Viet Nam 2024, a funeral

 Went to my first Vietnamese funeral yesterday. Fortunately, it was an extended relative, yet so neat to see the cultural practice and value juxtaposed against the ones I myself have always known. One thing I did not appreciate can be found in the following anecdote:

In Vietnam, poor people sell lottery tickets to make money. They'll approach you--men, women, children, and grayed--with a thick stack of pink or red lottery tickets in their hand before sad eyes pleading that you purchase one from them. They don't linger, they hunt. Their pestilence and insistence puts JW's and LDS elders to shame. You get used to politely declining at least half a dozen times a day at any given location: be it inside the coffee shop, at the local cafe eating soup, or even inside the gates of the Buddhist pagoda. But in my book, they crossed line. 

At late morning, T and I arrived to the street of the memorial on our scooter 🛵, the background pebbled with mourning figures of black and white towered over by at least two dozen flower arrangements. As we approached, the figures on the left of the street grew faces with tears, all huddled together in warm embraces, some with comforting smiles, some with gentle pats on the back, all with shoulder length hair or longer; The women. On the right side of the street, the men sat together on short, round, metal chairs at short, round, metal tables as they exchanged only a few words every half minute, and mostly gazed down at their beverages. A few folks wearing aprons walked swiftly under a tent as they alternated between squatting down to cook food on the stove, and ushering more food to be cooked from inside the home across the street behind the women. The cooks squeezed through a tight passage to the right and behind an elaborate altar that entirely filled the entrance of the home. Beautifully ornate details of gold and red surrounding a passport-like photo of a handsome man with black hair, thin lips, and bold black brows. Underscoring his photo was an LED banner of a blinking tulip with an oriental border that blinked and shone like a Las Vegas Strip. Behind it and extending further into the home, a dark wood coffin, edged with hand-carved and nature-inspired details presumably housed the gentleman in the passport-like photo; the gentleman who inspired the tears, the food, the gazes, and the gathering. 

In the foreground of the coffin and at the mere entrance of the home welcomed the main portion of the altar with already two dozen incense burning in a clay bowl, flowers and fruit neatly displayed at its sides. At the entrance of the aforementioned passage into the home at the right of the alter stood a tall, baby-faced young man, no older than twenty-five; his features undeniably favored the passport-photo gentleman, save his eyes. His eyes were rather tired, heavy, swollen and red. His cheeks also reddened from rubbing friction; The eldest son, adorned in a humble white shroud with a white cloth fastened upon his head. He maintained his palms together at his chest, offering a gentle bow to every guest who would approach the altar. It is customary for attendees to approach the altar, upon which the eldest son will hand them two incense. The first incense is reserved for Buddha, the second is reserved for the one being honored. After offering greetings and exchanging smiles and kind words with other attendees, T and I took our turn in this custom. We watched two other cousins perform the offering before we took our steps up. I removed my shoes before the rug of the  altar, the son proceeded to hand me my two designated incenses. I first faced the Buddha altar to the west of the altar, lifted both incense to eye level, and offered three bows, focusing that my bows not be too exaggerated nor too careless. After all, as a foreigner there would be many extra sets of eyes on me at my offering. I carefully placed my first incense in the Buddha statue bowl among the others, avoiding burning my hand on any other embers. I then faced the coffin and its altar. In this case, trying to center my thoughts on the passport-photo gentleman as I took my three bows. "I never met you, I don't even know how to correctly pronounce your name, but your family seems to love you a whole lot, and I've heard you were a good man. I wish you a peaceful afterlife," and I finished my final bow. I placed the incense in the clay bowl and offered one more subtle bow as I'd seen the other cousins do before I stepped away from the altar and replaced my shoes on my feet. I sat again with the women, at the short, round, metal table with the short, round, metal chairs. The tabletop offered assorted fruit, including grapes, as well as some nuts and tea. Small bottled waters also assigned at each chair. A cousin offered me to drink my water as she drank her own. More warm greetings and kind words exchanged, especially between the mother of the passport-photo gentleman. She looked tired and relieved (as her son had been suffering the cancer for some time), yet she maintained an air of elegance and beauty that warmed the already pretty hot day. 

