My father's funeral service will be held on Sunday, July 12th at Krause Funeral Home, located at 12401 W National Ave, New Berlin, WI 53151. These are tough times for my family, but these are even tougher times for the entire world. Together, we will get through this pandemic one day at a time.
My younger sister has put together a "short" but wonderfully written synopsis of my dad's journey, and we hope it touches your heart just like his life has touched the hearts of the many people he has come to know.
Some knew my father as Tub Lis Vaj from when he lived in Laos and Thailand; he was the eldest child and a hardworking student who later joined the army and excelled as a nurse, impressing everyone around him. Others knew him as Cha Lee Vang, the strong-willed man who had made it to America and would go on to sponsor three of his brothers to join him in this strange, foreign land for a chance at a better life. He sheltered and guided a countless amount of people as they took their first steps towards a life free of war and bloodshed. To the Hmong people, he was a pillar of strength and courage, embodying the definition of family and community. His doors were never closed, and his heart was always open.
I knew my father as a strong but silent warrior. In my childhood, he never showed outright affection or care; he was the disciplinarian, always prepared to scold us for acting up. As a child, I feared him. But in a time of real fear or emergency, my father never yelled. When my brother and I got into car accidents, his first question was always, “Are you okay?” When my sister was across the country alone and pregnant, my dad told her, “You are my first-born child. No matter what you did or what happened, you will always be welcome back in your home.”
As I grew older, I saw my father grow lonely. His ten children began to live their own lives as adults, and his role as a hovering father fell away. He reached out to his grandchildren with an affection and love that I had never seen as a child: he took them on walks to the park, played games with them, and sought them out. I saw his regret at raising us so stoically and his attempt to be different with his new grandchildren.
My father was the kind of person that never turned anyone away. He didn’t just raise my family; he raised an entire community. He sent money to family struggling in Laos and Thailand even when he was having a hard time making ends meet. He fixed up so many houses and helped so many people that I would be surprised if there was someone in the Hmong community who did not know him. And most of the time, they didn’t even have to ask. If he heard about someone in trouble, he would get up and do whatever he could to fix it. When he passed on 06/14/2020, the country was flooded with the tears of people who lost a great man.
My father spent his last birthday on May 25th , 2020 with fevers, intense body aches, and a mouth so dry that he could barely eat. His brother came to the doorstep with a cake, and, from the safety of the doorway, comforted my father, encouraging him to eat and drink so he could fight whatever sickness he had. My father, who I have known to be this larger-than-life silent soldier, cried at the kitchen table. And his brother, who could not come within six feet of him, could not enter the house to comfort him.
When I brought my father to the emergency room, he was so tired that he fell asleep while the doctors were talking to him. As soon as the hospital staff finished their tests, he fell into a deep slumber, waking only to request more blankets or ask me if the results were back yet. When the doctor told him that he tested positive for COVID-19, my father’s face did not budge. I asked him if he was scared, and he told me no. “I feel better now that I know,” he said. “All I have to do is beat it.”
Within the next week, his health deteriorated rapidly. He was put on a ventilator and considered to be in end-of-life condition. My sister was allowed to visit, and she broadcasted a video of what we thought would be the last time we would ever see my father.
Instead, he recovered. For a whole week, his progress climbed bit by bit to the point that we could do a video call with him. He opened his eyes, waved at the camera, and tried desperately to talk to us. From his chest erupted a terrifyingly sad wail. His throat could not form the words he wanted to say, but I could feel his pain as if it were my own. Towards the end of the call, his monitors started beeping, and the nurse rushed into stabilize his breathing and calm him down. When we left the call, he had stabilized and fallen asleep. The last thing he heard from his family was me telling him that we loved him. I wished him a good night and told him to sleep well.
My father passed early the next morning on 06/14/2020. There was a complication before they could get the ventilator tube back in, and they could not stabilize his breathing.
My uncle took a video of his body before it went to the morgue. In it, my father looks completely different: His hair is shaggy; his clean-shaven face started to resemble my brother’s goatee. His face looks swollen, and he does not look at all like the father I grew up with.
There are so many things that I wish I would have asked him. I regret so much. But I am thankful that the last image I have of him is him resting peacefully. I am thankful for everyone’s love and support these past few weeks because I know it is what gave my father the strength to recover enough to video call with us. And I am thankful that the last time I saw my father in person, he was not afraid; I am thankful that I will always be able to see my father as a courageous man who was always trying to better himself and the world around him.
