The following was posted on Instagram by Nancy's eldest daughter Mariko January 19th. It was accompanied by Nina Simone singing "Let It Be Me." *
I’ve been dreading writing this. Maybe because in the delusion that accompanies grief I thought if I didn’t publicly say she was gone that she’d still be waiting where I left her, joking with the nurses on the recovery floor that had become so familiar to us back in November. She had already survived invasive brain surgery without any cognitive damage and barely a scratch (her Frankenstein-esque scar from the first surgery was almost invisible by the time we said goodbye). Maybe I wanted to wait because she died a week before Christmas, her favorite holiday before all traditions fell apart due to Covid. New Year’s came, I went back to work and was “doing okay” for a week. Then LA experienced its own very personal tragedy and it didn’t feel right to share my own. I’ve been having trouble keeping track of days lately but I do know that she died on December 19th which means today marks one month to the date since she left.
After her first surgery we repeated how grateful we were for access to a brain trauma unit… how she’d dodged a bullet and had a new lease on life. We talked about getting her art supplies out of storage so she could recreate the studio she lost when her family home was sold following the death of my Grandpa, her parent, just over two years ago. Based on our family history she “could live another twenty years”, and would have plenty of time to bring so many of her art projects to life. We laughed at the ridiculousness of being human.
The second brain surgery was elective. It was supposed to be easy, in and out, and would prevent this from happening again. When I got into Oakland I didn’t go straight to the hospital. The nurses told my sister that she was out of surgery and doing well. I could pick her up as planned the next day. She was in good hands on that familiar recovery floor. She was in the clear.
The rest of that night is a slow motion nightmare that plays over and over in my head. I see my sister on the phone with the surgeon before she put him on speaker. I hear the sound of his voice saying the words “not survivable.” I see the blurry and seemingly endless road on the way to the hospital an hour’s drive away.
When we finally got there after what seemed like eternity, the same surgeon who had operated on her both times was waiting for us visibly shaken. He had already told us that the hemorrhage was internal and in a completely different area of the brain than the aneurysms he had treated. We asked to see the CAT Scan. He confirmed, using many different words, that despite her hands being warm and the responses we felt when we held them, she was “no longer there”. We touched her forehead and her silver hair and cried on her. I wanted to ask her to please stay for just a little longer, to wake up for just a minute, so we could tell her that everything would be okay, so she could say it back to us, and so that she could say goodbye to us too.
Miyoshi’s fiancé Andrés was already there by the time we arrived. My Dad got there shortly after us (my parents divorced when I was eight but were friendly in recent years). We had called Miyoshi’s best friend Yang at her restaurant. She left the private party she was cooking for and was on her way. Yang was like a third daughter to my mom.
By 3:40am it was just me, Andrés and Miyoshi left in the room. Something shifted in the air. I still don’t know what. Miyo and I sat at each side of her, holding her hands as her soul left her body. We held on until her hands turned cold. The physical form that had held so much life and represented her identity suddenly become a shell, visible as the vessel that had allowed her soul to explore and create on earth.
People keep saying how lucky we are to have said goodbye in person. Sometimes I feel that. Other times I play back the tape of that day trying to undo how it ended. Gratitude, confusion and overwhelming grief have been running side by side in me ever since. Depending on the moment, one gains an advantage over the other. I understand now why people say they’ve “lost” someone. I’ve accepted that she’s not here anymore, but I keep looking for her because I don’t know where she IS. Where IS she?
I wasn’t raised with religion although my Japanese family definitely embraced the idea of reincarnation. They weren’t Buddhist (at least not my mom’s generation) but I remember a lot of “Don’t kill it! It could be great-grandma” with regard to bugs in the house… or birds and butterflies flying by at serendipitous moments. Lacking any other concept of the afterlife, I didn’t ever think too hard about where we go from here. Now that I have I’ve come to the same conclusion — I have no fucking clue and anything is possible.
My only hope is that, wherever she went, her expansive imagination and ingenuity are being put to good use. She always had more creative ideas than she had time and space to bring them to life. Maybe now, in this new form, she can make everything she’s ever dreamt up in an instant. Maybe she’s “up there” with David Lynch and Tupac and Rickey Henderson and my grandparents and all of her aunts and uncles and her cousin who was shot in front of his club in LA and her friend who contributed to my parent’s first down payment but died in a diving accident before she could pay him back. Alternatively, and this is the most terrifying option, maybe my experience of her was just a human one, and all that’s left of who we knew her to be are the memories she left behind on earth. Who knows? I don’t pretend to know.
I can’t say, “she lived a very long life” when her Dad lived to 94. I can’t say, “she’s no longer suffering,” because she had done so well in recovery and told me in the weeks between her first and final surgeries how much she wanted to live. What I can say is that over the past couple years we were able to heal so many old wounds, and meet one another with a respect and understanding that had escaped us earlier in my life. I was able to ask her some things that I’d never asked before but always wanted to know. We were able to clear up some significant misunderstandings and she was able to listen in a new way—with curiosity rather than defense. I’m holding onto gratitude for that time with her, while wishing we had more to continue growing together.
I keep repeating all of the things I am grateful for and reminding myself that humans all over the world are suffering from circumstances that are far more cruel in nature. I’ve been thinking about the kids in Gaza who have lost their mothers, fathers, grandparents, homes, schools, and limbs. And here I am crying about my mom who lived till she was 72, and died without pain in a hospital under excellent care with her daughters by her side. Everything in the world is happening all at once. Gratitude can at least offer some perspective.
When I can’t feel gratitude, I’m trying to allow myself to just be heartbroken, angry that she went through a portal that I’m not allowed to follow her through… at least not yet. In leaving first (which I guess is always the hope), she is encouraging me as she always has, telling me that if she can jump out into the unknown I can too, that I’ll be following her lead when my time comes.
There’s so much to say about who she was in life but words still seem futile when it comes to describing a whole human being and the imprint she left on this world. I’ve been told that at some point the void we feel will be filled with all of the beautiful memories we have of her. I’ll do my best to share more when that time comes. In the meantime, thank you to everyone who has shown up for us in recent weeks. We are so grateful for all of the support and love. Community is everything. 🤍
Fly Free Mom 🕊️ We Love You
"Let It Be Me"
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