Then, SHE approached--the lottery ticket lady. She insisted eye contact with every individual at every short, round, metal table, reluctant to leave until she gathered up all the "No, thank-you's" she could obtain. Why? Why did she have to approach with such disregard for this obviously sensitive moment, sensitive event, sensitive day? Where is the consideration? Where is the decency? I was indignant. I thought about it for several hours after the event. Eventually I had my husband ask Aunt General (see previous Vietnam blog posts) if this was acceptable of the lottery ticket lady. She basically shrugged and said "It is what it is." 

Cultural differences are wild, man.

Vietnam day 7 (final post)

 My craving while I’ve been here has been French bread with a spread of Laughing Cow cheese. In the past I have been gluten free, but since I’ve been back on my UC medication, I’ve been able to go out of the lines here and there. Vietnamese French bread is well worth going out of the lines for. My husband requires that I eat fresh bread instead of the week old bread I have been thoroughly enjoying (no mold, in case you were wondering how gross I am). While waiting for bread to be brought back, he lets me know that Cousin Sassypants wants to take him out for a little bit. I’m cool with that and just request he return with a coffee for me. When Cousin Sassypants comes by with fresh bread, she brings up that he and I need to get ready and yells at him (in a big sister way, even though he is 11 years her senior) for assuming I am not also invited. So I guess I am going with them, which sounds nice—especially to check out one of her favorite coffee shops. My husband makes me my cheese sandwich that could not taste better because I am pregnant and it’s all I want to eat. After we have both eaten, we quickly get ready. 

Cousin takes him first, and in 20 minutes comes back for me (one passenger at a time on her motorbike). We arrive to this seemingly outdoor mall that is very fancy and appears to still be under construction. After she parks, we walk by this giant enclosure full of baby chickens and a peacock. We are walking toward a river surrounded by greens, when we turn the corner of the building to find a really nice cantina with individual gazebos set above the side of the river. It’s lovely outdoor restaurant. My husband hails us over to the table where food has already been ordered. Seems very luxurious with a server and a busier always standing at attention within earshot. There are roughly twenty gazebos with tables, and only one other with customers. We enjoy the view of the woman canoeing down the river harvesting vegetation. I enjoy my fresh carrot juice and we all enjoy the various Viet appetizers. Just a lite, pleasant lunch. When we finish up and pay, Cousin then takes me to our next destination: the coffee shop. 

On the way we drive past some school kids riding the bicycles in the street headed the same direction we are. I see a small waterpark in the distance. This area is newer and seems to be a multipurpose park in the works—still fairly baren. Across the street from a playground is a long open-air coffee shop. She drops me off and heads back to the restaurant to get my husband. I find a table for us and just sit waiting. The waiter brings me a jasmine iced tea (which is what is complimentary served rather than ice water) and attempts to take my order. I cannot read too much Vietnamese yet to understand the menu, so  I resort to using Google translate to ask him if I can wait until my husband arrives. He politely bows and moves on to other tasks. There are quite a lot of people, mostly high school and college age all in their trendy clothes with trendy hairstyles. It’s a bit more upscale than the other coffee shops we have driven by. When Cousin and my husband arrive we order some drinks:  iced lattes with boba and a matcha tea drink. We chat, laugh, exchange photos, and enjoy the decent weather for a few hours. My husband and I share one more latte before I and then he head(s) back to the house with Cousin. 

At home, the packing begins. My husband has plans to go see grandma again, but after a thorough doctor update, he decides to hang back and we will stop by on our way to the airport in the AM. Packing seemingly takes all afternoon and evening. Several cousins stop by to say hello or wish is safe travels. Tomorrow early morning we will take a taxi to the city and start our 48 hr journey home to Philly.

This trip has been way more enjoyable than I could have anticipated. I’ll miss the geckos that travel around the walls of the house and make kissy sounds at night—although I will not miss their turds everywhere on the walls. I will miss cool showers on a humid day, but I will not miss feeling sticky all the time. I have loved having the opportunity of getting to know my new family that I have only met over FaceTime up until now. Their stories and who they are individually means so much more to me now. From what my husband tells me, I passed the test and am accepted in the family. Look forward to many more trips in the future, and especially bringing back our child(ren) to know part of where they come from. 

