Three Days
On a Wednesday, in April.
While hurrying out the door, neither one of the two sisters realizes it would be the beginning of the first day. The older sister looks back repeatedly, her husband alone at home weighing on her mind. Even on a day when she knows he will go out to meet his friends for lunch, her instinct forces her to worry about his lunch. He is probably one of those men who still cannot bear to eat alone, let alone fixing one for himself. Probably he can, but then he might become sad, she utters to herself. The idea of cooking own meals has become the anathematic source of sorrow and disgrace, for Korean men. Her brother-in-law appears considerate enough, to let his wife stay with her for a couple of days. Her house is near the hospital, where his mother-in-law, her mother, lies dying.
From the entrance of hospital the two are almost running. A nurse remembers them and smiles at them.
No need to rush! Your mother has been getting better through the night!
Getting better through the night?
Getting better? It seems impossible. But the nurse's insistent tone gives her a faint pause. The two stop to take a breath and move toward their mother's sickroom.
They greet.
Mother, Mom!
Her mother's condition looks unchanged. Stunned by the news that Mom's health took a sudden turn for the worse, her siblings came gathered at the hospital. And some remained and monitored Mom all through the night.
Mother, Mom!
How are you? Are you still very sick?
It's been a couple of days since her mother has said anything. Now Mom just greets her with an expressionless face. Is it a greeting? Can Mom hear anything at all?
She leaves the room to run an errand. Her sister comes out with her.
Do you mind, if I...?
No worries, unni - big sis. I heard our brothers are on their way back here too.
See, I still need to finish something that should have been done yesterday.
I know, something that should be done needs to be done. It's just what if it happens....
No way, it cannot happen today.
After a lunch break, she's back with her sister, and their mom.
How come you are by yourself?
No, yes. Our brothers were here earlier, but I told them to go, because you would be coming soon. We have to take turns somehow.
See, you should go home today.
I know I should. Anyway, the youngest will come around 7 from work. Till then, can you stay here until then?
OK, no problem.
Mom, I have to go home today, and see you tomorrow. Unni will be here.
She thinks she hears Mom answering, "Uh-huh." Perhaps not a definite word, but some murmuring sound, a faint acknowledgement, she imagines.
She remains alone. Alone with Mom.
*
I keep a vigil at my mom's sickbed just like I am on some duty to maintain daily logs. Mean as ever, I catch myself. Her breathing seems even but a little heavier than in the morning. Her feet and legs are swollen up as before, but for a moment I sense some bluish color on her pale feet. The hands on the abdomen just fall to the side every time I put them back up. Maybe I should just leave her hands down. Her eyes are closed. Sleeping?
Mother!
....
Mother!
No movements in her eyes. Even in her better conditions, she did not talk to me that much. She seems to have slight fever. Her blood pressure is low, so says the nurse. I know it's one of the traits in my family. Anyway, there are no changes, no response.
What next? I wish I had brought something to do, knitting or....
Around 4 in the afternoon.
A relative, the wife of my late father's elder brother, comes by the hospital, herself leaning on a cane. A cousin arrives with her, assisting her visit.
I have had bad dreams for several days.
But, thank you for coming all this way, aunt!
Your mother, no longer recognizes me, does she?
I can't tell. Mom doesn't say anything. It's been a couple of days.
Well fit and energetic, since her youth - spend money freely. Until recently, she was a healthy senior....
You take a good care of yourself, aunt!
I should die first, me going senile, as good as dead.
Don't say that!
The aunt leaves after it's clear that Mom no longer can communicate. Only the sound of her walking stick remains in the hallways outside. And that remnant calls out the past in my mind.
Mother has lived it up. In every sense of that phrase. Still, why did I complain so vehemently about every single thing she did? Did she feel hurt because of me, with my cold, piercing disapproval? Or was she hurt because of the eldest son who had disappointed her? The son whose opulent lifestyle that partly benefitted from his betrayal of his own mother?
