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October, 2000, LOS ANGELES - I was en route to Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C., on my way home from my commission meeting when it happened. But I didn't learn of it until I landed back at LAX, in Los Angeles. Brad Altman, my business manager, informed me that my mother, Fumiko Emily Takei, had been rushed to the hospital and undergone emergency surgery.
I raced directly to the hospital. I was told that she had just come out of the operating room and was now in the intensive care ward. They said I was allowed to see her. I went in expecting the worst but I was still shaken when I saw Mama. My mother had tubes coming out of every part of her body - from her nose, through her mouth, from her stomach and so many from her thin, shriveled arms. Her half lidded eyes were dim and unseeing. It was devastating to see Mama like that.
The doctor told me that she had a perforation in her stomach through which gastric acid and blood were pouring into her abdomen causing her excruciating pain. If she hadn't been brought to the hospital in time, he said, it could have been fatal. I asked for her prognosis but he would not venture anything -- only that they would monitor the situation and go in 24-hour increments. That weekend at the hospital was to be the most harrowing of my life. Finally, on Monday, they told me that she had survived the surgery and that there was guarded expectation of a slow recovery.
We had such happy plans for her. The following week, on September 29, she was to have turned 88 years old and we had a gala birthday party scheduled for her at the Japanese American National Museum. Forty of her friends and relatives were to have gathered from near and as far away as Toronto, Canada, to help her celebrate this special birthday. All that now had to be postponed. Mama turned 88 in a hospital room with masses of life-sustaining tubes connected to her small body. But she did have a bevy of flowers and lots of get well cards surrounding her.
Mama has been living with me for the past two years. I moved her from the house in which she had been living for almost fifty years, the house she had shared with my father for thirty years until his death in 1979, the house in which I grew up. It was a house so filled with life memories. But she had to be moved from there into my house because she was in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. She was forgetting to take her medication, the cause of her first hospitalization. At my house, her care would be better monitored. I have a caregiver and my trusted business manager and friend, Brad, to help me out. At first, Mama thrived in my home.
But I began to sense some strange behaviors from Mama. She complained constantly of dust in the house. I was puzzled. My housekeeper keeps my home immaculate. I'd run my finger over the furniture to show her that there was no dust. Still, she complained. She habitually placed paper napkins over exposed food in the house, saying it's to protect them from the dust. Some mornings, she said that she'd wake up with a coat of dust on her face. So, I went into her room the next morning and woke her up by running my hand over her face. "See Mama," I pointed out to her. "There's no dust on your face." Yet, she would not stop. Her dust complaints were ceaseless and it was getting irritating. Then it dawned on me. When we were in the internment camp at Tule Lake during the war, I remembered dust everywhere. The cold wind blew the hard, gritty dust in through the spaces in the floorboard and through the knotholes into our flimsy barrack rooms. The mess hall where we took our meals always covered exposed food to protect them from the dust. Dust was a constant, relentless problem in camp. Mama, I realized, was reverting back to our days of incarceration in that World War II internment camp. It was heartbreaking.
But there were also times of joy and sharing. I used to take my mother on daily walks around the neighborhood. I'd point out the new flowers that had bloomed or the billowy white clouds up in the sky. And she would point out a great, old pine tree and tell me that it was a giant "bonsai." Once she told me of the time when I was a toddler and she used to take me out for walks. My favorite ways of teasing her, she said, was my running away from her and, when she tried to chase after me, I would run farther away giggling with great glee. These experiences from only a month ago before her hospitalization now seem like stories out of some distant past.
Mama came back from the hospital last Wednesday. Her scar from the surgery is healing steadily. But the trauma of the operation had dramatically altered her mental condition. It seems as though there is a new person inhabiting my Mama every twelve hours. At times, she adamantly refuses to talk - only a nod or a shake of the head, only a demanding point to things she wants. Then there are times when she is as charming as a coquettish little girl followed by other times when she is as feisty and combative as a bad drunk.
I savor the small joys when and where I can find them -- like this morning at breakfast. She was looking sleepy so I put my brightly smiling face right in front of her. She promptly mimicked my beaming face. Then I put on an expression of surprise and she immediately put on an exaggerated look of astonishment. When I frowned, she frowned. We spent breakfast time mugging and laughing. She is truly the mother of an actor.
I'm hoping that her return from the hospital to known surroundings and familiar patterns will help slow down the inevitable and relentless process of her disease. But I also know that I'm saying many good-byes every day to the Mama that I had.
