To Visit or Not to Visit

     A recent essay of mine (click here to view), published in Metro HNL described my eighty-six year old Aunt Julie who is suffering ill health and the recent loss of doting husband and family man Uncle Tani. She specified, “No visitors or phone calls”, because she needed quiet time to recover while she convalesced in a care home. In the essay I described some of my love and appreciation for her, what she'd done and shown me through the years, and my concern that she may have lost her will to live, and that I wished to say “Thank you” and Goodbye”—just in case.

     More recently, I felt called to visit her. I thought she might appreciate it and I didn't want to later regret not having gone and tried despite discomfort I'll feel for having disobeyed her instructions. I felt maybe she didn't want people to see her sick so I envisioned waving a white flag before her open doorway and calling to her and perhaps speaking to her solely hidden from view. And I felt our closeness—never a harsh word exchanged—would encourage a quick reconciliation if offense was taken.

     When I called the care home and asked regarding whether Auntie Julie specified visitor restrictions, the nurse said, “None at all.” The nurse at the sign-in visitor's station was happy to see Jaren and me there an hour or two later.

     A TV blared within. I waved in slow figure eights a white sheet of paper mounted to the end of a croquet mallet shaft in front of the door and called, “Auntie Julie? Auntie Julie?”

     There was no answer so I took a peak in and saw a privacy curtain that shielded her bed from view. I tried again from within with only the flag visible beyond the curtain's end.

     “Who's there?” she asked.

     I stepped forward and didn't recognize the frail elderly woman lying flat on her back in bed. “Auntie Julie?” I asked.

     “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”
     “Tim. Do you mind a visit?” I then recognized something about her expressive eyes and raspy nasal voice that calmed me.

     It was a brief visit as she said she told my mom she didn't want visitors because she needed rest for her heart. She allowed us to leave small gifts—two scones made by Deanne and a wooden alphabet block wrapped by Jaren in his artwork scribbles that she didn't bother to open—even as she smiled and joked about us being Santa Claus and commented on Jaren being cute and having grown so much.

     She was appreciative—no scoldings—but firm and gentle when she said “bye” twice to prompt our departures.

     “Can I at least hug and kiss you?” I asked.

     In her biggest smile yet, she said, “You can shake my hand,” which Jaren and I did.

     It'd been far better than I'd feared, but far less than I'd hoped. I'd had fanciful notions of talking story for over an hour, sharing about our family, hearing about hers, and making visits with her a regular thing—perhaps twice a month or more. Then again I'd dreaded the shock and hurt of a sharp rebuke. I'd pictured me crying tears of joy for a heartfelt welcome. Regardless, I'm glad that we went and obeyed that simple God's prompting.

Perspective

     When I was a youth, my dad was a deliberate decision maker, especially when it came to investing or spending hard earned dollars. He'd stew and mull things over, plan, tentatively decide, change his mind, research, and plan some more until something triggered a decision which would then be final.

     For awhile, it was whether to buy a new VW Rabbit (this in the late 1970's), which would be his first brand new car, or a used low-mileage early 1970's VW, Toyota, or Datsun (i.e. Nissan)—which would be comparable to all his prior automobile purchases: reasonably priced, reliable, and an overall good value. The Rabbit would be over twice the price of a used car, but would it afford twice the value? Probably not. Twice the fun or joy from owning brand new for once? Perhaps. (He didn't say these things but his stressed looks and excitement as he read brochures and Consumer Reports Magazine said it all. He wanted the VW but with Joan in college and Grant and me headed there, could he justify its cost? Probably not.)

     We were watching the excellent Cosmos PBS TV series when astronomer Carl Saga narrated a video showing a child at play on the front lawn of a suburban home when the camera pulled away into the sky, revealing the child's house, then the neighborhood, the city, clouds, lakes, rivers, oceans, continents, the entire globe, the Moon, Mars, asteroids, Venus, all the planets, the Sun, interstellar space, galaxy clusters, more interstellar space, and on and on until the entire universe with its billions and billions of stars were revealed from billions of light years away. At the end of the show we all felt puny and insignificant, as well we might compared to the Universe's unimaginable vastness.

     Dad said with a jocular smile, “You know what? Let's get the Rabbit—can afford!”

     Mom said, “Good, that's the way to say it! You only live once!”

     I, a lifetime penny-pinching saver felt bemused that it took a wonder-inducing science show rather than careful pro/con financial analyses to tilt Dad's decision to what he truly wanted. It was after all an emotional decision.

     For me, I find over an over again that when stressors build, accumulating to almost unbearable levels, that it's usually because I'm too zeroed-in on the itty-bitty details without considering the big picture. Sure Braden may act rude and disrespectful at times, but overall he's a good, responsible, and reliable kid. Sure I may not agree with my boss's priorities and his bossy management style, but overall, I haven't found a better alternative workplace that I'd want to go to at this moment. Sure Deanne and the kids aren't perfect, but neither am I. Yet, we're overall still a loving, respectful, and supportive family. And God has been with us and kind to us with blessings countless and profound.