Mother refused to accept the traditional housewife's role from the beginning. Instead of the mundane, household chores, the bright-red manicured nails served as the ironic coat-of-arms for her freedom as a woman. Yeah, I just couldn't forgive her for that. No, I just wanted a mother, a normal mom, whenever she was not around. She was nowhere close to being a feminist nor did her life seem like the culmination of the empowered women. She was just not around. She just did not care for the banality of daily life. Images of buying tofu and bean sprouts and sweeping the floors simply did not exist in her life. I always felt guilty about her extravagant style, at that time when I was young, knowing some of my friends' mothers sometimes skipped meals to feed their children. I imagine the old woman lying next to Mom in her own sickbed may be one of those starving mothers. The woman's bony, leathery hands put me to shame. Sitting in a small chair next to Mom's bed, I get lost in thought, deeply, more and more.
So, when was it? I recall a dark room, where there was a photo inside of a drawer. Why did I enter the room? It was not Mom's room. But that of my younger siblings, near the well in the backyard. It must have been before we got running water in the house because the well was the source of our drinking water. Perhaps after washing my face with cold water, - It certainly was on a hot summer day. - I absentmindedly sat on the room's entrance and then.... Why was the photo there in that drawer? That curious photo! The woman's face turned away. If I think about it now, could it be a pose for a nude picture? And the model was my Mom? That ring with a big jewel on the model's finger, unmistakably belonging to Mom. It was Mom. She knew a lot of people, unlike other normal mothers. Was there an artist among her acquaintances? I couldn't fathom such things at that time. Was (or is) it easier to grasp, if I imagine that it was an artistic endeavor? Surely it was a work of art! Who took that photo? That question still haunts me. An unknown photographer's artistic photo whose object of adulation was also the object of my hatred. And it only grew bigger from then on.
Why are you late?
See, I was out only for a while.
You should go out earlier and come home earlier than us children. Why do you come home only now, this late!
What time is it now? What's the big deal? I told you, I went out a little while ago. Was the dinner OK, eh?
What dinner? Is it all OK to you, just because we have regular meals? What a sweet home where Mom comes home late every evening! From socializing!
Who talks like this to her mom? My dear ice princess! Your siblings don't' seem to mind, do they?
Other daughters come home late and make troubles, not their moms. What kind of home is this! I hate my life.
Every single day I talked back to Mom. An outgoing mother, and a nagging daughter. In a society, where talking back to your elders is frowned upon, we had a surreal relationship. We were trapped in a vicious circle, each with no discernible way out. With deep-seated distrust of my mom, and by extension, of the entire world, I was depressed for many years. I hated my life, really. Nobody knows other person's life, because everyone exists outside of those of the others. Mom's was an outgoing personality - what's this? why I am using the past tense? - while I usually avoid people. Among hundreds of guests who came to my wedding, there were only four people I knew: one married couple and two classmates. The rest came to see my mother's first daughter getting married. I wanted to be a mother who would focus on home. I did not want to be berated by my own daughter someday. Succeeded, a little?
It's 10 to 7.
My eyes look up at the clock on the wall. Mother is alive, the only sign being her regular breathing. I tremble with guilty about using past tense while thinking about Mom. No facial expressions on her. Fortunately, don't see a pained look on her face. It's calm, even when the nurse feeds her some porridge using a tube through her nose.
I'm anxious about the dinner at home. Nothing is prepared, because I hurried out in the morning when I left the house. My cell-phone rings.
Unni, how is Mom? I'm at the bus terminal. Don't wait for me and go home now. Soon I'll be at the hospital.
Oh, yeah, well, not yet. No need to rush.
Don't worry. I am almost here.
Yeah, you have the entire night shift coming up for you.
Don't worry about me, you know, oppa - big brother - is coming too, I hear.
Oppa's coming, really? I check on Mom while wondering. How desperately has she been waiting for her first child, first son? After seven months in the hospital she seemed to give up the hope. She gave up, at least according to her own words.
You want call him?
...
You want call him?
Leave him be.
Shall I call him?
Mom turned without a word, so said the younger sister. Mom surely knows that her son obviously doesn't want to talk about all the things that followed that incident. Besides, like well-ripe mung beans' shells in summer days - they burst hardly before you touch them - he easily storms up a temper. No one dares to, wants to talk to him anymore.
