THE BLUE NAPKIN

 

In dedication to Patrick Y-Kin Grove 

 

the most precious incalculable gift you have given me, 

treasured beyond words, the story, 

 

The Blue Napkin

 

is written so that when 

Zander, Elvis, EllaGrace and Paxton, 

are struggling through life, questioning your judgement,

in their moment of bad decisions, re-adjust their thinking,

 to understand your limitless empathy, and boundless love, 

through this story

 

 

 

 Sunday afternoon sipping his favorite home-grown Yorkshire tea and biscuit with our eldest 41-year-old son, discussing their beloved subject of soccer, was the best part of his day. In the early years of our married life, I hung on to his every word with pretend excitement about the sport. Even watched the games with him on our first black and white TV, and still could never understand the point of kicking a ball from one end of the field to another. My enjoyment was seeing his excitement of explaining the game to me. I admit it was a deliberate ego-boosting of his masculinity, from an adoring wife, indicative of my Asian upbringing.  With almost 50 years as a team, watching my son and husband animated on a subject of shared enjoyment; the guilt of pretense was replaced by tantalizing homemade scones, with whipped cream and raspberry jam, his favorite comfort food, emphatically discouraged by his diabetes doctor.

 

Moving to a more comfortable armchair to watch the afternoon game on TV, both my son and I witnessed the “widow maker” striking as he clutched his left chest in pain. All three of us knew, without speaking, his face became paler as the pain increased that we just had a 30-minute window to get medical help.   The private hospital was directly opposite our building. That was a conscious choice of condominium when we moved a few years back.  Grabbing my phone simultaneously surveying the Bangkok traffic below, calling the ambulance would be futile.  No words were spoken, instinct took over and our actions, though never rehearsed, went with military precision. We traversed flying buses, speeding motorcycles swerving the six lane traffic, pushing him in a wheelchair, grabbed in haste, that was left by the side of the lift, arriving at the emergency entrance of the Paolo Memorial Hospital all of us gasping for breath.

 

Twenty-two minutes from onset to medical assistance extended his 2% chance of survival for a 79-year-old man, medically known as Myocardial Infarction of the heart, for an extra three months.  That gift of ninety days turned into the most vital acceptance of mortality by all three of us. Fifty years of waking up together, eating together, crying together, laughing together, we used the time wisely and learned from the extraordinary events: the notorious six lane traffic came to an unusual respectful stop, the appearance of a wheelchair from no-where; owner unknown, the senior cardiac surgeon about to go home, got pinged as he started his car, the Covid19 test required before hospital admittance became the secondary step. Instead, the balance of life, judged by an emergency intern, deserved his “Summa Cum Laude"  that day.  It was God’s magic, giving time to ease our acceptance of death.  

 

The four medical team from heart, lung, kidneys, and psychiatry did their utmost to regain the blocked artery to its optimum level, balanced the kidney and kept pneumonia at bay; and the optimistic patient was determined to do his part to quickly recover. The daily blood tests, x-rays and oxygen levels, physical rehabilitation gave way from elation mixed with despair.  Inspired by unknown factors, he insisted that we reminisce about the 50 years together in increments of five years.  It was his wisdom to soften my loss that was inevitable, instructing me as always to bravely stand tall, continue to connect with those he loved and respected; and in doing so, I will feel he was still around.  

 

 

In his aversion of modern technology that had multiple functions like the iPhone, where he thinks good mannered listeners should allow conversations to flow, only to be promptly stopped, so that the ignorant know-all could check on Google for accuracy.  Therefore, to my surprise he asked me to switch the recording App on my phone, so that I could document our conversations whenever I needed his wisdom to help me through once he departed. Quite proud of his progressive thinking, I now have hours of our magical conversations taped.  Although a year has passed, today’s first anniversary of 3 June 2023, my loss still weighs heavily, and as strong as I am now, just hearing his voice would unhinge my soul to pieces.

 

As the body organs deteriorated, by comparison, the brain was sharp as a razor blade.   Every day, without fail, I would sit with him from early morning to late evening, going over our highs and lows, embracing love and forgiveness.   He even surprised me of his memory in reciting the whole of Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice for two hours verbatim.  He remembered every single line, and as my curiosity judged his knowledge and capabilities; like other know-alls, I grabbed my phone, searched google for the pdf version of the play; Apple charged me ￡2.50 by which time I scrambled to catch up as he was already in Act 2 Scene 3.  A teasing wink, letting me know he didn't categorize me like those ill-mannered, ignorant fools. Astounded by this gift I never knew he possessed, there was a glimmer of hope that flashed and was gone in a minute.

 

On one of the mornings, holding hands, lying on his hospital bed, acknowledging his last 48 hours. He had an epiphany; talking non-stop, competing with the oxygen intake he quickly told me something which was incredibly cool.