     The main thing, however, was something I got from writer Pearl Buck's memoir of her pastor father. Though she herself was not a Christian, she did see her father—especially as he approached death—as becoming more and more angelic, even more spirit than human-this as his body faded, ever weaker and more slight. At the end, she said, he was with God, something even she, a nonbeliever, could see.

     Must we wait for death to be with God? I don't think so. He's here always, it's only us who aren't with him. But once I remember, realize, and sense he is with me, and I can and do surrender even my life to him, then the itty-bitty things are less than dust by comparison to the entirety that he is (the “biggest picture”—eternity, existence, love, everything that matters—there is.)

     And he always finds solutions to all our itty-bitty problems—even if it means giving us a healthy dose of repentance, forgiveness, or humility. And that's the best perspective of all!

Auntie Julie's Silent Suffering

     Please read my relevant letter published at the following link: http://www.metrohnl.com/dear-auntie-julie/.  It's a letter to my Auntie Julie that mentions our missing her at her eldest sister's (my Auntie Bea's) funeral and my well wishes for her speedy recovery from a hip injury and other ailments.
     My main purpose for writing was the same as my final visit to Maui Grandpa (my Dad's dad) just before he succumbed to stomach cancer: to say Thank you and Goodbye. I'm not certain about Auntie Julie's health—just what I've been told—but she's obviously and justifiably been suffering since the recent death of her beloved husband (my Uncle Tani). Not accepting visitors or phone calls (or letters, I assume) from anyone and not attending her sister's funeral (all the Aunties are close) were highly unexpected for such a social, lively lady and because she was utterly charming, warm, and gracious as usual at Uncle Tani's funeral. When I later learned of her “I just want to join him” comment and her weight loss (she was already slight of build), it concerned me even more so that I eventually felt compelled to do something...just in case.
     So after my letter's publication (some stuff got edited out), I sent a copy of the published and original versions to her eldest son and wife (and kids) for them to decide whether or not to share either or both with her. I suspect they will offer them but that she'll decline. Which is okay. At least I tried while still respecting her wishes. I also know in my heart that she knows my thoughts and feelings toward her, so full of love and appreciation.
     It's been tough seeing elders from “The Greatest Generation” go. That's an apt description as they really were and are great, such that I doubt we'll measure up (ours will probably be referred to as The Good Enough or Okay or So-so Generation by comparison). And I really don't want to see her go. And I'd love to see and visit her, preferably with my family, but alone if necessary, to try to comfort her and make her smile and feel glad to be alive and to hear her voice and stories or whatever she desires. I miss such talking and socializing with her and my other elders, we so rarely get together these days except for sad occasions.
     I've found this to be one of the most difficult trials of aging—seeing my elders suffer, deteriorate, and go. It's true what they say about honoring and enjoying them while they are still hale and present. Though most were in their eighties when they went, it still seemed far too soon.

Dad's Bedtime Prayer

     A few years ago Dad had trouble sleeping—this from a man who throughout his adult life as far back as I can remember slept every night at ten-thirty after watching the local evening news and awoke every morning at six-thirty (a bit later on Saturdays when he didn't have golf and Sundays). His schedule was so steady and his self discipline in hygiene, work, recreation, household and yard chores, and all matters public so predictable and sound, it gave him a “rock-solid steady” reputation, as my childhood friend's father once described him to my naive surprise.
     So when he had trouble sleeping nights for weeks then months, he got quite distressed and sought help from doctors and various sleeping pills, all to little or no avail.
     He talked about his insomnia constantly to the eventual chagrin of relatives as it was apparent he had enough sleep—he dozed while watching TV throughout the day and what did he need more sleep for anyway, it's not like he was working or had important appointments to attend to? He just likely missed his comfortable and predictable bedtime sleep routine and lacked something to get excited about to fill the hours each day instead of fretting over whether he'd get a good sleep that night.
     I'd witnessed to him about my faith, which he received tepidly at best, implying it was fine for me and my family but not him. But I saw a tiny door open in his recent distresses and wrote him a letter sharing among other things a bedtime prayer he could recite aloud that might help and certainly wouldn't hurt. I don't remember the precise contents of the prayer but it was rather lengthy and a part of me hoped he wouldn't call to discuss it (as was his habit after receiving a letter from me) because in a roundabout way his response was always “Thank you; not interested”, which I always found disappointing.
     But surprise surprise, about a month later mom called to say that Dad prayed my prayer a couple weeks and quit but she told him to continue it, it's good for you. it's a good thing to do. So he did every night thereafter.
     Dad came on the line afterwards and confirmed that he did recite it and it helped him relax.
     I was grateful that he had finally received Christ as his Lord and Savior, as it's tough to recite such things without meaning them.
     Twice or thrice since, Dad reiterated gratitude for the prayer and said he recited it every night.
     But I had my doubts. Never had I seen him pray aloud. He had stated many times his lack of belief in any spiritual being. Was he really reading it aloud every night? Or was he just saying that to please me? He never lied, yet it seemed equally out of character for him to pray.
     When we were back in Hilo during New Years, the day of our departure Dad asked for a moment with me. (I dread these meetings; he sometimes uses them to scold me. Though it's always mild and reasonable, it's still tense.) In the living room while we sat, he discussed his and Mom's wishes upon their passings. Regarding the ceremonies, he asked when both their ashes were lowered into the plot beside Grandma's and Grandpa's (his parents) would I recite for him his bedtime prayer that I had given him for the last time?—very touching for a man who is quite unemotional.
     I told him sure, but I can't remember what I wrote. Can you write it out for me?
     He said it doesn't have to be exact, I'm sure you can get the gist of it.
     I said it's been so long, I just wrote whatever came to the top of my head. Please write it out and mail it to me anytime.
     He recited it in its entirety on the spot to my delight and surprise. I said it sounds good, please write it so I won't forget.
     He said he would and a note in his handwriting appeared on my desk later that morning. Here is its contents:

