She came to me in a dream - we were sitting side by side - not touching, but close. I wanted to see her, but chose the comfort of nearness over the familiarity of her face. I can never see her face in these dreams of mine. We sat in the TV room and all the furniture was out of place. There were so many other people milling about, but through, or over, or under the noise I heard her say, "Do you hear me? Can you hear me, Christy?"

I can hear you. I can feel you. I hear you every day.

Keep talking to me. I hate when my dreams are wasted on stupid things like finding a tiny dolphin swimming in the milk after I've finished my cereal. Keep talking to me, I hate dreaming about giant foam USA puzzles that are missing Rhode Island and South Dakota, uneven bookshelves and chasing down serial killers. Keep talking to me because I really can hear you. I wish I could staple together every dream of you, and store them in a box to take out when I wake up from dreaming about balance beam practice where all my standing back tucks are no big deal and I always crash on the dismount because the beam is never more than six inches off the ground.

I miss you so much.

that's right, I said F*CK

I was at the Experience Music Project in Seattle a few days ago, watching a larger-than-life Freddie Mercury perform "Another One Bites the Dust" on the EMP's huge Skychurch screen. He was commandeering the stage wearing nothing but tighty whities and his guitar, and as open-minded as I was trying to be about the music of my early childhood and the music I was supposed to have worshipped in high school (round the corner was the Nirvana exhibit, which I had spent all of 10 minutes enjoying), my mind glazed over and tuned out. I turned from Queen and scanned my phone for Facebook updates.

"I have breast cancer." This blunt, shocking statement was the first thing that popped up in my newsfeed. I made my way to the bathroom so that I could read the rest of the post, and click on the link to my friend's journal, in which she is chronicling her journey from her diagnosis to her treatment and onward. I don't see this person often (once in awhile before, during or after church, at best) and we rarely get a chance to talk. But I know she is a good person, she is loved by many, she has a beautiful family, and she is only 39.

I sat in the clean, cold EMP bathroom and cried. Throughout my emo-tantrum I raged silently about the cruelty, randomness and pointlessness of cancer, the pain it causes, and how it too often takes people away from the ones who love and need them. I thought about how so many people I know are affected, how the "when it rains it pours" concept should NOT apply to cancer diagnoses, and how I want to get one of those "FUCK CANCER" t-shirts but can't because as Scott constantly and ironically points out, it really isn't very befitting of a teacher to use the F-word. (He says it actually isn't ironic. "I work in a shipyard. People expect me to swear a lot.")

Well, FUCK CANCER. There, I don't need a t-shirt.

I know it isn't a death sentence. People battle and beat all different types of cancer. My Dad is in the process of BEATING mantle-cell lymphoma. Jen has youth, huge strides in medicine, faith, and love on her side and will BEAT breast cancer. The relatives and friends going through cancer, radiation and chemotherapy are all lifted up by their faith and the support of others, and many have been BEATING their cancers for years.

I am just angry that when there are so many other battles in life, there is this one too, for so many people. I'm angry that it's even cosmically allowed for a father to be diagnosed with cancer weeks after a mother is lost. When I was little, when I would whine that something wasn't fair or was mad at my mom and said, "You're not my friend!" she would say, "Life isn't fair," and "I'm not your friend, I'm your mom." And naturally, I'd stomp away in a complete snit. Well, life still isn't fair ... only now I'd give every earthly possession to hear my mom tell me that.

In retrospect - this entry is a little bit disjointed. scrabbling together a lot of thoughts and feelings.

Mom's last days were a patchwork of gifts that we may not, at the time, have recognized as such. Of course the time we spent with her was an undisguised blessing - and the moments in which she made eye contact, spoke clearly, understood us, those were pure joy. But the difficult moments - especially the memories of physical closeness - now that some time has passed, they are coming into a different focus. Still accurate, still clear, but I feel them differently.

Cancer ravages a body and mind like nothing you can imagine. In her last weeks, she would sometimes not recognize people she had known her entire life. She would confuse people, events, reality. She told us to do things that were physically impossible, congratulated us for things that had never happened, scolded us for misdeeds we hadn't committed. Her appetite, and then her body, diminished until she was eating almost nothing, and was so thin that I was afraid transporting her from bed to chair would break a fragile bone.

We began the process of caring for her as one would care for a very young child. And we were already grieving then, for what was lost - essence, vitality. Autonomy. Clarity. Life as we knew it. And our mom, Amy, as we knew her. As we supported, and then lifted her body so she could get from place to place, we silently remembered the heartbreakingly recent days that she walked Bentley around the block, gardened for hours, showed us her newest zambudan exercises.