My younger sister has put together a "short" but wonderfully written synopsis of my dad's journey, and we hope it touches your heart just like his life has touched the hearts of the many people he has come to know.
Some knew my father as Tub Lis Vaj from when he lived in Laos and Thailand; he was the eldest child and a hardworking student who later joined the army and excelled as a nurse, impressing everyone around him. Others knew him as Cha Lee Vang, the strong-willed man who had made it to America and would go on to sponsor three of his brothers to join him in this strange, foreign land for a chance at a better life. He sheltered and guided a countless amount of people as they took their first steps towards a life free of war and bloodshed. To the Hmong people, he was a pillar of strength and courage, embodying the definition of family and community. His doors were never closed, and his heart was always open.
I knew my father as a strong but silent warrior. In my childhood, he never showed outright affection or care; he was the disciplinarian, always prepared to scold us for acting up. As a child, I feared him. But in a time of real fear or emergency, my father never yelled. When my brother and I got into car accidents, his first question was always, “Are you okay?” When my sister was across the country alone and pregnant, my dad told her, “You are my first-born child. No matter what you did or what happened, you will always be welcome back in your home.”
As I grew older, I saw my father grow lonely. His ten children began to live their own lives as adults, and his role as a hovering father fell away. He reached out to his grandchildren with an affection and love that I had never seen as a child: he took them on walks to the park, played games with them, and sought them out. I saw his regret at raising us so stoically and his attempt to be different with his new grandchildren.
My father was the kind of person that never turned anyone away. He didn’t just raise my family; he raised an entire community. He sent money to family struggling in Laos and Thailand even when he was having a hard time making ends meet. He fixed up so many houses and helped so many people that I would be surprised if there was someone in the Hmong community who did not know him. And most of the time, they didn’t even have to ask. If he heard about someone in trouble, he would get up and do whatever he could to fix it. When he passed on 06/14/2020, the country was flooded with the tears of people who lost a great man.
My father spent his last birthday on May 25th , 2020 with fevers, intense body aches, and a mouth so dry that he could barely eat. His brother came to the doorstep with a cake, and, from the safety of the doorway, comforted my father, encouraging him to eat and drink so he could fight whatever sickness he had. My father, who I have known to be this larger-than-life silent soldier, cried at the kitchen table. And his brother, who could not come within six feet of him, could not enter the house to comfort him.
When I brought my father to the emergency room, he was so tired that he fell asleep while the doctors were talking to him. As soon as the hospital staff finished their tests, he fell into a deep slumber, waking only to request more blankets or ask me if the results were back yet. When the doctor told him that he tested positive for COVID-19, my father’s face did not budge. I asked him if he was scared, and he told me no. “I feel better now that I know,” he said. “All I have to do is beat it.”
Within the next week, his health deteriorated rapidly. He was put on a ventilator and considered to be in end-of-life condition. My sister was allowed to visit, and she broadcasted a video of what we thought would be the last time we would ever see my father.
Instead, he recovered. For a whole week, his progress climbed bit by bit to the point that we could do a video call with him. He opened his eyes, waved at the camera, and tried desperately to talk to us. From his chest erupted a terrifyingly sad wail. His throat could not form the words he wanted to say, but I could feel his pain as if it were my own. Towards the end of the call, his monitors started beeping, and the nurse rushed into stabilize his breathing and calm him down. When we left the call, he had stabilized and fallen asleep. The last thing he heard from his family was me telling him that we loved him. I wished him a good night and told him to sleep well.
My father passed early the next morning on 06/14/2020. There was a complication before they could get the ventilator tube back in, and they could not stabilize his breathing.
My uncle took a video of his body before it went to the morgue. In it, my father looks completely different: His hair is shaggy; his clean-shaven face started to resemble my brother’s goatee. His face looks swollen, and he does not look at all like the father I grew up with.
There are so many things that I wish I would have asked him. I regret so much. But I am thankful that the last image I have of him is him resting peacefully. I am thankful for everyone’s love and support these past few weeks because I know it is what gave my father the strength to recover enough to video call with us. And I am thankful that the last time I saw my father in person, he was not afraid; I am thankful that I will always be able to see my father as a courageous man who was always trying to better himself and the world around him.