Demi-god doctors

Why do Japanese doctors get the whole family involved in care? All friends and family present are included in general discussions about the patient`s health, and any shaky prognosis might be postponed until someone else is present.

A good bilingual Japanese friend learned that she had cervical cancer by accident. The OBGYN asked her to come in with her husband for the next appointment, smiling and acting cheerful, while writing something on her chart in English (assuming she would not be able to read it). She could clearly read: Cervical cancer, early stages. She pointed to it and got an explanation but still wonders how long it would have gone on being a secret otherwise.

I was wondering last week why my dentist was dodging questions on course of treatment, angling to have my husband there to "translate". At first I was angry that he wouldn`t try to tell me on my own, or that he thought I couldn`t make such decisions on my own. I just wanted to get going on the work... I felt very undignified and child-like while I sat in the chair and watched him discuss it over the phone with my husband.

Later on, I realised that my dentist might merely have been afraid to tell me that I would need two, maybe three root canals, and eventual work on nearly 10 other teeth. Perhaps he thought I would not beleive him? Or maybe as friendly Osakan he wanted to get to know my husband He was probably looking to provide support for me, by bringing Kentaro in. In treating me like a child, both were able to offer me their care and attention.

I also remembered a few years ago when I was pregnant, and my husband came for the check-ups, how embarassed he would be when I asked question after question. It was my first time going to the doctor in Japan with my husband present, and his first time observing a doctor-patient conversation which would be natural in the west. Apparently it is not normally considered polite to speak to freely to doctors, (or teachers, or elders...). But being a university hospital and used to foreigners, they did seem to expect me to have questions, and always asked me if I had any. Kentaro got over his embarrassment quickly and realized that doctors do not need not be put is such a rarified light. I liked that he came to every appointment that he could. However I do remember being extremely annoyed when a young doctor who addressed Kentaro instead of me about a sudden wieght spike. She jokingly asked him if I had been eating too many chocolate bars. I felt like a 12 year old then too, although now I see she was really showing care, including my husband in the talk, and trying to keep a touchy subject light!
How frustrating is all this kindness!

At the last appointment, the dentist made a point of carefully showing and explaining it all to me again and asking me what I would like to do, so I felt he still sees me as a individual. I mused that if I were single and unknown to him, it would have taken only a few minutes to get
on with the work and decisions. But then I guess the closer we become to each other and more tangled we become in this society, the longer and slower the dance must go on...

Sun Protection

This week the sun has finally come out in force, with a temperature of 35 degrees plus 80 percent humidity. Oh lovely Japanese summer!
Hailing from temperate Vancouver, I can tolerate only the bare minimum of clothing, and must rest frequently in the shade. I protect myself, and my daughter with sunglasses, big hats and a thick coat sunscreen on all exposed skin. We have been turning ever so slowly from fair to golden brown.

This year I have noticed two new trends in sun protection for Japanese women, which I will endeavor to shoot and show here. Long gloves, and dark visors.
The gloves are not so new, and I have seen this kind of protection being worn before: a kind of thick cotton fingerless glove, which reaches up above the elbow. Everyone is wearing them - From middle-aged obason, young office ladies on their lunch breaks in uniform, mothers in the park with their young children to impeccably dresses women. Black is the most common colour and according to an informal survey made yesterday, they also uncomfortably hot. One woman assured me that the suntan would make her feel worse than being over dressed.

Japanese women have the loveliest skin imaginable. Their age is barely discernable. Only from fashion and perhaps language can I tell the difference between 25 and 55. They eat well, sleep well, and have fabulous DNA. They often walk around with parasols and wide-brimmed hats, and now gloves. The cosmetics industry has been touting UV block products for a long time here as "whitening". Many wear long sleeved shirts and pants for further protection. Women elsewhere in the world take pains to protect their skin, but do not necessarily value pale skin, and might also paint on a coating of "false tan" at the same time.
Other than obvious reasons of safety, what could be at the root of this desire to be whiter?

The other major new sun protection of choice is a UV-block head visor, which consists of a band around the head, with a dark translucent plastic extended brim. This is worn either straight out like a hat brim, or tilted down to cover the entire face (which looks quite a bit like Darth Vader). This type of sun protection seems to be popular with older women on bicycles, out to do the daily shopping. I am guessing their ages to be 50 plus, but then again it is so hard to tell their age, and I have been mistaken before.

Interestingly enough, I found out that this obsessive sun protection does not extend to children. On a recent trip to an outdoor public pool, I noticed a group 100 or more kids from a neighboring public pre-school. They got into the pool for about one hour between 10:30 and 11:30. Not one of them was wearing a hat, sunglasses, or apparently, sunscreen. A friend pointed out a sign beside the pool that stated that in order to keep the pool clean, swimmers are not permitted in the pool wearing sunblock.
I guess Raina and I will just have to lotion up on the sly!

Shamoji Superstition

A shamoji is the flat paddle spoon used to serve rice. We have a nice wooden one, and I am usually too lazy to dip it in water before spooning the rice out of the cooker. And I actually really enjoy standing in the kitchen nibbling at the attached globs of hot rice.
Kentaro recently caught me at this and was appalled, sincerely warning me that my eyes would be terrible when I was old if I ate rice directly off the shamoji.

We both had to laugh at this thought though... I told him that if I ate enough raw carrots like my grandmother said, it would probably cancel the shamoji trouble out!