But even as I helped her scoot to the edge of her bed, slipped my arms under hers and around her back, bracing, feeling her use what little strength she had to pull herself up and balance, even supporting most of her weight, feeling so scared that I would drop her or that she would suddenly forget whether she was getting up or sitting down and panic and flail ... even as we did this time after time, even as the days went by and the distribution of weight and effort shifted from her to me, greater than my fear or my sadness, was a feeling of grace.

I was born to be here, right now, with you in my arms. To lift and steady you, to support and love you. With my arms around you I feel every bone, and I feel every tremble, but I also feel your will and your strength. You don't speak, but your essence hums from within, it isn't lost.

Walking in this embrace is an exercise in faith. Every step forward, every time a foot comes off the ground, we are putting our faith in each other and our faith in God. One step forward, I feel your breath on my cheek; steady and brace, I hear your voice but no words, I am not sure if you are trying to say something to me. But I keep saying to you, hold on tight, we're almost there.

Aunties came every day to talk to her, relive the old days, give her the news. Uncles came to sit in their characteristic older-brother silence, the grief of losing a baby sister all over their faces. Her sister came to pray and come to grips with the surreality of it all. Her beloved nieces, nephews and godchildren came daily to say hello, and maybe goodbye, and hello again and again, and finally, goodbye. In the midst of all of this, the greatest gift was just to be there to care for her. Everyone did what they could to keep her heart full and her mind at peace. Sometimes I found the greatest comfort and sense of honor in caring for her physical body. The act of cleaning her skin, combing her hair, applying balm to her chapped lips brought such comfort not only to her, but to me. One of Matthew's many responsibilities was administering pain medications to keep her comfortable. Dad kept her nourished. Cousins massaged her with moisturizing lotion and filed her nails. Mom had always been down-to-earth, had always taken care of herself and everyone else. It filled us with peace to be able to lavish this care on her. I cannot honestly say with 100% certainty that she would have approved of or allowed this if she'd been at her regular strength - she was always proud, capable and incredibly self-sufficient. But it was the last small thing any of us could do to honor and connect with her, especially when it became difficult to communicate with words.

D gets married tomorrow and I am humbled to have been asked to read 1 Corinthians at the wedding ceremony. So that I don't squeak, choke, pause or ultimately let my emotions pull me under, I've been poring over the familiar words that D's mom, my Aunty Fran, read for me, and that my mom read for Laurie, D's sister, 7 (?) years ago.

I really can't make up my mind - whether to believe that A) my mom is here, in spirit, with us, or B) that she is indescribably far away in a place of unimaginable perfection, and we along with her earthly existence are long forgotten. There is a profound beauty in the second, but it has so far been too much and too final for me to swallow. But whichever turns out to be true, Corinthians has been immensely comforting. All you need is love - and it is patient, kind, truthful and unfailing, even if our best human efforts don't always produce this kind of love. It is in turns visible and invisible, but it is always there. We have been immersed in it and surely by now would have drowned without it.

Since Dad's diagnosis of mantle-cell lymphoma on the heels of losing Mom, we've had approximately five minutes for the whole woe-is-us rigamarole. We are stunned, to be sure, but there isn't time for the luxury of wallowing. Dad wakes up every day saying, "Life moves on," repairing this, cleaning that, keeping the house in order, and doing what he does best - soldiering on. We are all doing our research, Dad starts chemo on Monday, and we will keep on keeping on because that's what we do. It's less important to know why than it is to band together and form some kind of game plan for negotiating this beautiful but jagged terrain of life. Cue the marching band because like it or not, for better or for worse, we're all in this together. It's hard not to believe in scenario A at times like these.

the kitchen

Dear Mom,

In the middle of making pork chops right now ... I miss you more than ever. I never thought being able to pick up the phone to ask you if I should cook the potatoes first would someday be an impossible dream. Potato questions. So simple and now so un-askable.

I’m now the only Double X in the house and so am outnumbered three to one. Five to one if you count the dogs. The (human) boys, who miss you as much as I do, are unbearably bossy – can you believe it – in the kitchen. Dad wants to make sure everything is done just so; Scott and Matthew want to make sure I don’t ruin yet another dinner (and, subsequently, a week’s worth of lunches). The dogs, thank God, will eat anything I drop on the floor. Due to my inability to cook without spilling, they are well-fed long before their kibble is served.

