On the death of my sister, Momoko

On the death of my sister, Momoko

translators, Chihiro Otsuka & Charlie Lovell-Jones

It was the morning of May 31st. I got a notification from my younger sister on LINE (a chat app
where we always chatted). I wondered if something bad had happened, so I called her. Shinichi
Kaneko, (Shin-chan, her husband) answered my call, which was not a good sign… Maybe
Momoko got a backache again and could not move? Or maybe she had an upset stomach all
through the night?
Then I heard the word “cardiopulmonary arrest.” What? What do you mean by that? I didn’t get
it.
Finally, I understood that what had begun as breathing trouble developed into a
cardiopulmonary arrest by the time the ambulance arrived. She was transferred to an ICU in the
university hospital near her house after she was resurrected.
But then Momoko fell into a coma, and never came back to consciousness.

I had planned to attend graduation exams at the Royal Conservatory of Brussels for three days
from the day I received the call. Many of my students were scheduled to perform on the first day
and none on the second day and onward. I decided to excuse myself from the second day and
fly back to Japan as soon as possible.

Cross-border travelling has never been easy in this Covid time. I needed to take a PCR test
before flying, and I also needed to quarantine myself in a Japanese government- designated
hotel.
I asked some of my contacts who might be able to help me accelerate this process. I did try the
same last July when my mother was about to pass away. At that time, I wasn’t able to get the
test result quickly enough to see her before she died.
What about this time?

Unfortunately, no exception was given at the airport and, badly distressed, I ended up
quarantining in a hotel (I call it “prison hotel”) for three days. When I finally arrived at the hospital
and saw Momoko lying in bed, it looked to me as if she was just sleeping. Momoko’s doctor told
me that he initially saw some possibility of her brain stem being alive, but later concluded that
her entire brain was dead. His explanation totally lost me. He said that Momoko had gone
through surgery, in an attempt to oxygenate her through tracheotomy….

Thereafter I visited the hospital every day, even though I was still in the middle of my self-
quarantine period. Every visit was utmost essential travel for me when my sister was in such a
condition. Later I learned that the hospital had a more relaxed policy than other medical
institutions – it allowed a maximum of two visitors for up to 15 minutes each per day, giving
special consideration to the fact that Momoko was in an ICU. I gave yuki (hand therapy for
stimulating one’s natural energy (ki)) to sleeping Momoko every time I visited. Practicing yuki is
Shin-chan’s expertise (he is a seitai master), so I tried not to interrupt his treatment while also
doing my best to communicate with sleeping Momoko.
As time went by, I became aware of the reality that Momoko would not open her eyes even if
she continued to survive….
My friends kept praying for her. Some prayed for a stuffed elephant as she claimed that
Momoko’s guardian was an elephant.

Once her condition stabilised (which meant that all her vital signs became steady), she was
transferred to another hospital. The new hospital was a bit far from my place. It was a brand-
new hospital and the reception area looked like a hotel lobby decorated with orchid pots.
Momoko looked terrible on the day she was transferred to the new hospital.
I assumed that the whole transportation process was a bit too much for her.
In this hospital, we had to wear a hazmat suit, a mask, a face shield, AND gloves!!
How could I breathe wearing them all? Both Shin-chan and I got so exhausted.

In a short while, my kids flew to Japan. They originally planned to come to Japan during their
summer break, but found it difficult to schedule due to Japan’s two-week quarantine policy. “No,
you guys don’t have to come. I don’t think you can enjoy your stay here”, Momoko had said to
them. But I had also heard her saying repeatedly “Aww, I miss them so much.”
Momoko loved her niece and nephew very much. Since they were born – well, even before they
were born – Momoko had been taking care of them, and they loved Momoko very much too,
calling her “Tante.” Momoko often joined my tours when I took my kids with me, or she kept
them at her home and took care of them with our mother. I was able to continue my tours
because Momoko always supported me.

I chose home birth when I delivered my son, Samon. Momoko was there with my midwife and
held him in her arms right after he was born. Momoko carried Samon up and down the hallway
in the middle of the night as he was a bit of a colicky baby who easily cried if not properly held.
She was also the godmother of my daughter, Michiko.
Both of my children are now grownups. They became busy with their own plans before they
even finished at university. With Covid travel restrictions in place on top of their busy schedules,
they even had to miss my mother’s funeral. Momoko left the world without seeing them for
almost two years.

While my children stayed in the “prison hotel” for quarantine upon their arrival in Japan, I video-
chatted with them. I saw a nice sofa in their twin room, and saw them dancing in the room
through the screen. It seemed they were excited to be visiting Japan at last, after such a long
time. They went to the hospital right after their three-day quarantine as Momoko’s hospital
allowed them to visit her just once during their stay in Japan.

Perhaps Tante Momoko didn’t like being in a room that wasn’t her own when meeting her niece
and nephew. She did look a bit unusual. Both Michiko and Samon were speechless. I waited for
them outside as only two people were allowed to enter the room. When they came out the room,
they were in tears, saying “Thank you dear Tante, may you rest in peace…”

I began to lose track of when each event happened or even what kind of event it was. While in
Tokyo, I visited Momoko twice a week for 15 minutes at a time. I also managed to go out with
my kids to enjoy Tokyo in between the visits. We went to the Japan Folk Crafts Museum, Mt.
Takao, and more. All my concerts got canceled for two months, and those two months turned
out to be an ultimate summer break for me – a gift, prepared by Momoko.