January, 2006 The twists and turns of life can be so unpredictable. The day after New Year's, a phone call suddenly presented an utterly unexpected prospect for me. It was from Gary Dell'Abate, the producer of the Howard Stern Show on the satellite radio network, Sirius.
I had been on the Howard Stern Show many times before - a few times intentionally, but more often, not. The times I went on the Stern Show with purpose were to promote a play I was doing or the publication of my autobiography, "To the Stars." But more frequently, I've been on the show via bandit recordings of phrases I said while on the show - like, "Oh my!" - or a phone conversation with a celebrity imitator with whom I talked, thinking it was the real celebrity - most absurdly, a brief conversation with a rather poor imitator of Ricardo Montalban. Howard Stern has had his fun with me - and his listeners seemed to be having a hilarious good time listening to his mischiefs. The Stern Show technicians even took my voice from the audiocassette version of my autobiography and manipulated the words to make it seem as if I were actually making some outrageously vulgar statements. They say they're doing all this because they love me, but, I must say, I've never been loved in such a bizarre way.
Gary Dell'Abate was calling me, only two days into the new year, with a question. Like Pavlov's dog, my muscles immediately tightened. What new prank is this, I thought. This was the producer of the Howard Stern Show calling! Gary quickly assured me that our conversation was not being recorded. A little wary, but still a little curious, I continued the conversation. Gary asked, "Would you be interested in joining the Stern Show as the announcer?" I burst out laughing. I was not going to be taken in by that tired old joke. "No, I really mean it, George," he insisted. "I'm serious." He did sound sincere. Very guardedly, I played along. "Well, it does sound intriguing," I responded. "But why don't you talk to my agent and see what happens? You may not be able to afford me." That should put an end to this trick, I thought. "Of course I'll do that," he assured me, "but I wanted to know if you would really be interested." I sensed that he was trying to keep me on the line.
So, I said to Gary that I would call my agent myself and tell him that I am intrigued by the invitation and gave him my agent's number. Then I hung up. From that conversation with Gary Dell'Abate, the year 2006 was off and running as I had never, in my wildest dreams, expected it to be.
Of all things, the invitation turned out to be true! It wasn't a prank. My agent had conversations with the Stern people, and, five days after that call from Gary, I was on a plane for New York to be the "announcer" on the Howard Stern Show.
Some people have questioned why I appear on a radio show so filled with disgusting talk and obscenity. I respond to them that, yes, the show has language and talk of body functions that really aren't my cup of tea. I try not to use those words myself, but don't we hear them around us daily? The body functions that Howard and gang talk about are what we all do daily as normal, healthy human beings. Howard simply talks about the realities of our life candidly. Some people seem to find life as it is - obscene. I don't.
However, Howard Stern is passionately against what is truly obscene in our society. He has railed at the obscenity of allocating billions of dollars of pork barrel money for a "bridge to nowhere" in Alaska, while our soldiers in Iraq are dying because of deficient and ineffective body armor.
He has attacked the indecency of tax cuts for the wealthiest at a time of war. He has howled at the outrage of plunging our nation into war with bad intelligence, tough talk, and inadequate planning. He strongly believes that people who love each other, care for each other, and take responsibility for each other that happen to be of the same gender are entitled to equal rights. Howard Stern is a shock jock because truth naked can be shocking. Some of his humor can be adolescent. So what? We all could use a bit of adolescent giggle from time to time. It's good for us. And sometimes, for me it has been humbling, which is also good for all of us from time to time. Humility keeps us grounded. Laughter is the tonic of life.
Howard Stern challenges the status quo, politically, socially, and economically. He exercises our Constitutional freedom of speech vigorously. I admire his daring. I have high regard for his venturesome spirit in making the move from free terrestrial radio to the high-risk adventure of paid satellite radio. It was a singular distinction for me to be the first voice heard on the very first broadcast of his new show. And, Howard's brave move seems to be paying off. His loyal fans and others are switching in the millions as subscribers to Sirius. It is in the same bold spirit of "Star Trek" - to explore new frontiers, new technologies, and new ways of doing things - and laughing at the absurdities of life all the way.
November, 2005 Pat Morita gave me a pain in my sides. His jokes were non-stop and relentless. I would be laughing, helpless and in pain. But he was merciless. His gags kept coming like machine-gun bullets. He would "slay" me with his jokes. Wherever we were, at dinner in a Las Vegas restaurant, at a party in Los Angeles, a fund-raiser for a non-profit institution, Pat kept me in pained laughter.