Japanese Pawnshop

When sorting and packing for our move to Osaka, I came across some jewelry given to me before meeting my husband. What does one do with these relics? I really did not want to keep it. Nor save it or give it away. I was nearing moving day and had the strange mantra "when in doubt throw it out" going through my head all day long. But that seemed too wasteful. It did not feel right to try to sell it for a profit either. I resolved to pack it and figure it out in Osaka.

Recently, I decided to pawn the jewelry and donate it to a refugee fund for women.
So I looked up the word for pawnshop in my Japanese/English dictionary and opened the local yellow pages. Hermes, Gucci, Prada, Rolex shouted up in bold type from the pages. I had encountered these sort of pawnshops before with their selections of watches, Birken Bags, and lineups of Louis Vuitton products. I was confused by competing images: Brand logos, big sparking gems, gigantic pearl necklaces, and oddly out of place a photo of a toy poodle clutching a handbag in its mouth. Would any of these places be the right spot to part with unwanted karma?

I found small ad with picture of a dignified looking man wearing a lab coat who was standing next to a microscope. No logos, no dogs, only a claim in English of being certified gemologist. Indeed I would never have guessed it was for pawnshop if it was not sandwiched in with all those other obvious ads. It was nearby, and the map looked straightforward.

I went to the dentist in the morning, and set off straight after, with the thin yellow page map torn out and tossed in my bike basket and jewelry in pocket. It was a cool, windy and perfect for riding however the pawnshop proved much harder to find than I had expected. I had to stop several times to get my bearings, and lost the store map in the wind. I rode around a bit more, looking closely around pachinko parlours and other likely places. I started to feel a bit crazy. Perhaps the refugees could benefit from a better use of my time. Sitting on my bike laughing, I was ready to give up and head back.
And then I saw a big sign pointing the way... I followed... and another big sign, and another until I found myself on a nice residential side street standing in front of a regular house. As with many other homes in Japan, a tiny portion of the first floor had been reserved for a home business.

The house was 20 or 30 years old and the pawnshop entrance way was covered with a long lacy and low-hanging noren which would provide partial privacy for anyone entering. There was sign beside the door detailing the services within. If I did not know better, I would have mistaken the shop for a home-based dentist or massage therapist. As far as I could read, they accepted jewelry, digital cameras, and watches. It occurred to me that this was not the sort of place where pachinko or gambling game addicts would come to get some quick cash. And I entered, I felt strangely aware of the weight of the jewelry in my pocket.

It was tiny, dark and tidy. There was a miniature waiting area, with a sofa, and magazine rack. The two service windows directly in front of it had little dividers on the outside for privacy. The waiting room was empty, except for me, and two serious young women in uniform jumped to attention on the other side of the glass. They seemed momentarily surprised to find me there, but recovered quickly when I used some fumbling Japanese to excuse myself for disturbing them. Open files lined the walls behind them, and a little further back an older sat at a desk. He was wearing a lab coat. I felt nervous. I pushed the velvet box under the little window. She bowed across the glass, carefully opening the box, donning some simple cotton gloves like the ones I use to handle negatives.
She peered at the pieces through a magnifying loop, stating some measurements that were repeated and noted by the man at the desk. She weighed them while asking if it was my first time to a pawnshop. Yes!
She required some sort of ID to copy. She thanked me and bowed, bringing the jewelry over to man in the lab coat, leaving me to fill out my details on a registration card. He nodded at me and proceeded to reexamine the jewelry.
I noticed bowl of hard candies on the counter beside me with a stack of tissues beside it, which had been neatly folded. Were the tissues for polishing rings and bracelets, or for the tears of debt- ridden weeping widows? Was this a discreet place that grandma might come to temporarily hawk her wedding ring for cash gift during particularly busy wedding/birth season in her family? My imagination ran wild. Or perhaps it was for a young mother and wife, suddenly faced with an empty bank account and no electricity. An angry lover spurned? Or me?

The woman was back and gently placed a slip of paper on the tray with the ring and earrings.
It was my turn to be surprised. Surely these items were worth far more than that! She sensed my hesitation and with practiced tact, explained that they would simply be storing these items for me, and I could pick them up at any time in the next three months and pay back the amount plus 400 yen. She smiled and apologized that the amount was low, but standard. She paused and further explained that 3 months was the absolute longest they could hold them for me. I thought for a moment about telling her the truth; that these items pre-dated my happy marriage and that I would never want to see them again. I wondered if they would give me a better price if I explained that the money was for refugee women? Would they even believe that? I held my tongue and agreed with the conditions.

She left again and returned with the cash in an envelope, and a pick-up receipt carefully encased in plastic, both of which she politely passed to me with both hands, along with a complimentary kitchen towel and a handful of hard candies. The three of them thanked me in unison for my business.
Stepping out into the late afternoon golden light, I heard a baseball game starting in the grounds of a neighboring elementary school. I sucked on a lemon drop, pausing for a moment to take in the whistling and enthusiastic running. I thought about my own daughter sleeping in the daycare center. And as I stood there with the sugar dissolving on my tongue, I felt calmer and lighter

hanabi

I always forget about them... the first sounds of summer here are not really the cicada`s chirping, but the sound Hanabi - fireworks.
I can hear them going off in the park across from our street, punctuated by laughter.

One can buy them almost anywhere in the summer months, and they are truly marketed to little kids, with neon colours, and characters like Doraemon or Anpanman.
Much nicer colours than the ones back home... which were only ever around for Halloween, if an adult bought them.
Some are hand held rockets, or sparklers, others spin on the ground. Some are shaped like little tanks or trains.

Kids set them off just after dusk in special fireworks grounds near poplular places for day-long barbeques, or on the seashore.