Lord Jesus, please hear my prayer. I recognize that I am a sinner and need you as my savior. Please forgive me my sins as only you can. I want to have the peace, calm, and rest that you can offer. Guide me in your ways, now and always. Amen.

     It's obvious to me that he took out (or forgot?) some of what I had written, but that's great because by doing so, he made it his prayer, not mine.

     I know now, when it's time for me to recite it for him, it's going to be rough going, as I can get very emotional at such times.  But it's the least I can do after all he's done for me throughout my life.

Dengue Risk

     We just got back from a trip to Hilo for New Year's. At first Dad said when we planned the trip midyear, “Maximum stay at our house—four days. Rent a car and stay at a hotel for the remainder.” (They're getting old and our kids get noisy. Mostly, he was concerned about Mom working too hard making meals, cleaning, going on outings, and staying up late. Since he depends on her a lot due to a medical condition, his concern is legitimate.) That was before the dengue fever outbreak starting in September that now numbers greater than two hundred, most cases having originated in the Kona region, where we had planned to spend time at. But as our trip approached and the dengue cases rose, then dropped, then leveled off at a steady seven or so new cases per week, we canceled all plans to drive outside Hilo, which had possibly only a handful of cases that had originated there.

     When Mom and Dad came over for Thanksgiving and Mom heard of our revised plan to stay two nights in a Hilo hotel that happened to be in a “some risk” zone (downgraded earlier from a “moderate risk” zone), she said we could stay at their house (in the no known cases zone) all the time and use their car. I said make sure to clear it with Dad first, which she later did, so we canceled our hotel and rental car reservations.

     Having read up about how to avoid dengue, we all brought along and wore long sleeve shirts and pants, shoes, and insect repellent on face, neck, and exposed wrist/back of hands. Yet when we arrived at the airport, which was in the “some risk” zone in the early hours of the morning when the dengue carrying mosquitoes are most active (as well as early evenings), I was astounded to see the apparent lax attitude of so many tourists and locals alike—some in shorts and t-shirts, and none of whom we saw apply skin protection before deplaning as we had.

     Our trips to the mall and drives through downtown (mostly only indoor activities on this trip) revealed a general laxity by large percentages of the population—even a bikini clad little girl of about age six at Ice Pond, across Banyan Golf Course where there must be ample mosquito breeding grounds.

     Sure, the risk was low, and no known deaths have yet been reported, but why take the chance? Also, taking ample precautions is the responsible thing to do to eradicate the virus altogether, for the more people that catch it, the longer it will likely linger and the further it will likely spread—which was probably how it came to Hawaii in an an infected individual in the first place.

     Back in 2002, a church friend said he was really sick for awhile and someone said I hope it wasn't dengue (because of an outbreak in Maui and small parts of Oahu at the time.)

     He said, “No, but I wish it was.”
     “You wanted dengue?” she asked.

     “Yeah, I really wanted it.” 

     “Why?” I asked, wondering if he was serious.

     “I don't know. I just know I really wanted it,” he said, nodding conviction.

     My friend Norm in Seattle said it's called “bone-break fever” because it makes you feel like every bone in your body is broken. His ex-patriot friends in Guatemala have caught it multiple times and from what I've read, later episodes can be far more severe.

     Our friend from church that said he wanted it is a bit of a character. I didn't doubt his sincerity but wondered at his sanity. Who'd crave something as awful as dengue? I can only assume he had no idea or wanted some macho bragging rights.

     I hope no one looked at us in Hilo and thought we were selfish with a “better you get bitten than I” attitude. I wouldn't want anyone to get bitten or infected and I hope the outbreak gets eliminated once and for all, sooner rather than later. But judging from what we saw, I have my doubts. Unless these things naturally go in cycles or self-eradicate in non-indigenous regions, it may be here for a long, long time. The state is doing its part (according to federal officials); locals and travelers must do their parts, too.  Please help stop the spread.

