Jason is a month old today, and I have to say that it has been a real learning experience.  I am finding out new things about him, as well as myself, every day.  Here's a smattering of things I've learned about Jason:

Jason is rather unreasonable. For example, having a dirty diaper makes him very upset. However, attempting to change his diaper usually makes him even more upset.  About the only thing that will calm him down after a diaper change is eating, which can be a little tricky because he seems to have inherited his bowel timing from his father and usually poops during or after every meal.

Jason makes the most adorable noises in his sleep. He coos and grunts and peeps and chirps. Sometimes it sounds like he's having very intense dreams, though Juliette and I wonder whether he's had enough experiences yet to really dream in a way that's recognizable to us. At first, his sleep noises had us worried that he might be uncomfortable or upset, or that he might wake up too soon, but as we've gotten to know him better we've become a bit less apprehensive.

Jason has very little control over his limbs. When he's upset—which sometimes seems like most of the time that he's awake—he flails his arms and legs, clawing at his face and, if he happens to be in my lap, stomping on my genitals. (He's very strong, by the way. Sometimes after a few well-placed kicks from him, I wonder whether I'll be able to give him a little brother or sister.) Even when he's not upset, though, he still jerks around from time to time. Sometimes he puts his fingers in his eyes. Oddly, it doesn't seem to bother him much when his fingers are deep underneath his eyelids. No, what bothers him is when I take his fingers out of his eyes. It's like he's saying, "DAAAaaad! Can't you see I put that there for a reason?"

He makes the cutest faces. There's the one where he's content and just looking around the room, staring wide-eyed at everything. He also sometimes curls his lip like a tiny Elvis impersonator. I think the most adorable face he ever makes is the one right before he starts to scream—it's such a sad face that I literally can't help but say "Awwww." I've often wanted to try getting a picture of that face, but I've always figured that I probably should be comforting him instead of trying to capture the look he gets when he's about to be really upset.

Jason has a very unfortunate predilection toward waiting until his diaper is off before peeing. We've tried to be watchful and cover him before it happens, but, I swear, the kid is like some kind of ninja when it comes to peeing. Oftentimes I will get the new diaper on and be congratulating myself on avoiding a diaperless pee when I will realize that his shirt or the pad under him is wet. And this will be despite the fact that I was watching the entire time. (He hates having a wet shirt, but, of course, not quite as much as he hates having his shirt changed.) I've tried to think of ways he can put this talent to good use later in life, but so far I haven't come up with anything.

On a related note, I have learned that an infant is capable of producing a truly astonishing amount of poop. What's more, Jason can poop so powerfully that drops will fly off the changing table and halfway across the room before hitting the ground. The time that happened I was actually impressed enough that I didn't even really mind cleaning up the carpet.

The more time passes the more I think that he must be the most beautiful baby ever. Juliette and I have seen a whole lot of other babies since Jason was born, and not one has been as cute as he is. Actually, that very phenomenon has made me wonder a bit whether he's actually as cute as we think he is, since I'm sure those other parents think the same thing about their own kids, some of whom I'm pretty sure I'd find odd-looking even if I weren't a parent. It doesn't really matter in the end, of course, but I do find it kind of interesting to think about.

The main thing I'm learning, though, is that there's always something new to learn. He's growing and changing so fast that it seems like I barely have time to get used to something before it's different again. I do find myself looking forward to him growing up a bit—I really can't wait until he starts smiling and laughing, and it'll also be nice when I can sleep more than a few hours in a row—but I'm also finding myself a little sad that he actually is growing up. And that's something else I'm learning: I never knew before how true it is that time seems to fly when you have a child, but it really is going fast, and I really have to step back and enjoy this time while it lasts.

Jason Michael Sakasegawa was born on Monday, July 28, 2008.  Monday morning was a bit rough for Juliette and I, as we had had a little scare the night before.  Juliette had had some bleeding that we didn't expect so we went into the hospital around 1 AM.  It turned out not to be a problem—which we had expected, but we figured it was better to be safe than sorry—and we managed to get home around 3 AM. 

Needless to say, we were both pretty worn out the next day, so I decided to take the morning off.  We had an appointment with our OB at 11:15, so I figured I would sleep in a bit and then go into the office after lunch.  The appointment went well, the doctor pointing out that Juliette was dilated about two centimeters—one more than the previous week—and that she thought we might not actually make it another week to our next appointment.  Afterwards, having lunch at Red Robin, we talked to each other about our feelings of excitement and apprehension.

