sing a song for me

It’s been almost a month since I’ve been in Ka’ala’s singing class, and I have learned a lot, like my limitations as a singer, but a man must know his limits. Isn’t that what Dirty Harry said to the bad guy just before he blew his brains out? I’m not writing today to discuss my shortcomings. Instead, I want to discuss the joy, the pleasure I’ve received listening to my fellow students and Ka’ala sing the sweet melodies of Hawaii. Yes, I admit that I am biased when it comes to my preference of na mele Hawai’i. How can I not be? It brings me back to my childhood, growing up in Hawai’i with my entire family. Looking back everything seemed perfect at the time even though it wasn’t. Nostalgia has a tendency to dismiss the bad, emphasize the good, and there was a lot of good; the weekly outings to the beach on the windward side of the island, the entire family (6 kids and the family dog) riding in the bed of the family pick-up truck; the daily walks around the neighborhood when several blocks away from home seemed like a foreign country; the consumption of bar-b-q sticks that tasted better than any steak that money could buy, and on and on. So when I hear my fellow students sing, the romance, the tenderness, the beauty of the songs goes straight to my heart and I am so touched by their renditions suffused with honest emotions, effort, and talent. I am so touched that it would not be impossible to get a bit misty eyed, but I wouldn’t because I must be macho, and even if you happened to see a tear in my eye I will only claim it’s because of my allergies.

These thoughts take me back to the time when I sang for Pat when she was dying, and how she cried and cried. I was a bit dense then, and could only think that it was related to my inability to sing and play well. I get it now, for if I were in her place, my reaction would be the same. The songs itself are so sweet that it brings back all the wonderfulness of life, the sheer joy of it, and you cry for it was so great, and then you cry with renewed vigor because you will soon be leaving it all behind. It is the ultimate of a bitter sweet emotion. Even with these bitter sweet thoughts now in my mind I invite one and all to sing for me while I am in my deathbed, and if I cry it is not to be taken as a critique of your singing. Look twice for you will see me smiling even while crying.

Last installment of NW trip

May 11, 2008

We are on the way back to San Francisco via the sleeper car of the Amtrak Coast Starlight train. To ride the sleeper, is to go first class which is a novel experience for the both of us. If you’re not first class, you sit the whole time; no beds for you, like the accommodations in the airplane. I’ve never gone first class in anything much less than the train. I didn’t even make it to first class while in the Boy Scouts; only got to second class. Second class is the story of my life, but let’s not go there. Riding in first class meant that we sat in the private waiting room before boarding the train, where they provide newspapers, soft drinks, cushioned chairs. I liked being there, away from the riffraff, the common people, the plebeians. The other privilege of going first class is the choice of white or red wine once you’re in your berth. That was a very nice gesture, even though we had brought our own bottle of wine in response to advice received at the tea house that we had visited in Seattle, but we had to be careful. Before departing, there was an announcement that there was a zero tolerance policy against drunkenness and bad language. I needed a drink upon hearing the warning. Oh my god, I thought to myself. They’re talking about me. I’m going to be kicked off the train for sure.

The compartment is cozy, and I use the word appropriately. It is not a regular room by any means, but in airplane terms, it is huge. There is more room in the average closet. But there is a door that you can close for privacy, and if you want more there are drapes that you can close with Velcro to ensure complete privacy. My imagination runs wild with what some people do behind these drapes.

Riding on the train I have ample time to reflect on our trip. Emi and I don’t travel much. We go to Hawaii and Japan, but not for touring, sightseeing. The last time, maybe the only time we actually played the tourist was at Washington DC. Sightseeing there is rewarding, because there is so much to see. It is not your typical sightseeing destination. To me, it is the ultimate adult Disneyland, and it is for real. Seattle and Portland are nice places to visit, but if it were not for our interests, biking and hiking, I don’t think that I would want to go there. I’ve come to realize that if I go somewhere, there has to be a particular reason for the visit other than just to see the place. I need to climb a mountain, bike a route, attend a class, study a subject, etc. Therefore, Seattle and Portland were nice because they were great places to bike, hike, and study NW Indian carvings. If not for that, I’d be doing just as well by staying home. And yet while we were sitting there watching the view move past our window, I stupidly mentioned to Emi (I must have mentioned here that our breakfast companion brought up the idea.) that it would be great to fly to Boston and drive up to Quebec like the guy said, and she had to remind me, “And what are you going to do there besides look at the sites?” Emi knows me so well, and puts up with my nonsense. She had me at checkmate, and I had nothing to say, but after we got home, I thought of the idea of riding bikes from Boston to Quebec. That would hold my interest if not break down my body. What can I say except that a fool only know how to think like a fool.

