Anna Canzano IS pregnant


Photo by Mitchelldyer Photography

More than two years ago in the midst of a rather ego-maniacal moment, I wrote about how the auto fill-in when you typed my name into Google was “Is Anna Canzano pregnant.” I pondered whether someday it would evolve to “Anna Canzano baby”.

That day has come.

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I’m waking up today on the last day of work before I take off for maternity leave.

And it is surreal.

See, I’ve always worked. I’ve worked since I was eleven years old, checking in customers at the motel I ran with my mom. I’ve waitressed, I’ve reformatted hard drives for government agencies, I’ve been an editorial assistant to a magazine publisher. And on and on. So sitting here on the verge of not working for four and a half months is a foreign feeling to me.

This is where other moms chime in and tell me, “Oh honey, you’ll be working. It’s just a different kind of work.”

I get that.

But maybe because I haven’t been through it yet, I don’t bristle when people view it as a vacation to stay home and take care of an infant. Ask me in a month or three how my “vacation” is going and maybe I’ll be that defensive, sleep-deprived woman who bites your head off.

Gotta admit, most of this pregnancy has been a breeze. I never had severe morning sickness — nothing a few saltine crackers in the morning and at night before bed didn’t cure. Sure, there was back pain but there are chiropractors and massage therapists for that. The most visible sign I was pregnant besides the bump was my elephant feet.



One day I woke up and none of my shoes fit. I tried wearing an old pair of flip-flops to work and had witnesses when just standing there in the newsroom, the sandal broke right off my foot.

By far, the best part of pregnancy (aside from the fact that you produce a child) is the 9-month long sociological experiment you become. It’s the things people say to you that you don’t expect. And it starts right away.

When I announced my pregnancy to two of my female co-workers, after offering their congratulatory remarks, they both separately asked, “Was this planned?” I stumbled my way through a response that affirmed it was very much planned and hoped for and desired. But I walked away scratching my head. What was the underlying reason for that question? Do they think I’m too old to have a kid? Do I not seem like the type who’d ever want this? I never figured out the answer to that. Maybe I’ll get up the gumption some time to ask them over drinks.

The other observation you get to collect over 38 weeks is the spectrum of reaction to your growing girth. Somewhere around seven months, it was patently obvious I was growing a human inside me. And the exclamations this elicited from friends, colleagues and strangers included:

“YOU look like you’re ready to pop!”

“Whoa, you are getting BIG!”

“Man, WHEN is your due date?!”

Actually, there are two variations on the due date question. There is the version that comes with incredulity, spoken with a tone of expectation that your answer will be “next week (because I am SO large already)!”

The alternate is the one that comes with a look of pity prefaced with an unspoken “you poor thing” accompanied by a grimace.

These interactions prompted nearly daily belly laughs for me but I was also thankful to have a healthy self-esteem. Having a roughly dozen people tell you in a myriad of ways that you are fat might be pretty tough to stomach if you were already self-conscious about your weight.

I’ve also spent a bit of time reviewing the many instances when I’ve unknowingly said the exact same things other pregnant women in my life! To all those women, I apologize. I should have just said the words the wiser people of the world utter to someone in this state, “You look great!”

Okay, this is all sounds petty.

The reality is pregnancy is pretty rad. People really are excited for you. It’s a joyful thing to share. Friends and co-workers shower you with a level of generosity that surprises you. And feeling that little one kick inside of you? There’s just nothing better. Except that within days or weeks, we’ll get to hold this child and stare in wonderment at God’s ability to make life.

We’ve taken the classes. We’ve read the books. If the baby came today, she would have a place to sleep and diapers to wear.

Soon, my husband and I can stop weirding out other interracial families we see in public places as we study their “halfies” trying to guess how our little Asian/Caucasian fusion baby will turn out. We’ll have our own little halfie. My stepdaughter will have a sister. And I’ll commence the most important job I’ve ever had.

Let the adventure begin.

Whirl. Wind.

Kaohsiung, Taiwan

Kaohsiung, Taiwan

I traveled the length of my birth country today rather by accident. I started on the southern tip of Taiwan in Kaohsiung – saying goodbye to my father and stepmother at the High Speed Rail Station. We had a mini-huddle there at the top of escalator platform; with my arms stretched around both of their shoulders and our heads all leaned in, I said to them in Mandarin “Be good to each other, take care of each other, be mutually optimistic.” Then, some kisses, a squeeze, and I was off.

Unfortunately (or however you want to look at it) I was using the train’s restroom when the announcement for my stop was broadcast. My destination was Taichung, the largest city on the island located in its center. A trip that takes a mere 45 minutes. But being unfamiliar with Taiwan’s geography, I came out of the bathroom during the stop in Taichung, plopped back down and proceeded to admire the brand new Samsung digital camera the new passenger next to me was busy freeing from its packaging.

“Does that connect to the internet?” I asked, as he busily used the touchpad to set his options.

“Yes,” he affirmed, very proud of his purchase. “It just came out today. I had to pre-order it.”

And that’s how it came to be that a full hour, then hour-fifteen passed, and I wondered why we hadn’t yet hit Taichung. I turned to the young man with thick black rimmed glasses and said, “Forgive me, this is going to be a stupid question, but this train does actually stop in Taichung before it hits the northern most tip of the island, Taipei?”

For reasons I’ll never understand, he merely answered, “Yes, this train stops in Taichung before it hits Taipei.”

So I rode that bullet train all the way north, past the skyscrapers of Taichung, thinking (incorrectly) as we sped by the sprawling high-rises how much Taiwan had grown in the 16 years since I’d last been here – to have a city so large it looked like Taichung but not actually be Taichung which actually it was. Passages from Tom Freidman’s The World Is Flat were in my head as I admired the sprawling metropolis featuring all kinds of companies with TEK as the suffix. I gawked at the apartment buildings that would make Howard Roark from Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead shudder: modern vertical expanses topped with architectural features stolen from an ancient time, spotlighted Corinthian columns framing the penthouse floors.

It wasn’t until the urban scenery stretched into mile after mile – more appropriately kilometer after kilometer – of countryside that I started to worry. I checked my notebook in which I’d written my estimated arrival time, looked at the clock and figured I’d simply jotted it down wrong. I’m not great with numbers and I’m especially not great converting 2:14pm to 14:12pm. Yeah, I know. Not rocket science. Shut up.

