The day my mother died, November 15, 2014, she spoke incessantly. Not necessarily to me, but to someone. Judging by her end of the conversation, someone understanding and kind. They laughed and chatted about all sorts of things ranging from dark family secrets to topical and lighthearted subjects such as their outfits. Periodically she’d lift her head up to me and smile with a subtle sigh. She was tired. It had been a long, hard, good fight, and she was losing. Quickly. Our eyes would lock and she’d quietly say “love you”. She spoke of my blog several times that day. I owe her this entry. It consists of first, a letter to her, then the eulogy I wrote and read at her service which was on January 18th this year.

Before I begin, I have to say that losing my mother has been a significant turning point in my life. Just last year I was marveling at the fact that I was supposed to be an adult, wasn’t I? I have 2 successful businesses, 3 children, a really safe car and a mortgage. Weren’t those all classic markers of adulthood? But I missed the one that would trump them all. I had a mother dying of cancer. Word to the wise: Denial is a very powerful thing. Never underestimate someone in denial. Since her passing I haven’t once questioned my adulthood. What I have questioned are my priorities. Maybe, yes, my heart is broken, but it is wide open. Now I see with perfect clarity how precious and quick this lifetime is. And that would be the last of many gifts that amazing woman gave me.

Mom,

It’s been over two months now. I feel as though there is so much catching up to do, and I am frightened to do it. That means walking back down that road (as though I haven’t every single day since), and reliving it all over again. And there are so many questions. Useless questions like “why didn’t I see?” and painful questions like “who am I without you?”.

There is so much to tell. How does one reconcile and describe the single most difficult moment in one’s life? I suppose we were lucky. We were together and had some knowledge, whether we chose to believe it or not, of what was to come. Others aren’t quite as fortunate, as you well know. Hopefully, I never will. That day, that moment in time, was the most precious and significant yet. These children of mine, they are my lifeblood and my every waking minute. They are the reason I breathe in and out, and a wellspring of fulfillment and joy the likes of which I did not know was possible. But you took the cake and steal the show. Just as you often did. Overriding my carefully plotted emotions and meticulously controlled responses.

That day was spent leaning in close to you, trying to hear and absorb all you said. After a lifetime of lame excuses to get off the phone, of counting utility poles as they flew past the car in an attempt to drown out a lecture, I ate up every word you uttered. Some were painful, some were lovely, some were hilarious, but all were honest and reminded me of who you are. Or were. A woman in search of a connection. The hope that someone would finally see in you the person you wanted to be. That there would be no questions, just an acceptance, an ease of being and relating.

I’m sorry it took your leaving for me to see you. For me to see myself and shed the prejudice and resentment I carried. I know now it was fear of course. We know it’s at the root of everything we loathe, yet I arrogantly believed myself immune. The fear of losing you running like a poison through my blood, clouding my heart. But let’s be honest, for what does it matter now? You made it difficult. The reasons for that born of a childhood you worked so hard to destroy the memory of simply by doing the exact opposite. A childhood where love was left unexpressed and replaced instead with violence and neglect. That was not your choice, nor was it mine, yet we suffered the long felt repurcussions. My children will never know the depth of suffering you rose from, and thank God for that. That cycle will end with you whether you knew it was happening or not. Your faith in your immunity to the seemingly unavoidable symptoms of a home such as that of your youth served as an inspiring personal challenge that you designed. Yet it was entirely unbeknownst to you. I would like to say that you did it in the end, but I’m not sure that’s the case. You were closer than you had ever been, but a few words from any of them would have gone a long way to easing the long running pain that was your relationship with your family.

You stood apart from them. They’d be the first to tell you that. And they did so at your memorial. Each recounting a story of your individuality and rebelliousness. Your determination to honor your instincts and walk whatever damn path you saw fit. Perhaps your path would have been one of peace and comfort had they extended a hand and reached out to you, but as it was, it was a journey of wide eyed adventure and ended in fierce and unyielding love. Like my love for you. Forever flowing forth from me. Just as the sorrow has been since that terrible day in November. My grief is a jar slowly filling with the things I’m longing to tell you. The affection I am longing to give you. It fills and fills til it overflows. Then the tears come and they don’t stop til there is finally a lessening, and it is once again possible to breathe and to find the joy in the small moments that make up my beautiful life.

Thank you for for all of this. You are the root of my lifeline, of my story, and I will be forever grateful. I’ll see you in my dreams.

Eulogy

Thank you for coming. It is surreal to me that we are here. That she has left. Or as she put it, that she has “gone home”. The incredible strength of spirit and body that was this woman- this force of nature. How can one so full of life cease to be? Mom fought that horrible and indisriminate disease for years, and she did it with hope and optimism for the future. With humor and with honesty.

I for one thought the doctors were all wrong. That she would confound them all. That she would be here today and for years to come- challenging me, loving me, my brother, my children…all of you. I was convinced of this until the moment her labored breathing slowed and we began our goodbye.

