I do my foreign wire transactions. There are no Shinsei Bank branches in all of Ehime, and the closest one requires a $100 round-trip train ticket just so that I can send money home. We had been waiting for a trip to Osaka to send some savings to our American account, and this trip fit the bill.

Wandering the desolate streets of Osaka at 7AM on a weekday is a surreal experience; there's not a whole lot to do in a city (and country) that opens at 10AM. I resolved to find the bank--which was sure to open a few hours later--and then go get some breakfast.

Each subway and train station has multiple exits, and it's often hard to know exactly where you are, especially when you're only armed with a printed google map that only provides landmark names and an address. Even more frustrating is the fact that streets in Japan go under, over, and through intersections, and don't necessarily head north-to-south or east-to-west. Having lived in Utah, where each city has street numbers based on how far away from the city center, I find the Japanese streets a bit more difficult to navigate. In Provo, for example, you know that the mountains are always on the east. Knowing that, if the mountains are on your right, you're facing north. If you're at 300 E 200 N and need to get to 450 E 400 N, you know that you need to go two blocks to the north and 1.5 blocks to the east. It's a simple system that I'm sure many towns and cities use.

Here's the google maps page for a section of South Provo, where I used to live:



This is the google maps page for the Osaka neighborhood that I haplessly tried to navigate:



I could tell by the position of the sun in the sky where north was, I just had no idea where I was on my unmarked map. All I knew was that there was a McDonald's right by an AM/PM convenience store, and that a street curved around somewhere near there. I showed the address to a AM/PM store attendant, and he timidly pointed me in the direction of another AM/PM (it turns out that there are about 8 AM/PMs within 2 city blocks), which might have someone on hand who would know better.

Unable to find the convenience store, I ducked my head into the chintzy Hotel Cordon Bleu, hoping that the hotel staff might have some knowledge of the surrounding area. There was no front desk to speak of (or if there was, it was curtained off), so I got some information from a cleaning lady, who pointed me in the direction of a McDonald's.

When I found the McDonald's, I saw an AM/PM right up the street, so I finally located my place on the map. I followed the curved road until I saw Shinsei Bank. The bank was connected to a Starbucks, sharing an exit. On the facade, a sign displayed the bank's operating hours--I had about an hour-and-a-half until the 9AM opening time.

I walked back to the McDonald's, hungry and in need of my cough/asthma medication, and itching to burn some time. Upon entering the store, I passed a large black man, who I think was African American (based on his attire). I tried to flash a smile (after which I planned to nod my head so as to say, "'Sup", but he kept his head down and avoided eye contact. I can't say I blame him. If he is an English-speaker, he's probably almost as sick of talking to English-speakers as I am. Sometimes you just want people to leave you alone. Back home in America, people don't come up to you and talk to you just because you might speak English. It gets tiring to have to always stand out and play the part of foreigner--even with people that share the role.

One of the best things about McDonald's in Japan (yes, there are actually good things about McDonald's here) is that some of the locations serve American breakfast sandwiches like the Sausage McMuffin with Egg. I ordered one of those and a cup of water, and sat down to pass some time and take my meds. When I got to my seat, I noticed that my water cup was basically a dixie cup filled to the brim with ice, with about a half an ounce of liquid water in the cup. I ate my sandwich, swallowed my pills with the little bit of water, and took my water thimble to the counter to ask for a refill so I could sit down and have something to drink while I pre-blogged on paper to pass the time.

The kid running the register responded that while there was no excuse for their rudeness--it was, in fact, impossible for me to get a refill on water. Aside from the absurd logic of impossibility (just say you won't refill my water, all right?), the unwillingness to provide such a basic service triggered the Irate Customer Switch in my brain, which I believe (based on extensive scientific research) is located within Broca's Area.

From Wikipedia:

Lelong was another patient of Paul Pierre Broca. He also exhibited reduced productive speech. He could only say five words, 'yes,' 'no,' 'three,' 'always,' and 'lelo' (a mispronunciation of his own name). At autopsy, a lesion was also found in the same region of lateral frontal lobe as in Leborgne. These two cases led Paul Pierre Broca to believe that speech was localized to this particular area.

