George Takei

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, 2005, LOS ANGELES - What other city would name itself after the state that it is in so that its name is repeated twice? New York, New York is the only city I know. Only a brash, self-assertive metropolis like New York City has such chutzpah. But, that repetition can also become the chill-induced shiver that comes from chattering teeth trying to say New York in bitter cold. I went to New York, New York in the middle of a deep freeze to catch up on a few plays. A huge blizzard had been predicted but I went anyway. New York in a winter snowstorm was both beautiful and nasty.

Looking out the hotel window and watching the sky fill up with dancing soft flakes that look like tiny bits of torn-up tissue paper was nature's poetry. Watching Central Park transform itself into a frosted winter wonderland was magical. The nasty part was when I went outside and tried to get to Central Park. The frozen sidewalks became treacherous ice sheets. The slushy street crossings turned people into clumsy ballet dancers attempting great leaps that rarely reached their mark. And, I am a southern Californian. We are like exotic hothouse plants suddenly plunged into frigid winter air. We don't take well to it. I froze.

The theaters of New York, however, fill my body with joy and warm my soul. The hottest drama I saw was one I had once seen as a teenager on the fabled television series, Playhouse 90 - "Twelve Angry Men" by Reginald Rose. This courtroom drama moved me decades ago on television and it was even more powerful on stage. Philip Bosco was a standout in a large cast of fine actors. Its run has been extended, so if you should be in New York, New York, do try to catch it. You're in for a great evening of drama.

Stephen Sondheim's "Pacific Overtures" is one of my favorite musicals and it was enjoying a revival on Broadway. What made this current production special for me was that I had actor friends performing in it plus the fact that I had performed in a concert reading of it in Dayton, Ohio. I knew the play well. The role I played, the Reciter, was being played by the gifted actor, B.D. Wong. Years before he won a Tony Award for his stunning turn on Broadway in "M. Butterfly," he was cast as my son in an episode of the television series, "Black's Magic." And now, here was my "son" on Broadway reciting the words I had spoken in Dayton, Ohio, a few years back. As I watched his engaging performance, I glowed with paternal pride. Friends from East West Players in Los Angeles, Sab Shimono and Michael Lee, were brilliant in principal roles. Good friend, Alvin Ing, was sheer delight as the murderous mother of the Shogun who poisons him with her chrysanthemum tea. Alan Muraoka, who was with me in the Dayton production, was his wonderful self as a councilor and a merchant. I would love to recommend this production of "Pacific Overtures" to you but, alas, I saw it near the end of its run and it is no longer playing. However, a captivating and more than a bit naughty puppet musical - of all things - titled "Avenue Q," is a big hit and should be around for a long time. I loved it.

A gripping drama from Britain's National Theater, "Democracy" by Michael Frayn, was another impressive play. It is about a spy in the inner circle of German Chancellor Willy Brandt's office before the collapse of the Berlin Wall. Richard Thomas, who you might remember as "John Boy" from the television series, "The Waltons," was superb as the mole, as was Michael Cumpsty as his handler. There is rich fare on Broadway this year. My only disappointment was the over-hyped musical, "Wicked." Perhaps it was because we didn't see it with the original award-winning cast, but I thought it was hackneyed, mechanical, and an extravagant waste of talent, labor, and money.

The repetitive New York, New York also became a repeated reality for me this month because no sooner had I returned to Los Angeles but I was called back to New York for a quick meeting. Within a week, I was on a plane headed back to frozen New York City. On arrival, however, I learned that the trip was unnecessary. The meeting had to be cancelled. Rather than disappointment, this was for me another serendipitous turn of events - few more days to whoopee in New York, New York. Now the repeated New York, New York took on a happy, celebratory rhythm.

I decided to celebrate with a day at the newly redesigned Museum of Modern Art. I loved the old building and especially the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Sculpture Garden. I wondered what had been done to it. Might we have lost something we were fond of? A bit apprehensively, I entered the redesigned building. I was stunned. The new Museum was spectacular. The building had been transformed into an architectural sculpture. The building itself had now become the largest art piece at MOMA. Japanese architect, Yoshio Taniguchi, had taken space and shaped it as an elegant minimalist walk through sculpture.

The space flowed; it stretched horizontally, it eddied into intimate galleries, most dramatically, the space soared vertically. This is Manhattan; the most vertical urban statement in the world and the architecture captured that New York spirit of reaching for the sky. This verticality is most elegantly expressed in the central gallery, a shaft about four stories high and in it stands a single piece of sculpture, Broken Obelisk by Barnett Newman. The vertical space gives soaring context to the sculpture and the perpendicular inverted obelisk perched on a pyramid inhabits and elegantly compliments the gallery space. Space and the art in it becomes one. There is a comprehensive display of the many museums throughout Japan designed by Yoshio Taniguchi in the special exhibits gallery.

The unexpected and subsequently cancelled meeting in New York made this month a genuinely double New York, New York beginning of this year. It was a cold but wonderful beginning.

I returned home to Los Angeles, however, to learn that there was to be an ending as well. The long run of Star Trek on television was to come to a close. "Star Trek: Enterprise" had been cancelled. Immediately, I thought of how the actors on the show must be feeling now. I know the sadness and the feeling of disappointment they must be experiencing. I suffered those same emotions so long ago.