 

Vietnam day 6

 Wake up to find my husband had already gone out for the day to grab breakfast for everyone on grandpa’s bicycle. He comes back with an assortment of goodies. Too boot, Aunt Joy has made some Soi Manh (not sure on the spelling), which is sticky rice and an assortment of meats. It’s one of my husband and my favorites. After we finish, we get showered and ready to go to town with Cousin Sassypants and a hired motorist. I go with Cousin on her motorbike, and my husband goes with the hired chauffeur. 

Vietnamese natives are incredibly skilled at stacking some very cumbersome and/or unusual things on the back of a motorbike. One driver we passed was carrying over 30 live chickens and ducks in baskets and from ropes on the back of his motorbike with him. If you look up on Google “Bikes of Burden” you will see many more unusual cargo on motorbikes in Vietnam captured by a European photographer. Hans Kemper, I think…? I also saw a gal with her newborn baby strapped to her chest as she drove her moped. Very risky; not sure I would dare it.

First we head to the jewelry store to get some jewelry for mom and to exchange our USD for Viet dong. We get mom two gold rings—a way to this woman’s heart is through the gift of gold jewelry.

People here swear that the jewelry is “real gold”, but by my very ignorant observation, it looks gold-plated to me and a lot of the gems appear fake. As long as they like it, I guess.

We look for a jade pendant for grandmom--who is still in the hospital—however Cousin heads to another spot to get it since this shop doesn’t appear to have the one we are looking for. The one she finds is a perfect small jade Buddha that grandmom will love.

Next we head to the outdoor market that is reminiscent of a flea market or a “swap meet” in Mexico. The Vietnamese are very big on knock-off luxury brands. You can buy a bright pink shirt with DIOR written out on the chest in glued sequins. You can get an HERMES bracelet for under 50 USD. You can get luxury brand embroidered blue floral towels. I was thinking about it, and I don’t know whether to pity the Vietnamese for being so enthralled by appearing wealthy with fake name brand items, or to pity the luxury brands because having so many knock-offs almost seems like a mockery. They say imitation is the best form of flattery, but sometimes it can feel insulting. 

Another thing about driving through the outdoor market and the town in general is that every so often you get a big waft of stench. This happens a lot in L.A., the more poor areas of Philly, and in the border cities of Mexico, too. But I guess being in a car, as opposed to being on the back of a motorbike, makes it easier to be shielded from the stinky smells. 

Our last stop is “the mall” which is a department store, above a grocery store with a few fast food restaurants inside. Very clean inside, but by no means a mall from what I am accustomed to. We look to purchase some little gifts for the heart transplant girl; Cousin Sassypants helps me pick a nice outfit for her. I have to rein my husband in on not buying 7 cheap (by US economics) yet high quality cutting boards to bring home. I’m able to talk him down to 5. He’s a sucker for bargains.  We enjoy some ice cream and then we make our way to the grocery store to stock up some food we’ve consumed and but a few more things to take home that are hard to find or expensive in the states:  i.e. Weasel poop coffee

After our purchase are complete, we head home with our respective drivers. Cousin Sassypants stops at a few fruit stands along the way to pick up for mom to do offering with since grandmom is sick. 

I pretty much spend the rest of the day sleeping. Pregnancy wears you out, man. My husband heads up to the city to visit grandmom in the hospital. Tomorrow will be our last day. Looking forward to making the most of it.

Vietnam day 5

 “Babe… babe… I’m going with Aunt to take grandmom to the hospital. She’s acting very confused.” It’s the wee hours of the morning. Still in twilight, I wish my husband a safe journey as he plants a kiss on my cheek.

I wake up at 5am to inquire of grandmom’s status. She’s currently in the overflow ER outside with Aunt General by her side. She’ll need to be readmitted to the hospital.

My husband and I text back and forth ideas of possible causes of her current condition.

I break the blender by plugging it into the 220-V socket rather than the 120-V. Not used to having to pay attention to this sort of thing. Dad notices and offers help on resuming smoothies prep, and asks Aunt-in-law 10 to lend me her blender. This time I plug it in correctly. The papaya-banana smoothie was perfect. 

I spend the rest of the morning working on homework, and playing with my unborn son through my abdomen. He kicks, I push back.