By the time we hit BanChiou, I started to get the sense something was really wrong. Things were looking really remote outside. The weather completely changed to overcast and chilly-looking. So you can imagine my panicked horror and confusion when the announcement came that Taipei, the end of the line, was the next stop. I turned to Mr. Samsung and blurted “What happened to the Taichung stop?”

It was only then he decided to disclose the information that would have been quite valuable to me an hour and a half earlier.

“That’s the stop where I got on!” he said, matter-of-factly with the look in his eye that declared how stupid he found me to be.

Sigh. I pressed my fingertips into my forehead, distraught.

I had a very limited window to spend time with my relatives in Taichung before my plane left to the United States, and this mistake would wind up costing me two and half hours. Additionally, my cousin had been waiting for me at the train station in Taichung that whole time. I was out of minutes on my international calling plan that I’d arranged with my cell phone company before leaving the States, so my best option was to Skype-call him and explain my predicament. Waves of guilt flooded my heart since I knew he’d taken the afternoon off work to make time for me. I spent the ride back south to Taichung mentally berating myself for being so dumb.


Crying baby alert. There is currently one very unhappy infant two rows back to the left. I’m writing during my flight from Taiwan back to Portland. I can think of only a few sounds more irritating to the ear. A garbage truck in reverse. A car crash. A car alarm. But most of those happen in the open air. This sound is particularly grating in such a confined space. Can’t write. Till. It. Stops.


Okay, I’m back.

Upon arrival in Taichung, I find my cousin pleasant as ever, wearing shiny blue tennis shoes and a thick red, white and blue winter coat decorated with the words World of Sports. (Asians are fond of clothing that bear words in English in the same way Americans are fond of items bearing Italian or French. But in both cases I’m sure there is often a nuance lost in translation. It’s not uncommon to see kids in Taiwan wearing jeans that says “Action thriller POP!”) At the airport in Taichung a giant Christmas tree features a lit sign with the words “Departures for Love, Merry Christmas.” Awkward phrases like this make me chuckle.

Note the message on the Christmas Tree

Note the message on the Christmas Tree

I greet my cousin with my head down, apologizing profusely for his wasted afternoon. He brushes it off, mostly, telling me he assumed I’d fallen asleep. My explanation comes out as a rambling mess. Then he’s on the phone with his mom, my aunt, explaining my error. Within minutes my dad’s on the phone too, calling from Kaohsiung, purely to laugh and question how I’d managed to miss Taichung. Later, my other aunt would call just to add to my humiliation, saying “So you went to Taipei?” I asked her how she found out so quickly?! She quipped, “They broadcast it on the Taiwanese news.”

Walking out of the train station, my cousin walks briskly toward a blue Mazda he’s double-parked at the corner. He tells me to wait under an overhang to keep from getting wet; it’s raining. As I get in, I’m immediately distracted by what I think is the largest GPS device I’ve ever seen. He has a mini-tablet propped up on his dash. To my amusement, he turns it on and shows me it’s a TELEVISION. Which operates WITH A REMOTE. As we pull away from the train station, he demonstrates how on his way to work he talks on the phone, shaves, eats breakfast and watches the news. A truly mobile living space.

I scold him.

Then, quickly shoot a video to document his unsafe driving habits. Because I don’t think anyone will believe me back home when I describe this set up to them.

When we get to the house he shares with my aunt and uncle, there is the obligatory removal of shoes and switch to house slippers and tour. For some reason, these two acts are also very characteristically Chinese. He shows me his parents’ two Maltese (Malteses?) who don’t stop yapping till we let them roam free. We wind up to the third floor where his bedroom features a CD rack he’s proudly converted into a wall-mount for his broken badminton rackets. Fourth floor is his brother’s former bedroom. And an empty room with lacquered wooden floors for entertaining. Then it’s up to the top floor terrace garden my uncle maintains. With no lift, I observe that my uncle has to carry bags of soil and fertilizer up five flights of steps. My cousin mutters about the garden in disgust since he winds up having to water his father’s plants when my aunt and uncle are away. He gestures dramatically about the mosquitos that bite him as he tends to the task he hates.

My cousin goes by the English name “Salt.” It’s printed on the English side of his business card.

Naturally, I have to know how that happened. “Why Salt?” I ask. “Why not…Pepper?”

He explains how when he was starting his career everyone else he knew was taking more traditional English names like Sam or Justin. “Or Johnny. Everyone’s named Johnny. Do you know how much Johnnies there are in Taiwan?” he says.

He reminds me how when he was little, his nickname included the Chinese word for Salt so when it came time to choose an English name, he figured he’d just convert that. Easy to remember. Unique. He laughs and tells me how my mom had advised him Salt was weird, not a good name. I tell him I like it. That it’s cool. He seems pleased.

Salt and I are just coming back downstairs when my aunt, uncle and other cousin come home. There are hugs and compliments about figures and faces (aunt to me: “You’re skinnier than you look in your pictures!”) (me to aunt and uncle: “You guys haven’t aged a bit. I think you look even younger!”) and then the mini-tornado that is my aunt goes about her thing.

And by her thing I mean she moves about so quickly it’s hard to keep up. I follow her into the kitchen where she frantically searches the refrigerator for fruit to serve me. Producing two apples and a guava, she washes all three in the sink, grabs a giant kitchen knife and with her right hand deftly slices the fruit she’s holding in her left. I’m cringing the whole time; she’s talking the whole time. There is a curious urgency with which she speaks that simultaneously stresses me out and amuses me.

My aunt Xiao-Bin with her two babies

My aunt Xiao-Bin with her two babies

The previous night, my dad and I had traveled to Bei Gang to visit my mom’s other younger sister. She has this giant house in the country, in a town where my grandfather was principal of an elementary school and where my mom and her family had once lived. She too has movements that are quicker than you’d ever expect for someone who is in bad health. She’s got weak lungs, and coughs intermittently as she speaks. But there she is in her kitchen, squeezing fresh orange juice which she proudly serves at dinner.