I got into the office at about 1 and I started in as normal.  Juliette called me at 3:24 to let me know she was feeling well, and I settled in for a long day to try to make up the hours I'd missed in the morning.  Nineteen minutes later, she called again, saying that she thought her water might have broken, but she wasn't sure.  I told her to call the doctor and then call me back to let me know what she said.  Ten minutes later, Juliette called me back, saying that the doctor wasn't sure either and thought it might just be due to the cervical exam she'd had that morning, but we agreed that I'd come home right then.

I arrived back at the house at about 4:25 PM and found Juliette curled up in a ball in the shower.  "I'm not doing well," she told me, obviously in a lot of pain.  She sent me out of the bathroom to call the doctor, load up the car, and put the house in order before we left.  Calling the doctor, all I could think to say was "I think this is it," and she told me to come on in to the hospital.

We were in the car and on the way by 5:00, and already things were going wildly differently from how the birth classes had described.  We expected to have the contractions start slowly, maybe 15 minutes apart, getting more frequent over the next several hours or even days.  We expected to be taking short walks to help things move along, to try some slow breathing patterns and light massage.  We had been told this could go on for a while, and not to bother going into the hospital until the contractions were five minutes apart, one minute long, and that this had continued for an hour.  But from the get-go, Juliette's contractions were unbearably intense and coming right on top of each other.  I tried to time them while we drove, but it was no use, they were happening too fast.  We got to the hospital in about twenty minutes and she had at least ten contractions in that time, maybe fifteen.

When we got to the hospital, Juliette was having trouble even walking from the car to the elevator.  When the elevator doors opened, we ran into a labor and delivery nurse who was just coming off shift.  She took one look at Juliette and asked if we needed a wheelchair.  The previous night a similar thing had happened in reverse—as we were leaving the hospital, we ran into a couple coming in.  They had their bags with them, so the woman's labor must have started, but she was wearing nice clothes and make-up, and seemed more annoyed than uncomfortable.  Afterwards, Juliette and I would marvel at the difference between her labor and that woman's.

We got checked in and into our labor and delivery room very quickly.  The staff was very nice and very efficient.  The nurse checked Juliette's cervix at 5:35, and she was already dilated to four centimeters.  Hooked up to the monitor, we could see that, indeed, her contractions were literally coming right on top of each other, starting every minute and each one lasting a minute.  The nurses were all astonished at how fast they were coming—"Gosh, you're not getting a break!" one of them exclaimed.

Throughout the pregnancy, Juliette and I had talked about whether or not she'd choose to have an epidural during labor, but hadn't ever come to any conclusions.  But it was clear from the moment I got home that there was no way she'd be able to make it without medication.  The anesthesiologist got to our room at 6:15, and finally Juliette was able to get a little relief.

Twenty minutes later—one hour after the first check—the nurses checked Juliette's cervix again and by then she was dilated to seven centimeters.  Despite everything that had happened in the past two hours, we were still amazed—the birth class had prepared us to expect it to take many hours to get from four to seven centimeters.  The next hour saw things slow down a bit in terms of the labor progressing, but the monitors were still showing Juliette's contractions coming on without a break. 

Around 8:30 or so, Juliette's mom made it to the hospital.  Juliette and I had originally planned that I'd be the only one in the room with her, but we were both happy to have her mom there to help and support her.

By 9:05, Juliette was fully dilated—just over five hours since her water broke.

Juliette started pushing with the next contraction, and the look of strain on her face as she pushed was the most intense I've ever seen.  It was hard enough for me to even watch—I can only imagine what she must have been going through.  After about an hour, her contractions started to slacken off and the doctor added pitocin to her IV.  That got the contractions going again, but it turned out to be too much—her uterus stayed in one long contraction until they backed off the pitocin.  Juliette kept pushing, her eyes clenched shut and her lips turning purple from the effort.