My Irate Customer Switch functions somewhat differently than it does in other people. Others may get angry and demand to speak to a manager. I, on the other hand, lose the ability to speak in coherent sentences. All I could muster was a flustered, "Seriously?" in Japanese.

Disgusted, I shook my head and separated my trash into the burnable and non-burnable trash cans, jettisoning the ice in my cup into the special liquid disposal bin. In retrospect, I should have put my ice in the burnables. Try burning wet garbage, suckers!

But I was more patient than that. At first. I mean, I didn't swear or anything. Seriously, though--how much does an ounce of water cost? A penny? If you round up? Never in my life have I been denied a refill on water--not at any restaurant, ever. I've been to cheap fast food places that charge ten cents for the cup, but I always get unlimited water.

On my way out the door, I stopped to ask a managerial-looking employee why his store didn't offer refills on water. He replied squeamishly that it was a store-by-store decision. I responded that I had never been to a store that didn't refill my water. His response: if they offered refills on water, people wouldn't buy a soda.

What I wanted to say:

"What about people that don't want soda? Or can't drink soda? It's in your best interest as a business to build loyalty by putting your customers first, especially with something as simple and inexpensive as water, which nearly every restaurant on the planet offers for free. By trying to force me to buy a soda, you've lost any future business from me. Not only will I not buy a drink, I will hereafter fulfill my periodic cravings for sausage, eggs, and english muffins through some other, less miserly establishment. Your insatiable desire to squeeze every last yen out of my wallet will actually deprive you of the filthy lucre which you so treasure."

What I actually said:

"Well... in all other McDonald's restaurants, it's free. You know, the customer... I mean... What the customer wants... It would be good for business... Ah, screw it. I'm never comin' here again."

What is it about being frustrated that makes me unable to speak properly? And it's not just the language barrier.

Here's an English scenario that might have actually happened to me on my recent trip to America:

Having arrived at a store at 8:55, knowing they close at 9, I pull on the door, but it won't open.

Shop clerk: Sorry dude, we close at 9.
Me: But the clock right behind you says it's 8:55. Look.
Shop clerk: The registers are closed. Sorry dude.
Me: But that... The registers... It's not like... Ah, screw it. I'm never comin' here again.

It's not like I'm fuming--so angry that veins bulge out of my neck and forehead. I think I have some kind of anti-super power where I absorb the stupidity of a situation and it temporarily invades Broca's Area in my brain. No complete sentences. Just clipped words and bits of ideas that might make sense to me, but likely come across as garbled nonsense. Just thinking about such ridiculousness hurts my brain.

Post. bank. later. family. see.

The Seaweed is Always Greener

Trying to have a positive outlook about Stef and the girls staying in America three weeks after I would return, I constantly talked about all the things I'd be able to accomplish with so much free time. I'd finally have time to study Japanese as much as I want. I'd actually get to play some video games, compose some music, hang out with Japanese friends and improve my slang, and probably lose some weight in the absence of Stef's wonderful cooking.

Five days into my solitary life in Japan, it's nowhere near as wonderful as I'd hoped. There's so much time, but so little to do. If I were a junior high school student, my Saturday of nothing-but-PlayStation and not even leaving the house would be a dream. Having tasted the sweet companionship of marriage and fatherhood, my free time feels more like detention.

Surely, I'm losing weight. I can't be bothered to cook or eat--it's just too much of a hassle when everything you eat tastes like cardboard. My already waning appetite withers to the point that I'm forcing myself to swallow an overripe banana for lunch at 2:45 PM, just so I don't go into a starvation-induced coma. I don't even dare attempt to compose music on my computer, given my minimal brain function. When I tried to make a full dinner of salad, spaghetti, and garlic bread, I had to settle for the latter two upon finding the greens I had bought just two days earlier covered in mold.

Oh, but there are no dirty dishes to act as the bane of your existence, you might say. Okay, so you might have a point there. But I'd much rather have a never-ending sink of filthy dishes from meals with my family.