I don’t know how you did all these everyday things. I don’t know how you sautéed the onions in a hurry without them jumping out of the pan. I don’t know how you resisted the urge to keep opening the oven door to watch the mushroom soup bubble over the sides of the baking dish. I don’t know how you established such a sure presence in your kitchen that no one hovered over you, cleaned up after you, or shook their heads and sighed as they retreated to other rooms. I couldn’t even get them to retreat until I murmured something about the onset of PMS – the wild card whose power I’m counting on to ensure that everyone eats without complaint (or “constructive criticism for next time”) even if the potatoes crunch between their teeth. Golden silence is all I can ask for – the hope for a compliment is something like the hope of ringing your cell to ask you about baking times.

Mom, I miss you. I miss the most ordinary things that I can never get back. Thank you for leaving a birthday voicemail for me this past July. I wish I could listen to it without crying, I miss your voice so much. I miss your pork chops. I wish I could be a mom like you, although the reality is that I might never be a mom at all. The only person who could understand what that means to me – now I can only guess at what you would say to comfort me.

I miss your voice.

I miss you.

I love you.

And I wonder if the potatoes are done.

It takes my breath away, how fast I'm losing my mom. I always thought cancer was a slow-moving demon. I guess for some it is. Is that worse? is there a way to measure? Does it matter? I cannot adequately express to my mom how much I love her because she no longer understands what I'm saying when I talk to her. And though I know in my heart how much she loves me, I sit perched at the edge of the chair next to her bed, waiting, wanting, needing to hear what's left of her voice, tell me.

I selfishly yearn to time-travel to November 3 when my mom told me that her cancer was back and that this time treatment would manage pain but not eradicate the cancer itself. She is very wise: as soon as she understood the prognosis, she wrote out funeral instructions down to the music she wanted played. She began talking to us about her wishes. I listened, and I wrote things down, but now I wish I too had begun talking to her about my own wishes, because as it turns out, they are simple and few: I just want her to know the depth of my love and respect for her, and how incredibly sad I am that she's leaving us. And I want her to know that despite this sadness, we will all be okay. Because that's what she worked her whole life for: our happiness. I didn't say these things then because I thought it was defeatist to say things that sounded so much like goodbye. If I had known how fast and unforgiving cancer could be, I would have told her a thousand times over and not worried about how it sounded.

My dad is an amazing caretaker. Sometimes I don't know where he finds the strength to carry on. He and my brother now have the weight of the household on their shoulders, plus the extraordinary weight of caring for a loved one who, just a month ago, cared for all of us. Every time I feel a bit of her slipping away from me, I sink a little farther into this blue-gray place where words sit stubbornly in my heart and take hours or days to dislodge, where hunger feels like nothing and Christmas carols sound hollow. I think about all of this, I feel this despair. And I can't imagine what my dad must be feeling right now.

We keep walking around saying, "I can't believe this is happening." I wish I could say something more profound, but I really can't believe this is happening. I have had this dream before, I remember it. It was a long dream, complicated, the kind where you wake up really crying. And when I woke up, the relief and beatific peace that washed over me, knowing that everyone I loved was safe and sound, eventually gave way to everyday woes and worries, and I forgot to be thankful for all that I had, and sometimes, I really think this is my punishment for that. If I wake up again, I will not forget to be thankful.

"When I try to hear your voice above the storms of life, then I remember all the things that I was told." - Wanting Memories, by Keali'i Reichel

life as we (presently) know it

One of these days I'm going to read "Great Expectations" just so that I can feel like I have the right to use that marvelous opening line to describe my own life.

11/19/11

The holidays have descended and everything is so completely upside down and backwards. I am thankful for so much, even in this mire of sadness. I am thankful for every day, every good hour. Thankful for work. For the things that make me smile, and for the things that make me feel awful to the core. I'm thankful for every feeling in my heart.

---

The mess in my (two) house(s) is inexplicable, given the fact that I've had nothing to do all day. I had plenty of time to clean at least one of them, or at least one room in one of them, or at least pick up the laundry or sweep the candy wrappers off the table that I've been sitting at all day, or at least the part of the day I didn't spend lying in bed watching crap on TV. I went to the store to order about 200 prints from my stash of about 500 camp photos, went to my friend's kid's carwash, and then went home and did absolutely nothing.

My friend Kristi, whom I work with - my loud and somewhat obnoxious but above all huge-hearted, wise and motherly friend - told me while scrubbing a hubcap that I need to start doing those things that are so hard to think about, much less do. Before any of those things can be thought about and acted on, the hardest thing of all needs to be done - I need to accept the reality that is moving ever closer, every day. Slowly, surely, inevitably.

