The pioneers of Vancouver’s Chinatown had taught Wayson Choy: ”Survivors pay attention to signs.” And in many ways he has benefitted from this wisdom. His writing career had two auspicious starts. The first was while in his youth at UBC. His short story made the rounds of anthologies, including Best American Short Stories. After a gap teaching, he revived his writing career in 1977 with a creative writing workshop conducted by Carol Shields. She assigned the class to write a short story incorporating a particular colour. Wayson began writing about Old Chinatown but was stumped by having to use his designated theme of pink. By chance he visited his aunt who gifted him a pink jade ornament, and Wayson saw it as a sign. His short story was titled, “The Jade Peony”. The story then spawned a novel of the same title, a prize-winning book that is now read and term-papered in schools throughout Canada.
A similar sign, a lucky feeling, prompted Wayson to buy a lottery ticket that paid out $100,000.00, enough to buy a bigger house with his ‘family-by-choice’, Karl and Marie and their daughter Kate.
And yet, in 2001, when Wayson stood at the top of his stairs, a sudden acidic tingling in his throat triggering a hacking fit, he dismissed the sign as, “Allergies.” It was in fact a combined asthma-cardiac arrest; one that left him in a coma, fighting for his life. This is a very male response to illness: we dismiss symptoms as an inconvenience.
In 2005 I stood on top of a ladder on University Avenue, holding my two-year old grand-niece so that she could enjoy a view of the Santa Clause parade. A sharp acidic pain suddenly traveled along my left arm to my chest. I too dismissed the sign as “heartburn.” It was in fact a myocardial infraction (a heart attack). I also lay in a coma for a month fighting for my life. I too belong to a culture that values signs, although we Hindus call them intuition. My guru defines intuition as a synergy of head and heart.
Recovery is a long and introspective process. Cardiologists are adept at patching arteries and unclogging veins. But there is no one afterwards to heal a clogged sense of purpose nor to stop a hemorrhaging will to live. One of my gurus advised me to write as a way of healing. My writing led me to win the Wayson Choy Scholarship at the Humber School for Writers (where Wayson has taught for over forty years). This time I paid attention to the sign.
Not Yet is a memoir and Wayson points out at the outset, “All memoirs are works of creative non-fiction.” Events and people have been compacted, congealed for dramatic effect. The names of the innocent have been changed. But the authenticity is unmistakable. Not Yet is written in a style that is expertly simple in construction and unflinchingly honest. As Wayson’s student, used to his uncluttered thinking and meticulous penmanship, I was shocked to discover that he ”does housework religiously, every five years.” A bedroom furnished with dust-drenched carpets and stacks of take-out remains aggravated his asthma.
This is one the few books that I was compelled to read in one sitting. His descriptions of the nurses forcing catheters down throats; the Demerol-induced visitors who weave over and behind a family keeping vigil at his bedside, all of it was déjà-vu.
My sisters, like his Chinatown elders, had dire warnings: “No wife, no sons, no daughters. You die alone.” But gay men usually cultivate relationships that are sometimes stronger than filial bonds. During the early days of the AIDS crisis, families unable to deal with the stigma would routinely abandon sons. It was gay men who formed the Aids Committee of Toronto and Casey House to take care of their own. Wayson comes to realize, from the unwavering support of his ‘family-by-choice,’ that he is not and has never been alone.
My sisters’ children are now grown and some of them have children of their own. They now appreciate that progeny is no guarantee in times of sickness and old age. A compassionate outlook and an empathetic intelligence however, attracts the company of angels, in whichever form they may appear.
The logo for this book is a hummingbird in flight. A bird who’s wings beat so rapidly that the effort is invisible. After recovery Wayson returned to writing, touring, teaching, mentoring. Often neglectful of his body’s needs. Old Chinatown elders had another saying: “When things are going well, look behind you.” Wayson did not look behind him. He allowed wellness to distract him from the signs. He was stricken with a second heart failure.
A book that began with a near-death ends with a second near-fatality; the body of the book being not about death but about living. Living in a way that respects the delicate weave between strangers and friends: a life curious to both the seen and the invisible meanings. This indeed is the true sign of a survivor.
The hospital picture is of me during my coma. I would be interested in hearing from other survivors of near-death. Please reply in the comment box below with contact info.