What about all that talk about hanging out with Japanese friends? Hasn't happened yet--and I suppose that it might help if I actually had friends who were Japanese. I've still got two weeks to make something happen. Perhaps I'll play basketball on Thursday (it's currently Tuesday night and as I type, my friends are actually playing basketball). Thursdays are always easier than Tuesdays, since the Tuesday practices take place at Sakurai junior high school, a 30-minute bike ride. The 10-minute cruise from Minami junior high on Thursdays is much easier after three-man-weaving and crab-walking my life force into oblivion.

Perhaps one of the biggest causes of my current malaise is the fact that I just returned from America, where I can read everything, understand everything, and buy just about anything. I still have a valid drivers license in California, and being able to drive anywhere whenever I wanted was much more convenient than bicycle-only Japan.

I had a blast in California with Ryan, Stef, and all the Alkemas and Stouts. Ryan, Stef, Rich, Brittney and Bryce, Ashley, Andy, Sa and Zack, Matt and Anna, and Nate all accompanied me to an Oakland A's game. We sat in the third deck directly behind home plate, which despite being so far from the players actually provided a rather satisfying view of the game. Included in each ticket was 6 dollars' worth of food vouchers for the third-deck concession stand, which was essentially enough for a hot dog and half of a drink. I stuffed myself with a pulled pork sandwich, a drink, and an enormous paper tray of nachos, smothered with that deliciously nasty, artery-clogging processed nacho cheese.

The game itself was ultimately little more than a tease, given that the A's would give up a run or two in the top-half of an inning, then tie it up in the bottom-half, only to fall to the Angels in ten innings, never having led the game. The next game--which was the game I most wanted to attend--the A's won 15-2.

Regardless of the outcome of our game, we had a lot of fun. Few things in life are more enjoyable to me than acting like a fool at a sporting event with all my friends and family. Stef will attest to this.

I love America. I love grass. I love sprinklers. I love front yards, back yards, driveways, garages, couches, and carpet. Ah, carpet. Stef and I joked about making carpet and grass angels. Such a love for plush carpet and grass may seem strange, but try living in a country with next to no grass (sports are often played on dirt and astroturf in Japan) and tatami flooring, and you'll soon see what you're missing. Mia fell face-first off the couch in Napa, and she bounced off the carpet and walked away without shedding a single tear. No such thing would ever happen on tatami.

I love being able to go the grocery store and find so many dozens of aisles full of things that don't taste like fish. Hey--I love fish; sushi is wonderful. But I sometimes wonder how necessary it is to make all of your non-fish food taste like fish. Some of that stuff--seaweed (nori), in particular--has grown on me. Heck, Kelsey absolutely devours the stuff, along with pickled ginger and salmon roe. But the food in America is glorious. Pizza--scratch that--good pizza. Mexican food. In-N-Out. Snacks that don't taste like fish. There's so much food to love.

Mia seems to be thriving in America. She's so much more trusting, more bubbly, less needy. It's exciting to think about when the kids will both have more English-speaking friends to play with. Kelsey's doing pretty well too, but she's got a bit of adjusting to do. She's not used to having kids to play with--especially not kids who speak the same language. There are a lot of things to look forward to when we eventually return.

Don't get me wrong--there are still a lot of things that I love about Japan. It's just a lot harder to appreciate them when you're living alone. Once Stef and the girls are back out here, I'll get back into a routine, and I'll be just as content as ever. We've got just one more year here, after which we will gladly move back to America to continue the next chapter of life.

Before going back to the States to visit, I really had no desire to do so. While I love seeing family, I just wanted to do my time in Japan and return when it was all over. I've felt a lot of anxiety about finding a job after Japan, and have generally feared going back to such economic uncertainty.

My visit laid most of those fears to rest. I'm sure I'll still stress about finding a job, but I am much less afraid of going back. There's just so much to love. I'm sure we'll miss a lot about Japan when we eventually leave--the food, the people, the language (okay, so that one's just me), etc.--but I know we'll find ways to occasionally fulfill those needs. I'm sure we can find seaweed in America.