I’ve previously talked about Seattle, so let me say a few words about Portland. It is a nice place, if not a bit small; Emi and I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in not a long time, and we did. On the same day, we rented bikes and peddled from one part of town to another. I really like the biking trails. There were no cars, just an occasional rain to refresh you. And speaking of rain, it seems that the people up here do not alter their activities just because it’s going to rain or is raining. It’s not a big deal. We’re a bunch of wimps compared to them.

Emi and I liked walking through the farmer’s market. It seemed all of Portland was there. I particularly liked the plants that they were selling. I bought some bare root toad lilies. Such a deal, 3 for $10. I hope they grow (and they did, by the way) The seller had just gotten back from SF’s garden show and she thought that the people of SF were so nice and happy. She wondered how we could be so happy with the high prices of everything. I didn’t even know how to respond. I know nothing about prices except paying.

Sometimes I am so taken by some of the homes up here. The fancy ones are huge, beautiful, and always seem to be located with a body of water as their front view. I fantasize selling our home and buying one of these majestic homes as if they would make my life richer, and then I think again. If I pause for just one minute, it becomes obvious that my present home gives me all that I need, and that, having a bigger house, a bigger garden, more of anything is not going to change my life at all. Further, San Francisco is my home, not Seattle or Portland. But if you want to talk about Hawaii….well that’s another story. But for now….”Click your heels, Dorothy and repeat there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

We’ve stopped at Eugene Depot, elevation 428 feet, 123 miles from Portland and 610 miles from San Francisco. It is now 5:21 PM, and our dinner reservation is for 6:15. Our eating companion is an elderly man, even older than us, and that’s old. He makes for interesting dining, and he tells us the story of his life. I am amazed at one recounting: his solo bicycle journey from Banff to Los Angeles. That was just one of many stories. The most entertaining aspect was the impromptu guessing game. Roy had trouble remembering locations. He knew what was in his head, but couldn’t remember the name, so we had to guess. “Is it North or South of San Francisco. In the wine country? By the Russian River? Further East? Napa? Further North? Healdsburg? Santa Rosa? Santa Rosa it is.” I think I see my future, but my thing is names. So if I see you and don’t call you by name, give me a clue like it starts with R and rhymes with joy.

Added is the completed mask that I carved. It is a Northwest Indian Raven. I’m satisfied with the results. I have no immediate plans to start another project like that although I do want to carve a totem pole and defrwschest one day. The only question is when.

May 11, 2008

We are on the way back to San Francisco via the sleeper car of the Amtrak Coast Starlight train. To ride the sleeper, is to go first class which is a novel experience for the both of us. If you’re not first class, you sit the whole time; no beds for you, like the accommodations in the airplane. I’ve never gone first class in anything much less than the train. I didn’t even make it to first class while in the Boy Scouts; only got to second class. Second class is the story of my life, but let’s not go there. Riding in first class meant that we sat in the private waiting room before boarding the train, where they provide newspapers, soft drinks, cushioned chairs. I liked being there, away from the riffraff, the common people, the plebeians. The other privilege of going first class is the choice of white or red wine once you’re in your berth. That was a very nice gesture, even though we had brought our own bottle of wine in response to advice received at the tea house that we had visited in Seattle, but we had to be careful. Before departing, there was an announcement that there was a zero tolerance policy against drunkenness and bad language. I needed a drink upon hearing the warning. Oh my god, I thought to myself. They’re talking about me. I’m going to be kicked off the train for sure.

The compartment is cozy, and I use the word appropriately. It is not a regular room by any means, but in airplane terms, it is huge. There is more room in the average closet. But there is a door that you can close for privacy, and if you want more there are drapes that you can close with Velcro to ensure complete privacy. My imagination runs wild with what some people do behind these drapes.

