Aloha ‘Oe – Farewell to Thee

 

 

Copyright Writing Wahine, Living off Island 2018. 

Did I try hard enough? I asked myself this question for months, but as long as she was alive, I didn’t have to face the final answer. First came the news about her stroke, which explained why she hadn’t been at the Hawaiian shows and festivals where we always caught up with each other. Then came the news that she was home but having memory issues and dealing with her new physical limitations. Whenever I saw her husband and her daughter, they politely said she wasn’t ready to see people, but they would let me know. Each time they cheerfully assured me that she was fine and not to worry.

Then came the moment I saw her husband standing nearby as I was waiting to go on stage and perform at an outdoor festival. I was eager for news about her and once again hopeful for an invitation to visit. But as I spoke excitedly, performance adrenaline in my veins, I watched his face fall. His chest rose, his jaws clenched, and the light in his eyes dimmed. For the umpteenth time, he had to tell someone that his wife passed away. Months ago. Not from complications of her stroke. From brain cancer. Two weeks after she moved into a care facility. There was no memorial service. They were waiting for the right time…

Pushing my shock aside, I awkwardly offered my condolences. I walked back to the rear steps of the stage, still trying to absorb the blow. Panic washed over me as I suddenly couldn’t remember choreography. Muscle memory kicked in, and I smiled through my group’s performance.

In this age of cancer journeys shared and chronicled on social media, her news blackout was a throwback to the days of private illnesses and protective inner circles. People share for different reasons: for help in bearing their pain; to ease the worry of those who care; to inform, to educate, and to inspire others… People who live privately usually die the same way.

She is the second person I’ve known who refused to see friends during a cancer battle. The first person passed away several years ago. He fought in a war. He retired from law enforcement. He was a lifelong bachelor. As inflexible and as gruff as he could be, I knew his heart was softer than he wanted the world to know and that he had made a spot in it for me. Not being able to say goodbye or to have one final normal, happy meeting with him haunted me for a long time.

Her hobby was decorative arts, and a few of her creations are in my home. I will always picture her as she wanted me to see her: with her hair perfectly done, a pua (flower) tucked behind one ear, adorned in her Hawaiian gold jewelry, her smile big and bright. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t get to say goodbye. I was blessed to know the gentle, warm, and loving person she was.

©Living off Island, Writing Wahine, 2018.

Kai Loa

Copyright Living off Island, Writing Wahine, 2016. 

A little more than two years ago, my husband’s uncle Don passed away and left his parakeet orphaned. Don’s neighbors and friends weren’t able to take the parakeet, so we drove the little guy seven hours north from Long Beach, California, to live with us in northern California. No one knew the parakeet’s name or age, but we learned from the Internet that a blue beak meant he was male. We named him Kai Loa: kahakai means beach in Hawaiian, and loa means long.

Parakeets are social birds, so we decided the best place for Kai’s cage was in our family room, the social hub of our home. Since parakeets also like to be the loudest thing in the room, we sometimes moved Kai’s cage to the guest bathroom in order to hear our TV. Kai sang at the top of his lungs when he heard me practicing hula, and he alerted whenever he heard our dog run by.

Recently Kai stopped singing and vocalizing. We booked the first available appointment for Kai to see a bird vet recommended by our dog vet. After poking around the Internet, we guessed that Kai had a respiratory and throat infection that is common in parakeets.

Yesterday I had a vision: Kai was lying on his side on the floor of his cage. I immediately went to his cage and found him sitting on the floor, a sign that he was too weak to balance himself on his perches. It took some time, but Kai eventually mustered up the energy to climb back on his perches.

Today I saw Kai hobbling around the floor of his cage, and I hoped he would manage to climb back up again. It pained me to see him getting weaker, and I knew it was time to pick him up.