Christmas in Japan

It's Christmas Eve here in Japan, and I'm sitting at school, having taught all my classes for the day. If I didn't specifically request to have tomorrow off, I'd be working on Christmas as well. Christmas in Japan is much different than Christmas in America, and I'll tell you how.

All right. Close your eyes for a moment and imagine a traditional American Christmas--a time when couples go out on a romantic date, then stay the night at a fancy hotel. To maintain the true spirit of Christmas, department stores and shopping malls play traditional Christmas songs like Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas is You and Last Christmas by Wham!

For Christmas dinner, perhaps you've ordered the traditional plate of fried chicken, possibly weeks in advance, from a place like Kentucky Fried Chicken. As the breadwinner of the family, you stop by the store on the way home from work and pick up the Christmas cake, which everybody in the country is eating. Perhaps you even have a Christmas Party lined up, where people will all make Christmas cakes and you'll judge them on taste and design. On the table, along with the cakes and fried chicken, is a plate of sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off.

The kids have all left their stockings on their pillow in their bedroom so that Santa, who comes all the way from his home in Finland, will be able to access them easily. Santa will give you your one and only present, and if you're lucky, it'll be something other than a scarf. But you don't really care, since you're going to be getting loads of presents for New Year's Day. Isn't Christmas in America great?

The past two weeks, I've been giving three or four short presentations a day about Christmas in America. I've been just as surprised as the kids have to discover the differences between the traditional American Christmas and the way the Japanese celebrate it, which is obviously what I've described above.

Not even touching on obvious omissions like the Nativity, it really is a different holiday here--much more like Valentine's Day. Everybody knows that Christmas is a western holiday, so all the students and teachers are shocked to hear that their Christmas traditions haven't actually come from America (granted, some of the "traditions" I readily mock may actually be tradition in Europe, but I don't really know--and it's a lot easier to just point and laugh).

Kids here are blown away when I tell them how many presents we traditionally get in America. They're even more shocked when I tell them that we don't exchange presents on New Years. "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehh?" is the universal response. Christmas in America is very similar to New Year's Day in Japan.

Perhaps my favorite part of Christmas festivities this year happened on my island school, Sekizen Junior High. My teacher wanted to sing a popular traditional Christmas song from America, so she chose Wham!'s Last Christmas. Not Jingle Bells, White Christmas, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, or Silent Night. George Michael (the singer/songwriter). From England. Singing about how heartbroken he is on Christmas this year, because he gave his heart to someone who he knew so well that she (or he, I guess) didn't even recognize him only a year later.

I think Christmas would be a bit more depressing here if it actually reminded me of what I was missing at home. Sure, I'm sad that I don't get to spend Christmas with our families (though we did get to see Stef's parents just a couple weeks ago, and we opened up presents with them). But I've got Stef, the girls, and the sweet voice of George Michael to soothe my soul.

Kelsey Didn't Want to Go to Han-pock Fabrics

When I was a kid—maybe 3 or 4 years old—I went missing. My mom had been getting ready to go to the fabric store—Hancock Fabrics—and I didn't want to go. So I disappeared. She looked everywhere in the house, and when she couldn't find me, called the police. Right before the police showed up, she had the feeling that she should look under her bed. There wasn't much space there—definitely less than a foot of clearance—but there I was, fast asleep. When I woke up, I explained why I had crawled under the bed in the first place—I didn't want to go to "Han-pock Fabrics".

A few months ago, the news networks got swept up into the Balloon Boy fiasco, where a kid supposedly crawled into a weather balloon before it was "mistakenly released" into the sky to the horror of many. I remember thinking that he was probably fine, since the whole "he might have climbed into the balloon by accident" angle seemed a lot less plausible than the "he's probably hiding somewhere" one. As a parent, however, the possibility that this child was in danger resonated with me, as it probably did with many parents around the world. It's probably why we felt cheated when the whole thing turned out to be a hoax, and he was found hiding in his attic, likely at the behest of his fame-seeking scumbag parents.