Riding on the train I have ample time to reflect on our trip. Emi and I don’t travel much. We go to Hawaii and Japan, but not for touring, sightseeing. The last time, maybe the only time we actually played the tourist was at Washington DC. Sightseeing there is rewarding, because there is so much to see. It is not your typical sightseeing destination. To me, it is the ultimate adult Disneyland, and it is for real. Seattle and Portland are nice places to visit, but if it were not for our interests, biking and hiking, I don’t think that I would want to go there. I’ve come to realize that if I go somewhere, there has to be a particular reason for the visit other than just to see the place. I need to climb a mountain, bike a route, attend a class, study a subject, etc. Therefore, Seattle and Portland were nice because they were great places to bike, hike, and study NW Indian carvings. If not for that, I’d be doing just as well by staying home. And yet while we were sitting there watching the view move past our window, I stupidly mentioned to Emi (I must have mentioned here that our breakfast companion brought up the idea.) that it would be great to fly to Boston and drive up to Quebec like the guy said, and she had to remind me, “And what are you going to do there besides look at the sites?” Emi knows me so well, and puts up with my nonsense. She had me at checkmate, and I had nothing to say, but after we got home, I thought of the idea of riding bikes from Boston to Quebec. That would hold my interest if not break down my body. What can I say except that a fool only know how to think like a fool.

I’ve previously talked about Seattle, so let me say a few words about Portland. It is a nice place, if not a bit small; Emi and I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in not a long time, and we did. On the same day, we rented bikes and peddled from one part of town to another. I really like the biking trails. There were no cars, just an occasional rain to refresh you. And speaking of rain, it seems that the people up here do not alter their activities just because it’s going to rain or is raining. It’s not a big deal. We’re a bunch of wimps compared to them.

Emi and I liked walking through the farmer’s market. It seemed all of Portland was there. I particularly liked the plants that they were selling. I bought some bare root toad lilies. Such a deal, 3 for $10. I hope they grow (and they did, by the way) The seller had just gotten back from SF’s garden show and she thought that the people of SF were so nice and happy. She wondered how we could be so happy with the high prices of everything. I didn’t even know how to respond. I know nothing about prices except paying.

Sometimes I am so taken by some of the homes up here. The fancy ones are huge, beautiful, and always seem to be located with a body of water as their front view. I fantasize selling our home and buying one of these majestic homes as if they would make my life richer, and then I think again. If I pause for just one minute, it becomes obvious that my present home gives me all that I need, and that, having a bigger house, a bigger garden, more of anything is not going to change my life at all. Further, San Francisco is my home, not Seattle or Portland. But if you want to talk about Hawaii….well that’s another story. But for now….”Click your heels, Dorothy and repeat there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

We’ve stopped at Eugene Depot, elevation 428 feet, 123 miles from Portland and 610 miles from San Francisco. It is now 5:21 PM, and our dinner reservation is for 6:15. Our eating companion is an elderly man, even older than us, and that’s old. He makes for interesting dining, and he tells us the story of his life. I am amazed at one recounting: his solo bicycle journey from Banff to Los Angeles. That was just one of many stories. The most entertaining aspect was the impromptu guessing game. Roy had trouble remembering locations. He knew what was in his head, but couldn’t remember the name, so we had to guess. “Is it North or South of San Francisco. In the wine country? By the Russian River? Further East? Napa? Further North? Healdsburg? Santa Rosa? Santa Rosa it is.” I think I see my future, but my thing is names. So if I see you and don’t call you by name, give me a clue like it starts with R and rhymes with joy.

Added is the completed mask that I carved. It is a Northwest Indian Raven. I’m satisfied with the results. I have no immediate plans to start another project like that although I do want to carve a totem pole and defrwschest one day. The only question is when.

Life sometimes hurt but...

Recently there were two news items that was quite meaningful and emotional for me. Interestingly enough, one was on NPR and the other on mainstream TV news. Different venues but both had a strong impact on me.

Firstly, NPR did considerable coverage on the China earthquake. It was just by chance that the two hosts of “All Things Considered”, Melissa Block and Robert Segal, happen to be in Schizwan to do some reporting on China other then Beijing or Shanghai. You could say that were in the right place at the right time…if you were reporters…otherwise… There were many hours of reporting, but there was one particular story that stood out. You can catch it on the web if you want to hear it for yourself. You should, because it is a raw display of human emotions that will move you. In one segment Melissa Block is doing the commentary. Her story fallows a distraught couple who is trying to find help to locate their missing parents and young child. Their home has been destroyed, and there is a strong possibility that their love ones are under the rubble. Somehow they are able to get a heavy piece of equipment to help them, and sadly enough it locates the missing people. They are all dead. The crying goes right to your heart. They are speaking Chinese, but the audible grief is international. The real story for me was after. On another NPR show Melissa was talking about the same incident and said that after a while the couple stopped their wailing and pulled themselves together. They didn’t have the luxury to entertain their grief; they had work to do. They had to find a crematorium that was willing to take their parents and son. Due to the large number of deaths, it was not always possible to get a cremation, but they succeeded. They did what they had to do. Can we all do the same if we were in the same situation? I should hope that we can, although I pray that I am never in that same situation or anything comparable.