It came to July 12th, two days after the first anniversary of my mother’s passing. We received a
phone call from the hospital in the middle of the night to notify us that Momoko’s condition had
suddenly changed. We headed to the hospital. No one talked in the car. We didn’t have to wear
the regular hazmat suits or go through the usual tests. We were allowed to go up to the second
floor immediately.

We saw Momoko without any tubes. I learned right away that she didn’t make it.
Momoko returned to Wakaba-cho, our hometown, around sunrise.
Mugi, her dog, came close to her and licked her face. It was like Mugi was saying to her, “Let’s
play!” Seeing Mugi trying to take Momoko’s sheets away, Shin-chan broke down into tears.

Many people paid a visit to say farewell to Momoko. Everyone was in shock as she had died so
young, at the age of 61. She is younger than me.
The day before her funeral, I caught a rare sight of Mt. Fuji from the roof-top floor of a nearby
home improvement store. I saw graves in Shozenji temple, the care home where my mother
used to live, and Mt. Fuji connected in one straight line, and got a feeling that this was the place
to which Momoko liked belonging.

 Six months later Momoko’s ashes were placed in her grave on a sunny but cold winter day.
Momoko rests in the same grave as my father and mother under the blue sky of Japan, not the
grey sky of Europe.

I wanted to attend her grave placement ceremony, but gave up as I couldn’t bear the lengthy,
all-consuming process of Japan’s Covid border control. I was also planning to watch the
performance videos for the preliminary round of the Sendai International Competition in Japan,
but decided to do so online.

I will be in Europe until May, which will mark a new record for the length of my stays here. “A
new record” might sound strange, as my home, family and work are all in Europe. But I feel
myself being tested somehow in this longest of stays. I have been living in both Japan and
Europe, switching back and forth, back and forth, like traffic lights turning green and red in
sequence. It feels so unusual to me that this routine has suddenly stopped as I used to travel
back and forth 4/5 times, sometimes 6 times, a year.

Losing my younger sister means that I have lost my witness of 61 years of my life. I don’t have
anyone to chat with about my old memories or about my parents. I can’t have any more
moments with her, like when I would think “Oh, I should tell this to Momoko!” and would make a
spontaneous call.

But it feels to me that I can still communicate with her, somehow, through music.
I played the violin in her room in the hospital. I sang a song by her ear and noticed her subtle
reaction.

So, I asked the hospital for permission to play. “Yes, you may,” they said, “but please do so in a
low volume and only for a short time.” Needless to say, I had to wear a hazmat suit, mask, and
face shield. I excused myself from wearing gloves and played a piece of Bach. How difficult it
was to play Bach, Fugue in C Major at a very subtle volume! But I thought she responded
slightly, maybe? Shin-chan agreed with me. “Are you a professional violinist? Sounds so good,”
said a nurse.

That was my last meeting with Momoko.

I also played at her funeral. I chose to play the same Fugue in C Major as Momoko also played
it when she graduated from the Mozarteum University Salzburg. She was awarded the Best
Performance at that time, and it was indeed an excellent performance.
I then played the Sarabande in B Minor in sadness…
I feel like Momoko smiles at me from her photos when I play this tune now. And then there are
times I become tearful when I play Brahms’ Intermezzo.

Looking back the past, I think I was able to win the first prize of the Queen Elizabeth
Competition because Momoko was there. Momoko kept telling me that I played the first C in
Bach Adagio too fast, that I needed to take a deep breath before starting to play. Last

November, while I was practicing all the numbers for my Bach recital, Momoko stood quietly at
the entrance to our house, listening to my playing. She had finally become free from taking care
of our mother (as she passed away the previous summer) and had more time for doing things
like this. She was also backstage at Suntory Hall, Tokyo when I performed there. I heard
someone chatting so loudly just before my concert. I was like, “Who is it?!”, and it was Momoko.
She was always in the wing to see me off to the stage.

We had our last conversation in our garden on May 16th. Mugi was playing around us and
Momoko said “Hey Mugi, Yunta (my nickname) is here. Aren’t you happy?” He was very happy,
and so was I, as I could sense true joy in Momoko.
She was saddened by my renovation plan of our mother’s suite, as I started it immediately after
she passed away.

 I de-cluttered the house every time I went back. We found our photos and old memories from
our school days. I don’t know why but we went through just Momoko’s photos and documents
together at that time. “You can chuck them all away,” said Momoko. That’s why I only kept the
photos.

Momoko had decluttered and thrown out almost every her belongings, including her clothes
before she left. Of course, she had not known that her life would end this soon. There is
something beautiful in that Buddhist teaching, because it’s about staying present, celebrating
the past as knowledge that will forever be with us, in mind, body and soul, and letting go the
material – external – representations of it and staying with the flow of the universe. So I guess
that’s what she unintentionally did. Her last words to me were “I forgive you”, regarding my
sudden home renovation project. She said she was fine with it. Momoko had always been there
to watch anxiously while I did something totally unexpected out of the blue, or to cheer me up
through various challenges.
My heart aches still, six months after my beloved sister died. I feel I am facing a real challenge
from now on…

From Brussel at the end of December, 2021. (Continued to “Jet lag and Quarantine”)