Yesterday, Kelsey went missing at church while I was in class. The lady who was in charge of nursery had taken her eye off Kelsey for a moment, and that was all the time Kelsey needed to slip out the back door and start wandering the neighborhood. When I came out of my class, I saw a lady go out the back door, calling Kelsey's name. I hurried to catch up and find out what had happened, when I saw that a few other people had gone after her. They had just found her laying defiantly on a wooden pallet outside a business two buildings behind the church building when I showed up. I picked her up and carried her back to church. As we walked back, she said that she wanted to go to the playground. My heart was pumping at the brief thought that Kelsey had been lost, but the nursery teacher apologized for not watching her closely, and all was well. Or so I thought.

The guy who normally picks us up for church, Aki-san, didn't show up that day, so we had to come by taxi (after first leaving on bikes and realizing it was too cold for the girls). When church was out, nobody offered us a ride, so I started asking people how I should describe the church building, in order to correctly guide the taxi company to us. In the past, every time I'd described the location of the church building to taxi drivers, they'd get a bit confused (since nobody knows where the Mormon church is). I'd always had to tell them which streets to take and where to turn, so I anticipated a bit of difficulty when I called the taxi company.

I went outside to phone the taxi, away from the noise of the church halls. I explained that the church building was right by the Toyota dealership (the only one in town by a specific name), but the guy on the phone made no attempt to understand what I was saying. This is common in Japan. If you don't speak with a perfect accent, many people make no attempt to figure out what you are trying to tell them. Given that there's often an extremely specific way to ask certain questions, if you don't ask for things in the prescribed way, you often won't get anywhere—even if you pronounce everything correctly. They just give up and wait for you to come back with perfect Japanese, or at least written (in Japanese) instructions of what you want. Stef found this out the hard way when she went to pick her parents up at the train station by herself (luckily, I had given her parents a copy of the address in Japanese in case they needed it).

So, I explained that the church was the very next building, next to the car dealership, but the guy on the line got hung up on the fact that he didn't know which side of the building I was talking about. I got so frustrated with his inability to overlook such an unimportant detail (I mean, really? They can't just figure it out when they get to the car dealership?) that I told him that I no longer needed a taxi and hung up the phone. At this point, I was extremely frazzled. I just wanted to go home.

I walked back into the church to ask someone to either give us a ride or call the taxi company for me, when Stef came rushing towards me, asking me where Kelsey had gone. She was watching Mia, and thought that I was watching Kelsey. I checked in all the rooms at the church, but couldn't find her. I, along with ten other people, rushed outside and started looking in different directions throughout the neighborhood, calling out Kelsey's name. I was overwhelmed with the thought of losing Kelsey, so my calls for her got frantic. Walking with me was a mentally disabled man from church who meant well but kept parroting everything I said in his Japanese-English accent, causing my stress level to go through the roof.

At this point, I began to fear the worst. I continued to shout Kelsey's name as I wandered through the streets, checking the 5 foot-deep drainage canals that surrounded the roads in hopes that I wouldn't find her. Even though Japan is a safe place, there's no place on Earth where every single person can be trusted. The thought of someone taking her terrified me. All I could do is pray that she was all right.

I made my way back to the chapel to see if anybody had seen her, and one of the ladies waved and gave me a thumbs-up sign. Kelsey had gone into the sacrament room hid herself inside the pulpit. I couldn't be upset at her—she's just a kid, and she didn't understand the consequences of hiding. Nevertheless, it took me a good hour or so to get my emotions under control, and I was quite short with everybody as they asked if I was able to call the taxi. I vented my frustration about the taxi debacle and walked away from everybody, not really wanting any human contact. I won't even try to justify my behavior at that point. I know I was wrong.