My husband comes home around noon after a long night of sitting on a bench in the ER waiting for lab results. We head upstairs for a nap, when I wake up I let him sleep and head to catch up on computer stuff.

I spend the afternoon outside on the balcony lounging on the computer. It’s the perfect breeze skirting through the leaves of the top of the mango tree right in front of me.

At sunset I wake my husband up and make him some supper. 

At some point I fall asleep on the couch in mom and dad’s room. When I wake, my husband has already gone up to bed (after waking me to remind me to brush my teeth). I waddle up the spiral staircase. My dreams hit my brain when my head hits the pillow.

Vietnam day 4

 The birds are extra chirpy this morning. My husband already went to Aunt General’s store to get some coffee and pick up a few things from the pharmacy. 

“So around 1 we do tea,” he texts me. Today we will have the Tea Ceremony/Wedding Ceremony to make our marriage official in the eyes of the family, and more importantly to honor grandparents.

Dad alerts me that grandmom has been vomiting this morning. I give dad two Zofran and instruct him on how to explain to her to take it under the tongue. When my husband gets back, we discuss what more to do for her. He gives her a cocktail of pills and we plan to do IV fluids later. 

After having a little breakfast, I suddenly have a dizzy spell and lie down. This pregnancy has been the weirdest thing my body has ever gone through. 

“Babe, everyone is here already. We need to get ready,” he wakes me, “How are you feeling?”

Naps can be a cure all for the most part. A little groggy and confused as to why we are being rushed to get ready one hour earlier than discussed, I trudge about, putting on my dress, fixing my hair, and applying picture-appropriate make-up. 

“You guys need to hurry.” 

I put my jewelry on as I waddle down the stairs. A room full of aunts, uncles, and cousins await us. 

Everyone is seated in a square around the great room where we will stand in the center facing grandparents and parents. 

Uncle 4 gathered everyone’s attention, and then grandpop lead the ceremony. I have no idea what was said, but there were lots smiles and laughter. My husband and I then went around serving each family member tea as Aunt General poured it into cups for us. After each individual took a drink of tea, they would present us with their wedding gift (either monetary or jewelry). At the conclusion of the short and sweet ceremony, we gathered for photos. When we dispersed after pictures, I felt someone grab my hand; Aunt Gentle led me away to a private area of the house. She pulled out of her pocket a beautiful yellow gold charm bracelet. She said somethings, but I have no idea what. I gave her a big hug and thanked her. She tried to put it on my wrist, but had some difficulty, so suggested my husband do it. So much grace.

Immediately following the ceremony we are each driven off as passengers on motorbikes over to Uncle 5’s house for the afterparty. 

Vietnamese culture is very reminiscent of the Mexican culture I am used to. Patriarchal and segregated. Men eat together and enjoy beer, throwing trash on the ground under the table, taking shots, lounging. The women prepare and cook the food, serve the men, and once the men are fed the women eat and then clean up. My husband is an exception to this rule. He has an aversion to this particular aspect of the culture, and instead chooses to help the women and sit with the women, and help clean up. A couple other male cousins closer to our age opted to sit at our table as well.

But backing up, when we first arrived, my husband took me on a walk around the neighborhood with one of the little cousins who is 9 years old. She approached me first, beaming with pride as she introduced herself in English as Alena. Come to find out, that is her English class “American” name. Her real name is the Viet word for Okra. Her father named her and her siblings after vegetables. So there is Okra, Corn, and Cilantro (or something like that). Okra came with us on our walk. My husband has a great appreciation for flowers (as does dad)—particularly sunflowers, which bordered the narrow road. 

“I want to take you to meet the first girl I helped by raising funds for a heart transplant when I did my year of social service here.”

We walked a eighth of a mile down around the corner, “I’m pretty sure this is the house.”