I take lots of pictures and video here too, since I want to take them back to show my mom. This aunt managed finances for a university in Taiwan until two months ago when she quit to recuperate. Her career success has come at a cost; she tells me how she regrets neglecting exercise in all those years of striving for professional advancement. She admonishes me about the importance of family, how there is nothing more important. This aunt speaks with a self-assuredness and wisdom derived from someone who’s been there and wants me to avoid the mistakes she believes she’s made.

My aunt Dao-Liou proudly squeezing orange juice in her kitchen

My aunt Dao-Liou proudly squeezing orange juice in her kitchen

Both aunts have this way of giving me an approving look that absolutely fills me up. It’s a look that says, yeah, you’re all right. You’re one of us. We’re proud to call you niece.

And maybe you have the same experience, seeing slightly altered versions of your own parent in their siblings. They look just enough like my mom to reveal they’re related and there are similarities in their mannerisms, but the nuanced differences in how they see the world reveal the variation in experiences that shaped their lives.

As for my dad, well, it says a lot about him that he’d want to go see his ex-wife’s younger sister and takes the time and energy to do so while I’m in Taiwan. Our arrival in Kaohsiung a week ago was followed by a lot of indulging in the fresh seafood the city is known for. The kind of restaurants where fish tanks and plastic bins hold the still-living shrimp, carp, and scallops you pick out, and are cooked to order within minutes.

My father, as aforementioned in a previous post, holds food as a high priority. So the meals we gorge on these first few days back in Taiwan at very little cost are a delight to him. We know he’s about to begin chemotherapy, so this display of gluttony is written off as preparation for the weight he’ll soon lose with the poison injected into his body.

At one of Taiwan's famous night markets

At one of Taiwan’s famous night markets

On Tuesday, we make the long anticipated visit to the hospital in Kaohsiung where he’ll be treated. The morning begins with no less than four relatives calling the hospital on different phone lines to try and get an appointment for him with the deputy director of the cancer center. Taiwan has a nationalized health care system. My dad, having dual citizenship, is entitled to benefit from it. Navigating the system is a major learning process for me. While we were still in Hawaii, I’d been able to identify and correspond via email with one of the leading colon cancer specialists in Kaohsiung. My stepmother’s younger brother had helped my father land an appointment with that specialist, a surgeon. I’d additionally found the deputy director who was an actual oncologist, but getting face-time with him would prove more difficult. You have to book appointments with him like you’re snagging tickets to a Justin Bieber concert, hoping and praying your call is the one that makes it through. Waiting rooms are jammed with people, many wearing masks to avoid picking up airborne germs. This is a post-SARS Asian culture and at my insistence, my dad joins the club.

Waiting to see the deputy director of the Cancer Center

Waiting to see the deputy director of the Cancer Center

Deputy Director Chen sits us down and begins pouring over the 200 pages of medical records I’ve copied, tabbed, and brought over from Hawaii. He’s taking notes and for several minutes we’re just sitting there in silence, nervously awaiting his assessment. As a courtesy to me, because he figures I’ll find Taiwanese more difficult to understand (he’s right) he tells us in Mandarin my dad should get chemotherapy starting next week. That he should first get a port put in. That surgery isn’t the right step. That the mass remaining near my dad’s spine, sitting next to a main blood vessel, the one deemed inoperable by American doctors, will actually serve as a good “index” for whether the chemo is working. If it shrinks and/or goes away, good news. If it doesn’t, we need to discuss other options.

I have my notepad out and I’m taking notes. I ask as many questions as I can and fill Dr. Chen in on my dad’s situation, how he just uprooted from Hawaii last week and shifted his life to Taiwan. How I went to Hawaii not expecting a transpacific trip to Taiwan to accompany him. How I’m here to make sure he gets the best care available. And could I please keep in touch with Dr. Chen for updates about my dad’s treatment?

Later that night, I’m reviewing in my head the things the doctor said. And I realize he mentioned as a subtext that the treatment option he was selecting for my father, Avastin, was covered by the Taiwanese National health insurance. I wondered if that was a basis for his decision. So I emailed him, and tried without being too pushy to emphasize that I didn’t want my dad’s cancer protocol determined in any way by its cost. If there is better medicine that isn’t covered by the public health program, I wanted Dr. Chen to know I’d find the funds to pay for it.

To my surprise, he wrote back at 11:30 at night, assuring me what he’s recommending is simply the best treatment he thinks my dad should get. In a system set-up to deal with masses, with patients who are given numbers like they’re in line at the DMV, having the deputy director of the cancer center respond so promptly was the kind of reassurance I sought in making this trip to Taiwan. Laying eyes on the facility and the people I hope will save or extend my father’s life was vitally important to me.

Deputy Director of the Cancer Center, Dr. Leo Chen

Deputy Director of the Cancer Center, Dr. Leo Chen

Before I left Kaohsiung, I went for a run at a nearby high school. It was 9 o’clock at night, and the place was packed. Teems of teenage boys scurried around on the outdoor basketball courts, no doubt dreaming of becoming the next Jeremy Lin. Sessions of tai chi were underway as was to my delight, a cha-cha class of roughly 30 women. As I circled the track, I watched the cha-cha-ers tearing it up to tunes like “I’m Your Sexy Pot” – which I found deliriously funny. I kept my eye on the group and when it took a break, I made my way over to ask about their get-togethers. Explaining a bit about my dad’s situation, I wondered if they’d be open to adding a 66-year old man. They responded warmly, saying they needed a little male energy among them!

I ran back to the uncle’s house where we were staying and breathlessly burst in to give my dad the good news. I found a dance class for you! It’s free! It’s every night Monday through Friday from 8 to 9:30pm! It was as important a discovery to me as identifying my dad’s new hospital and new doctors. The chemo may kill the cancer. The dancing and ping-pong will keep him alive.

He smiled as I excitedly told him about the class, how they would be happy to have him, and he said, “Thank you Anna.” I’ll carry that smile with me all the way back to Portland.

I’m back home now. And here’s the message I woke up and read from my dad this morning:

Yesterday, I tried to go to the school but it rained dog and cat. So I have to wait until Monday.

Get busy living right? Once it stops raining dog and cat, anyway.

Dad and Hope

Dad and Hope

Searching for the Simple

You know you’re in a different country when you’re staring at the various buttons on a toilet trying to decipher how to flush it. It is disarming, at best, to see pictorial depictions of what it might look like if you hit the “BIDET” option. But here I am in a stall at the Tokyo-Narita airport, bent over the fanciest loo I’ve ever seen. How disappointed am I when, on the brink of giving up, I discover an old fashioned stainless steel handle behind the lid.