I’m so glad that our gathering today is a small one. An intimate group of friends and family that knew her so well. I feel as though I may speak from the heart, that I may honor my mother, and bid her aloha with complete sincerity. I’ll admit that I’ve struggled with this eulogy. I’ve found this process difficult and painful. I was hoping for some form of catharsis through writing, but that hasn’t come. Time will have to work it’s bittersweet magic on my heart. But the loss of one’s mother, a woman so filled with mana and aloha, is a devastating loss.

Each time I sat down to compose my thoughts, they came in the form of a letter to my mother. My mother was an intensely personal woman, so perhaps it is fitting that her eulogy be so as well. But I feared that perhaps that was self-indulgent. Her absence isn’t mine alone and I am acutely aware of that. My brother and his family, my husband, my children, …all of us here have lost someone singular and unique. This is one of the lessons I’ve learned since her passing- that she didn’t just touch each of your lives, she greatly impacted so many. So, in the end- a compromise: first I’ll address the Pua we all knew- the fearless, intrepid, brash, passionate woman that loved each of you very much. And then, if you’ll indulge me, I’ll address her directly.

I think we can all agree that Mom was a force to be reckoned with. And if you weren’t careful, and maybe you didn’t want to be, she’d sweep you up and carry you along with her. Forever changing your perspective and showing you that there was a wide world out there that was filled with adventure, and curse words, and really fast things. That there was beauty in everything, and that the world around us was meant to be explored and revered. That it was ok, or even necessary, to throw caution to the wind every now and then. Essentially, it boiled down to “you had better get your butt outside and take it all in, cause it’s too good not to.”.

There was a mysterious duality to mom, which I think that those of us who knew her well can attest to. She led a simple life, full of simple pleasures, yet her past is complicated, and therefore so was she. She was bold, and at times terribly shy. She was potent and never backed down, but she craved reassurance. She was wise, yet childlike and vulnerable. She was the strongest person you’d ever meet, but as fragile as a stained glass window at times. She was intense, yet light hearted and downright silly. Her face was an open book, but there were secrets the depths of which we will never know. My mother was hilarious. She’d tell you that if she were here. But she was the first to recognize the moment it was time to look into each others eyes and tell the whole of it. No matter how hard or how frightening. Mom was compassionate, sometimes to the point of crippling empathy. She was loving and excited about and by life.

There was no caging this woman. To confine her, was the worst that one could do. This Island was the keeper of her heart, and she knew all it’s secrets. Aside from her children and her grandchildren, my mother felt no greater joy than that of being immersed in the ocean, of sleeping beneath the stars and beside the water. The smell of Limu and drying nets around her. The barbecue cooking her dinner. She was well grounded to this earth and to this place. And yet her head was often in the clouds- daydreaming and asking questions. Marveling in the world around her, wide-eyed and curious.

What you saw with Mom was what you got. She had very few defense mechanisms and every action could ultimately be traced to either the quest for love or to give love. She might have made it difficult to see that on occasion, but that’s all it really was. Her desire to be heard. A desire to be understood and accepted, to engage. To see you and to be seen by you.

There is no filling the chasm that has formed in the center of my chest. I will forever tend to it and be mindful of it, but I’m afraid it is here to stay. But I think it’s important to state that this doesn’t mean that I am unable celebrate her life and to “focus on the good memories” as everyone wisely instructs me to do. “Good” memories of my mother swim through my mind daily. Flooding me with love and longing, and despite my best efforts, phrases that begin with “I wish I” or ”I should have”. But most importantly, there is joy and a particular feeling that one can only attribute to the love that is born of a mother & child: Laughing so hard we had to make a pact to stop for a minute so that we could catch our breath, midnight runs up saddle road just to see how cold it was. Dinners out with our last few pennies because she knew exatly how decadent it was. 20 mile drives in the pounding Puna rain for Haagen Daas. Taking unmarked roads that were so unmarked that she’d pull the machete out from behind the seat and pass it to me so that I could clear the road ahead of our truck. Road trips. My youth is a succession of road trip after road trip. Exploring every nook and cranny of this special place. Mom & I crisscorssed this island more times than the hele on bus. Singing Jimmy Cliff and Van Morrison at the top of our lungs, bound for the ocean somewhere, anywhere. Who knew? We didn’t. The only rule was at least 3 albums worth of music between home and our destination. There was no schedule, no concern about when we’d be home or what we had packed. If we needed it, we’d get it. Odds were wouldn’t need it. Mom was fearless. When worry, trepidation or concern for our truck and by extension ourselves would creep in, all I need do was look at her face and my fear would dissolve. “We’ll be fine, don’t worry. You’ll see” she’d say. And she was right. We were fine. And we were somewhere amazing and it was just the two of us. Just like she wanted it. Away from the maddenning world. Away from the noise and the conflict that were the unavoidable symptoms of life among people. The beach, the mountain, but above all, in the ocean. This is where she felt most confident. At home and at peace. Mom wanted nothing money could buy. She wanted experiences, she wanted to feel and see whatever she could- to be on a horse, to have the wind in her hair, to be caked in salt and smelling of campfire smoke. I often times thought that she was born out of her intended time. That she got lost somewhere along the way and was a fish out of water. Perhaps literally.

