Back to Puowaina

Those of you who have read my blog from the beginning know that I go home to Hawaii for Christmas to visit my family, and I always include a trip to visit my Mom’s grave at the National Cemetery of the Pacific, otherwise known as Punchbowl or Puowaina.  My annual trip to Punchbowl has become an important temporal marker for me.  My Mom’s grave is one place where I don’t feel any need to self-edit.  I talk to her as if she’s there and use my “catch up” time with Mom to reflect on the year.

My first trip to Punchbowl after my diagnosis came at the end of my hard-fought battle with Karla in 2008.  I had endured six months of chemo and just had my mastectomies a couple months prior.  That trip to Punchbowl in 2008 was extremely emotional.  I made every effort that year to “stay strong” so that my family and friends would not worry too much about me.  By the time I walked up the hill to Mom’s grave that year, I was a sobbing mess.  I was finally able to cry and let out all the stress that year had brought me.

My trip to Punchbowl last year was more reflective.  2009 was all about rebuilding my life.  And my body.  My reconstruction was almost complete and I was starting to feel whole again.  My talk with Mom that year was focused on wondering about what the next chapters of my life had in store for me.  I was excited, scared, but confident that I was going to take the world by storm.

What a difference a day makes.  After climbing the hill to my Mom’s grave last week, I sat on a plastic bag and shielded myself from the rain with a rainbow golf umbrella.  I noted that the umbrella was a fitting symbol, given my recent move to the Bay Area.  After settling in and while trimming the grass around Mom’s headstone, I talked about how this year has been a whirlwind of amazing blessings . . . and tragedy.  I gushed about how I’m finally at a firm that appreciates me, I’m doing work that I believe in, and I’m working with people I respect and care about.  I talked about how I fucking love the Bay Area and all my friends who support me there.  I joked that although I absolutely adore my niece, when she becomes a terror she sometimes has me thinking twice about procreating.  And then I talked about Dad.

When I got off the plane this trip, most of my family was at baggage claim to greet me.  The first thing I noticed was how my Dad has visibly aged since I last saw him.  His hair was more white, he moved much slower, and he looked tired.  Then during my stay at home, I observed that my usually active father was no longer able to walk short distances without winding himself.  As a result, he is unable to do a lot of the things that bring him joy — golfing, driving around to run errands, traveling to visit family on the neighbor islands.  For the first time, the reality of my Dad’s mortality really hit me.

While discussing this with Mom at her grave, I looked to my left and noticed a fresh grave.  Large floral arrangements covered the mound of dirt.  I thought how sad it was for the family of that recently deceased — to lose someone so close to the holidays.  Still staring at the new grave, I told Mom that I’m not ready to lose Dad yet.  I know I don’t get to make the call when he does leave us and I’ll never be ready for that moment, but somehow I’ve held onto the vision of Dad as immortal.  I can’t imagine life without him.  I can’t imagine not being able to call him when I’m having a bad day, or listen to his stories (even if I’ve already heard them tons of times before), or watch him enjoy Willie K’s “Holy Night” on Christmas morning.

I ended my talk with Mom discussing my struggles with death this year.  I’m still harboring a lot of anger about Eric’s suicide and I continue to process John’s recent unexplained death.  Eric and John are reminders of how precious and fragile life is.  I told Mom that I sure hope that I am living my life in a way that appropriately honors the second chance I’ve been given.

As I drove home from Mom’s grave in pouring rain, I realized that I would not be able to get a run in outside without getting drenched.  When I got home, I got on Dad’s stationary exercise bike instead.  I dusted it off earlier that week when the rains prevented me from going on my run.  It did not appear to have been used for some time.  Dad talked to me while I was on the bike and told me a story I had not heard before about how he learned to speak Japanese while he was in the Air Force.  My Dad never ceases to amaze me.

When I was done with the bike, he walked over to it and asked me to help set it up for him.  After turning down the resistance for him, he got on the bike for a few minutes.  I smiled, telling him to take it easy and not over-exert himself.

When I returned to the Bay Area, I called Dad when I got off the plane to let him know I got in safely.  He thanked me for calling and then proudly noted that he got on the exercise bike again that day.  He had an energy on the phone that I have not felt from him in a long time.  In this moment with my Dad on the phone, I realized that life is all about feeling like there’s something to look forward to.  Dad has felt disempowered for so long, it’s nice to hear hope in his voice again.

For today’s soundtrack, I leave you with my Dad’s favorite Christmas song mentioned above: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAMwsBPfRIc .

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