After two solid hours of pushing, the doctor finally told us that the baby wasn't progressing.  Juliette's pubic arch was kind of small and the baby was stuck behind it.  Worse, his heart rate was very high, and had been high for a while.  She presented us with two options: she could try a vacuum assist or we could do a c-section.  But, she was skeptical that the vacuum would work, and didn't want to wait too long due to the baby's heart rate.  By now, Juliette was completely exhausted, and just wanted the baby out.  But even so, she turned to me and asked if that was alright with me.  In the previous months we had both agreed that we wanted to avoid a c-section if at all possible, but now, after she'd worked so hard and I'd done so little, it just about broke my heart to see the look in her eyes when she asked me that question.  "Yes," I said.  "You did a great job, honey.  You did everything you could."  Juliette's mom's eyes were shining at the thought of her daughter going into surgery, and Juliette tried to reassure her.  I'm still amazed by her, after everything she had just been through, she was still thinking of everyone but herself.

I donned my OR coveralls and followed Juliette as the doctor and nurse wheeled her to the operating room, while Juliette's mom went to the waiting room.  Everyone went straight in when we got to the operating room, but I had to wait outside for about twenty minutes while they prepped everything.  Those twenty minutes were pretty terrible for me, as I imagined everything that might be going wrong.  But finally they let me in, and I sat by Juliette and talked to her while the doctors worked.  She was shaking violently the whole time, whether from the anesthesia or something else, I'm not sure.  From time to time I peeked around the screen to see what was going on.  I saw them start to make the first incision, and I saw them retracting and reaching in with surgical scissors.  Finally, at 11:34, I looked and saw my son's head poking out of the hole in Juliette's belly.  He was all pale, wrinkly, and slimy, and for a few seconds it was almost like it was a doll's head sticking out of there.  But then he let out a loud cry, and it really struck me, wow, I have a son.  I heard Juliette gasp, and I looked down to see her crying.  "Is that him?" she asked.  "Is he OK?  Does he have all his parts?"  And I was proud to report that he had all ten fingers, all ten toes.

It turned out that it was a really good thing we had done the c-section when we did.  After he was out, the doctor noticed that he had passed meconium during labor, which is a big sign of distress.  More dangerous, if a baby inhales or ingests the meconium, he can die.  So we very well may have saved his life by getting him out when we did.

I went over to the table where the nurses were cleaning him off and suctioning out his mouth and took the first pictures of him.  I cut the cord, and shortly after I carried him over and delivered him into Juliette's arms.  The joy in her voice when she greeted him was just amazing, even though she was still so exhausted.  I looked at him, running the list of names we'd chosen through my head, trying to think which one he looked most like.  Juliette looked up at me and asked, "Can he be Jason?"  I nodded.  "Yeah," I said.

I keep putting off writing in this section. My ten-year high school reunion was about a month ago; I intended to write a whole piece about it but for one reason or another I've kept putting it off. This past weekend I rejoined a gym for the first time in five years and I had meant to write about that as well, but it just keeps slipping out. But this one I can't put off—my grandfather, Roy Sakasegawa, died this week.

I don't think it's really sunk in for any of us just yet, as it all happened so quickly. On Tuesday night he was apparently fine—he ate his dinner, did his normal evening stuff, and went to bed as usual. When he woke up on Wednesday morning, though, he couldn't get out of bed, and when they got him to the hospital they told him he was having a heart attack. Apparently, he'd had some severe blockage in his arteries for some time now and had only one clear artery left. They tried to put a stent in and even though it didn't look good at first—he developed fluid in his lungs and his kidneys also looked bad—we had some hope because he was alert and seemed in good spirits. Later his lungs started to clear and he urinated, which seemed good signs, but later that night he crashed a couple of times and he had to be put on life support. The doctors said there wasn't any use at that point, that three-quarters of his heart was basically gone, so they decided to take the tubes out. My grandmother said that they gave him a lot of painkillers, that he didn't seem to be suffering at all, and that he kept repeating that he'd had a good life and that he loved us all. My dad said that it only took about five minutes for him to pass after they took him off the machines.

When I think about my grandfather I have to admit that I didn't know him very well. He wasn't an easy person to know, I think—he never did say much, and for my whole life his low, sort of mumbling, gravelly voice was kind of hard to understand. Though, he was always clear in how proud he was of me and my brothers and cousins.