He was right. The young lady’s mom came out to greet us, set us up on their patio, and brought us iced tea. She then woke her husband up who was napping on the hammock inside. With a big grin he came to greet us. A few minutes later the young lady, now in her early twenties, came out to greet us. She is very small for her age; no bigger than a lanky 12-year-old. Her size can be attributed to congenital disease affected multiple organ systems. After chatting for a bit, we excuse ourselves and head back to the party. At the party my husband helps me get set-up to help the women cook the meat (he knows me well). After most of the meet is cooked, half the women and I head over to the “women’s table” to enjoy the food we’ve prepared. Fresh jumbo shrimp, pork lettuce wraps, rice porridge with meat and veggies, duck, chicken, and an cold glass of Pepsi on ice (not that I would anyway, but it’s frowned upon for women to drink beer). I am straight pounding down those pork lettuce wraps. For whatever reason, Aunt-in-law 5 is impressed by the fact that I know how to eat a lettuce wrap. Thank you, P.F. Changs. 

Once the time is right, my husband and I help the women clean up and knock out dishes. More brownie points for me! I guess it is expected that as an “American girl” I would just sit back while everyone else would do the work. My mama and Mexico raised me better than that. My husband says they were making comments like “Oh, she’s a normal person like us.” 

After dishes were on the drying racks and the patio was mostly cleaned up, we thanked the aunts for coordinating everything, and then headed back to the house to check on grandmom. 

I get back to the house first. She’s been very sick since after the tea ceremony, Aunt Gentle notifies me through dad as she rubs grandmom’s arm. I start preparing the IV fluids for her before my husband arrives. When he gets to the room, he agrees and we move forward with IV prep. Unfortunately, she is so dehydrated that I am unable to get an IV on her fragile veins. I stick her a good 7 times with the metal needle, with nothing but leaky veins that won’t take the needle properly. We decide to hold off on IV fluids and, instead encourage her to drink water, which she tolerates well. We spend the evening with her until she goes to bed, making care plans for the next day. Cousin Sassypants has graciously been at our beck and call for anything we need—including ice cream!! She brings ice cream and we enjoy it together. Mom opts for the durian ice cream. I will warn you, if you are ever offered durian fruit, just say no. Don’t even be polite about it. Durian smells and tastes like the nastiest egg fart you can fathom. 1/3 of Vietnamese loves this fruit (mom being one of them), the other 2/3 (and I assume the rest of the world) agrees on durian being detestable. Some even complain of the smell causing headaches. Durian is banned in hotels and public transportation across Vietnam. Even uncut, it can have a faint smell. Once upon a time, my husband was part of the odd 1/3 of durian lovers; story goes he brought a durian on a bus and had a bunch of passengers complaining to him that his durian was causing them headaches. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment or just a change in palate that switched him over to the 2/3 of normal people.

As you would guess, I did not opt for the egg fart ice cream, but rather the trusty strawberry. 

Vietnam day 3

 “Babe… babe… we gotta go do offering with parents.”

“Should I get dressed first,” I reply with a yawn. 

“No, they just want us to go down now.” 

“Can I put a bra on first?”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

I head downstairs, mom and dad already dressed and made up, and me sporting my husbands pj pants. 

“I have to go, [Aunt General] was in an accident. But go do offering with parents.” Everyone is a little panicked over Aunt, but mom, dad, and I head over to Uncle 10’s house (who lives right next door).

The house that Uncle 10 lives in was the home that grandmom was born in. It was built somewhere around 1890 when her grandparents first founded it. Being that she was the oldest of two girls (no boys to inherit the home first), she inherited the home. She then passed it on to her eldest son, dad, however because he moved to America, he passed it on to his brother, Uncle 10. The original section of the home is forbidden to being altered or remodeled in any way. It even contains the original beds (that are basically dinner tables) that were slept on by grandmom and her family. The altar for the offering is in that same original section of the house and is dedicated to grandma’s parents (specifically her father, as her mother’s altar is set up at another uncle’s home). 

Upon the altar, Mom places the box of Russel assorted chocolates that we bought at Walmart. She lights a couple incense, hands me one, we silently pray, bow three times, and then place each incense in the censer. A proud portrait of great-grandpop shows his approval.

Turns out Aunt General is okay, just some road rash that needs some good first aid. My husband and I shower and hitch a ride/ride a bicycle to Aunt’s store. I arrive first and check out the damage my husband had already looked over, planning out how I will clean and dress her wounds. My husband heads back to the pharmacy to gather first aid supplies, and returns with everything on our list that was available. 

