The Tallest of Branches
Prologue:
I realize that for my loyal following I've really let you down with the extreme lack of entries lately. I sincerely apologize, and rest assured it is not due to lack of material. On the contrary, I have a few really great stories to write about, but in true Witkop-writer fashion, I will not haphazardly produce entries for the sake of releasing them and want to make the time to write, create, and edit in various sessions as to maximize your enjoyment. To put it bluntly, I've been busy recently being productive, applying to grad schools, studying Spanish, traveling, and living my life: so you're going to have to get over that. I promise I will try to put some quality entries to paper in the next few weeks. That being said, in the meantime, I have an entry of dedication which is serious in nature, but far more important than my whimsical previous entries of humorous content.
I know for my viewers in DC, the weather has been crazy lately with off and on snow. Here in Madrid, we got a fleeting taste of beautiful Spring weather, and this past week it's been shifting back and forth from Winter and back to Spring again. However, in the midst of all of this, our cherry blossom trees have budded and blossomed, a true signal that good things are yet to come. As some of you may know, Spring is one of my favorite times of year, as it is the season I feel closest to my father who passed away in 2013. With that in mind, I want to take the time to keep his memory alive, and commemorate the good memories I have of him here with you, my readers.
The following is the last entry I had written for his Carepages account a few days after he passed away, and edited slightly here to make it current for the present timeline.
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My dad and I shared a number of things in common. We both had an affinity for our favorite comfort food of Mac and Cheese and Hotdogs, we each enjoyed writing, and appreciate “stupid” humor. One thing in particular that was unique to our relationship was our love of travel and different cultures. We could talk for hours about places we wanted to travel together, or tell stories about certain about experiences within countries the other had not yet ventured. Dad would frequently recount various stories about his travels in his early career to Brazil, or his frequent trips to China and Japan with his company. I remember looking back as a young child anxiously waiting in expectation for him to return from these business trips and see what little memento he would bring back for me from his travels. Even as a high school student I knew that I would want to peruse the world of business as
a career, so I could be like him, and maybe I too would one day get to travel to various countries and see and know the things my dad had seen.
One central theme that was always brought up in these conversations surrounding travel was his conviction in wanting to take my mother and me on a trip to Japan someday. He told us all about the team there and the incredible people he worked with, and would go into detail about how nice the locals were, and spoke all about their culture. As he frequently went over to Japan during their Spring, one thing he never ceased to mention was how beautiful the cherry blossoms were. He would go on and on about how big the trees were, the sheer volume of trees, and how beautiful the blossoms made the city. I recall being on webcam calls during my high school and early college years and having the cherry trees consume the bulk of our conversations with our chats ending in Dad repetitively saying “I wish you were here, I wish you could see this.”
Upon graduating college, I was ready for my next frontier. I could travel anywhere, and live anywhere in the US where I could land a job. One of the things that allured me to DC was the knowledge of the beautiful landscaping and the annual Cherry Blossom Festival held in DC each year. Based on the images my father painted for me of the cherry trees in Japan, I figured that living in DC would allow me to first-hand experience a bit of the feeling my dad felt while visiting Japan in the spring during full-bloom.
I packed my bags and relocated to the DC area at the end of January, 2012. I had just moved into my apartment in Arlington, and was excited to embrace the new city I called home. I even bought a large canvas to hang over my bed of the Washington monument at night, with a patch of cherry trees in bloom in the foreground. I was ready for my new adventure, and I was ready for DC.
Unfortunately, at the end of March that year, mere months after moving to the area, I received a phone call that would change my life forever. I got the news that my dad had cancer, and the outlook was not good. Dad had esophageal cancer, a disease that was very aggressive, and had a small rate of recovery and survival. Our family rallied around him, and my life changed drastically in ways I had not foreseen. Trips back home to upstate New York became more and more frequent, and I was forced to give up my retail management job and switch careers in order to have a more accommodating schedule. The father I had always known to be faded away, and each visit home was a devastating reminder that we could never go back to the care-free past. Through the discovery of brain tumors and multiple scans, my father fought the disease with a vengeance. Watching him transform from upbeat and jovial to lethargic and drained was not an easy transition. I remember witnessing my exhausted mother turn over the labels of over 18 bottles on our kitchen table, trying to locate the medicine my father needed at that moment, desperately trying to keep up with his medication schedule and do her part to keep him comfortable.