I don't regret anything about my relationship with my mom, except for 1) the fact that I spent this day doing nothing, being nothing, accomplishing nothing, which she would definitely frown upon, and 2) it is, I'm told, going to end so much sooner than I'd thought. But that's typical human hubris, planning on having your mom around for as long as you need her.

11/21/11

Even in the best of times, since childhood, the holidays have been a source of depression to me. I don't know why. I have a great family, wonderful friends, a roof over my head, too much food on my table. My profession feeds so many of my passions. I have every blessing I could ask for. When I heard the news about my mom, I thought, this will be the worst holiday season ever. What a self-indulgent (and thankfully, fleeting) thought!

Lately every time a Christmas song comes on in a store or on the radio, I feel instantly brighter - I don't feel the trepidation that typically looms when holiday cheer is shoved in my face. And I've been wondering why, even going so far as to shove back the good feelings because now is not the time for those. But it IS the time for those feelings. I can't promise it will be, but there really is no reason that this shouldn't be a really festive Christmas.

Today I told my students I would be on leave from Thanksgiving until the end of Christmas break. I told them that my mom was very sick and might not get better, so I had to stay home and help take care of her. I would miss them and I expected only the best behavior and the highest quality work while they worked with a sub. My student, Q, whose grandfather just passed away a month or so ago and was out for days grieving that tremendous loss, raised his hand.

Q: "Do you want to borrow some crutches?"

Me: "Crutches?"

Q: "When my grandpa was sick, he had crutches. I could let you borrow them. For your mom."

Those moments in a teacher's life when you just want to sweep the kid up and hug him and cry your eyes out.

I listened to my voicemail two nights ago - I have a really bad habit of letting them pile up because when I see a missed call, I just call the person back without checking my messages - and realized quickly that what was run-of-the-mill or even annoying to me mere weeks ago is now one of the greatest treasures I have: voicemails from my mom, in which she sounds energetic, eager to hear from me, and healthy.

Yesterday was a Good Day. She was on her second day of a two-day break from radiation therapy and she was happy and alert. I read her a letter from her good friend, Jane, and an article about Norman Cousins, who in the 1980s researched the biochemistry of human emotions, and the correlation between a positive attitude and recovery from serious illness.

I talked to my friend Laurie, with whom I work closely, and said, "I am praying nonstop. But I don't expect a miracle."

She thought about that for a moment and said, "I think you have to, though."

And ... we do, don't we? Another of my coworkers, Tim, had emailed me Philippians 4:6 several days ago. "Don't worry about anything; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God."

I reflected on my previous thoughts about inevitability. Came to two conclusions: Death (and taxes) are a certainty for all of us, at some point in our lives; it's still our obligation to live life fully (and pay those damned taxes), and give life to the relationships we have been gifted with. Also, even if Norman Cousins was the biggest quack to ever spout off about the importance of a good attitude (let me make clear that I do not think he is a quack) - there is no downside to an attitude adjustment that opens the mind to greater possibilities and eliminates negativity based on, well, the lack of a need for it.

I'm not saying there won't be dark days. I'm just saying we shouldn't keep the windows shut when the sun wants to shine in.

Sometimes I look at the murder-scene lip gloss smudges I leave on my morning coffee straw and think about my mom, who used to leave the most elegant lipstick prints on her coffee cups and wine glasses. It makes me want to call her and tell her I still want to be just like her, in so many ways.

We made the decision to let go today, and I can't describe it any other way than that it was like watching a giant being felled. The day I stuck her striped gray tiny-ness into my red backpack with the yellow zipper and brought her home from Maile Kop's house (instructions from Maile: "Just put her somewhere outside. Tell your mom you found her there. She won't leave. Oh, and she likes being bounced like a baby") to the last day of her life, she was an extraordinary cat, living happily outdoors in Manoa Valley for the majority of her life, then retiring to a condo for a few years before making her final move to our current residence. Twenty-two years, three homes, nine lives. We joked that she would outlive us all. She survived so much I was almost surprised when she slipped away today, under our prayerful hands. I think it was right but I feel so wrong, and so sad. She really never did leave me.