When confused and overwhelmed, look for the simple answer.

That’s how it’s been the last week as I helped my father and stepmother take the necessary steps to leave behind their life of 22 years in Hawaii and move back to Taiwan. It’s felt like an episode of the Amazing Race. (DISCLOSURE: I have never actually seen the show but get its general gist). Never mind the emotional extremes of dealing with my dad’s diagnosis of Stage IV colon cancer. We suddenly had a car and condo to sell, financial matters to address, furniture to donate. And, did I mention Thanksgiving was tucked into the midst of these transactions?

By Monday morning, I was feeling confident. I had both of their medical records in hand, complete with slides from the hospital lab. We had an appointment set for the next day with an attorney who would be helping us set up a living trust. And we’d all had a good laugh over the questionnaire he’d asked us to fill out. If you haven’t done this with your parents yet, it’s a rather grim task. Grim to the point of ridiculous. The attorney wanted answers to a series of questions that read like a Choose Your Own Adventure Book, only ALL the plotlines wind up with SOMEONE DEAD.

1) In the event that father and stepmother both die, who is to be trustee of their assets?

2) In the event that father, stepmother and named trustee die, who is the secondary trustee?

3) In the event that father, stepmother, named trustee and secondary trustee die, along with all of the next of kin and grandchildren, who is to handle the remaining assets?

I was sitting on my dad’s couch reading this survey out loud soliciting answers from him and my stepmom. By the time I got to that third question, we all burst out laughing, conjuring up the various horrific scenarios in which it would actually apply. (Family reunion rental home catches fire with all of us inside. Plane en route to a family reunion with all of us on board goes down. See what I mean??! Your family, if it has any sense of humor, would laugh too.)

What my dad and stepmom didn’t know was that within hours, my brother, nephew and husband were paying a surprise visit to Hawaii. John had proffered the idea last week within minutes after learning the gravity of my dad’s diagnosis. In the hours leading up to their arrival Tuesday, John and I were orchestrating the best way to maximize the effect. After touching down in Honolulu, my brother and nephew recorded a video from their hotel room making sad faces, saying how much they wished they could be here with us. They mentioned plans to Skype with my dad in the evening. Oscar worthy performances.

Moments later came the knock on the condo door, expressions of bewilderment on my dad and Helen’s faces, and the several seconds more they needed to grasp who they were seeing in their doorway. Helen collapsed into John’s arms, her face filling with tears. My dad broke into a laugh of pure joy, as he repeated, “Really? Really. Wow. Wow.” He has a great laugh, by the way. It’s loud and infectious and no holds barred, whether he’s in a McDonald’s or a five-star restaurant.

Some of the best advice I’ve received in this is to cherish the moments. Capture them digitally if possible. So Tuesday night, in line at a Waikiki restaurant where they hand-make udon noodles, I’m rolling video as my dad teaches his grandson the same silly hand-slapping games he taught me when I was a kid.

Wednesday, there is a final meeting midday with my parent’s financial advisor. Then, it’s my brother’s turn to work his magic. Michael’s a car salesman, the best I’ve ever seen. And he’d arranged to sell my Dad’s Corolla to the local Toyota dealership. Given our tight timeline, we needed to go as a group, so my dad, Helen, John, Michael and I all pile into their compact car. My nephew stays behind at the condo with an auntie who’d flown in from Taiwan in recent weeks to help.

The people at the dealership are very confused about our little gang. We pour out of my dad’s silver sedan and onto the sales floor. John and I set up camp at one table, proceeding to work on matters like canceling the condo’s electricity and internet services. Michael begins negotiating with a salesman and learns midway through the car had been in two accidents, something my parents had omitted in previous conversations with him.

I feel for my brother, as the fender-benders pop up in a database and his leverage slips away.

“Why didn’t you tell me about those when I asked?” my brother says in Taiwanese, exasperated.

“Oh, we thought you meant the crashes we hadn’t yet fixed,” protest Helen and my dad.

My brother still manages to get a great sale price for their car, double what my dad thought they’d be able to recoup selling to a friend. John calls for a taxi, and we all load up again to head to our next stop, the attorney’s office in downtown Waikiki.

We realize during this meeting with the attorney that my parents need to go to a bank to officially set up the living trust. And it’s already within an hour of closing time the day before Thanksgiving. We have a hard deadline because my dad, stepmom and I are leaving early Friday for Taiwan. John bolts downstairs only to learn the bank on the ground floor can’t make it happen in time. I get my parents’ financial advisor on the phone, who contacts a woman at their bank’s main branch. That woman agrees to stay late to help us finish this task.

I turn to the attorney and ask, “Where is that main branch?”

He points at the building across from his and says, “It’s right across the street.”

Could not have planned it more perfectly.

In fact, I know I didn’t.

See, I choose to believe in all those prayers being offered to my family by friends, co-workers, even Facebook strangers. I am re-affirmed each time, each step of the way, when elements of this process have sped along with remarkable efficiency. And even when we’ve hit snags, it’s been for good reason. There have been frustrating moments in which things just have not worked, but those roadblocks have proven valuable in ways we could not have anticipated.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…I think if you look for God, you might just see Him…everywhere. Not in a naïve, Pollyanna kind of way. Believe me, I’m a tv reporter. I’m about as skeptical and cynical as they come. And I know my dad’s mortality has me thinking and talking about what’s beyond this life.

But it does come down to a matter of perspective.

We can spend our time right now lamenting his cancer.

Or, we can sail the waters of Oahu on a friend’s Katamaran Thanksgiving day with Diamondhead in the distance, with my dad turning to my brother telling him how proud he is of him as a father, praising him for his courage in being a single dad and overcoming unthinkable challenges in his life. I can smile through my tears as I see my 6-year old nephew looking on, three generations of the Song family men aboard one vessel.

I explain to my nephew, “We’re just kinda sad because Grandpa’s very sick. And he’s going to be going away for a while.”

My nephew nods peacefully and says, “I know.”

Where is God? I’ve come to think He is wherever you seek Him.

It may be as simple as that.


Ping Pong, Stage IV, and Taiwan

Smack. Smack. Smack.