One Sunday afternoon at the end of June 2013, my mother called. My dad was in the hospital and things were not good. She strongly urged me to come home. I drove the grueling 9 hours in traffic home to New York, which considering the circumstances and unknowns was no easy feat. While driving up there, I was under the impression that I would be there for the weekend, until my dad was able to be stabilized and get back home. I didn’t realize that I would be home for nearly whole month and that this would be an instance where he would not have a lasting improved condition.
I stayed in the hospital with him day and night for a few days. Finally his condition was stabilizing to the point he could return home, but this time on an oxygen machine and more worn down than before. We started to get ready to leave the hospital and move him back to our home.
For those whom may not be aware, it is very common for those whom are transitioning from this world to the next to speak metaphorically, and use verbiage of things that are important to their lives here to explain their transition to from this world to heaven. Often if we are not clear, they can be interpreted by family and friends as thoughts spoken in “confusion” or said under medication, and become quickly dismissed. Luckily for me, I was blessed to not miss this gift.
During the final days of my dad’s time here on this earth, there’s one sentence he said that will forever be etched into my memory. The day he was being discharged from the hospital, my mom and I were busy with getting the oxygen tank ready, and prepping for the trip home. As we were collecting his items and bustling about, my dad calmly said, “This is the time of year in Japan where they cut down the tallest branches of the cherry blossoms and bury them under the ground.” It was said matter-of-fact like, and out of nowhere, and caught my mother and me off guard. We dismissed it at first, and continued on, taking inventory of medication and gathering objects.
Later that evening, I kept reciting that statement over and over, fairly perplexed as to what he could have meant or if it was just the medicine talking. “This is the time of year in Japan where they cut down the tallest branches of the cherry blossoms and bury them under the ground.” Having lived in Washington, DC, I knew that we Washingtonians share a Cherry Blossom Festival much like that of the Japanese. During the two seasons of watching the Cherry Blossom Festival in DC, I couldn’t recall seeing anyone planting any branches underground afterward, like one would do for a
tulip bulb. I searched various phrases about this subject online and came up with nothing. A few days later, when Dad was in good spirits at home, I asked him about this and inquired if he could elaborate more on the process of the cutting of the tallest branches and burying them underground.
Looking confused, he responded, “well I don’t know anything about a time of year when they cut down the branches and plant them underground, but I do know they have a big festival where…” and on he went.
Right then and there, I kind of laughed, and knew it was a sign. “This is the time of year in Japan where they cut down the tallest branches of the cherry blossoms and bury them under the ground.” How beautiful and metaphoric! My dad knew the end was close, he knew that this was the time of year when he would be transitioning to as he put it “from the land of the dead to the land of the truly living!” For those that knew my father, all could agree that he was a very, very tall branch. From the stories I read that his co-workers have written on Facebook, to my own personal memories, my dad Jeff was the most humble, selfless man you could meet, always going out of his way to benefit others, sometimes at his expense. Just like any good fertilizer, sometimes you must trim the strong, best branches, and recycle into the ground for the benefit of the garden. Dad certainly enriched those around us here, and left a legacy lasting far beyond his years on earth. I know that I am a “blossom” and a more beautiful, and strong one at that, having him as a father, and having gone through this blessing we call cancer.
My father past away on July 7, 2013; fifteen months after his diagnosis. Today, a year and eight months later, I continue to mourn his loss. As the trees here in Madrid begin to bud, and as the flowers bloom, I feel his presence the most strongly during springtime. Now more than ever, the cherry blossoms hold special meaning in my heart, as these days of full blossom remain sacred for me. I think of Dad being buried in the ground, knowing that he is with me as the new life springs up from the dirt every year this time. As the flowery fragrance of the blossoms fills the European air, I take solace in knowing that that same smell once gave my father so much joy, and that we will always share the love for the majestic cherry trees, whether at home, or in a foreign land. This year, I rejoice in the blossoms that have bloomed from knowing Dad, and his life that touched so many.