The second story was a report on seriously ill children missing their proms and the hospital giving a substitute for the children of all ages. Nice story, warm, touching, but here again the message came later in the form of an email that came into the station the next day. To paraphrase, “It’s not waiting for the storm to pass. It’s learning how to dance in the rain.” Wow, someone should have said that line to me a long time ago. I kept waiting for the storm to pass, the sun to come out which is a dumb thing to do living in San Francisco. But the real point is not waiting for the storm to pass. Many times it will not. Your health will not improve, your job gone for good, your loved one taken away by the cruel hand of death, and on and on. There are many storms out there, and they will not all move out of the area. We will have to live with some of them, so get out your dancing shoes, and have a good time. That’s all we have, time, and there’s only a finite amount of that.

So with fortitude and the right frame of mind, you can make it, get through anything. Just keep dancing. Do the bop, the mambo, the salsa, whatevah even if it’s pouring, storming, snowing. Don’t stop; keep dancing.

Sometimes

Sometimes I think that the rest of the nation is just like San Francisco, and more times that not I would be wrong. I am reminded of my error every summer when I leave my fog laden surroundings and go inland where summer weather actually exists. It never fails to surprise me that the sun is really shining in all areas other than dear SF, that I don't need my jacket, sweater, and scarf.

I also found out that there are other differences besides the weather in places other than dear old home of mine. A couple of weekends ago, Emi and I were in Saratoga, that upper class burb just 5o+ miles South of San Francisco, and was stunned by the courteous nature of the drivers. Not only do they actually stop for pedestrians in the crosswalk unlike the driver here, they stopped for Emi and I before we entered the crosswalk, while we were still on the sidewalk. Even if I didn't want to cross (I could have changed my mind about crossing, you know?) their act of kindness compelled me to walk. Bizarre, huh?

Later on that same day we went to a Lucky's grocery store in San Jose. That visit illustrated in more dramatic terms the difference between SF and the rest of the world. The site was huge compared to the stores at home. The aisles were so wide that 4 carts could have fitted side by side. It was like the super freeway for shopping carts. Further, there must have been a plague or something. The store was deserted. The last discrepancy occurred at the checkout. Like the ecoaware people that we are, we had our own shopping bags; doesn't everyone? They didn't know what to make of it. It was as if we had said, "You don't have to pack them. We'll just have Scotty beam them up to the ship." And if you thought the checker and packer were unknowing, the customers in back of us were even more in the dark. Not only did they think we were weird, they were aggravated for the delay. I should have reminded myself that when in Rome do as the Romans.

And sometimes I make assumptions about people and I'm wrong. Case in point. Where I take my watercolor class, there are many seniors who have limited mental functions. One individual that I see every week is an 75+ man who has less hair than me, which makes him bald and me semi-bald which makes me feel old at times. Anyway, I usually see him sitting in a more or less comatose condition. He physically looks like Curly of the Three Stooges on drugs. I assumed his alphabet is missing many letters, but he's harmless, and that's what's important. So last week a young miss from Switzerland visited our class for research purposes. While engrossed in my painting I heard someone say, "How would you like to play pool later?" Somehow I concluded that someone was talking to the young thing, being flirtatious with her. Sounds like a reasonable assumption, doesn't it? "We have a pool table right here, you know?" the unknown voice said. I glanced up just to see who was making this overt pass, and to my amazement it was Curly, that dirty old man. Surprise, surprise. Well you know what they say. It only takes a pretty young thing to make an old man jump up and click his heels three times. Tomorrow, I'm going to throw away my vitamin pills and go look for a young thing just for me. Tired of feeling old.