I'm glad Kelsey was all right. I've resolved to pay closer attention to her at church and in public. We often let her wander around some stores as long as she's within sight, since she's so active and it's basically impossible to match her energy. Kelsey's a good girl; she gets a bit difficult when she's tired or hungry, but who doesn't? She's a sweet girl that likes to play, help, love, and be loved. She's also not even three years old, so we can't expect her to behave like an adult. She just wants to go outside—to go on walks with Mommy or Daddy. It doesn't matter where—the park, the cats around the corner, Han-pock fabrics—she just wants to get out. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Samaria is not a place in Japan

Today, as I made my early bike commute to work, I crossed a busy road illegally about 150 feet before the street where I was planning to turn. I looked ahead at the crosswalk to check the traffic light, and I saw and old lady with a knit cap standing with her bike, waiting to cross the street. I waited for an opening, and then crossed illegally. As I approached the intersection, the light changed and the lady mounted her bike to cross. I shook my head, since I could have crossed legally without waiting. I looked away from her and watched the road ahead of me, when I heard a horrible crashing sound. I whipped my head over to look, and saw the lady falling to the asphalt, having been hit by a black Prius that was making a right turn (like a left, since they drive on the opposite side here).

I ditched my bike and ran into the middle of the street where she was laying. The knit cap had been knocked off of her, due to the force of the accident, as had been her right shoe. I picked her up and carried her off the street, setting her down as gently as I could on the sidewalk. The driver of the car that hit her left his car in the middle of the street, straddling the two lanes, and ran over to check on her.

She was conscious but a bit loopy, repeating that she was on her way to a hospital just a block up the street. The man was really shaken up, apologizing profusely and mentioning over and over that he hadn’t seen her in the crosswalk. All she could say in response was, “I had a green light to cross, right?” They both had a green, but turn arrows are rare, so drivers have to yield to pedestrians. My heart reaches out to the man almost as much as the lady.

I asked the man to call 119 (yeah, they do everything backwards here), but his phone was dead, so he couldn’t. He asked if I could do it for him, and then took off on foot to the nearby hospital, in hopes that they had some kind of emergency services. I asked another lady (who had just come over to help) to make the call, since I’m not the best at giving directions in Japan. I was a bit surprised that it took someone else so long to come over to help. It’s a pretty busy intersection, and cars were crossing in all directions—yet nobody stopped their car to help. I guess they figured that I had things under control. It’s so strange that people could witness something so shocking, and then just go about their day as if nothing happened.

While the other lady made the emergency phone call, I pulled the bike and some of the victim’s strewn belongings off the road, and then checked on her. She was complaining about pain in her head and clutching her right leg, which was likely broken. A few minutes later, an employee from the hospital approached us and mentioned that they didn’t have emergency services at their hospital. By that time, we had already contacted an ambulance, which was on its way.

When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics got out and put the lady on a stretcher, then asked me some questions about the accident. As they were getting the stretcher ready to load onto the ambulance, the Prius driver returned from the hospital and apologized again to the lady. The paramedics instructed us to stay there and wait for the police to come.

As the ambulance pulled away, the Prius driver frantically asked me if I had heard anything about her condition from the paramedics. I told him that her head and leg hurt, but that she was probably going to be okay.

The police showed up and asked me for a statement, after wondering aloud if it was okay to speak Japanese to me. I’m normally very comfortable with my Japanese, but this was new territory for me. I didn’t know all the terms used in an accident, so I spoke in very plain language. I don’t have a lot of experience with accidents, but I could at least explain what I saw.

I realized that by moving the patient and the bike, I messed with evidence. But I didn’t care, since it was more important to me to maintain safety. The bike bell was a good twenty feet away from where the accident occurred. Having not touched that, I pointed it out to the police, who drew a circle around it in chalk. They asked more questions about the traffic signals, my point of view, and where the lady, the bike, and the car all came to a stop. I did my best to describe what I had seen. They took down my contact information and let me know that I’ll probably receive a call later.

After that, I called my school to tell them that I’d be late to work (I was already about 45 minutes late by this point). While riding my bike, I jumped at almost every car that passed close to me. I keep thinking about all the little decisions I make during the day, and how much one little thing can change everything. Honestly, if I hadn’t crossed the road illegally, I could have been in the crosswalk with the lady. It could have been me—or both of us—in that crash.

The lady likely has at least a broken leg and a concussion. I’m sure she’ll survive, but as a 63 year-old woman, she’ll probably never fully recover from her injuries. I just hope that she’s okay, and that the driver will be able to forgive himself.