A Day To Remember

     About a couple weeks ago, I saw Auntie Susan in a dream (for background, see my prior essays In Memoriam: Aunt Susan and Memorial Services for Elders). She was vibrant and healthy again, with her pleasing raspy voice and encouraging and open words and eyes that showed concern only for others. The vision comforted and warmed me even as I wakened and couldn't recall anything more.
     I had been considering whether to take Jaren for his pre-Memorial Day scouting activity of laying leis at Punchbowl Memorial Cemetery (where active duty war veterans and their spouses are interred) and visiting our three relatives there: Auntie Susan, her Korean War veteran husband Uncle Thomas—who predeceased her by three years, and Korean War veteran Uncle Roland, who died in the 1980s in an overseas tragedy. 
     It had been over a year since Auntie Susan had died, and we hadn't yet visited either her or Uncle Thomas's markers, so I felt it was time.
     But there was a scheduling conflict with church on Sunday, so on the following slow Memorial Day morning, we all went and ended up parked a half-mile away (because it would be crowded at the cemetery), coincidentally beside another cemetery—this one upon a steep, ungraded slope covered with two-foot-tall weeds. Its numerous dilapidated head stones—some tottering at odd angles, some weathered and darkened with mold, most with Chinese lettering—had dates of the birth as far back as the 1800s. I noted a few of these to the kids but kept quiet about the sad paucity of flowers or other indications of recent visitors.
     Fifteen minutes later, we ascended the final approach to Punchbowl's entrance past a dozen three-foot-tall flags on seven-foot masts fluttering in the wind. One caught my face and Jaren said, “There's probably a lot of flags inside. 
     “Yup,” I said, “There'll be plenty.”
     “Maybe more than ten.”
     “You'll see,” I said, knowing each of the cemetery's thirty-four thousand markers would be adorned with flag and lei. 
     Bagpipes, one of the most maligned, mocked, and oft-ridiculed instruments around, especially as portrayed in numerous Monty Python sketches and the like, greeted us as we crested the hill and entered the cemetery proper. The instrument was held by a uniformed soldier standing roadside and as he commenced playing, the reedy, deep-pitched drone and high-pitched nasal squeals so unique to the instrument issued forth and I smiled ironically that this instrument had been the one selected to honor the dead on this most somber of occasions. We crossed the street opposite where he stood and I hummed along, picking out low bass and baritone notes, and shortly after we passed within a foot of him, he stopped playing, apparently because he had just been warming up or tuning/testing his instrument.
     At the nearby office we obtained maps to our relatives' sites and took a restroom break prior to walking the hundred yards to Uncle Roland's marker, which required some search even though we'd been there before and had a general idea of its vicinity because there were just so many identical markers! The locator numbers at the top lefts were often obscured by fallen leaves or overgrown grass, so we called out visible ones as we got nearer.  
     Now by saying that locator numbers were obscured, I'm not suggesting slovenliness or lack of maintenance. On the contrary, what Mom told us when we were kids still applies: “The best maintained parks (in Hawaii) are national parks. Next come state parks. The worst are county parks—especially the restrooms.” In addition to being national “park” clean, then, the Punchbowl Cemetery distinguishes itself with its peace and beauty; immaculate lawns, copious trees, and unmarred markers that are relaid level as necessary; and orderliness so apt for one of our state's most dignified final resting sites. Our extended family feels blessed to have our own buried there. 
     Prior to leaving our house, I had our kids choose and bring along a hand-made gift or toy they had lying around, so when we got to Uncle Roland's site Braden placed his beaded gecko toy in the lush grass alongside the lei and standing mini-flag. It was nice to see a vase of flowers there, probably left by Aunt Charlene, his wife, and I said a short prayer. 
     In the distance at the memorial's central plaza a band played a short piece before a small crowd seated beneath an open canopy, and two fighter jets thundered low and slow overhead.
     As we ascended the slope toward the mauka side of the cemetery where the columbarium was, the spot where Aunt Susan's final burial service had been came into view and it began to hit me—even as a cool breeze swept through on its course to the sea and the bagpiper, with quiet, slow dignified steps, belted out a sad, sweet tune—that I yearned to see Aunt Susan yet living. And it overwhelmed me—the gestures, place, time and remembrances that all came together in a sort of earthly perfection of loving heartache, causing me to feel both happy and sad at the same time. Tears blurred by vision and mucus dripped from my nose as I described the ceremony to our kids who hadn't been there due to school. 
     Upon completing our visit at Aunt Susan's and Uncle Thomas's combined marker, where Pene place her gold origami swan and Jaren placed his Lego motorcycle among vases of flowers, Deanne encircled an orchid lei about the plaque, and I said an awkward prayer, we headed back. Over to our left on a grassy slope the bagpiper—handsome and regal—played before a family seated on a tatami mat and upon completion gave a slow measured salute before marching on with slow solemn cadence. 
     I asked Braden if that was the way JROTC taught him to march?  
     He said, “Yeah, kind—of.”
     “Impressive huh?”
     “Yeah”, he said. 
     At our car, the contrast between the two cemeteries couldn't have been starker. I pointed out to the kids that the difference was attributable to Chinese immigrants being considered “less important” by land owners, so they were given junk land in which to bury their dead. But that no one in the eyes of God is less important than anyone else. Unfortunately, that's just the way our current system works. 
     Deanne mentioned that the same held true for my mom's relatives' cemetery in Honokaa (on the road out to Waipio Valley). I agreed and said that that was where Dad had first alerted us to such differences. She asked hadn't most of our closest relatives there been disinterred and re-interred either at Honokaa Hongwangi's or Honolulu Honpa Hongwangi's columbariums? to which I said yes.
     It had been a very meaningful (and for a me, moving) Memorial Day, an experience we won't soon forget.