Smack. Smack. Smack.


That’s what it sounds like at the Makua Alii Senior Center as my dad sweats it up in a fierce match of ping pong. I know, I know. We’re totally playing to the stereotype here. I have images from Forrest Gump cycling through my head as I watch him whoop ass on some frail 87-year old Chinese dude.

It’s a pleasant hour of respite from the onslaught of crazy the last three days.

As with most life-altering events, my dad’s diagnosis of Stage IV colon cancer was completely anti-climactic. His oncologist explained in the most nonchalant way how the mass removed from my dad’s abdomen last week was cancerous, how that meant the other mass near his spine is probably cancerous, and how chemo would probably be necessary in some form for the rest of his life.

It wasn’t until I made a follow-up call for clarification that his doctor broke out the Stage IV terminology and the curious 22-month benchmark. As in, half the people with my dad’s diagnosis live more than 22 months. Half, less. Stupidly, I was madly scribbling notes during this conversation so my dad learned the dire nature of his prognosis by reading it from my notebook.

I hung up the phone. He tilted his head, uttered,”Oh, I’m stage four.” Pursed his lips. Nodded. Looked down. Then stared off in the distance past the golf course his condo overlooks.


Between the seemingly casual that-tumor-we-removed-was-cancerous appointment and the you-potentially-have-less-than-two-years-to-live conversation was a lunch at which my dad and stepmother decided the best option for them was to return to Taiwan immediately. It’s where they were both born and raised. It’s where the bulk of my stepmom’s family resides. And it’s where my dad has access to food he loves.

Food is REALLY important to him. Chinese food. A variety of it. An ample supply of it. An affordable way to consume it.

Returning to Taiwan is an idea they’d already been discussing for a month prior to my dad’s colon cancer recurrence. My stepmom’s lung cancer had proven taxing and it left her longing to be around family. With the double whammy of my dad’s situation, it seemed like a no-brainer. For them anyway. My heart was broken when they announced their plans to me a month ago. And it’s in shards at this moment thinking about my dad being so far away. Especially since that decision was finalized just hours before we fully understood the gravity of his prognosis.

After multiple conversations with wise friends and confidantes who’ve had experience with cancer, I know his happiness is vital. The likelihood of extending his life is vastly improved if he’s content with his environment. Of course, I offered my dad the option of coming to Oregon and allowing me to take care of him. I even called local facilities to research treatment possibilities. But my dad loathes the gray days of the Pacific Northwest. And wants his wife to be happy. What’s that saying? A happy wife is a happy life? He’s certainly ascribing to that notion.

So with their decision made, I plowed ahead with data gathering.

Invaluable tools: Skype and Google Translate.

They’re what I used to find the best hospital for cancer treatment in Kaohsiung, Taiwan (at the advice of a dear doctor friend who says academic teaching hospitals tend to have the best researching minds and better access to the newest clinical trials). Google Translate was instrumental in helping me find and correspond in Chinese with the hospital’s colon cancer team leader. And I used Skype to book an appointment over the phone with that very doctor for November 27th.

I also joined an online cancer forum to learn more about the disease, hired an attorney to begin the process of setting up a living trust for my parents and went to their hospital here in Honolulu to request a full copy of their medical records. Oh, and my dad and I made a stop at the Don Quixote – this weird multi-purpose supermarket that reminds me of places you’d find in Mexico or Beijing. He needed blank CDs.

See, he line dances at the senior center. He’s a big hit there, as you might imagine, with that big smile and being the only male willing to dance with a bunch of aging Chinese ladies. He’s intent on bringing the music he’s familiar with back to Taiwan, presumably so he can find another social group to cha-cha with. To the mild frustration of my stepmother, he’s more focused on doing internet searches for ping-pong clubs in Kaohsiung city than he is on determining the best oncologist for his extended care in Taiwan.

I can only smile.

He’s still up right now, using my Ipod headphones to review the playlist I created for him . He’s leaned back with his hands locked behind his head, shuffling his feet to the music as he visualizes the best dance moves. When he goes for his hour-long morning walk, he takes his ping-pong paddle with him, practicing his best chops and slices as he strolls the streets of Waikiki.

A little neurotic and silly but I’ve got to think these quirks are his best defense. His most potent weapons to kick cancer in the arse.

Kung-fu style n’all, naturally.

Cancer’s Hidden Gem

It’s the strangest thing, booking a flight to paradise knowing that you’re going there because your dad’s staring down colon cancer. At the airport in Portland, families fortunate enough to be taking Hawaiian vacations are already relaxed, adorned in tropical print, and wearing anticipatory smiles that tell of mai-tais, sunscreen and beaches in their future. I must have looked odd to them, flying solo with a furrowed brow to the West Coast’s playground across the Pacific. The cheery island music that greets me as I enter the bulkhead of the plane is off-melody to me because my ear isn’t tuned to hear it. Not now. Not in this circumstance.

48 hours later, I’m in the corner of his patient room at Straub Hospital in Honolulu, staring at palm trees and the lush hills, and wondering if this is the most amazing hospital view that exists. He’s napping. And I’m counting our blessings. One by precious one.


The cab ride from HNL International to his condo is a bit frantic. A project at work has me searching for a 4G signal to transfer an audio file back to KATU and begging the taxi driver to plug my laptop charger into the dash for extra juice. Figures that something I’d been working on for weeks would drop just as I touch down a couple time zones away.

When I arrive at my dad’s place I’m nervous about seeing my stepmom. She’s just finished her third round of chemo for lung cancer. A non-smoker, Helen was diagnosed as Stage 1 four months ago. Yes, my dad smoked until his first bout with the Big C six years ago. Yes, he only smoked outside on the balcony of their home. No, that measure was not enough to protect my stepmother from second-hand smoke. YO SMOKERS: CONSIDER THAT THE NEXT TIME YOU LIGHT UP.

Helen’s all of 85 pounds, so the chemicals intended to kill the cancer have done a number on her small frame. More than that, she’s now anxious and listless. Meaning, she jumps at sudden noises, and due to long bouts of insomnia that worsened during her treatment, she spends most of the day sitting with her eyes closed until the next sudden noise.

It sucks.

