Mum died last week. She was 66 and suffered from early-onset Dementia. Dementia is worse than cancer because you die twice. Mum certainly did.
Dad died of a heart attack. Mum’s death took more than ten years. I can unequivocally confirm that dying quick is the way to go.
My parents were both in fine health up until just over 10 years ago when dad died. They were perfectly healthy at our wedding in 2015, although to be honest we did notice more than a few things with mum then.
There was a time probably around 2017 when I told mum I was going to visit her, but she had completely forgotten. I had to get myself to her house from the airport (not easy in Wellington after flying in from Japan) and even then nothing was set up. I had to get the bedding for my bed out and everything. That was quite a shock at the time, but it would have been a good surprise for mum!
I was somewhere over the Pacific when mum actually passed. Luckily we got to say our goodbyes in March. I remember wondering whether in-flight wifi was a good thing or not, flying time is ripe for catching up on reading and all. But if it means getting messages like this in transit rather than when you land, well yeah I’m still debating that. I have never stared at a message on a screen for so long.
Surprises Along The Way
There were a few things about mum’s death that surprised me, but in hindsight make a lot of sense:
First, due to the nature of mum’s disease, grief starts well before the person actually passes. What really surprised me about that was in recent weeks I was forgetting things like Japanese words I normally wouldn’t forget, or things that were just said to me a moment ago. Don’t worry, this is not dementia, it’s a survival mechanism. You only focus on the immediate things that matter, not whether it’s going to rain next Tuesday, or if little Jimmy will have a cracker but not a biscuit.
Anyway, that was weird. And it may continue for a little while. I’ve taken to keeping notes more often in the meantime.
One Step Closer to Harry Potter
Another weird thing is the realisation that I find myself as an orphan at age 38. Something like 30 to 35% of people in their late 30s have lost one parent. That number goes down considerably when you factor in losing the other (something like 5%).
Most people lose their parents sometime in their 50s or 60s. I’m about 15-20 years ahead of the curve. Let’s just say if you come to me complaining about your parents, well, don’t be surprised if I don’t care so much. It’s a survival mechanism, don’t you know.
(Use this as a push for you to thank your parents, if they are still with us. Also, ask them why they chose your name too, something I never had the chance to ask (when I cared, at least). I know Timothy is from the Bible, but that’s about it…)
Reality Hits Fast
I went to pick up mum’s stuff from the rest home in the afternoon after they took her away. A mere 5 hours after she had been moved and that room was spick and span! All of mum’s stuff had been shifted into 5 big plastic bags, although a lot of it was clothes. That was quite a shock, but I guess the rest home has ends to meet…
On that note, I helped clear out both of my parents’ houses (they lived in separate homes). I don’t think I’m a minimalist, but because of that, I don’t think I have an excess of stuff either (well, not too much). A friend of ours has been doing some Marie Kondo cleaning up at our house. Let’s just say, given my experience, I think that stuff makes a lot of sense!
If not for the Japanese culture thing behind it, it’s definitely worth looking at your stuff and seeing if it ‘sparks joy’. If it doesn’t, guess who has to clean up the stuff even you don’t like? (I sound bitter, but I’m not. Well, about mum at least. Dad on the other hand… did those old cans of dried-up paint spark joy??)
The Yamabushi Connection
I became a yamabushi largely because of my dad’s death. Then there’s the fact mum died the morning of the first day of the Aki no mine autumn’s peak ritual, my only personal yamabushi training each year.
Dad died on a public holiday. From dad I learned you can forever mar that day as a sad day, or you can flip it on its head and think of it as a celebration of a life (well) lived. The choice is yours.
Yamabushi training is one of death and rebirth, not usually literal death though. I honestly believe yamabushi training is the most practical way to grieve that exists. Plenty of Japanese people either do yamabushi training, or climb mountains in memory of loved ones as that is where our souls are said to go when we pass. (The souls of the ancestors are represented by dragonflies, coincidentally something my uncle mentioned in his speech at mum’s funeral. Did he know Mt. Gassan, the mountain of the afterlife, is covered in them?)
Motivation
I hope you use this as a reminder to be thankful to your parents. Also use it as a reminder to look after yourself, especially by getting proper sleep and eating well.
And as I’ve said before, dad’s passing was motivation that led to what you’re reading right now. I intend to continue this for the foreseeable future, and you’ll notice I have kept up the Daily Yamabushi, of course.
If you’ve gotten this far and haven’t read Hiroko Yoda’s most recent book, do yourself a favour. Despite the self-help title, Eight Million Ways to Happiness is by far the best representation of Japanese spirituality and attitudes towards grieving I have ever read.
Lastly, here’s what I wrote for my speech at mum’s funeral on Tuesday:
Because of Mum
“Thanks Tim. Here is your mother’s funeral speech fully formatted and ready to copy paste into Microsoft Word.”
The purest form of love imaginable is that between a mother and child.
I’ve known mum my whole life. I knew about her a whole nine months before I even knew about any of you lot.
There are certain things we don’t remember because we know those close to us will. We store our memories in those around us, and no one more so than our own mothers.
So when our mothers die, we don’t just lose them, we lose a huge part of ourselves, the biggest part possible.
My earliest memory is mum pushing my pram down Wyndrum Ave on the way to Waterloo Kindy.
I still, vaguely mind you, remember, as a 4-5 year old, getting out of bed at Wyndrum ave, while it’s still light outside, opening the front door, opening the gate, and going down our long driveway to be found by a neighbour trying to cross the road.
So much for ‘eyes in the back of your head’ ay mum?
Mum taught me how to drive, how to spell ‘sufficient’, what a miser was, and how to tie my shoes. She taught me how to use the toilet. Mum taught me how to use a knife and fork, but she always admitted she regretted not teaching me how to use a spoon properly (true story, I hold it like a baby if I’m not actively thinking about it).
Because of Mum I could learn how to swim, and then play waterpolo for so many years, even coming third in NZ.
Because of Mum I could study Japanese, interpret for Olympic champions, world-famous magazine reporters, local mayors and politicians.
Because of mum I could have KFC on my fifth birthday.
Because of Mum I could have peanut butter for Christmas.
Because of mum I could go galavanting around the countryside.
Because of Mum I could meet my wife, and my two daughters.
Because of Mum I could exist.
Because of Mum I could learn that the purest form of love imaginable is that between a mother and child.
So Thanks Mum,
Ka kite ano
Your beautiful blue-eyed baby boy.
Daily Yamabushi Posts for Forever (August 14 to September 3, 2026)
Here are my Daily Yamabushi posts for the past week. Get more Daily Yamabushi posts at timbunting.com/daily-yamabushi. Discover more Japan essays and daily insights in the Kiwi Yamabushi Substack Archive, or follow my writing over on Medium.com.
Rather than clicking on these individually, you can just read all at once here.
August 14 to 20
August 21 to 27
August 28 to September 3
Very sad to hear about your Mother. My Dad had dementia and he only remembered Mom. But there was one moment when he recognised me, and it was enough.
So sorry to read this Tim. Loved your tribute and beautiful memories. Arohanui.