Is big brother coming?
Anyway it's time for me to leave. I hesitate; look at Mother's face, then at the clock. Still a couple of minutes left to seven o'clock. The nurse says to me, "just go, go ahead." Two nurses are always around the patient. Does that mean it could be a dangerous moment, soon? Who knows? The youngest sister will arrive soon.
I stepped toward the car. A blinking sign on the dashboard - the gas is almost out. It was blinking since yesterday. I drop by at a gas station, feeling anxious. The youngest sister calls already from the hospital.
I'm with Mom now. Don't worry. You'd better rest easy.
Rest easy?
We - her children - won't let her die alone. To be with dying parents is one of the most important filial piety - a Confucius virtue to show one's respect for one's parents. It's our custom. Even a prodigal son will be forgiven, if he stands by dying parents. But Mom is still breathing. So maybe she will be fine. But I recall, she cannot even swallow, even fluids since lunchtime. The dinnertime meal was fed through a rubber hose directly in to the stomach. A tube supply feeding is necessary and not necessarily dangerous, so said the nurse. "Some people go on in such a state for several months ...." Thinking back and forth I arrive home, late.
Mom is not so good. On top of it, I had to stop by to get gas.
Nobody blames me for being late, but I murmur something by myself, an inaudible excuse to an unspoken accusation. Meanwhile, I put the rice into the pot. The soaked rice begins to boil soon. Now I let the rice settle in its own steam and prepare side dishes. I cut the Kimchi fresh each time - a simple, traditional trick to liven up its tangy flavor. Otherwise, he won't touch a single piece of Kimchi. My ears are focused the phone. That couldn't be happen yet, but....
The telephone starts ringing. I can't quite pick it up quickly. The sudden finality of it also surrounds me. I run to the phone. It happened, I am told. Is that what I waited for? To end the battle that had no hopes? After all, Mom was critically sick. The doctors try to console me, "She passed away without any acute pains, and it's almost like a miracle." Even so, I realize that it hasn't been even a half hour after leaving the Mother's bedside. By a half an hour, I missed being at Mom's deathbed. Is it acceptable because I had to prepare a supper meal for my own family?
Your older sister is really cold.
It was Mother's last word the other day, according to my younger sister. She probably meant to say I was judgmental. It is stuck not only in my ears but also in my heart now. I have no opportunity to stop being icy cold to my mom. Mom passed away.
And I was not around.
Mom's offspring - children and grandchildren - came home from everywhere and all seemed surprised at her death. Wasn't it a predicted result, the end of an incurable patient, and what else then? Sooner or later, it would have come true. But it still astounds. The fact that there isn't Mom in the world, an unrecoverable loss. The one who believed in her children, come what may. Who believed in them - us - even in some exaggerated ways. The "icy cold" one, the "sweet" one, even the one that betrayed her.... To her, all her children were a poignant reminder of life, with all of their weaknesses, including those she chose to ignore.
It was good that the youngest child, short on sweetness but with solid grasp of reality, stayed by Mom's deathbed. It was said to be a kind of peaceful death, without a single word, single sound.
She's not breathing.
The nurse, standing and watching the patient together, said, and just like that Mom was breathless. Not a single word.
You want call him? - Leave him be.
Those were her last words. Mom died without a will.
It's not true. There used to be her will, long time ago. Mom had to handle the family's properties when my father passed away - I cried and cried and thought that my father died because he couldn't stand Mom's bright-red manicures on her nails any more. The hatred against Mom grew exponentially. To her sons, she divided and gave them some property. She also announced that the remaining property - a large commercial building - is going to be fully her daughters' after her death. Over the years, the circumstances were changing, and my mom lost that building. She had to hand it over to a creditor, because of the loan payments, unpaid by her first son, my Oppa. Mother seemed to be embarrassed about that, especially in front of her daughters. She no longer could take pride in herself for being equally generous to all of her children regardless of their gender, as she used to brag.