She explains to me that it’s the result of being indoors so much. She and my dad are super active – they play ping pong for hours at the Chinese Senior Center, they dance, they sing, they cook, they laugh. Physical fitness is a priority for them, and that social interaction feeds their souls. Neither of which Helen was able to engage in much the last several months.

My dad on the other hand is asymptomatic. He has a mass in his abdomen and another elsewhere on his colon. The one in his abdomen is operable; the other, located on a blood vessel is not. But he’s bubbly and goofy and looking like an Asian Jack Lalanne. The night I arrived, he showed me the V-sit he does to keep his abs taught. He does 100 push-ups a day. Dude’s a freakin’ specimen.

So, for obvious reasons, and with no other family in Hawaii to help, I understand why they needed me here. My dad’s not the type to ask for assistance unless he absolutely needs it. When he reached out a couple of weeks ago, and hinted that it “might be nice if I could come for his surgery,” I knew this situation had risen to a level that would benefit from my presence.

It’s not the easiest time to take off. Actually, it’s one of the worst times of the year as far as work goes. November’s a sweeps month. In TV-land, it’s when advertisers are paying particularly close attention to ratings, and ad rates are pinned largely on a station’s performance during such a month. I think that’s what it is anyhow – I try not to worry too much about the money side of what I do because I don’t want it corrupting the content. Sweeps months are all hands on deck situations, so my taking family medical leave during such a time is really uncomfortable for me. My Chinese guilt has me all worried what my co-workers are thinking. But my Chinese obligation of respecting my elders is overriding that guilt in this instance. As my brother would say, it’s complicated.

By Friday night, my dad’s out of surgery and it’s been a success. He’s awake, and talkative.

I use the opportunity to ask him questions about our family’s history. I’ve realized in recent years how little I know about my ancestry and its storied past. It includes, for my mom, her family fleeing communism aboard boats and amid gunfire because her dad, a former general and mayor of a province, was on the wrong side of the Chinese Civil war. And in my dad’s lineage, it includes what he called a “a series of twisted fate” hinged on timing. Mostly bad timing.

For example, he explained how his uncle, my grandfather’s youngest brother, was entrepreneurial with amazing ideas but always ahead of his time. How he opened a record store in Taichung around 1950 and sold only one or two records a day. It went under –shortly before record-players began being widely acquired by families in Taiwan. How that same great uncle of mine then decided to raise chickens, roughly a thousand of them. And within weeks of their being large enough to go to market, an epidemic wiped them all out, practically overnight. Then, it was onto pigs. Sixty of those. You know how this ends. Another disease kills off all the market-ready pigs in the span of a month. Not long after that, my dad explains, the Taiwanese government instilled an immunization program for livestock to prevent such devastation.

“It’s so ridiculous you can hardly believe it,” says my dad, shaking his head.

I laugh a lot during this conversation with him. I’m also taking video so I can always remember how he tells these stories.

It’s the little things that get me. As he describes the bakery my paternal grandfather opened in Taichung and expanded to include a grocery store then eventually a department store, I ask him where it was located. He says in Mandarin “near the intersection of Zhi Yo Lou and Chung Gong Lou.”

I check him: “Really dad? That’s what the streets were called?”

“Yes. That’s where it was,” he affirms.

It means the business was located at the intersection of Freedom and Success Roads.

He laughs too as I point this out, never having looked it at that way.

It’s a rich time. I’m incredibly grateful to my co-workers for picking up the slack in my absence. But I know I wouldn’t trade that conversation I had with my dad last night for any award-winning story, or breaking report. No pressing local news issue is going to beat tucking him into his hospital bed, and being here as he wakes up.

Cancer bites, yeah.

But it can nudge you closer to the ones you love.

Sitting up this morning, my dad told the nurse he feels great because of two reasons. One — (he holds his right index finger up) because the doctor has cleared him to eat solid food. Two — (two fingers up) (then he points at me) “because my daughter flew all the way here from Portland to take care of me.”

Doesn’t get any better than that.

Snow White and the Huntsman (aka Charlize, Bella from Twilight and Thor get in a dustup)

The husband and I just returned from watching this year’s second adaptation of the fairy tale involving a wicked stepmother thwarting a stepdaughter’s access to love, royalty, and a lifetime of happiness. No, not Cinderella. The other fairy tale that gives stepmothers a bad rap — the one involving seven little dudes, three drops of blood, a poisonous apple and a magic mirror.

Question: How do two versions of Snow White get released within three months of each other?

In the world of multi-million-dollar movie making, doesn’t word get around in Hollywood that certain projects are in the works? I mean, doesn’t one studio exec assistant share a martini with another studio exec assistant, say, at the Chateau Marmont, then exchange whispers about whatever their bosses are cooking up? It’s the same broken logic that allowed for Paul Blart: Mall Cop and Observe and Report to both come out in theaters in 2009. You would think Julia Robert’s agent runs into Charlize Theron’s agent at some point and brags about the paranoid schizophrenic evil queen role their client has landed.


To save youthe trouble of watching the year’s second, ickier version of this tale, I will sum up it for you.

The beginning is roughly the same — Bella from Twilight is sad because her mom dies from some kind of illness. Her dad, the king, gets massively depressed and lonely in his big stone castle then goes into a battle fighting a big army of freaky soldiers that shatter into a million obsidian-like shards when they get stabbed. His men find a gorgeous blond previously held captive by the fakey-fake soldiers (which really should have been his first clue — something was a little too easy about all this). Stuart Townsend’s ex is all perfectly dirtied up and tousled-hair-like and looking victimized. The widowed king falls for her in one day and the very next day assembles the whole kingdom at the castle for the craziest shotgun wedding slash ascension to queenship ever heard of.

Little princess Snow White (who by the way is freckled not porcelain-skinned with  brunette hair not raven, and pink lips not deep red — did ANYONE read the original story?) upstages Theron during the wedding walk down the aisle with her purity and cuteness. As Charlize and the king engage in marriage night activity, she starts mumbling about power while he’s in the midst of coital bliss, then, she stabs and kills him.

Instant queen.

Flowers die. It starts to snow. Everything in the kingdom goes dark.

Years later, we find Kristen Stewart imprisoned in the North Tower where she makes a big fire with some kind of flint, her breath, and some twigs. She looks very greasy and dirty.

She watches as a girl with a baby-doll face is brought in as a prisoner.