I remembered how we hoped against hope that we would be picked up. I remembered the anticipation and anxiety. I remembered the disappointment and hurt. Those actors on "Star Trek: Enterprise" were now going to be between engagements," "at leisure" - they were unemployed! Then I thought of the fans that had trekked along with us now for generations. Some had been with us from the very beginning in September of 1966, from the original series on through four spin-offs series. They, the fans, are the ones who really created the phenomenon of Star Trek. They are the real pillars of the series. I know how hurt they must be feeling. But I also know the history of Star Trek. Back in 1969, we thought we were done with Star Trek. The series, the journey, had ended - except for the reruns. Little did I know then. I think I've learned something from history since. As Spock once said, "There are always possibilities." As it turned out - there were.

December, 2004, LOS ANGELES - I hope you all enjoyed a happy holiday season. We celebrated Christmas with family and friends up in my cabin on a ridge overlooking the pine forest of the White Mountains of Arizona. On the day after Christmas, as we were relaxing after the day of merry making, news reports of a huge earthquake off the coast of Indonesia flashed on the television screen. The initial announcement was that it was an 8.9 tremor. We Californians immediately recognized that as a giant quake. Thankfully, we were in Arizona, where earthquakes hardly ever occur. The damages and fatalities in Indonesia must be horrible, we all speculated. Then, the toll of lives lost was reported to be in the thousands. It sounded terrible. Soon, more pictures appeared on the screen. We saw scenes that seemed like something out of a science fiction movie. Vacationers on the beach calmly watching in fascination as the waters strangely ebbed out to sea revealing boulders and rocks as an enormous wall of water loomed up in the distance. Then, the odd phenomenon growing and growing more ominously as it approached closer and closer to the beach. Then the monstrous mountain of water crashing down in a gigantic cataclysm engulfing everything in its path - people, boats, houses, buildings. Everything. Anything in its path was swept up, mangled up, and washed away. It was devastation on a scale beyond belief. This was what is called a tsunami - a Japanese word for massive killer waves produced by great undersea disturbances. The earthquake off Indonesia had produced deadly tsunamis that ravaged all the South Asian nations along the Indian Ocean and as far away as the east coast of Africa.

The Richter scale number has now been revised up to an incredible 9.0. The death toll numbers have also continued to climb - tens of thousands at first, then fifty thousand, then a staggering seventy-five thousand. The enormity of the number of human lives lost became inconceivable. As I write this column, the number of fatalities is at 155,000 dead and countless more are missing.

Now, the challenge is to help the survivors. The lack of food, water, medicine and the danger of disease spreading have become the great perils. This is a human calamity of inconceivable proportions.

We must do all we can to help in this global catastrophe. I immediately connected with the American Red Cross and made a financial contribution to the International Response Fund. I urge you all to pitch in and support the many proven humanitarian organizations that are working to help the devastated people of South Asia. Please know the history of the group to which you make your contribution. Make sure that they are experienced and established aid organizations. This is the time of year when we celebrate by sharing our blessings. We are so blessed and the survivors of the tsunami are so overwhelmed. I hope our compassion can swell to tsunami proportions to help these desperate survivors. Please send money to aid them. From what I have learned, money is the most effective way of sending aid. Donated clothing, blankets, and canned foods, as generous as they may be, require the additional cost of transportation and the logistics of distribution. Contributions of money can cut through all that. It will buy the most needed aid in the regions of need and cost-effectively deliver them to the survivors. The compassion from our heart should be expressed with the good sense of our minds.

When we witness random horrors like that of the tsunami, we have to be so grateful for the blessing that we enjoyed during a safe holiday season. I thought of the blessing of my December spree in London preceding the holidays. I appreciate so much more now the familiar sight of the giant Christmas tree dominating Trafalgar Square - always there, always sparkling, always welcoming me to a Dickensian holiday in London. I love and savor so much more now, the holiday hubbub in the London air; the delight on the faces of the people in the galleries at the National Gallery, where the admission is always free to see some of the greatest works of art in the world. As I take that bracing walk across Waterloo Bridge over the Thames, I enjoy more deeply now the spectacular vista of the London skyline from St. Paul's Cathedral spanning all the way over to Big Ben and the Parliament Building. Even as I approach the ugliest building in London, the National Theater on the South Bank, I'm comforted by the thought that the best theater in the English language is housed in that hideously menacing concrete fortress. And, as wonderful a theater town as London is, it can also palm off some of the worst productions that I have ever seen - on this trip - of all plays - "Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare! I also saw the most theatrically imaginative production of Stephen Sondheim's "Sweeny Todd." At the curtain call, I found myself leaping up and enthusiastically joining in shouting, "Bravo, bravo, bravo!"

A special blessing I squeezed into this London trip was a quick excursion to Paris by Eurostar. The three-hour train dash through the chunnel never fails to impress me. To cross the English Channel by a manmade underwater tunnel, the impossible dream of many centuries, always thrills me.

Paris is to me the greatest urban achievement of humankind. I love the grand boulevards as well as the narrow cobbled alleyways. I love the regal orderliness of the Tuilleries Garden as well as the tiny courtyard gardens. I thrill at the grandeur of the Beaux Art palaces as well as the charm of ancient buildings that seem to lean over from the weight of centuries.

Most of all, the great pleasure of Paris - dining - whether at premiere gastronomic temples like Ledoyen or small family-run brasseries on I'lle St. Louis, is always unsurpassed. It seems impossible to get a bad meal in Paris.

We are so blessed. We share our blessings with loving family and friends during this holiday season. It is heartbreaking that there are so many people in South Asia who have lost so much - they even lost their family and their friends. Let us share our blessings with our larger human family. Let us give generously. The need is so great.