As Kai sat in my cupped hands, his breathing very shallow, he half-opened his eyes a few times. I whispered to him and lightly stroked his back. It takes a lot of effort to stroke a parakeet gently. This went on for some time, but just when I thought his breathing was slowing down, he opened his eyes, raised his head, and tried to spread his wings. “Wow,” I thought, “Kai is making a comeback!” But just as suddenly, Kai slumped over onto his side and stopped breathing.

Parakeets don’t garner the type of sentiment that dogs and cats do, but Kai was the only other living thing in Don’s home. Kai was loved by a human being. This has to count for something. Being loved gives us value. Giving love gives us value.

They say all dogs go to heaven. I hope parakeets do, too, and that Kai and Don are together again.

 

©Living off Island, Writing Wahine, 2016.

Free Like a Bluebird

 

Like fans all over the world, I am still in shock over the death of music legend David Bowie just two days ago on January 10, 2016. His final music video, “Lazarus,” was released three days before his death. I watched the video last night, captivated by the metaphoric and haunting images of Bowie preparing to die.

The lyrics to “Lazarus” are equally poignant to me. Bowie delivers the first line of the song lying in bed, clutching sheets up to his chin. With bandages wrapped around his head and covering his eyes, Bowie implores,“Look up here, I’m in heaven.”

As Bowie alludes to his life throughout the song with references to New York, living like a king, using up all his money, and having nothing left to lose, the video depicts him appearing to make a desperate attempt to recall things and write them down.

As the video comes to a close, Bowie is shown back in bed, a loose white night shirt hanging on his thin frame. With his arms extended upward he sings,“You know I’ll be free just like that bluebird.”

Bowie’s mention of a bluebird sent chills down my spine. Several weeks after my brother’s death (from cancer, like Bowie’s), a bluebird, specifically a Western Scrub-Jay, started appearing in my back yard. Unlike other birds, this bluebird’s call is not soft and sweet; it is very loud and sharp. This bird screeched incessantly every morning until I peered out my windows or went outside to look for it. The bird wore me down, and eventually I learned to enjoy its visits, taking them to be a sign from my brother. The bird’s visits grew more infrequent as the months passed, which felt like my brother’s way of saying he was okay and had things to do, so I should get back to the business of living.

When my mother-in-law passed away the following year, two bluebirds (two Western Scrub-Jays) started appearing together in my back yard. They did the same thing, screeching in stereo until I looked out my window or went out to greet them. They came together daily for a while; at times when I missed my mother the most, one bird came alone.

I have no doubt that David Bowie will be free like a bluebird. In fact, I know he’ll be in very good company.

© Living off Island, Writing Wahine, 2016.

 

Hā: The Breath of Life

Little Brother,

Your passing marked the beginning of a years-long period of significant losses and changes in my life. I couldn’t recover from one blow before the next one came. For a long time, I was merely going through the motions of living, just treading water, hoping to catch my breath. Adrift, praying for the losses to end, I let the current of grace carry me back to shore.

Now that the hurting and endless crying have subsided, memories that once brought me to tears can make me smile. I reach back in time to hear the faint sound of your voice greeting me and your laugh teasing me. I stare at your picture to see past your face and recall your expressions and mannerisms.

But memories can’t fill the gaping hole of my loss. I can only build my life around it, layering moments, months, and years into mountains that reach toward heaven. Still, even in my happiest moments, I can gaze downward and see the gaping hole in the valley below.

You inspire me to chase my dreams, to welcome my mistakes, to face my fears, and to jump across chasms on the wings of faith. Your example guides me to live with laughter, courage, patience, and selflessness.

Although you lived away from the land of your birth, you embodied Aloha – the presence of breath. The breath of life, its essence being love, was the gift you brought and shared.

So today, January 14th, I celebrate the day you arrived in my life as my baby brother. There will be no singing, no party hats, no birthday cake, nor candles. But I will make a wish.

May Divine Peace remove all the pain that found you in this world. May your soul travel in Light. And wherever your journey takes you, may you feel my love.

Fly with God’s angels, but never leave my heart,

-Sis

©Living off Island, writingwahine, 2015.