Sunday, January 20, 2013


My mom, who has consistently stated to all who would listen, "I am not dying." announced yesterday, "I am dying.  I cannot do anything."  Pointing to her head she added, "There is nothing there."

No hearing?  No memories?  Nothing what?

"Call the doctor.  Tell him I cannot do anything.  Ask him what to do." 
Had already done that.  Doing all we can.  Now it is a matter of willingness.  Willingness to fight.  Willingness to die.

I love you, Mama.

I thank you for all the things you have given me in my lifetime.  I thank you for sharing your love of genealogy and local history that is now so central to my life.  I thank you for demanding that I think for myself rather than blindly accepting someone else's viewpoint.  I thank you for demanding that I take responsibility for my own actions.  I thank you for the love of reading and learning that I've never outgrown.   I thank you for teaching me to be proud to be Hawaiian. 

I remember those chemistry lessons in the kitchen, making up for those chemistry classes I never took in school.  I remember all the things you made Ian and me do as we were growing up.  There was the year that Long's Drugs came to Hawaii,  you bought us each a pair of binoculars, then took us birdwatching.  And had several copies of the George Monroe bird book bound, one for each of us.  There the book about the constellations you gave me for Christmas, and we learned about the stars.  There were the trips, especially camping on Maui  during a hurricane ....  where we composed the Kaupo Serenade, with all the sounds that we heard during that night.  Including the ghosts walking in the cemetery on the other side of the dry stone rock wall.   You dragged us to the Volcano House, and ordered a wake-up call if Kilauea Iki erupted.  Pele came to visit that night.  It was the last Kilauea Iki eruption, and we SAW it!    Thank you!

I forgive you for all the things you have said and done that I found hurtful. 

Please forgive me for the things I have said and done that were hurtful to you.  I guess those  words and feelings are a part of being mother and daughter -- and probably too much alike.

If you choose to move onward to a new phase of life, I honor your decision.  If you want to stick around longer, I am here with a whole Hospice team supporting us both.  

I love you, Mama.