I cleanse, medicate, and dress her wounds, with only some grimacing from the hydrogen peroxide. Afterward she is feeling reassured by decreased risk of infection, and relishing in how nice it is to be taken care of—especially when you are the one who usually takes care of everyone else.

My husband and I take a stroll for some street food to bring back:  a sort of meat wrapped in a jelly rice and some egg rolls. Of course, aunt has iced drinks for us from her the drink cart across the street. Aunt takes me to her room in the back of the store (here home is attached to the store) where she has me try on a few dresses of hers. We plan to do the traditional Vietnamese wedding tea ceremony while we are here, so I need the proper attire for the occasion. Because of the basketball belly, I will have to forego the traditional floor length Viet wedding dress, and just opt for a summer dress. Aunt provides options. I pregnant Lynda does not at all fit in a Vietnamese size XL, in case anyone was curious. Eventually a few dresses fit just enough and are husband approved. After the fashion show, we eat.

With a full belly, I opt to nap in the hammock in her shop. It can be quite the feat napping in a hammock with a 15 lb belly, but somehow I managed. 

After I awaken, I find my husband has gone back to the house to tend to grandma. While we await his return to the store, Aunt General escorts me across the street to the nail salon. It appears there is a conspiracy amuck between her and my husband. I will enjoy the benefits. Shoes off at the door of this small salon, I clomp my swollen feet over to the chair I am directed to. Assorted nail polishes are piled in a bin to choose from, however Aunt brought manicure tools and her own polish for them to use for me. A sweet lanky girl with an obvious speech impediment diligently beautifies my fingers and toes. Before paint is supplied, I am escorted behind the paneled room divider and guided onto a massage bed lying on my back with my head in a sink. For the next I-don’t-know-how-long, another gal proceeds to give me a facial, shampoo, and head massage. It did feel wonderful, save the scalp popping technique. I was half-anticipating it and dreading it, as only a week prior had I watched a YouTube video on the health risks of this Eastern technique. 

After the gal combs out my hair, she sends me on my way. I know I didn’t get my nails painted, but I am not sure whether to say something, or just pretend like it wasn’t meant to be. Aunt pays for the services. Ultimately, as we are out the door, my husband notices my bare nails, and asks why they didn’t do it. Aunt hails the beautician out and asks them to paint my toes (I decline having my fingers painted). The gal has me sit on a bench and paints them right there outside the shop. Can’t help but chuckle at the difference between American salons and Viet. I think I almost prefer the casual vibe of the Viet salons more. 

We head back to the Aunt’s store, and after a few minutes my husband and I find ways home. Showers and naps are in order. 

After we wake up we spend the evening with grandmom before we head to bed. 

Vietnam day 2

5:00 AM on the dot the town speakers sound with music. Never miss a day. After a pleasant 2 minute soft song, a woman's voice comes on the speaker to start out the morning communist propaganda and announcements, followed by a man continuing the same. Big Brother doesn't want you to start your day without him.

Room service? As a guest of a home? Wow. One of the aunts, we’ll call Aunt General, calls early in the morning to inquire of our take-out hankerings. An hour later she arrives to our room with a big basket full of assorted foods, including more coconut jelly. I OD’d on that stuff yesterday, so I have to pass or puke. That hospitality though…

After my husband and I fill our bellies, we head downstairs to check on grandma. She sleeps on her side on a twin bed covered in a sheet of woven wooden beads. She always wears a beanie, socks, and a sweater, even though the rest of us are dripping with sweat all day. Her frail little body and gentle voice warm your heart in ways too difficult for me to explain. Before we leave her room, she says she has a gift for me. She pulls up her sweater to retrieve a key from her pocket, unlocks one of the cabinets of her headboard, and pulls out a bright orange plastic container that looks like something you would store your mouthguard in. She opens it up to reveal a pair of jade and gold earrings wrapped in a tissue. My husband interprets that she says “I don’t have much to give, but these were given to me by my grandmother, and I saved them for you.” These 19th century, antique earrings she saved for some stranger who would marry her prized grandson. I feel wholly unworthy, but graciously accept. After many thank-you’s, a few pictures, and tucking her back in, we get her up to her table to eat some breakfast. Only two days ago did she return home from a week in the hospital. She’s feeling a bit under the weather, and we plan out a list of meds to get her from the pharmacy. While sitting with her, another aunt (we'll call Aunt Joy) comes into the room with her two-year-old son. Aunt Joy nearly always has a big grin across her face, with wide eyes and rounded cheeks. She and her very mischievous two-year-old have been living with grandparents since the pandemic started. The two-year-old, who is mostly referred to as Panda, gets into everything. Every drawer, every appliance, every bottles. Cabinets and drawers are taped up to deter his destructive behaviors and impulses. Grandmom is not too impressed by theses behaviors, so resorts to keeping a little leather switch on-hand to swat him away from forbidden objects and rooms. He's not a fan of the switch, as you'd guess. 

