What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you completed the memoir? From April 2017 to December 2020
Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir? And please describe in detail. I’d written this memoir exclusively in my late husband, Patrick’s original office, which has been my office since his passing on July 4th, 2016.
Patrick spent his life in this office to design, develop, and communicate with various professional colleagues to ultimately bring cancer drugs delivered to the cancer patients.
After he fell gravely ill in the summer of 2013 with metastatic melanoma in his brain, I had to modify it to his medical room. Along with the further progression of his illness, I remodeled the original adjacent powder room and this medical room/office to a 100% ADA compliant walking shower room and medical room. Six months before his death, I began hospice care at home and continued until he died on July 4th, 2016.
After his passing, I’ve used his office/medical room for myself, even though I’ve had my own office upstairs. Behind my desk and a computer, there is a huge long built-in wooden blind and shelf on which I’ve kept Patrick’s memorial urns, a big portrait in the frame, and fresh flowers. Every morning, I offer a couple of milk tea for him. Nine months after his passing, I began to write in this room. I often cried out loud as I wrote. I often felt his presence while I was writing this memoir.
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TOP: Kyomi with friend Elisabeth who encouraged her to write the memoir. April 2017. Copyright by Kyomi O’Connor. BOTTOM: Kyomi O’Connor in her office. December of 2020. Copyright by Kyomi O’Connor.
What were your writing habits while writing this memoir- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? At the beginning of writing, I had no idea my writing would become a memoir. When I started, I had a very strong drive and emotions accumulated inside me to write. For several months, I kept writing in pen and paper without any music for many hours from early in the morning to late evening every day.
By the time, the writing began to cover lots of events and raw emotions in my life but not so many truths that were still hidden so deeply. I realized I would need to dig down more and learn how to write better. One year after the start of writing, I thought I should write a book. Then I decided to learn more about writing and began to dig down to find my own truths. While digging down and visiting various events and places in my memories, I often cried out loud in tears.
Since I decided to write a book, I used a computer more often to help organize my writing files. But whenever my muses came by, I had to jolt them down in pen and paper before they were gone. I prefer writing raw materials in pen and paper. I use a computer all the time, which is more convenient for organizing writing, files, chapters, and revisions.
I do drink many cups of various tea throughout the day. Not every day, but I sometimes drink a cup or two of black coffee. I love the taste and the aroma of coffee, but my stomach does not tolerate with everyday coffee intake.
I listen to light smooth piano music or the sounds of nature from the ocean, forest, and winds. Whenever I have a strong drive and emotions, I want to listen to female vocal songs.
Out of all the specific memories you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers or Chapter number as references. Within a week after the onset of his illness, which happened even before the first failed surgery, my late husband, Patrick became physically totally disabled due to the hospital’s mistake. He couldn’t walk or even spoon his foods. I’d already experienced this kind of the devastating situation before.
One Memory: However, the most emotionally devastating and exhausting memory was that I found myself living in the situation Patrick had lost his integrity and himself. By the time, we’d been together for over twenty-five years as inseparable partners and the “bestest” friends. I couldn’t accept this rapid fall and outcomes of all that had transpired to us before. I was in the excruciating agonies. While he was acting like a wild animal fighting, I talked to and begged him in tears yet from the bottom of my heart in the utmost sincerity; to choose his own path, whether or not for him to continue his life.
EXCERPT: From pp 289 to 290 in the final book
Chapter 25— The End of Our Journey
One evening, a few hours before the night shift’s arrival, I was trying to help Patrick eat but he was resisting; he wouldn’t even open his mouth. Though impaired, he was still physically strong.
“Where am I? Where am I?” he suddenly shouted in panic, moving violently. “Call the police! Call the police! Help! Help!”
I tried to calm him down, but he got even more violent and agitated. I grabbed his wrist and tried to distract him, but that just made him angrier. It was as if he was fighting against a murderer, and that murderer was me.
All of a sudden, I stopped and surrendered. I started to cry aloud, weeping in front of him.
“Patrick, Patrick, I understand that you want to live a little longer,” I said between sobs. “Even that you want to live longer for me. But you’ve changed. You’ve changed . . . to become a monster . . .”
I said all of this as if he could understand, but in that moment, he was beyond understanding.
I was still deeply in love with this man, and I needed support too. He was the only person I’d ever been able to speak to completely honestly in all my life.
A thought flashed through my mind: We could die together. Right now, and right here . . .
Then another thought hit me like a thunder: Tell him how you feel.
I wasn’t sure if I could, but I had this sudden trust in truth, so I began to speak.
“Patrick,” I said earnestly, “listen to me. Please listen to what I’m going to tell you now.”
He stopped fighting me; he seemed to be listening.
“You used to be an intelligent, kind, and brilliant man,” I said, looking into his eyes. “And I know you still are. But if you can hear me, please understand what I’m saying.”
He was completely still, silent. Was he hearing me? I didn’t want to hurt him. But for the sake of my love, his love, our love, I had to continue.
“Instead of acting like a monster, you can choose who you are, who you want to be. I know you, Patrick. It is up to you; you can choose your own path. I love you, Patrick. I really love you.”
I stopped talking. I felt totally exhausted, my body depleted. Patrick continued to sit there in silence.
I felt what I’d just said might separate him forever from me. But
I’d meant every word, and it had all come from my sincere love and compassion for him.
I hoped he would see it that way.
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Can you describe the emotional process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? What I asked Patrick in words was spelled out in the book as they hit my mind. It was my words to Patrick, so I was concerned if he understood what exactly I meant, and where I’d come from.
But also when I was writing this scene, I was concerned about families and friends of ours, and readers; how they read the heart of what I meant.
Some people may feel the idea came from an inhumane or abusive place. But it wasn’t. It meant to respect his being, the beautiful being, my Patrick. The statement came from somewhere sacred; nobody could touch the true value and the beauty of the man. It was delivered not to the deteriorated physical Patrick, but directly to his soul.
One hundredth of a second before, my thought, “We could die here together,” was very human-centered, but immediately after that thought, something sacred hit me, “Tell him how you feel.”
It was very difficult to accept someone who I’d loved for so long decaying in that way. It was too difficult for me to be peace with it. It’d wounded me repeatedly during my caregiving him. All the wounds culminated eventually led me to write this memoir.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? No. I spelled out the true stories around the incidence. That’s why it caused excruciating pains while I was writing this story.
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