Baby-doll face gets her youth sucked out of her by the aging queen appearing to have an asthma attack or a bad case of the Mondays.

(Apparently way more effective than Botox).

But somewhere in this mess, the queen’s magic mirror which produces a metallic dude that talks to her who nobody sees (ref: “paranoid schizophrenic”) gives her really bad news, reminding her that the stepdaughter she never wanted is still being kept in the North Tower, only now, she’s of age, and pretty, and perhaps the fairest of them all.

Charlize’s bro, an albino looking guy with a super bad Hamlet type hairdo is dispatched to fetch Hottie Snow White, which he fails at doing because she cuts his face with a nail and escapes.

Here’s where things get interesting.

Immediately, Kristen’s puffy sleeve dress goes off-the-shoulder damsel-style as she disappears into the Dark Forest, which is filled with grossy gross things like maggots and sulfur-spewing bubbles.

Thor eventually shows up at the request of Charlize – to hunt down Little Snow, but instead of a cosmic hammer, he carries…a hatchet. With far less power. And it doesn’t magically fly across the room into his grip by the sheer extension of his open palm. (See: The Avengers, a much better movie.)

Hemsworth winds up wanting to save Snow White instead of bring her back to the queen, but only after a whole village of women with funky tear scars is burned down by the queenie’s meanie brother and the soldiers helping him. (I spent a good 15 minutes wondering about the tears scars till one of the women explained to Snow White they did it to themselves to avoid being beautiful, thereby escaping notice of the highly insecure Queen Ravenna).

Back at the castle by the sea, Ravenna goes through a whole series of CGI Extreme Makeovers ™ from old to young by inhaling more youth. Think North Country vs. Devil’s Advocate.

Snow White and the drunkard Huntsman are strung upside down in the woods, they meet the Dwarfs, all escape the bad people (again) and retreat behind a leaf curtain through a grotto to FairyLand…where the fairies look like miniature grey Avatars.

Despite the healing presence of Princess Snow, which relieves the coughs and aches and pains of her height-challenged companions, she #FAILS to save the life of the 7th dwarf during another mini-battle. A shame, since just the night before he had buried his oversized head in her bosom.

She winds up kissing someone she thinks is William her boyfriend (cousin?) from her childhood days. Oh yeah, he’s the guy who ditched her years ago while the castle was raided and overtaken, but he’s come back to rescue her. Sorry, did I leave that out?

But alas, the apple he gifts her to snack on grows instant moss and his face goes all Scooby Doo mask revealing (gasp) he’s actually the evil queen-witch! Lucky for Twilight-girl, Thor shows up just in time with the real William, and Charlize instantly transforms back into a gagillion ravens who fly back to the castle and drop as an oily messy heap onto her magic room floor. (think: Bond…Goldfinger…environmental disaster-style)

Bella dies a human death and becomes a vampire.

No, wait.

She wakes from her slumber (coma?) atop a really comfy looking bed of animal fur after Hemsworth plants one on her. She gives a Braveheart-like speech, dons chain mail, then expertly wields a sword, rides a horse and leads an army into battle. Never mind the years she spent trapped in the North Tower. Those skills just comes naturally when you’re Snow White, I guess.

I won’t tell you how it ends, but I will tell you, I couldn’t be more impressed with the consistency of Kristen Stewart’s pensive far-off non-expression. It’s a mixture between “I just ate a Sour Patch Kid and I don’t want you to know it” and “I’m not thinking of a single thing at all but I want to appear as if I’m deep in thought.” She applied it liberally in Twilight. And she masters it here. Especially when she’s crowned queen and wields that twig-scepter in the final scene. Even from a distance, as she steps off the throne into an awkward pose, and the camera shot goes wider…and wider…and wider…I can help but wonder, what is she looking at? A cute grip? Craft services? Robert Pattinson visiting her on set? What? What?

There. I just saved you 127 minutes of your life and 11 dollars.

You’re welcome.

**I just Wiki’d the Hemsworths. Thanks to alert reader JM-Farley, I’ve corrected my assertion that it was baby Thor who showed up in this movie. It was actually Thor himself, Chris Hemsworth. Brother Liam appears in The Hunger Games — also, a better film than this one.

**Forgot to mention. Kristen Stewart never eats in the film. In fact, no one eats. Maybe the Dwarves at one point. I seem to recall one meal portrayed. But other than that, no one consumes anything of substance.

“Will You Marry Me” Lip-Dub Marriage Proposal

Someday, Amy Frankel and Isaac Lamb’s children will ask Dad how he asked Mom to marry him. Dad will then chuckle, maybe plug in a thumb drive, or navigate to this link.

And their kids will immediately realize their Dad rocks.

Champagne and rose petals? Cliche. Diamond ring baked into a dessert? Please. Suddenly, the new standard for a creative marriage proposal includes secret rehearsals of 60+ people, borrowed marching band uniforms, and parents from afar linked in on Skype.

Oh, and a video that burns up the InterWebs.

And to think, he pondered not even videotaping it.

“A lot of people talked me out of that,” says Lamb. “They said, so much work went into this, we want a record of what happened!”

In an interview Saturday with KATU News, Lamb and Frankel stood in front of his parents southwest Portland home, on the street where this musical theater all played out last week.

Lamb says he started mulling over the idea of a lip-dub proposal back at Christmas-time, when he asked Frankel’s parents for permission to marry her.

“I knew when I got around to asking, it would have to be something incredible and special, because that’s how I feel about her,” he explains.

“I’ve always had sort of a flair for the dramatic. I’m a musical theater actor. I think in those terms a little bit.”

Both are involved in theater as members of the Third Rail Repertory Company. They have also watched and appreciated the entertainment of lip-dub videos, like this one, from the good people of Grand Rapids, Michigan.

“It’s such a special thing, it expresses a whole city’s heart, so I thought what a perfect way to communicate to her how much I love her,” explains Lamb.

He mapped out a plan and enlisted the help of their friend, Gina Johnson Morris to choreograph. She owns Radish Underground Clothing in downtown Portland, and used the entryway of her store during off hours for group rehearsals. She also made instructional videos recording herself doing the dance moves, wrote detailed instructions, and sent that homework out to the friends and family members participating so they could practice at home.