Rock Fever

     Rock Fever. It's an ailment that targets transplanted mainlanders stifled by Hawaii's tiny size and remote isolation, restless souls that crave endless miles of roadway to take them to new, different, or long forgotten sights, vistas, towns, people, climates, or places, there for the taking any time they choose if they just drive far enough in the right direction.
     Hawaii is beautiful and each island has its unique charms—people, beaches, valleys, mountain ridges, and historical and cultural offerings—but after awhile, because it is sooo tiny—especially on over-crowded Oahu—it can get rather familiar, if not tiresome as the novelty wears off and the same gorgeous beach sunsets; clear, cloudless, starry skies; rainbows; and waterfalls fade into an unnoticed background of unchanging sameness.
     It's ennui born of restlessness—the desire to escape, yet feeling trapped, stranded, and forced to stay due to prohibitive travel costs, limited vacation time, and gross inconvenience—you can't just hop in a car and go. 
     I never caught rock fever except once while in college at U.H., spurring me to flee Hawaii's confines to pursue an M.B.A. in Seattle, then to stay and work there at a Big Eight accounting firm for an additional two years. The first year away from home was exhilarating, the next was good, the next was okay, the last was blah. I could see the downward trend and started to miss home so I moved back to Honolulu, but that first year back was rough 'cause none of my high school friends were around, and my college dorm friends at U.H. had all drifted apart, and the CPA firm I worked for was an awful fit.  I was cured of my restlessness, but felt lost and alone in a strange, new place where I no longer fit—for I had changed while I'd been away and even the way I talked now, not so much pidgin anymore, wasn't quite local. 
    But after I started working for the state the coming year, things improved dramatically.  My father, paternal grandfather, and numerous aunties and uncles worked for the state—always considered desirable for its job security and great benefits—so with my natural laid-back, risk averse personality, it felt comfortable and natural.  Then, within the coming years when I started attending church and believing in God and accepting Jesus as my Lord and Savior, things really improved—surrendering to a higher authority can do wonders for a person's psyche, outlook, and temperament—and they have been improving overall ever since. 
    Twenty-five unbroken years living on this island without having missed the wide open spaces and unlimited adventures the mainland has to offer has been a long run, even for a local at heart like me.  But recently, it's been creeping in on me: symptoms of rock fever. Our family had averaged one “big trip” away from the islands every four years or so, however, with the recent exorbitant airfares, it'd been pushed back to six years and counting, which may partly explain my susceptibility. So with the recent dip in airfares, I jumped at the opportunity to spend part of this holiday season on the mainland with my friend Norm whose parents recently died a few years apart and who is still struggling following his recent divorce. (He was ready to call it quits nineteen years ago but I helped convinced him not to. In the end Kathy called it off but stuck through at Norm's request 'till their two kids left for college.) It'll be new for me to see his family without her. I hope we'll add joy to their season and not be too big a burden.
     While there, we'll try to play in the snow, let Deanne see some houseboats she read about in some books, and watch Norm, recently promoted to black belt, teach some kids karate—all things we can't do in Hawaii. 
     Part of the incentive, to be transparent, is to get away from my family during the holidays as we've all been getting into a sort of obligatory rut. My sister for the first time complained last year about the stress of hosting, and with my brother's and brother-in-law's sister's recent divorces, and my sister's mother-in-law's recent death, Christmas cheer has felt a bit more forced than in years past. (My brother-in-law got laid off last year around his birthday and though he found one job, then another at higher pay in quick succession, he still hasn't fully recovered, it seems.)
     I'm not one to run from problems or avoid people I don't feel comfortable around.  In this case I believe it's more the other way around: I feel perfectly fine with them; at times it seems they prefer seeing less rather than more of us 'cause we receive less invitations than we used to and when we're around, people tend to disappear—to run errands, do chores, walk the dog, or hangout outside. 
     Not that I'm complaining, we all love each other and enjoy each other's company. Everyone's “good”; no one's “evil.” It's just that more and more our extended family's capacity for one-big-happy-family cheer has diminished and my aging parents (in their early eighties) and brother-in-law's father can accommodate only so much family togetherness (especially with the kids around). By spending part of our holidays away, then, I hope that our times together will be that much more precious and appreciated by all. Besides if we ever move away to the mainland East Coast after I retire (which I've been dreaming of of late), this'll give us all a tiny feel of what that might be like during the holidays.

