I got a call in the afternoon that grandfather wasn’t going to make it another 24 hours. After a year waiting for this call, I had started to think it may never come. I had started thinking he might actually outlive us all. After a long fight with colon cancer, a stroke, and a car accident flipping down a freeway in a Lexus, death was finding my grandfather a reluctant customer.

His health deteriorated slow and deliberately. Three years ago he lost his ability to speak, two years ago his ability to walk, and last year his ability to eat. Knowing my grandfather, the last was the worst. He loved eating. We would regularly travel to remote places for “the best sushi”, or the “best buffet”. Even after he couldn’t lift a fork my devoted grandmother would laboriously shovel it in for him; he even managed to maintain a pot belly. But more than eating, he loved drinking. Scotch, sake, beer, and everything else – in that order of preference – he’d put it down, anytime of the day. At dinner tables, when everyone drank their appropriate amount, he’d look across the table, yell “Dahsuhteeen”, raise his 소주찬, and cheers me because I was the only one willing to go the distance with him.

Unfortunately I don’t remember much about my grandfather. His English was as terrible as my Korean, making communication impossible. But what I remember most was that he was a patient and kind man. My grandmother’s nagging and bickering would invariably simply produce some chuckles.

About eight months ago, he was finally bedridden, couldn’t open his eyes or mouth, and could aknowledge almost no stimulus. He was fed through a tube inserted in his stomach and pumped day and night with morphine and oxygen. This is how we’ve seen him these past eight months. It’s made me think long about life, death, and how to die. While I can’t criticize or make assumptions on my family’s part, I’ll just say that if I were in that bed, I’d want the plug pulled immediately after no hope of recovery was determined.

But I understand. Though I hate to admit it, to myself most of all, I’m afraid of dying and seeing loved ones go. Were salvation an assurance or were there no afterlife, death wouldn’t be so bad. But Jesus made is quite clear that the road to salvation is narrow and treacherous. But when I think of death, mostly I think of all the things I’ve yet to do – the woman I’ve yet to marry, the accomplishments not made, the peace I’ve not found.

How do you prepare for death? As I watched my grandpa suffer and struggle for breadth in that bed, I couldn’t help but think he looked unwilling, or afraid of death. Of course those are my  own conceptions; he could have been welcoming it eagerly and our family just wasn’t willing to help him along by removing life support and he lacked the ability to request it. However, if I were in that bed, I’d be unwilling. There are things I have to do. There are people I need to help. There’s peace I have to find. And there’s a girl I have to marry.

The Funeral

Korean funerals are intense 3-day affairs. The first two days were identical. The family gathered at 아산 Hospital at 9am and throughout the two days hosted visitors to give their respects. A visitor on entry would pay a little money, usually around 30,000-100,000, to help with the funeral expenses. He then would grab a flower, enter the room with grandfather’s photo, bow towards  the photo, lay the flower in front of the photo, bow again, and then exchange bows with the family. Most bows are the normal everyday bows, but some would do the formal bow, involving three full motions from standing to knees with the head laid on the floor in front of the knees. If he were a family member or one especially close, he might visit the backroom where grandmother was resting and accepting visitors. If not, he’d go to the large dining room, located 10 feet away, where food and drinks are served throughout the day. While many people drink soju, cheers-ing is not allowed. Usually the family member associated with the visitor would join the visitor for food and drinks. As the visitors come and go, the family members would accept condolences, eat in the dining hall, or rest in the backroom.

As opposed to American funerals where usually only people who know the deceased come, in Korea all family member’s friends come. It’s said that Korean weddings showcase the influence of the parents, while funerals demonstrate the influence of the children. I’ve always wondered why at Korean weddings there are scores of people completely unknown to the bride and groom. I get it now. The more guests the parents bring, the more influence/power they display. Similarly so at funerals. As my uncles are CEOs and presidents of their companies, a turnout of thousands didn’t surprise me. Two choirs came to sing incredibly sad and moving songs and so many people and companies donated large flower displays that they had to start throwing them away and keep only the ribbons.

On the second day the family members were taken downstairs to say a final farewell to grandfather’s body and watch him wrapped for transport to the cremation center.

On the third day our family, close friends, a pastor, and a church choir met at the hospital at 7am and took a bus to the cremation center. The family was then ushered in to a narrow hallway and watched through a window as grandfather’s body was pushed into the cremation chamber. It’s an oddly communal experience. Next to our little stall are dozens of other families watching the same thing and grieving for their loved ones. Additionally, most have brought a pastor, monk, and/or choir, and all of them are competing to be the loudest. The result is an insulting, deafening, and suffocating cacophony of noise. Please forgive my religious/cultural insensitivity, but buddhist monks can be quite annoying. Who are they singing to anyway, in languages no one understands? The family was then moved to a different area to watch as grandfather’s bones were unceremoniously scooped up, ground finely in an industrial grinder, poured into an earn, and wrapped.

We then took the bus to the 박 family’s burial ground about an hour outside of Seoul. It’s quite a gorgeous area, and I can’t imagine a better place to be buried. Unfortunately when I requested to be buried there I was informed that it’s for 박 men only, meaning only one of my cousins will be there. The family, pastor, choir, and helpers then laid grandfather’s bones in the grave, had a brief ceremony, and then took turns tossing in flowers. While I didn’t join them, three days later the family returned the burial site to have another ceremony.

Koreans really know how to honor their deceased. Actually one of the main conflicts between christians and buddhists here is in this area. Buddhists want to hold annual feasts and ceremony’s for their ancestors, while Christians believe it’s wrong to bow to and worship anything other than God. Because the interlacing of family is so foundational in Korean traditions, marriage between buddhists and Christians is incredibly difficult.

RIP grandfather.