And lastly, sometimes, like today, I find out that you can't go back in time. You can't go back to when you were a kid even if you play pool with a young miss. This morning after hitting on a ball machine from 5:30 to 7:00am I decided to have something to eat and coffee. I was in dire need of coffee. I am not used to getting up at 4:30 in the morning. For me, being retired and all that jazz, I usually get up when I want to and it's definitely later than 4:30. Life is so grand, but today was special. Hideous in many ways, but pleasant in others. It was nice to see the crescent moon in the early morning. It was nice to see the inky black sky slowly turn to blue, but I digress. I needed coffee and decided to go to Uncle's on Waverly Place in Chinatown. Uncle's was just one of the many hangouts in Chinatown where us kids could go to behave like the punky kids that we were, or I should say my friends were punky. I was a good kid and the cops never caught me. There were Fong Fong's, On On, and one other that I forgot the name. Anyway, most of them are closed, but Uncle's was still there, so I jammed over there on my hot scooter and parked in front. Yep, it was still there. I could almost taste the wonderful waffles that they make. That was my favorite, waffles with a side order of bacon. Yes indeedee. Walking in I was shocked to instantly see that the place was not the Uncle's that I knew. The counter with all the paraphernalia in back was gone; the booths were gone; all the people that I knew were gone replaced by old Chinese men who were talking Chinese (Imagine that?). The waffles were still there, number 4 on the menu, waffle with coffee for $3.50. So I ordered it and it was still good and as I was eating my waffle I heard a familiar voice, a voice out of the past and I wanted it to stay there. I instantly lowered my head into my Japanese language book and kept it there. He didn't see me, even when he walked past my table as he left some minutes later. Some things don't change, like him. He wasn't a very nice guy in the past, and I don't think that he changed the spots covering his body or his stripes. So even if I can't go back in time, I don't care. The present is so much better.

I have dandruff of the face, but all is well

Everything is just about over. I am getting better, but I'm a bit tired and my face is peeling like I had a sunburn. Just to set the record straight, this is the final verdict regarding my illness.



I first got sick last, last Friday and for 4 days I was positive that I had the flu, the later bacterial infection a result of the flu, in other words a secondary infection. I say that because I had the worst case of joint and muscle pain with severe chills. That's the flu isn't it? Only I didn't have any respiratory distress. So the doctors deduced that my early symptoms were the signs of a developing strep (most likely) infection, or in medical terms I had mylagia and myositis from the infection and not the flu. Latin names makes everything sound so much more serious, doesn't it? I didn't see any rash, one other sign, but maybe I missed it or I just didn't have it. Well all is well that ends well. It could have been ugly, but let's not go there.



One other thing they discovered was my predominate JPV. What's that? It's your jugular pulmonary vein. It's located on the right side of your neck. My JPV stands out more than the average. Reluctantly, I had to ask why it was outstanding. But let me digress for a moment. One of the scary things about seeing doctors is the idea that they're going to find something else wrong that's worst than the reason you went to see them in the first place. Go in and see them for a blister on your foot, and they'll find out that you have a heart condition. I can understand why my father never wanted to go into the hospital. He thought that once he went in, he would never come out. Maybe he knew something I didn't. Anyway back to my JPV. The doctor said that it was predominate because my heart was not quite right and the blood was backing up my vein. Any why was my heart not quite right? It was probably because my heart was somewhat damaged due to my high levels of ferratin. I did tell you that I have hemachromatosis (chronic high ferratin)? Well I do. And the doctor read my chart and put it all together. They were going to do an echo gram on my heart, but they decided I basically was OK. So I dodged another bullet. I will live for another day, play my ukulele another day.