Memorial Services for Elders

       Funerals have changed a lot since I was a youth and I'm not sure I like it. I won't say they're now inappropriately upbeat or cheery, but nearly all the ones I've recently attended had amusing anecdotes, smiles, chuckles, and jokes or impersonations to celebrate the spirit and soul of the deceased during the main service proper. Grandchildren—often cute and sometimes touching—described humorous or intimate events they will always remember about Grandma or Grandpa. What was missing were the copious tears, the solemn gravity, and the heavy feeling of loss. The permanence of death got almost trivialized with simple assurances that they are now somewhere better.
     When I was a preteen, my Grandpa's funeral in Honokaa lasted a week in which all sorts of hell played out for many of his immediate and extended family. Multiple hour-long services held before his Buddhist shrine in the parlor of his three-generation family house—incense and mosquito punk imparting a smoky, hazy air, blue tinged and noxious—obligated us to kneel on zabutons (small square cushions) in the formal seating position (painful, painful, painful!) while the priest intoned sonorous chants—mournful sutras that taxed his breath and that were accented with occasional rhythmic tappings of a thick wooden mallet against a deeply resonant brass bowl gong. Dongdongdongdongdongdongdongggggggggg... it went. Sincere tears flowed copious from Grandpa's six surviving daughters seated in the front row by age and a dozen granddaughters. This was followed by a message—entirely in Japanese during which everyone sat informally.
     But this anguish was nothing compared to that experienced during the open casket viewings at church—the first service at which the priest spoke in (broken) English a refreshing message I could finally understand.
     I'd been fine until Mom dashed out of the room at the second of these with body-racking convulsions, sobbing aloud as she left. I assumed she was dying and, panicked, looked for assurances from Dad, seated beside me, who seemed unaffected, with a concentrated strain on his face that was his sometimes norm. After service, Mom appeared fine and chipper and for some reason I wasn't surprised.
     Then, on the final night, after completion of the priest's short message in a dinghy adjoining sanctuary, white gloved poll bearers dressed in military-style garb entered from behind us, marched the length of the center aisle, closed the casket lid, and carried Grandpa toward the front entrance. We followed (me in tears) out to a whisper quiet, nighttime parking lot where the open back of a long, black hearse limousine waited, engine growling, dark gray exhaust spewing forth. In went grandpa, the gate slammed shut, and the hearse crept away down the steep hill toward the unseen crematorium.
     Mom's family has always been very close and it shouldn't have mattered, but that was the first time I cried openly in public, and in front of all my relatives. Embarrassed at being the only male to weep and trying to hide it with little success, I found comfort only later when no one teased me about it or even mentioned it.
     A couple of days later back home in Hilo, my sister told Mom, “I don't ever want to have to attend one of those again!”
     “Why not? I asked, having enjoyed getting together with all the extended family for the first time in my life, despite the sad circumstances.
     “Because it's just too sad!”
     “No, I don't expect that,” said Mom. “Grandpa was Nisei—from the older (second) generation. We'll do things differently from now on.”
     “Especially the open casket—he looked so natural, like he was napping.”
     “Yes, he did look handsome. We had to do it. I'm glad I got to see him one last time, but I wouldn't want that for myself. It is too sad.”
     Every other service I've been to since then—some only a few years later—have been short, one-time, hour long affairs at a generic mortuary, some with western-style music and all with upbeat, honoring messages. If Grandpa's had been a final farewell send-off of a beloved to an unknown, never-to-return-or-be-seen-again afterlife, all succeeding ones have been minimal ceremonial offerings and celebrations of the deceased's life—much simpler, straight-forward, and less complicated, with after-service receptions sometimes filled with loud talk, raucous laughter, and naughty play and antics by youngsters. I guess a lot of the deceased preferred it that way, perhaps thinking in planning their own funerals, “Why should you make long, sorrowful sobs over me? That just makes things unpleasant for everyone. How's that going to help me once I'm gone?” I could picture my recently deceased Aunt Sue saying something like that.
     A former pastor of mine once said if no one cries at your funeral, it probably means that you missed far too many opportunities to connect with loved ones, friends, and coworkers. It should be one of our life's goals to become so lovingly connected that at our wakes mourners will weep copious and lines of them will spill out the doors into the parking lot. That made me think, is that what funerals should be?
     But then, later, that same pastor shared that at a service he was presiding over with ample mourners, he said that since he (the deceased) is Christian, he is now in Heaven, surrounded by rejoicing angels. Therefore, it really was a cause for celebration for persons of faith.
     I guess he was separating the way we live from the type of funeral service we should have. In other words, tears of survivors aren't necessary to have a meaningful service (or to save the deceased's soul), but survivors' tears suggest a life that had been well lived.
     Nonetheless, I can't help but feel that something is missing from these abbreviated, upbeat services. Sure, everyone mourns in their own way and time, but getting to the point that everyone mourns together—there's something special about that. I'd never felt closer to my immediate and extended family than during that hellish week of Grandpa's memorial services. Lifelong memories and attachments were made, which I still cherish. Not so with any of the other services I've attended since.
     There are few truly important events in life. There's child birth. There's adoption. There's marriage. There's religious milestones. And then there's death. They should all be given their due and while we tend to do excellent jobs with most of the former, we seldom so with the last. It's too bad, because true opportunities for renewed or improved intimacy and bonding among extended family members are increasingly rare.  It's understandable, though, how families in the midst of funeral preparations would feel too aggrieved, busy, and frazzled to plan and pay for elaborate and expensive additional services and unwilling to shoulder additional emotional burdens brought on by prolonged grief and multiple public appearances and resistant to deal with spontaneous bonding during vulnerable moments brought on by deep distress.
     I haven't yet thought about what I'd like my own funeral service to be like, but I would hope it would be deep, meaningful, moving, memorable, and even helpful—after all, if I'm fortunate enough to have the time, health, and inclination to plan and prepare, it would be my last chance to connect with and impart something to my loved ones, even if it's just to say thank you, I love you, and goodbye in my own unique way.