One thing I know about him is how proud he was of his military service. My grandfather served in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team in World War II. The 442 was an all-Japanese-American unit, and for its size and length of service it remains the most highly decorated unit in the history of the United States. It's always astonished me how the men of that regiment could have done so much for a country that didn't take care of them, that they fought and died while at the same time their relatives were rounded up and placed in internment camps. It's something that always made me proud of my grandfather.

What he actually did in the war has remained a mystery to me, though, and to the rest of the family. Like so many veterans, he was always reticent to speak about it, and what little he did say generally played down his part in it. I remember when I interviewed him for my high school history class, he spoke about his friend who always dug really square foxholes, or the time he spent resting in Nice. He would say that he only ever fired his weapon a few times, and mostly war was about jumping into foxholes. And yet, the accounts I've read of the 442—indeed of his company's actions—make it clear that he must have been involved in some intense fighting. Among the medals he was awarded were the Combat Infantryman Badge, the Purple Heart, and the Bronze Star, but when you'd ask him about them he'd just wave off the question, saying that they gave those to everyone. I know he was involved in the action rescuing the Lost Battalion (1st Battalion, 141st Infantry Regiment, 36th Division) in the Vosges mountains in France—for which he and the rest of the 442 were made honorary citizens of Texas—and that he was wounded in Livorno, Italy. (Coincidentally, my mother was born in Livorno nearly 10 years later, when her own father was stationed there.) From what I can piece together by tracking his company's actions, he must have done a lot more, as well.

What else do I know about him? Like most Japanese-Americans I've known, he valued hard work and family. He had eight brothers and sisters—consequently, Sakasegawa family reunions have been impressively huge. He was married to my grandmother for 57 years. He owned a farm when I was little—some of my earliest memories are of the hayrides he would take us on.

There's more, but when you add it all up it doesn't seem like much. I suppose that it may not be possible to truly know someone else but what's really coming home to me is that there's a lot I don't know about the people who are close to me, and that the time I have to learn it is limited. I hope that I'll take this opportunity to find out more about my family's story, that I don't let it slide by like I've done so far. I guess we'll see. But in the end, I suppose it is some comfort to me that I knew him at all, that some piece of him remains in my mind and in the memories of those around him.

Rest in peace, Grandpa.

Why is it that I only write about the bad stuff? I guess that's not really accurate. Looking back over the archives I only see a few negative ones. It kind of feels that way right now, though. I mean, I didn't write about it when we bought our house five months ago or when we brought our puppy home four weeks ago. I haven't written anything in over six months. And what finally gets me to start again is the email I got from my mom yesterday, telling me that another one of her cats died over the weekend.

When I saw the subject line—"We are down to one cat..."—I figured that this time it was the oldest one, Leon, the one who I found as a kitten in our back yard when I was a kid, the one I had grown up with and who was now crotchety and arthritic and going blind and senile. But no, it was Bill, a stray that my parents took in while I was in college.

Because I was already moved out when Bill came on the scene I never really got to know him all that well. He was sweet-natured and had a very cute face. My mom says that he always got along well with the other neighborhood cats; which was unusual in our house because the other cats were always either extremely timid or ferociously territorial. Once, a friend of my stepdad's brought his two-year-old daughter over and she was quite taken with him. She couldn't pronounce "kitty cat," though, and it instead came out as "diggy dat." From then on he had the nickname "Diggy."

Last year, not too long after my parents moved to Virginia, Bill was hit by a car. One of his hind legs was shattered and he had to have steel rod installed in his leg. When we came to visit last spring he was still recovering; the incision from his surgery hadn't healed completely and from time to time the tip of the rod would poke through. He limped a lot, but he seemed in good spirits even though my mom says he never completely got better.

This past weekend Bill's kidneys began to fail. The vet said that there wasn't anything they could do for a cat of his age—he was 12 or 13 by then—and on Sunday my parents decided to put him down. They were pretty upset about it, especially my stepdad. Meanwhile, their remaining cat, who is 16 years old now, has been looking like he's had one foot in the grave for a while now, but he still eats like a horse and even catches the occasional bird or squirrel. Hopefully, Leon will last at least long enough for me to see him when we go visit my parents this summer. Up until just recently he was the pet that I most thought of as my own and I have a lot of good memories of that cat.

