My Aunty

I had plans for Tuesday.  We would take the kids to Ward Theatres and see the $1 movie, Star Wars The Clone Wars.  We would buy cheap hotdogs, maybe some popcorn, and enjoy the air conditioning. Instead, Charlie took the kids hiking at the Hawaii Nature Center and I hopped into my dad's car and went out to Waianae to see Aunty Pearl.

Life changes with a ring of the phone.  One minute you're wondering what snack you should have while watching The Host, the next you're crying like a baby.  Who cares about the snack, you know?  Why did I ever want to watch this awful movie?  How can I care when life has changed to dramatically?

It's a long drive between Makiki and Waianae, and one I'm not used to making.  I get car sick, like, majorly, and I was unlucky enough to have to sit in the back.  Stomach churning, neck and shoulders aching, feeling sweaty and cold at the same time, I was even more miserable than I expected to be.  We got to Aunty's house, I stretched it out, and we headed out back into their beautiful garden to where my uncle was.

Uncle Al loves his garden.  You don't even have to talk to him to know that, you just have to look at the garden.  The well-tended rows of edibles, the carefully manicured GREEN lawn (in Waianae, mind you), the fruit trees laden with guava, bananas, and papaya.  It is no wonder we found him there, surrounding himself with his hard work and the literal fruits of his labor.  Aunty Eva calls it the Garden of Eden.  She spoke off and on about what they grew there, what they've grown there, what he's tried to grow there, and how Hinano has inherited her dad's dedication and love for that garden.  Aunty Eva bragged about the size of their lettuce, claiming one leaf could be your entire meal.  I listened to her, allowing her the comfort of small talk.  Between bouts of saddened boasting, she would insert commentary about Aunty Pearl's failing health.

Dad, Jonah, and I made our little procession into Aunty Pearl's room.  You should understand that we are a reserved family, not used to emotional outbursts such as tears or professions of love.  Anger is something we know and express well because it is safe.  So when we walked into that little room, Hawaiian music softly playing on the tiny tv, we did not wail or tear at our clothing or gouge our eyes out.  Dad gently held her hand and told her we were there.  Jonah talked to her in Hawaiian, a move I suspect afforded him a measure of privacy.  I wept openly, but said nothing.  I do not regret keeping silent.  I know she knew my heart.  She always knew our hearts.  Before we left the room, we all laid hands on our aunty, dad's sister, and Jonah lead us in prayer.  

We spent the remainder of the early afternoon in their front yard, under a tarp.  The hum of the drinking fountain (they actually have one attached to their house) and the smell of Uncle's Black & Milds a constant backdrop to the stories being shared around the tables.  At first glance, Uncle looked as if he had been drinking for a long time, but then I realized what it was.  Not drink, but lack of sleep.  Aunty Eva told us how much pain Aunty Pearl had been in toward the end and how her crying and moaning at night made it so that the rest of the family had to move out of the room.  Aunty Pearl and Uncle Al have been married for over 50 years.  Companions for 50 years.  Uncle told us stories about them.  He still remembers when he first met my aunty.  Some of these stories included my grandparents, too.  My uncle saying, "I can move on, but there's no need for anything new if I no can share it with her."

Couple hours we spent sitting around those tables, talking stories.  They weren't all about Aunty Pearl or my grandparents.  We talked about our kids, our cousins, work, Vegas, the weather.  We laughed so much, my face hurt by the time we left.  My cousin, Peterson, who was raised by our aunty as if she were his actual mother, flew in today for a few hours before flying back home to go work tonight.  Who can inspire that love?

Aunty Pearl passed away this afternoon.  While we were there yesterday, the hospice people came and turned off her pacemaker.  The nurses, who were already familiar with uncle and everyone else, were equally friendly with us.  I don't know how they deal with saying goodbye to not only their patients, but their patients' families, too.  They are special people.  If it weren't my aunty they were working on, if it were someone else, she would be the one with the biggest, most sincere smile, hugging each one of them and thanking them for everything.  I have no doubt that she would be the one they remembered.  Her beautiful smile and her warm, engaging personality.  I'm not exaggerating that because I loved her, it's the truth.  You could not meet Aunty Pearl and not feel like she loved you already.

I wish I could have spoken to my aunty one more time, but I am also selfishly glad that I did not have to see her in so much pain in the end.  The last time I saw her was at her 50th wedding anniversary party a couple years ago.  You can see pictures in my Facebook photo album.  She looks lovely in green, glowing with an obvious pride, surrounded by friends and family, celebrating the continued love she shared with her husband of 50 years.  You might miss it, you might even misinterpret it, but you can see how my uncle loved her.  But if you knew her, you'd wonder how anyone could resist loving her.

How MySpace Ruined My Memories

I blogged a lot on MySpace.  It was probably the big reason it took me so long to make the move to Facebook because Facebook only had "Notes" and wtf reads or uses those?  If you haven't been made aware, MySpace recently gave themselves a huge makeover which included eliminating blogs.  Confused?  Let me clarify.  If you wrote years and years of blogs on MySpace, like I did, they're GONE.  MySpace says they're not deleted and they're working on a way to give them back (I have an idea-- just, you know, GIVE THEM BACK), but who knows?

It was totally lamentable.  I wrote A LOT.  I always meant to back up my entries, but it seemed so daunting since I had so many to copy.  But I let it go.  What's done is done and I have more pressing disasters to deal with.

But I found out my aunty is dying.  She had a stroke and is on life support and isn't expected to live once they turn off the machines.  She is the sweetest person I know and reminds me a lot of my grandmother.  I wrote about my Aunty Pearl long ago, about how she made me feel so special every time I saw her, and I would like to have been able to re-share that with you.  Or to read it again to myself.  Because I remember how it felt when she took my face into her hands and said she could see my grandma in me.  I remember how she was always thrilled that I named my daughter Lucy, a nod to my grandma, Lucille.  I remember her beaming smiles whenever she saw us, as if our presence was just the most important ever.

I understand that it doesn't mean much to a lot of people that I wrote this down a couple years ago, especially since I'm writing it down again now.  But more than my desire to share it with you, I wanted to read it again as a tribute to what she means to me.  Almost as if reading it again could bring it all back and make the stroke as if it never happened.  So that I might almost believe that when I go to Waianae tomorrow, it's not to say goodbye, but to see her enormous grin and feel her hands on my face.