You are so loved, and so missed.

the circle of life

When I was little - 4 or 5 or so - my grandmother used to trick me into going outside for long periods of time by telling me there were rabbits in the garden. I loved rabbits and wasn't allowed to have one of my own, so those afternoons were full of hope and a lot of sitting still among the vegetables while, I'm sure, my grandmother gleefully cleaned her kitchen or did the laundry. Never did so much as a pointy ear or white whisker streak by on those warm afternoons, but they were a lot of fun.

The point of this story is that I just sent my niece outside to look for a "black kitten with little white feet who likes to rest under the second plumeria tree out back. Not the first one, but the second one. And take the dog with you, okay?"

Love you, Popo. A lot.

how do I love thee?

... Let me cough the ways.

I, Gemini?

Is anyone else freaking out over the "news" that their zodiac sign has shifted? This showed up in my Twitter timeline by a couple different people today and I am (channel Cher Horowitz) totally buggin'.

As a textbook Cancerian, I've always embraced my inner crab - the good, the bad and the uglier-than-a-molting Dungeness. Nurturing, creative, intuitive, homebodied - and overly sensitive, w/a tendency to burst forth snapping - or completely retreat - in the face of conflict. Now I find out (although I'm still waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes and yell "April Fool" - I mean, if zodiac shifts are possible, couldn't January really be April?) that I'm really a Gemini - an air sign, whose most notable positive characteristic is versatility, and most notable negative is duplicity.

I miss my carapace.

Really, this has thrown me for a major loop. My husband and other levelheaded creatures will find that ridiculous, but for me it's kind of like someone telling me that I was born in another season (I really love being a summer baby), or that I'm not really related to the people in my family, or that underneath his doggy suit, Kona is really a cat. Is this how it feels when people find out as adults that they were adopted? Okay, I'm reaching here, but I do feel a weird sense of identity-shakeup. And loss. Maybe I should have outgrown this attachment to signs and symbols by now - or maybe I'll come to unearth my Gemini self and love all those aspects as much as my Cancerian traits - or maybe someone really will jump out of the bushes and shout "April Fool." If planetary tilt can cause astrological identity crises severe enough to send us to our kitchen cabinets in search of chocolatey snacks (uh, just me?), anything's possible.

Oh well, at least I'm not the never-before-heard-of Ophiuchus. It sounds like a species of prehistoric fish and is apparently the zodiac's House of Slytherin.

Marathon Ambition Mahalos

My Mom and Dad - my biggest fans - always ready with love, support, sage advice, and home cooking. I love you and I thank you!

Martvelous Matthew Wong - for not letting me take anything too seriously, for being a fitness inspiration, and for being the best brother anyone could ask for.

The Honolulu Marathon Clinic - for letting us be a part of this wonderful family, for the superb Sunday talks and runs, for delicious mango bread, and for showing us what lies beyond our comfort zone.

Norman Uyeda - for the blinking hat beacon (thank you, Tony, Sandra and Thaddeus Padua for this as well!), excellent pacing, supporting the clinic and the runners, and for your kind words.

Faculty and Staff of Ali'iolani Elementary - Everyone - for your friendship and support, and for all the encouragement. Dianne - for the wonderful poster that evoked a more emotional reaction than when I picked up my finisher shirt! Annie - for the heartfelt card, the symbolic heart, and the philosophical talks. Kristi - for texting me during the 23rd mile and putting life back into perspective. Heather - for the prayers! Tami - for listening. Sally and Wayne - for relating!

My fifth-grade students - for being genuinely surprised when you heard that I didn't come in first, second or third. :)

Brian Clarke - for philosophical wisdom, practical advice, and a generous spirit.

Victoria Shioi - for making me feel as if I've made a difference.

My uncles, aunties and cousins - for reading and clipping my articles and for all the encouragement!

Yee Ohana - for the laughs and for all the support!

Diane, Amanda and Geoffrey - for holding my "emergency care package" and for the photo!

Renee Yee, my mother-in-law - for holding my other care package and for waiting in the hot sun for me to finally reach the blue flags!

Nadine Kam - for picking up my column in the first place.

Christie Wilson - for being a patient editor.

Catholic Engaged Encounter, Wong Kong Har Tong, Associated Chinese University Women - for your thoughts and prayers, unending support and encouragement!

Lisa - for cheering me on from afar and for being my best friend.

Bon - for inspiring me to give everything I do my very best effort.

Scott - for being my running partner in body and spirit, and my partner in life forever. For being my fan, my critic, my support vehicle, and my chief inspiration. For being such a big part of the reason I wanted to do this. For meeting me at the finish line with love and neon signs. For absolutely everything. I love you!

Thank you everyone!