Aging Parents

       Few things show the cruel passage of time as dramatically as occasional visits by aging parents. Mine live in Hilo, so we see each other about every other month. The obvious outward manifestations—the slower gait, white hair, skin blemishes and wrinkles, and deteriorated hearing and vision—I've learned to pretend don't exist and even go so far as to lie about on occasion. When Mom asks, I'll say, “You look good,” or “No, I didn't notice.” If that were the full extent of it, I could accept it with solace that this is all a part of life that those fortunate enough to attain old age must face.
     But that's not all. Their personalities have changed, too, perhaps due in part to reduced mental agility. And so has mine, for I, too, am an aging parent with white hairs, receding hair line, skin blemishes, and a variety of physical age-related ailments. It didn't used to be this way and I don't like it and neither do they. It's changed our relationship in fundamental ways, which leads to discomfort and distance on both sides, though the love is as strong (or stronger in certain ways) than ever.
     In middle age, my parents were so on-it, it amazes me to think of it. My Mom revealed unusual wisdom when I asked her how a famous actress could have married so many times, some marriages lasting but a few weeks? She shrugged and said, “I guess it's because she won't sleep with anyone she's not married to.” Whether factually accurate or not, her guess made me rethink my assumptions and feelings toward that oft ridiculed star. My Dad showed wisdom of a different sort after I was forced to resign from a position because, in truth, I just didn't fit in. The day following my departure, this organization lost a major lawsuit (unrelated to me or my resignation) costing millions of dollars. Mom suggested that in job interviews, if anyone asked why I left the firm, I could discretely mention the lawsuit. Dad reflected on it and decided it was a bad idea. “If you do that and they find out, then the next time you need a reference, they'll say, “If that's the way he wants to play, we'll just let him have it!”
     I rarely receive such keen insights and understanding from either anymore. To the contrary, they now seem to struggle, at times, with managing their own interactions—most notably with us, their children. In particular, their flexibility has narrowed. Either do things their way or don't come, seems to be the new unspoken mantra, much different from the eaasy, “Sure, just come. Whatever you want. We'll just play it my ear...” from just a few short years ago. From staying for two weeks every year, we now stay just two nights maximum every other year. We miss the longer stays, but by the third day, they've lost their patience and wish to return to their normal routines, too frazzled to tolerate our high-energy presences for much longer.
     I always remind myself that we don't have that much time left together—even if they live twenty healthy more years—so for the kids' sakes, especially, it's worthwhile to keep things positive despite minor grievances here and there, and that though they're not what they used to be, they're still sharp and hale.
     A year ago, when I recounted my oldest son's academic trials and the stress I felt because of it, Mom said, “The main thing is that he's a good person. He's not out to hurt anyone. If he was, that's something to be concerned about.” I said, “No, he doesn't bother anyone. I guess even if he ends up in food service” (his then current passion) “or forestry, those are honorable professions, too.” Mom said, “Sure, there's nothing wrong with that. Whatever he enjoys, that's important, too.”
     And I told my wife shortly thereafter that I felt closer to Dad than ever before. His and my recent health trials had resulted in heart-felt talks and letters that got him opening up, sincere and vulnerable, to my thoughts of life, struggles, and faith. I told her, “I think this could be the beginning of the best part of his life when he experiences true peace and contentment for the first time...”
     My friend Norm once remarked about the deteriorating health of aging parents: “It's all about coping from here on in.” It helped me to realize I'm not alone, but seemed too pessimistic. I prefer to think instead that it's all about making the most of what little time we have, saying and doing that which we must before it's too late. In fairness, he did do his best with his aging parents before they passed on in rather rapid succession. Now it's up to me to do the same with mine. I pray for God's help because knowing what's best with a father that never said I love you and a mother who said it only once in a most awkward, felt-she-had-to fashion can be rather challenging. (I know they love me and always have—words weren't necessary and still aren't.)
     What pleases them most—and this hasn't changed in all the years of our lives—is seeing us do well, thriving, full of lust for life. In this way, I don't think we've disappointed them. To the contrary, I think at times we've overwhelmed them. If this is my best way of saying thank you and making them happy, so be it. And I'll do my best to continue.
     In case you're reading this Mom and Dad (they never do), thank you for everything, for showing me the right way, for your unconditional loves, and your deep, beautiful marriage—constant and true. I wouldn't trade you for any other parents. And I love you. (Sorry I don't feel comfortable telling you in person, but I do so all the time with Deanne and the kids...)