My husband and I shower up and make plans to head over to Aunt General’s hardware store—a good basecamp for any errands we need to run in town. There are very few cars around here. Every family owns at least one motorbike; if they are really poor, just a bicycle. Even the roads in our family’s neighborhood cannot fit a sedan—solely made for motorcycles. Anything brought in, is brought in on a motorcycle. Including people. As a rule, only two adults fit safely on the motorbikes, however from what I have seen, you can pile as many children and babies on there that you’d like. My husband opts to ride grandpa’s vintage bicycle into town, while I saddle up with Uncle 10. At the store, Aunt General promptly orders my husband and I much appreciated iced beverages:  iced coffee and sugar cane drink, respectively. I hang out with Aunt while my husband heads across the street to the pharmacy to gather our list of items. Traffic is bustling and loud, even though it is a seemingly low-populated area. It’s very busy at the open-faced hardware store, with an average of two customers at a time constantly. In between seeing customers, Aunt has me sample a variety of fruits, and finally sets me up with a grapefruit the size of my head and a knife to peel and prepare it on a plate. The membranes inside the grapefruit are so tough, you don’t even eat them—you just eat the pulp in small bite-sizes. Aunt adds a dry-rub for dipping that is reminiscent of Mexican candy. A young gal shows up and does some paperwork with Aunt General. They try to introduce me, but I still don’t understand who she is. As she squats on the ground talking on the phone, I move my belongings, and invite her to sit next to me on the bench. After she hangs up her call, she shows my a text thread between she and my husband in her phone. I still can’t put two and two together. My husband arrives only a few minutes later with big eyes so happy to see her. He immediately gives her a big hug and messes with her ears and chin in a big-brother way as they banter. “This is my cousin.” Moving forward, she will be referred to as Cousin Sassypants. She’s my age and unmarried (which is a big deal in the Vietnamese culture); she owns her own business and takes great care of her family (which are also big deals in the Vietnamese culture). 

After chatting for a bit, Cousin Sassypants offers to give me a ride back to the house on her motorbike. My husband stays to help Aunt General by tending to customers before he trails behind on the bicycle. 

We immediately go see grandmom to decide on how to go about giving the IV fluids, vitamins, and medications we picked up earlier. She’s been eating very little, so we want to give her a little nutrition boost. The medical supplies in Vietnam have some differences from the ones we are accustomed to in the states, so we learned the system, blew one of the IV lines during set-up as we tried to jimmy-rig somethings, and finally had a patent and durable IV system. Although I have only ever used plastic IV’s, by the divine intervention I am able to gently place the metal needle into her frail vein without any issues. We wait with her as we fill her body with the nutrients she had lacked. She melts my heart by saying she wishes I had been her nurse at the hospital because I am more gentle. After the fluids finish, she is feeling a lot better. At the time of IV fluids, I get the pleasure of meeting another aunt, who we will refer to as Aunt Gentle. Physical touch is definitely her love language, and she operates in it very well. A very warm spirit. She speaks paragraphs upon paragraphs, as if it is assumed I know exactly what she's saying. It's sweet. I'd much prefer that than having people not talk to me at all. Aunt Gentle comes every night, since grandmom has been sick, to give her a bath. All the children show a lot of love and care in their own way.

My husband and I head up to give dad some IV fluids as well. He caught that food poisoning the other day, and hasn’t felt too hot sense. He is reluctant and nervous at first, but with one stick I am also able to get his metal IV in, and we let him relax in front of the TV as he rehydrates. After fluids are done, he says he feels loads better. 

It’s been a fulfilling day.