I was sad for my parents but not being very attached to Bill myself, I didn't feel much personal loss. What really struck me was that someday my puppy is going to get old and die. I've got 10 years, maybe 15 if I'm lucky, but it'll happen and that thought does make me sad. When I stop and think about it, it's kind of weird that I've become so attached to Cooper in so short a time. A month ago I'd never ever set eyes on him, and I was even a little resistant to the idea of getting a dog. Now I find that I think about him all the time and I really love the time I spend with him, whether it's taking him for walks or playing in the yard or just having him sit with me while I watch TV. It's a really weird phenomenon, that a person could feel such a strong bond with a creature, but I do.

In the absence of a real conclusion for this entry, I'll just end with a cute picture:

My mom and stepdad have a habit of taking in stray cats. The older one of the two they have I found as a kitten in our back yard about fifteen years ago. The younger wandered away from his owner, who didn't feed him enough—I think he's eight or nine now. A third cat, in between the other two, died this morning. Her name was Sweetie.

I must have been in about the eighth grade when we got Sweetie. My stepdad was working at a local restaurant and noticed that a family of feral cats was living underneath the building. He liked the black and grey bullseye pattern that one of them had on its sides, so he caught it and brought it home.

It became apparent pretty rapidly that our new cat had some problems. She was runty and cross-eyed and extremely stupid. It was kind of exasperating at first, because she kept forgetting who we were. Every time you wanted to pet her you'd have to ease up to her very gently or she would run away. My mom was always best at that. "It's OK, sweetie," she'd say, using the same words and reassuring tone that she would with a frightened child. The name stuck, although it took her several years to adjust to being around people.

My mom related the story of her last moments in an email this morning:

I have some sad news to relate. This morning around 4:45 we were awakened by loud cat meowing, which isn't that unusual...often Bill will wake us early to be fed, and in fact we usually keep our door closed to avoid that morning surprise. We are greeted with waiting cats when we open the door every morning. Anyway, last night we left the door open because we kept the attic fan on all night, and I guess it was a good thing because otherwise we might have missed her last minutes.

 

When we finally turned the light on and checked, it turned out to be Sweetie, and she was on her side, crying loudly and panting. We got down on the floor with her and could tell that she was really frightened, which I guess is why she came into the room with us. She always came to us when she was scared.

A couple of times she managed to get to her feet and stumbled toward the kitchen...we think she was trying to get downstairs so she could get under the couch, which is where she spent most of her time. She made it as far as the doorway of the kitchen where she laid down and never got up again. Her breathing became shallower and shallower until she gave one last stretch and then passed away.

It hit me harder than I would have expected. I think that part of it is that, while I've been expecting them to lose one of their pets pretty soon, I thought it would be the older one, Leon, that would go first. I just got back from a visit to my parents' place and Leon was looking pretty old and crotchety. He's had a fair number of health problems over the past couple of years, and he's gotten all bony and arthritic. I even took a little time to say goodbye to him on this trip. Sweetie, though, was her normal self: dumb as a brick, but fat and happy. I guess I figured I'd have a few more chances to see her.

Maybe another part of it is how descriptive my mom was. I keep seeing the scene in my mind and thinking about how scared Sweetie must have been—even more so because she was so dumb. Maybe that's anthropomorphizing a bit too much. I'm sad about it anyway.

It's a little strange, when I stop to think about it, to be so emotionally involved with an animal. I wouldn't have thought I'd ever have to hold back tears thinking about that cat, but I do. I am. I can hear the strange little chirping noises she'd make and see the sort of vacant, sometimes loving, sometimes wary look in her eyes. I'm going to miss her.

Over the past eight years I've been slowly but steadily saying goodbye to all the pieces of my childhood. I left for college in 1997 and started getting a taste for living on my own. It was an exhilarating time, and will continue to be one I look back on fondly, but at the same time it managed to be a confusing, lonely time. I felt a little lost, a little adrift. I didn't quite feel like I belonged anywhere. I felt homeless. In 2001, I graduated and got my first job, my first apartment. I started providing for myself. I valued my freedom at the same time that I rankled against my responsibilities. By the time I got married in 2003, I felt like more or less grown up. But I guess there's always a bit of the child left; when I found out that my mom and stepdad were going to be selling the house I grew up in and moving to a different state, it hit me harder than I would have expected.