(Yes, she’s the foxy brunette in the red dress. And sorry guys, she goes home every night to that bearded guy swinging her around in the video, her husband.)

Was Lamb worried about having an audience for this highly personal moment? Nope. And he has the perfect reasoning for that.

“I really do believe marriages exist as a part of a community and I feel like you need that community, that support. That’s why you celebrate marriages with your community, so I thought it was very important for that be a part of the proposal,” Lamb says.

The group had one three-hour rehearsal last weekend, five days before the performance Wednesday. Lamb lied, telling Frankel he was somewhere else.

“I knew something was up. We’ve been talking about getting married, so I knew someday a proposal would happen,” Frankel says.

But the day of the proposal is when things got really weird.

Lamb sent Frankel to pick him up in downtown Portland at six o’clock at night, through traffic, only to text her once she arrived telling her he was at his parents home, and to go there instead.

“She was a little mad about that,” he says, laughing.

“He made me drive back through traffic, but they were doing that to keep me away from the setup to keep me safely far away from them all gathering.”

By the time she arrived, everyone was in place. They’d parked their cars elsewhere and were hiding in arranged spots. It was Lamb’s large and commanding brother who was in charge of getting Frankel to sit in the SUV. She put on headphones, which would serve as the soundtrack; the street, SW Marigold, became the stage.

“I did not expect 60 people to start dancing in front of me as the car moved down the street, it was amazing. It’s completely overwhelming,” says Frankel. “I’ve been in the theater profession, and this was hands down the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced.”

As the car traveled slowly down the street, Frankel was wondering how she could ever top this, thinking there’s no way.

“Just wait till you have a baby,” joked Lamb. “You could birth a human being. I’ll make a lip dub video about it!”

She cracks up at that.

Lamb thought their friends and family would get a kick out of the video, and that it would be a great document to show their kids someday. He never expected it to go viral.

“What’s been most special about that is everybody posting about it is talking about how touched and moved they are by it. To know we contributed a little bit of love and positivity into the world that way — injected that into people’s lives — is really pretty special. That’s rare I think, something to be cherished. It means a lot to me.”

And at the heart of it all?

“As crazy and fun as this all has been, truly, the most thrilling thing is that she said yes and I get to spend the rest of my life with her. She makes every day brighter just because of who she is. She is a beautiful person and a beautiful soul,” he says, gazing at Frankel.

Yup. You’ve done it Isaac Lamb.

You’ve raised the bar even higher.

For all of us.

Turning to her future husband, Frankel says, “Life is so exciting with him.”

And it’s only just beginning…

What’s with these teachers and coaches?!

Scott Zeigler, Oregon coach charged with sex crimes

I don’t get it.

For the umpteenth time in my 12 years as a reporter, I’ve covered another coach/teacher/teacher’s aide arrested and accused of having sex with an underage student. For 12 years, it’s been different people, same story line. Man in a supervisory role with access to kids abuses that trust and commits sex abuse. Sometimes, it’s a woman. Sometimes, it’s a church. Nearly every time, it is an adult parents have placed their confidence in who winds up violating a sacred boundary.

As reporters, it’s easy to use the word “relationship” to describe these crimes, especially when the timeline of what’s taken place spans one, two, or three years. But isn’t it important to remember what these incidents really are? Neil Goldschmidt taught us that. A grown man doesn’t have a sexual relationship with a minor. He abuses that minor. It’s sex abuse. Let’s not romanticize it.

Arrests like this remind us that the vast majority of molestation doesn’t happen when a stranger grabs your kid off the street. Chances are, you know the abuser. Your kid knows the abuser. The abuser has access to your kid.

The vast majority of teachers, coaches and educators are hard-working, ethical people for whom boundaries aren’t an issue. Sadly, abusers of this trust give other mentors who share their title a bad name.

Let’s celebrate those among us who are the champions of children.

Let’s keep our eyes peeled, our ears tuned to the signs of abuse.

Kids are our most precious investment.

Let’s protect them as such.


Maybe you’ve seen the movie.

I saw the reality of it today, as I sat in Dean Pace’s home. With his wife of just eight months by his side, he showed me the ten-inch long purple scar down torso, accentuated with the dots where the staples once punctured his skin.

I watched as he got winded just standing, and lamented his inability now to rough house with his 5-year old stepson, Roman.

I observed as a man who has every reason to be angry and bitter toward the 14-year old police say hit him in a stolen van, instead, extolled the virtues of positive thinking.

Dean realizes he has many reasons to be grateful.

He’s alive, out of the hospital, and loved by his family who painstakingly cared for him.

He wonders still about the stranger — a man, he thinks — who came up to the window of his SUV shortly after impact, and asked if he was okay.

But he can’t help think about what was lost. “All of February,” he says. And Valentine’s day. And Roman’s fifth birthday. All transpired while Dean fought for his life in the hospital, with the help of doctors and nurses at OHSU.

The teenager who hit Dean Pace faces felony hit and run charges. See, after the crash, police say he fled from the scene on foot. Investigators say a post on social media led to his arrest the next day, at Sam Barlow High School, where the kid’s a student. The boy’s dad tells me his son’s never been in trouble before. Also, that the family’s had to move because of this.

He says they pray every day for Dean Pace and his recovery.

When I tell him Dean is out of the hospital and mending, a relieved sigh comes through the receiver.

Two families. One fateful afternoon.

Dean Pace shared with me text messages he and his wife, Olga, exchanged that day as he left work. (Olga is freshly emigrated from Russia. They were married just six months when the crash occurred.)

Dean: I’m coming home. I love you!

Olga: I wait you. I love you too.

Olga: Bad traffik?

Olga: I worry. You ok?

Olga: I worry.

Olga: I worry.

Olga: I worry.

Olga: I worry.

By then, Dean was en route to the hospital, via LifeFlight.

Deadly Force

This is a report I filed for K-2 examining the training for Oregon State Police troopers when it comes to deadly force, and the criteria they use for deciding when to use it. It followed a man’s 2006 attack on an officer with a knife in La Pine that resulted in the man’s death at the hands of Deschutes County law enforcement. It was also shortly after traffic stop turned shoot-out in Albany between a trooper and a driver he’d pulled over.

It came to mind as I covered the Aaron Campbell shooting settlement, and his family’s cry for change with how police are trained.

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