Singing for a friend

October 3, 2005
I have to share this ukulele story with you, because first, I think that you'll find it interesting and secondly, it will give me a chance to unload some of the sad emotions that I now have within me.

This story is about Pat, a woman that I've known for some years. Emi and I started hula with Pat. She is an older lady, and her compatriot was another “gracious, gracious lady” named Marion. It was always Pat and Marion, when you saw one you saw the other. They inspired the rest of us youngsters, because they were older and never acted as if they were. They had real spunk, moxie, and a zest for life. They were always there with the rest of us, learning the new dances, practicing the movements, suffering the rigors of hula, eating, and laughing, especially the eating and laughing. What is hula without eating and laughing?

Well, I just found out that Pat has cancer. I immediately called her to offer my help, whatever that might be. Her daughter answered and said they have already hired people to help now
that Pat is at home with not much time left. I then asked if I could visit, and was given a qualified OK with the understanding that Pat is on pain medication and not talking very much. With that understanding, I was allowed to come over.

I now pondered what I could do to make her more comfortable and at peace. I thought that I could sing and play the ukulele for her. I thought; I hoped that she would like it. My decision was based upon what my former hula kumu had told our class one day. A close hula brother was dying of AIDS, and in an act of love and compassion he had gone to the hospital and to sing for him. I thought the idea was so beautiful and that I would really like someone to sing Hawaiian songs to me as I lay dying, so it was only natural that I thought that Pat might like that too. And so, when I went to Pat’s home I brought with me my ukulele and music sheets. With the daughter’s approval I set up my music stand and started to sing and continued for some 25 minutes. Pat on her part did not say too much, but she did respond by crying, and she continued to cry throughout my singing. For further emphasize, the crying intensified whenever I started a new song. I was starting to have doubts if I was helping Pat, but when I asked her daughter if everything was OK, she calmly said, "Can't you see her tears are tears of joy?" Thinking on her words, I understood, for I would have been crying myself.

As I continued to play, I could now see that Pat was indeed actively listening to the music, for ever now and then she danced to the music, moving her hands as if she was doing hula. It was so nice to see her dance.

The only words I could discern between the crying were, "Oh my god" and Stay Bernie." But eventually, I had to leave. My voice was going, and I was starting to lose it, emotionally overloaded. I promised Pat’s daughter that I would return. The next day I did call to see if I should, could return. The daughter said that Pat was sleeping a lot lately, and she would call me if the situation changed. I think that maybe that I sang for Pat the
one and only time.

December 8, 2005
I did get a chance to play again for my friend Pat, but on the second opportunity, she slept the entire time while I played. In essence I was singing for her daughter and the helper, but I figured that it wasn’t a loss, for maybe I was somehow comforting them. By this time Pat’s daughter and I were on first name basis. We had a long conversation before I started to play. We talked and talked with the hope that Pat would soon wake up, but when she didn’t I played even as she slept. The third time Pat’s eyes were open, but she closed them whenever I started to play. Anita (Pat’s daughter)assured me that I wasn't boring her, putting her to sleep. I then assumed that the pain medication was affecting her, but even so she could hear me sing and play. I suppose my assumption was correct for just as I left, she spoke her only words directed my way, "See you, kiddo." If you knew Pat, you'd know this was so much her. It was always her way of saying good-by. Last Saturday I played the 4th time for her at her funeral. Anita wanted me to play Pupu Hinuhinu, a Hawaiian lullaby that I had sung to Pat many times. It just seemed so right to sing under the circumstances. I was so nervous just thinking about the idea of singing at her funeral, but I agreed. This would be the last time I would have the opportunity to play for Pat, and so how could I refuse? With Pat in my mind I sang. Voice somewhat trembling out of fear and sadness, the words came to my lips and rang out. E Pat, e moe, e moe e. Sleep, sleep. Footnote: I had asked Anita if Marion had come to see Pat while she was home, and she had said that Marion did not. She had called once, but could barely manage to talk to Pat. Obviously, the thought of losing Pat was more than Marion could handle. She was also unable to make the funeral. Ironically, as it turned out Marion didn’t have to go through life without Pat. She also passed away within a year of Pat’s passing. I know that they are now together, doing the hula and eating and laughing, especially eating and laughing.