In Memoriam: Aunt Susan

     My Aunt Susan (Auntie Sue to my siblings, cousins, and I) recently died at age eighty-three.  She was a wonderful woman (she really was, I'm not just saying that)—the closest thing to an angel come down from Heaven I have ever met.  Not that she was perfect—she once said a racist stereotype thing to me in passing that raised my eyebrows, but that was such an aberration that I dismissed it as a one-time lapse in judgment.  It never happened again.  She was the type that lived the mottos:  If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it, and, treat others as you would have them treat you.  I have no idea how she did it so consistently.  As a retired secretary and devout Buddhist, she volunteered for twenty-five years at her temple, so her faith probably had a lot to do with it.  Her husband, my Uncle Rod, a humorous, jovial man with only mild human frailties, predeceased her by a year-and-a-half.  A part of me sensed that after his slow, undignified death, which included a brain tumor and surgery that seemed to extract much of his soul, she allowed her will to live to slowly ebb away.  Her already frail body weakened, she had to use a wheel chair and walker, and eventually endure placement in a care home.  A year later, she suffered a series of “mild” strokes that eventually did her in.

     Auntie Sue and Uncle Rod had been such a happy honeymooning couple all their adult lives, that life apart from him eventually became unendurable for her.  She just couldn't bear being apart from him any longer, so she let herself go—not prematurely, but on her own terms, when she was ready.  Everyone had ample chance to say their good-byes, I love yous, and thank-yous to her while she was still mentally hale and in good spirits.  Her dignity and repose throughout the entire ordeal were inspiring.  She spent individual time with each of us in my immediate family when we visited her at her care home, asking us questions, responding to queries, giving us gentle assurances, and tender smiles and praises, that always cheered us up.  She liked to grasp one of my hands within the two of hers, nod, smile, and pat the back of it as I told her my own health concerns (which have since largely stablized or resolved.)
     My daughter and I (the tender-hearted ones in our family) sobbed throughout what we knew would be our final visit with her.   She made eye contact and a few soft gurgling vocalizations.  I bent near to hear, but didn't really want to understand because I knew whatever she said would just make me sob all the more—not that I have anything against sobbing, but I didn't want her to feel badly because of my sorrows over her.
     She had previously made clear that she was content with her situation—no regrets, no feelings of being cheated or short-changed, just mostly gratitude for everything because she had lived a...good life.  The way she nodded and smiled, her face effortless and at ease, you just knew she meant every word she said.
     It was apparent that her comfort always came secondary to that of those around her.  She gave us some of the best moments in her final year and even honored Jaren, our youngest, with a seat on her lap throughout the first half of what was to be her last, large family reunion, thus honoring our entire immediate family by extension.
     Her death left a gaping hole in our lives and we miss her dearly.  But I told her eldest daughter Lilith it's good that we grieve 'cause it shows just how much we love her and how lovable she is.  If we weren't grieving at all that would be a different story.
     My immediate family were fine throughout the memorial service (a part of me had been dreading it).  It was at the brief inurnment ceremony at Punchbowl Cemetery (Uncle Rod had served active duty in the Korean War) that I lost it and wept openly.  I was fine at first, feeling comfortable and relaxed.  We weren't even asked to offer incense powder (versus at the memorial service when my immediate family went forward when called upon and stood silently for a moment before the burner before returning to our seats relieved after the awkward moment of non-conformance).  The open-air ceremony was so peaceful—puffy white clouds hung in the blue, balmy skies beyond the crater's rim, manicured lawns shimmered beneath flags and trees whose leaves fluttered in a lazy breeze.  Being surrounded by loved ones—always close on Mom's side of the family—devoid now of yet another elder, I soon sensed Auntie Sue's presence, at least in thought, manifest by her raspy voice in my ear, a soft, gentle touch on the back of my hand, and her honoring manners that validated my soul.  A sudden well of emotions flooded my throat, and though I knew it was safe, and it was okay to cry, I nonetheless resisted, concentrating on the gazebo's eaves, but to little avail.  Deanne squeezed my hand tight as I convulsed beside her, teary and snuffling.  It was the most beautiful funeral service I had ever been to.