A Letter Never Sent 6

A Letter Never Sent 6

 

As time passed, my father’s breathing became increasingly labored. Every 1-2 seconds, sometimes even 3, he would stop breathing for a moment and then take a deep, forced breath. I don’t know how painful it is to struggle for breath, or more precisely, to struggle with not being able to breathe properly. The only way I can imagine it is from the gas chamber training I had during military chemical warfare training. If I could only share my breath with him…

While he was still able to understand, I shared stories about us and our children. I told him that all five of his grandchildren were doing well, growing up and working hard to find their paths. Even though it was the same story I had shared with him every time we spoke, the news of his grandchildren always seemed to give him new energy. He had named all of his grandchildren, and when he saw them living up to the names he had given them, he was always especially happy.

When I told him that my second daughter, Ji-young, had graduated from graduate school and would begin her doctoral studies next semester, I remembered how he had joyfully said, "See, I told you Ji-young would become a scholar!" When I mentioned how worried I was about the youngest, Min-gi, who was not interested in school and had poor grades, he had reassured me by saying, "Don’t worry, they’ll all find their way." And sure enough, Min-gi found his path in music. He completed the Juilliard Pre-College program, delayed college to join the Marine Corps, and after enduring tough training, is now playing bassoon in the U.S. Marine Band, where he looks surprisingly good in a uniform.

My father had always wanted to see his youngest grandson, Min-gi, in uniform, and had asked me to send him a photo in his Marine dress uniform. However, I kept postponing, and unfortunately, I was unable to fulfill even this small wish. When I told him that Min-gi had graduated second or third in his Marine boot camp class, he joyfully said, "What did I tell you? Min-gi will do anything he sets his mind to!" My father, a former soldier, had a deep affection for Min-gi, his youngest grandson.

Min-gi, who struggled with speaking Korean and sometimes felt awkward when speaking with his grandfather, had long conversations with him whenever they could. A couple of months ago, when my mother mentioned that my father likely wouldn’t last the year, I had been mentally prepared. I had planned to visit him with my two sons after my eldest son Jun-ki's LSAT exam in the first weekend of October. However, when my father suddenly became critically ill, all of those plans were shattered.

Time, though it has no emotions, seems to deserve the adjective 'cruel.'

In September, when my father was still able to speak, I called him and shared my plans. I remember the sudden spark in his voice, which had been weak before, as if fresh green leaves were sprouting in his throat. Perhaps it was this hope and expectation that allowed him to hold on to life just a little bit longer.

Last summer, my younger sibling went to Korea, and my nephew Ha-ram also visited my father. My sibling showed my father the photos they took during the visit. A few tears rolled from my father’s eye as he looked at them. It felt as though part of my father’s remaining life was flowing out of him in the form of those few tears.

My sibling called home, and after handing the phone to Ha-ram, my father seemed to murmur a faint “uhh” into the receiver. It was like the sound of dry straw rustling in the wind — his voice lacked moisture. Ha-ram, bright and clear, must have cheerfully said, "Hello, Grandpa?" but there was no response, and soon the phone was put down. Even though my father wasn’t feeling well, I hope that Ha-ram’s cheerful “Hello, Grandpa?” brought him some small comfort.

At least for me, the thought of Ha-ram brought comfort. Just thinking about Ha-ram, who is bright and playful, seemed to ease the fatigue that had kept me up all night. Ha-ram felt like a lemon, a refreshing presence that could bring moisture to my father’s dry mouth.

And so, a few more hours passed.