My grandfather almost died this week. Well, his odds were supposedly fifty-fifty, which is damn near close enough to “almost” if you ask me. He formed a hernia as a young man, and it finally caught up to him at the age of eighty-six. On Wednesday, my grandfather began vomiting at his nursing home and was eventually sent to the UC San Francisco hospital. When we heard the news, my father and I drove up that night after dinner.

My father’s sister had already been waiting at the hospital for an hour when we got there, and she told us that there was talk of surgery. If the hernia had caused intestinal tissue to die, then my grandfather would definitely need an operation. The problem with sedating a man that old is, at my grandfather’s age, if you’re put under anesthetic, there’s an estimated fifty percent chance that you won’t wake up. So the big question of the night was whether an operation was necessary. While the doctors deliberated, we were kept waiting for an excruciating eight hours before we heard the decision.

While we waited, the three of us visited my grandfather in shifts. The bureaucratic idiots at the hospital had an obnoxious rule that no more than one person was allowed to visit a patient at any given time. I can see in theory how that policy might make sense, but it wasn’t as if San Francisco had just been struck by a WMD and the emergency room was packed with bleeding patients. There was more than enough room to accommodate three concerned family members of a man who very well could have been dead within the next twenty-four hours.

Anyway, I did have a chance to visit my grandfather, but I had to be alone and without a translator. I don’t speak a word of Mandarin, and my grandfather can’t do much better in English. So during my visit, we stared at each other as I stood above his bed and he looked up drearily beneath the scores of tubes that ran across his body. It breaks my heart that I’ll never be able to tell him all the things that I wish he knew.

At some point, I sat down and plotted out a speech to tell him. You know, it would have been one of those poignant monologues that movie characters deliver in quiet hospital rooms to unconscious loved ones. But when I opened my mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come out. I’m more of a writer than a speaker, you know. In the end, I decided not to confuse the poor man with my incomprehensible babbling. After a few more minutes of sitting by his bed, I stood to leave and told my grandfather that I love him. I’ve never told him that before. Really, the only relative I’ve ever said that to is my mother; and even then, that only happens on very special occasions. But as I looked down at my grandfather in one of his most vulnerable states, some instinctual impulse swelled my heart, and I grew fully aware of the love that I have for this man, whom I’ve never spoken to for longer than two minutes.

The rest of my time at the hospital was spent sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the emergency room waiting area. I attempted to read, sleep, and watch television multiple times throughout the night, all with minimal success. By 4am, the doctors decided to hold off on operating for the night. We thanked them for their speedy decision and drove home.

My grandfather underwent surgery the next day. Nobody in the family had any prior warning because the doctors determined that an immediate operation was needed. Gladly, he was conscious again within the same day, and I spent a few hours on Friday visiting my grandfather at intensive care. The old man had a fifty percent chance of dying, and he pulled through. I’m glad my grandfather is still around, even if it’s only for a little while longer.

It may be asking too much to expect to never lose a relative or a friend. Most of us would prefer to take the presence of loved ones for granted and to deal with loss only as soon as it comes. But it is only in the prospect of loss that you may fully realize how much you love somebody. Celebrate every moment spent together, and try to imagine on occasion what your life would be like without that particular somebody. Love them while they’re still here as much as you’ll love them when they’re gone, and maybe it might not hurt so much if you really do lose them. That is, at least, how I would choose to live my life. So here’s to those whom we wish were still a part of our lives. And here’s to those loves ones whom we haven’t yet lost.

Posted by KZ on 05/28/04

It seemed like a phase at first, but now it’s just ridiculous. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’ve been significantly depressed for a long stretch of time, but I’m not sure I remember the last time I felt happiness for longer than a stretch of a few hours. Maybe the big secret to happiness lies in the fact that the feeling is so very fleeting.

Posted by KZ on 05/21/04

The nicest gift anybody has ever given me is a blank, high quality writing tablet. The worst and most intimidating gift anybody has ever given to me is a blank, high quality writing tablet.

I’m a writer by heart, bursting with a multitude of ideas, nonsense expressions, and trivial observations (as much as any other writer), and I’m fortunate enough to have caring and thoughtful friends who keep that in mind. But oh, when my birthday rolls around each year and then I’m presented with a new writing tablet begging to be soiled with my careless scratches, I feel like collapsing out of guilt and fear. I admit, I’m fucking neorotic, which is probably why I’ve ended up chasing away everybody who’s been attracted to me. But I digress.

High quality writing tablets are intimdating. They stare at you with their beautiful binding and their carefully crafted covers, and they simply scream of insight and sophistication even when they’re blank and new, containing no more words than the fine print on their inside sleeves. Whenever I sit down to write in one of those things, I can feel the book egging me on. “Do it, kid. Make it good you prepubescent, would-be Kerouac. My cover is made out of high quality suede, you know.” Freaking sarcastic high quality writing tablets. Give me a beat up spiral-bound notebook with twelve pages ripped out of it and the remainder with all of the corners dog-eared. I’m a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy after all, and I’d like to apply that way of life to my writing style. Thanks for the gifts though, guys. I’ll take any reminder I can that I’m a writer, and not just a video-game-addicted zombie.

Posted by KZ on 05/19/04

Did I say or do something incredibly stupid and offensive? Because up until today, I thought things were actually going well. Now it’s almost as if I don’t even exist. It’s silly, I know. Some real high school shit I’ve got going on here.

You can’t fault me for not having tried, at least. I finally did it. I stopped being a pussy and asked somebody out. But hell, if rejection feels this bad every time somebody blows you off, maybe I had the right idea before I started being brave. No, I don’t really mean that deep down, but please allow me my moment of self-pity. Thanks. And why yes, I would like a beer.

Posted by KZ on 05/18/04

Alas, the storm is clearing. My Final Fantasy XI addiction has slowly devolved from an obsession into a mere interest. I no longer skip meals or social outings to play the game, nor do I grow overly irritated if I don’t get my daily four hours or so of playtime. Yeah, when you’ve got nothing better to do than playing video games all day, you really do tend to waste your life away. Silly me. I’m slowly slinking back into the real world and starting to worry about real issues again–real issues, for instance, such as this God-awful haircut that I was forced to endure on Friday. Since when did “Keep my hair long” mean “Please oh please inattentive bitch of a hairstylist, please hack off two inches from my long bangs, then sloppily thin out the sides of my head, and then leave the back of my hair in a mini mullet”? So freaking lame. I’m so frustrated, I could punch a whole kennel of kittens. (Only a figure of speech, my feline loving friends)

There are actual and significant events in my life that occurred in the past month that would be worth mentioning, but I neither have the energy nor the desire to lay it all out here. Then there’s all that horrible nonsense still going on in the Middle East. I mean Jesus, they’re still slaughtering each other? It’s all so appalling and terrible, that the only way to ever live a normal life while still remaining conscious of world events is to just grow numb to this huge bloody mess we’re all in.

But I ramble and digress without ever having had a major point to convey in this post to begin with. Basically, I’m here to say sorry for neglecting my little corner of the web. I’m still a writer, a flawed and neurotic worrier, a fanciful dreamer, a maudlin sap, and (if I may say so) an occasionally clever fellow. And who am I kidding? Check the posting time…I’m a reckless insomniac. Lord help me. I’ve come back to this silly blogging routine only to discover that not a whole lot has ever changed.

Posted by KZ on 05/15/04