 

He made me get two napkins.  Me being me, raised my eyebrows, in the usual irritable wifely response.  I pulled some tissues from the nearby Kleenex box. He was insistent that I find the right kind of paper napkin.  He told me he saw them at the opposite end of the ward, it was far, the length of a football field where the doctors held their morning meetings.  I was surprised as he had been bedridden for some time, was on a lot of drugs, how did he know the whereabouts of these napkins; his mental capacity was questionable.  He complained that last night the  nurse had turned off the lights and the room was dark.  He was only able to see his way back because Sara’s favorite yellow daffodils were in bloom, shone the way.  I had read somewhere that when death approaches, there includes an out of body experience.  

 

I pulled a face.  Annoyed and cranky “just go and find it woman!”  I found the colored paper napkins – blue and green, exactly where he told me.  Pulling the swinging hospital eating-tray close, proceeded to unveil his knowledge from another universe.

 

He put the two napkins side by side, representing me, the green napkin; and him, the blue napkin as when we met.  Then he folded the napkins in half and connected it side by side, two halves making a whole napkin.   He explained that two people in love, from two tribes, joining together as a unit, doing it as successfully as we did, required binding ourselves as one. Tricky as he was the guest of the country and I, the ignorant native, having followed my father's extended diplomatic overseas postings, didn’t know my own country. We achieved that unit of one and did so without ever losing our individuality. In turn, what we gained was one hundred percent loyalty necessary in our unusual union.

 

He insisted that bi-racial marriage was ridiculed repeatedly from centuries ago, especially in colonized countries and nationalistic Thai’s were no exception.  He was aware of Thai and ex-pat community envy, some derisory remarks, but didn’t care for his love was unbreakable.  

 

The first seven years together, early 1970’s before our posting to Guam, every week, American GI’s flooded all the massage parlors popping up like mushrooms on New Petchburi Road, right by his office, the Land Rover division of Butler and Webster. The US troops on their week of R&R before going back to kill some more, needed to procreate, and smoke weed to fuzz out reality. I suffered the ‘Thai weekend wife syndrome’ perceived by those hiding their own questionable behavior.  Peripheral attempts to disregard the veiled kind acceptance, eventually enough subsequent remarks stung, and my sarcasm surfaced. Not a good scenario, but necessary to preserve my dignity.

 

Ten years older than me, joking aside, he was obviously the wiser half of the napkin.  Therefore, as a unit, we had to take control of society’s rules and live the opposite, to ensure we would not be blindsided by perceived principles.   Our simple rule was we, as a couple, came first before anything or anyone else.  Employers, Thai family/UK family or even our children would come second. I was judged through the years as ungrateful by my siblings, selfish by our friends and even suggestions of parental irresponsibility. Don’t know if the kids ever felt short-changed, I’m sure they did, observing them as adults now, immense pride over takes any guilt.  We stuck by our commitments willingly and never once gave up when things were tough.

 

Coming back to the folded napkin, he said, when he dies, (dramatically throws his blue napkin as it flies to the floor) unfolds my napkin, bringing my full self to the table.  He said, “Remember it was folded at 19 years of age, bring it up to speed, easily done through your own maturation” And then making his point loud and clear, “emerge as the new formidable you we built together, on your own terms.” clearing his throat,  “No second guesses, you won’t have me to bounce your thoughts; and by the way, that was a cop-out on your part,” coughing as he laughed; teasing me as he scolded.

 

The loss of a life partner, from that moment, as I held his hand and watched the blood drain from his fingertips, the grey tone replaced the pink vibrancy of life, the mask appears, indicative that the spirit had left, as his eyes glazed over.  My son reaches over to close the lids and the heart monitors’ flat line continued together with the machine’s alarm indicating what I already knew. A replay of many movies on hospital dramas, cannot replicate the stillness, amongst the noisy alarms.  The only exaggerated sound was the nasal cannula, programmed in dispensing oxygen at its highest speed when it detects no suction activity, as the lungs no longer functioned.  I could have easily curled into a ball as the pain was immeasurable of wanting to join him.  As I gathered the strength to call the nurse, at the corner of my eye, on the floor, was the crumpled blue napkin that he ceremonially threw into the air a few days before, stuck to the wheel of the bed as they moved him back to the ICU and alongside, my own napkin, miraculously opened. Mystical and magical.  

 

Well, here I am a year later.  Not drowning in widowhood drama. Everyday achieving a set of goals placed the night before, emerging stronger, dignified with grace and gratitude.  I was given a gift of time, only few are rewarded, and my appreciation is boundless. My forward-thinking napkin quietly repairing the heartache of loss, filling my soul to remain present as Grandma Tups, leveling my expectations that the gate is nearer and in doing so teaching and showing me the dignity of life and, also the dignity in death.