I've never felt completely at home in my new surroundings. I still haven't figured out yet where I see myself ending up in ten years, whether I'll still be in the city or if I'll make it back to my small town roots. There was comfort, though, in knowing that, even if I didn't live there anymore, even if it wasn't my home anymore, I could still visit the place where I spent so much time as a child.

So many things about my town and neighborhood are different already. My friends have all moved away. Even some of their parents have. My mom's house isn't the same, either; the yard's changed several times, as has the paint. There aren't even the same number of rooms. It's not the same place where I used to live. Despite all that, whenever I went back I felt a sense of belonging, a feeling of comfort.

It's strange to realize that if the house sells soon enough I might never have a reason to go back to my old neighborhood. I find my mind flooding with images from the past. Like the swimming hole at the end of the street with the chalk shelf that extended out into the water, or the huge bay laurel my friends and I used to climb in the park across the river. The time my stepdad set up a treasure hunt all over the neighborhood for my birthday, which I might have missed because I didn't feel like going outside that morning. Finding a tiny kitten with a broken tail under the bench in our back yard—our cat Leon, who is old and arthritic now but still full of personality. Oakworms falling out of the tree in the front yard, stick-fighting in the driveway, frantically riding our bikes away from overly territorial neighborhood dogs. The sound of little league games, the bite in the morning air in the wintertime, the way the tap water always tasted like rust in the summer.

I'm happy for my mom, that she's going to be able to make the changes in her life that she needs. I'm sure that in time, the whole thing won't bother me at all. I'll be used to having family on both coasts. This is just another part of growing up. People get older, things change. I wish I could end this piece with something profound, some little piece of wisdom, but for now I just don't have the perspective that time will eventually bring.

• Getting married in Big Sur, CA. Not only one of the most naturally beautiful places I've ever seen, but also very special to me because that's where my wife grew up as well as where I lived for a while in my childhood.
• Breakfast at Deetjen's Big Sur Inn. Some of the best Eggs Benedict I've ever had.
• Lunch at the Big Sur River Inn. Sure, the burger is kind of expensive, but it's mighty tasty (and still the cheapest in Big Sur). Plenty of good stuff apart from the burger, too; it's my favorite restaurant for lunch. And, for dessert, the apple pie is my second favorite in this world (I have to give my mom's the number one spot).
• Dinner at Ventana. They have a filet mignon that just melts in your mouth, and if you go right around sunset you have a spectacular view of the sun going down over the ocean.
• The bathrooms in the Salt Lake City Airport. Cleanest airport bathrooms ever.
• Renting a convertible in Hawaii. Yeah, it immediately marks you as a tourist, but it's so nice to feel the wind in your hair.
• The Hotel Hana Maui. Hands down the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in. The road to Hana is very twisty and a bit stressful (since all of the other people on the road are also tourists), but as soon as you get there it all just melts away. The staff was amazingly friendly and helpful. It's also very close to Hamoa Beach, which is one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. And if you're into horseback riding, the hotel runs tours on a couple of trails that offer some amazing views.
• Tony and Tina's Wedding. A very interesting off-Broadway production that makes you feel like you really are a wedding guest. It takes interactive theater to a level I've never experienced before.
• Breakfast at the Sea House Restaurant. About six or seven miles outside of Lahaina, it overlooks a beautiful bay and has a great view of Molokai (or maybe it was Lanai, I can't remember) and the food is excellent.
• The Koloa Fish Market. In Koloa, on Kaua'i, there is this tiny, hole-in-the-wall fish market that sells lunch plates that are to die for. There are no seats, indeed there's barely enough room to turn around, but the fish is so fresh and the prices are extremely reasonable.
• Air Kaua'i Helicopter Tours. Not for those who are afraid of heights, but for everyone else, it's amazing. Even the locals on Kaua'i say the helicopter tours are great, and with good reason. Such a beautiful place, and seeing it from a bird's-eye view is even better. And the Air Kaua'i helicopters have huge windows, which makes for a great viewing experience.
• Brick Oven Pizza, in Kalaheo. Also on Kaua'i. They have good pizza. Really good pizza.
• Marrying the one you love. My wedding was the best day of my life. We've been together for almost seven years, since high school. In that time we've had a lot of experiences. We've grown, and grown up, together. I can think of nothing better than knowing that this is the person that I'm going to grow old with, share my life with. I can't wait to see what the future will bring.