Even then, it was her first son, - no, his wife to be exact, - showed anger to Mom for losing the property. Her first-daughter-in-law couldn't, wouldn't forgive Mom even though she had promised the building would be bequeathed to her daughters. Regardless of Mother's will, perhaps the daughter-in-law thought it would be hers one day? No way. When Mom lost the last property, she also lost the first son. In recent years, Mom's fortunes have been waning. Imagine, Mom did sometimes her own cooking! But she never went buying tofu and bean sprouts, ever. It was simply not in her repertoire. Now I realize it was rather good for her, if it could keep her dignity in her own way. Perhaps that vane pride she wore outside turned inward and became cancer cells, when she no longer could bear the discord between her plentiful past and her increasingly diminishing present.
"The fact is" Mother passed away. And she did not get to see her first son. But now we have to think about the funeral. A big funeral hearse arrives and takes Mom from the hospital. Ah, that's the last moment. It hits me again, from now on, Mother doesn't exist. Now we're orphans. We don't have our Mom any more who loved us, even if so judgmental, so disloyal we might have been. But my mother's mitochondria, like the powerhouse of our bodies' cells, will live in me, who didn't know how to love Mom. Not in his loved first son, because only daughters carry on the mitochondrial lineage.
What now? Funeral must be held. We still debate whether to contact the big brother or not. Who decides it? The second son is responsible, of course. Basically the phrase 'will he attend or not' at the funeral of one's own mother doesn't make sense. We all agree that he should be told. We all are equally capable of good and evil, so someone among us, even the betrayer deserves to have a chance to make up.
Will he come?
Well, once it is informed.
Has he answered the phone?
Yes, he picked up the phone, amazingly.
Any news?
He said he will.
When?
Well, he said he will and is on his way.
I doubt he'll show up.
You don't really mean it.
Everyone's still talking about whether he is coming or not at the funeral.
Any news?
Nothing new, but he said he will.
When?
Well, and his son told me, he'll come too, with his father.
Mom loved my niece. I recall she ordered to install extra window-casting when he was born.
Then, shall we postpone the casketing?
How?
But he comes and can't see Mother's face?
But how can we...?
Yeah, though we should put on our mourning vests.
We cannot wait any longer and attend the prearranged casketing ceremony. Shrouded and dressed in powder pink and pale blue clothes that she had prepared long time ago, Mother looks like a woman from the royal court centuries ago. Too beautiful to be in a coffin, I am thinking, just like sleeping, even beautiful. - Curious, I've never thought that my Mother was beautiful. Shortly, they place the body in the coffin and close nails it shut. It's the end.
Can we pull out the nails? Someone asked hesitantly.
What nails?
Say, the casketing is over, but. What if he'd persist stubbornly to see Mom later?
Gee, I don??t know.
Will he come?
He said he will.
We all together wonder in silence why someone asked that silly question. An image of that snarling face might have struck him, what a casketing without the main mourner! All keep glancing toward the front door. So the second day was over.
The next morning, the funeral takes place.
The funeral cortege leaves the funeral home at 10 a.m. Unlike the loud crowd of mourners from yesterday, only the calm, even chilly, atmosphere sets in the room. We avoid each other, making sure we make no direct eye contacts. Nobody asks the question from yesterday. The second eldest brother looks tense, holding extra armband for in his hand. His hand is poised to give it to his big brother if needs be. The clock is ticking away.
It rains all day long. In the corner of the open field, all in light green, a group of white vinyl raincoats flutters. The evening shadows are beginning to fall. So the third day ends.
---------------------------
Suh Yong-Jwa is a Korean novelist, Prof. Emeritus, Dept. of German Language & Literature, Chonnam National University and Instructor of Korean as Foreign Language at CNU. Prizewinner of Ewha Literature Award (2004) and PEN-Gwangju Literature Award (2010). Published 3 Novels: Eleven Pieces of Jigsaw (2001), A Dim Life (2004) and Antonym ․ Synonym (2010) and many other books including Germany and German Literature (2008).
「3일 Three Days」, 『펜광주』 9호, 2011.12.12. 19-32, 33-50쪽
The Coexistence with Robots(Final).pptx