Now there is a different pain. It is the ache of parting. Pat is gone. He passed in Las Vegas of natural causes. Yet, it seems unnatural for Pat not to be bringing us joy and laughter. He was always so vibrant, so funny, and so alive. Noriyuki Pat Morita was a beloved friend and an extraordinary man.
He was extraordinary in that Pat was of a generation of Asian Americans that rarely ventured into show business. It was an insecure and inhospitable arena for Asian performers. Yet, with his passion and his gift of humor, he boldly ventured forth into that unpromising world.
He was extraordinary in his determination. Building a career was a constant struggle. The roles offered him were largely stock stereotypes that he turned into comic gems. His stand-up gigs in nightclubs were where he really flourished, opening for star like Ella Fitzgerald, Della Reese, and Smokey Robinson. He shared the bill with Redd Foxx at the Apollo Theater in Harlem. He was brilliant - he "slayed them," as he would say, with his comedic genius.
Yet, his iconic creation was a dramatic role. That of the karate master, Mr. Miyagi, in "The Karate Kid." It takes an actor with enormous humanity to fill a character so richly with such charm, spirit, and moral fiber. His Mr. Miyagi had the gentle humor that comes with wisdom combined with humility. He had the firm discipline of martial artists. He had the resilience of someone who survived unjust incarceration in an U.S. internment camp in the blistering sun of an Arizona desert. He embodied the amazing patriotism of an American who went from behind those barbed wire fences to fight heroically for his country. Pat Morita, with his extraordinary talent, made Mr. Miyagi the Japanese American Everyman. Pat infused that role with his joy, his sorrow, and his life struggles. Mr. Miyagi is a singularly American character personified uniquely by Pat Morita. I was blessed and proud to have had him as a dear friend.
I last saw him in San Francisco two months ago when we were both inducted into the Japanese American Hall of Fame. He was shockingly frail. I had to help him into cars and down stairs. But, his indomitable jokes were as relentless as ever. My laughter almost made me drop him on occasions. They were precious days we had together in San Francisco and I cherish them.
Since then, we talked on the phone. Now he is gone and I feel an unfamiliar pain. It is not the kind of pain I associate with Pat. But, this too is now a part of Pat.
We all feel this pain Pat, we who loved you, because you gave us so much. You gave us laughter and joy and the appreciation of life. Thank you, Pat, for your gloriously painful gift.
2005, A beloved friend has passed. James Doohan was admired by so many. Star Trek fans throughout the world loved Engineer Montgomery Scott and came to know Jimmy, the actor who portrayed him, from the countless conventions all over the world that became a part of his life. He loved meeting fans. He was an exuberant people person. Jimmy reveled in laughing, talking, and, especially, drinking with people. He embraced the joy of living with the gusto of a Falstaff.
Jimmy was big and generous with everything - he shared his pleasures, his dislikes, his passions, and, most generously, his luminous gift as an actor. He was fascinating to watch on screen, on the boards in a theater, or on a convention stage. He brought his life in all his robustness to his work. Jimmy was Scotty. He famously said, "Scotty is 99 percent me and 1 percent accent." To me, Scotty was 100 percent Jimmy's talent for conferring his entire being to his work. Jimmy's life radiated from every role he played. Whether as a Scottish Starfleet engineer on screen, as an English barrister on stage, or making an appearance at a convention, Jimmy's life was fully and beamingly there. He was always compelling.
Jimmy was one of a kind. He was a joy to work with. I loved doing scenes with him. Jimmy gave so much. His generosity as an actor was remarkable. He could also be a considerate adviser. When I was having trouble with a particular phrase in my dialogue, he'd give me suggestions from his bountiful bag of experience. During some of the inevitable boring waits between set-ups, he was fun to be with on the set. When he got grumpy, it was best to leave the set.
For a time, before he moved to Redmond, Washington, Jimmy was my special drinking buddy. We shared some blissful times together. He loved his Scotch. He was of Irish ancestry but he said he had imbibed enough of the libation of Scotland to qualify him as a Scotsman. When his doctor told him he had to quit drinking Scotch, he dutifully complied. He switched to vodka. He introduced me to the pleasures of a lovely wine - Chateauneuf du Pape. I introduced him to the delights of sushi. Jimmy, with his characteristic passion, took to the delectable flavors of raw fish from his first bite. His spirit of adventure was in his palate as well as his soul.
Jimmy Doohan was a hearty, down-to-earth guy. Now, he will be more than that. He has asked that his remains be shot out to space.
That is so you, Jimmy.
When all of us who loved you look up at the vastness of the twinkling night sky, we'll know that you are truly there among the stars, beaming down at us from the heavens with that wonderful, sparkling smile of yours.