Thanks for your concers but I didn't get better

February 21, 2008
I'm writing this with my right hand and a bright red ballpoint pen. Why am I using my right and and a pen? Because the hospital doesn't provide laptops and the IV in my left hand prevents me from using it. You know about that slight skin infection that I acquired at the end of my flu bout? Well, it spread to make the rest of my face match my pugilist looking nose. Now my entire face looking like it took a pounding. Yesterday I saw the doctor at 10:45am and he ordered a massive shot of antibiotic to be given to me. The nurse told me that it had linocain in it, but it still left me limping as if I was hit by an illegal block to the back. Without the painkiller, I'm sure they would have had to stretchered me out. That treatment was supplemented with a supply of pills that could have lasted 10 days. That was yesterday, and today, due to the antibiotics I assume, I felt better, but in the afternoon I decided to check my face in the mirror. Walking to the bathroom, I was mentally humming lah deh dah, lah deh dah, and then I looked at myself (A scream pierces the air.). The blob was on the move. I could easily tell the puffiness and accompanying red color had pass the Sharpie lines that I had drawn on my face during the night to delineate the location of the infection. The sight reminded me of old newsreels depicting the spread of communism as a red blob moving across the globe leaving nothing behind but desolation and ugliness. I didn't want the dirty reds to win. I called Kaiser...again. My doctor advised me to go to the ER and to the ER did I go, arriving a bit past 4pm. Everyone agreed that I should be put on antibiotic IV treatment with a least a 2 day stay, but it's now getting late; it's past 10pm. I don't mind it here that much, but the bed is getting harder with each passing minute. My bottom is going from pain to numb. If I'm going to be admitted, getting into bed sooner will be better than later.
It is now 12 midnight, and I am finally being pushed into my room. Along the way, I make a comment to the orderly that the bed I'm in is not too comfortable. "It's not a bed," he replies. "It's a gurney. It's meant for short time use. What time did you get here?" "A bit past 4," I answer. "That's way too long. ER is trying to shorten the waiting time. All ER's are having this problem, but it's worst here". My butt whispered amen.
I didn't finally fall asleep until 12:30am...if you can call it sleep. Hospitals are suppose to be quiet, but it was anything but. As tired as I was, sounds that reminded me of a variation of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" penetrated my somnolent partition. "Nurse, nurse, oh god, oh god." Mixed into the mantra, sounds of carts, hospital personal talking, doors closing, etc merged and became part of it. But the sound that was the most memorable was the music, as fuzzy as it was. At first I thought that I was hearing Julie Andrews singing "The Sound of Music" but then it sounded more like "Chity Chitty Bang Bang," and then I thought I heard "Superkal..." The last bit of music was without voice, but it put me into a scene from the "Lord of the Rings."

February 22, 2008
A sudden spell of silence woke me up. It was 6am and still dark outside. Awake I could concentrate on the caphonic symphony of human boredom, despair, and pain, phrases repeated in its own sense of rhythym.
"Nurse, could you please come into my room?"
"Nurse!"
"Help, help, help, help."
I wanted to join in with my own words, "God, help me, help me, help me," but I wasn't asked to join the choir.
It was so interesting to listen to each performer. For example, the individual saying "help" did it in such a moderate voice, it was as if he didn't really want help. He was more just moaning to himself. The rhythym was like 4 beats of help with 16 beats of rest in between. I was slowly falling under the magic of his beat when all of a sudden there was a change. A loud voice boomed out "Help, Help, Help, Help, Help, Help." In a short time, I heard a woman's voice, "What do you need?" And he answers, "_ _ _ _."
I went into the bathroom and I had to look into the mirror. Was the blob stopped or was it still advancing. Was I going to be happy or was I going to start writing my will? Eeek! My DNA must have merged with a fly's. The sight was ghastly, but the good news was the infection had not spread and was actually shrinking. Even though I looked like an alien who was doing a bad impersonation of humans. I was getting better.
After a short talk with Dr Cook, we both agreed that it would be better if I stayed one more night even though she was willing to let me go home that day. One more day meant one more night I asked my nurse for a sleeping pill. A man must know his limitations.

One thing about staying in this dormitory from the "Ship of Fools" it confuses me. I don't know how to react. Most of the resdents here are elderly, frail, and sick, sort of like the residents of assisted living facilities, and I'm one of them. I know that I'm old, but not that old. This stay is either going to make me feel decrepit or very young and healthy. In truth, it makes me feel both. I am getting older. It's impossible not to recognize that fact. I'm not as old as most of the patients around me, but I'm certainly not as young as the staff doing a job that I once did so many years ago.
Looking at the residents around me, I can see my own future. I don't want to go there. There is much more that I want to do one more time; swim in the warm water's of Hawai'i, cuddle up to Emi before going to sleep, complete one more sudokou puzzle, play and sing one more Hawaiian tune, have an exquisite meal with my family, hit one more ace on the courts...the items too many to mention and it has to inclue all the things that I want to do but haven't yet. But it is not for me to say when the end is at hand. I only know that I have now, and I am thankful for each now...and my health, for what it is, and with the thought that it is now getting better. You know, I didn't really want to be the man with no face, or the new 2008 version of the elephant man, or the man that the blob ate but somehow survived although he doesn't look like it.

So they're letting me out. The final decision is no decision. The culture came back normal. My case is termed erysipelas. I need to "ask" it and see what I have. I shall take my pills and hopefully I will continue to get better. I have nothing but good thoughts. The option is too terrifying.

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.