Mom’s story is nothing short of miraculous. And like all great tales, there are moments of side splitting laughter and of terrible, intense sadness. Of overcoming great odds and adversity. There is even an ocean crossing! There are set backs and incredible displays of courage. But outweighing everything else, there is love. A fierce and unyielding love for her family. A will to protect and preserve at whatever cost. Even when it meant facing dangers that few of us possess the courage to do.

This love and determinaton came in the form of an otherworldly strength of spirit. A resolve and fearlessness that I haven’t met the likes of in my lifetime, and that I can only dream of possessing. My mother was an extraordinary human being. A courageous and gutsy lady whose presence commanded the respect of lifetime criminals and the adoration of little children. Whose power could be felt the instant you met her. She lived and loved fully and authentically. When the chips are down, what more can we ask for ourselves?

As a teen, my mother stepped onto a sailboat bound for the Pacific Ocean in the heart of the winter with nothing but a small bag and a grin from ear to ear. The promise of adventure and the broad horizon too sweet and tantalizing a prospect to look over her shoulder even once towards home. She spent weeks on that sailboat, lost at sea. On Thanksgiving Day, the Coast Guard finally found that little sailboat adrift in the pacific, and presented her and her fellow wayward crewmates with a baked turkey and all the trimmings. I’m sure that my husband and brother can attest to the fact that we have heard my mother tell that story more times than we can count. And each time she did, it was with nothing but a sense of fondness and a yearning to be back there again, lost in the middle of the ocean. The where, when and how that equate to a resolution…unknown. Yet she was not afraid for one single moment. This was a defining characteristic of my mother. Her longing to be free, to be unbound and among the natural world, and she did so without hesitation.

What was to become my mother’s legacy, began when she stepped off that sailboat and onto the shores of California as a very young woman. Born of this time were Nika, Joshua & myself. Motherhood was the central focus of her life and that which she dedicated herself to at whatever cost. Being a mother, and eventually a grandmother, 5 times over, challenged and fulfilled her, and provided her with a sense of continuity and community that she sought for so long. As Julie & I can attest to, much pressure was applied to supply Mom with grandchildren and to make quick work of it if we didn’t mind. And in the end, I think the love and adoration of her grandchildren was her greatest source of pride. Our love and dedication was a forgone conclusion and was to be professed at regular intervals, so help us. The fact that her grandchildren not only loved but liked her so much, was something else entirely. Simone Puanani, Skyler Ohia, Luca Aukai, Oliver Nainoa and Billie Kealaola were the icing on the cake, and the sunshine in her heart. The hope of seeing them grown and with families of their own was what kept her going. They made the struggle worthwhile. She loved you very much and will always be with you.

Mom’s passing has been very much like an earthquake. Cracking open my heart, and shifting the course of my life. Mom raised us to carry gratitude, wonder, compassion, and love in our heart and to apply those values to everything we did. And I feel as though I have successfully done that- how else can I explain the countless blessings that include my island home, my husband, my children, my brother and his family, as well as all of you. But it is because of her passing that I am listening a little more closely. When before I rushed about, hurrying from here to there, I am now taking the time to fully appreciate this wondorous life and each and every moment that I am fortunate enough to live and breathe here on this planet and to know and love all of you. A month before she passed, I sat across from her in the hospital on the day we learned she had been referred to the care of hospice, and she told me “please don’t live a life filled with stress. Enjoy your life and your children. It is so short. Be happy, Birdie.” And I’ve been doing just that. Pretty much. Because even from the worst thing you can think of, a little good springs forth, doesn’t it? That we are reunited here today. That there are lines of communication open again that were sadly dormant for too long. That we are making and taking the time to see and hear one another. She would have loved to have been here today. I can hear her saying “yeah, no shit, Manu”. But all this love, this support of one another, she would have been very happy.

Josh, Liam, my children & I were fortunate to spend a lot of time with Mom in her final days. We ate, we laughed, we held her hand and pet her head as she struggled and fought like the lion she was. We couldn’t have asked for a better place for mom to call home than the Hospice Hale. The staff loved and cared for her like family, and welcomed us with wide open hearts as we’d come and go multiple times throughout the day and into the night. The kids even came in their Halloween costumes and trick or treated at the Hale. We ate there, we slept there, it was our home away from home. That was partially because they are wonderful people performing minor miracles on a daily basis, but it was also because our faces plainly communicated our devotion to our mother and vice versa. Josh cared for her every need in those final weeks, rendering the staff essentially useless while he was there, leaving her side once, maybe twice- unable to be parted from her. That time was a precious gift to our family, and I will cherish those precious days that we had together. My personal experience has been that there isn’t much peace when one loses their mother, but I think Josh and I can both say with certainty that our mother died knowing that she was loved, that her children were grateful for every sacrifice she made and for every adventure we took. That she will be carried with us, and seated in the hearts of our children, each and every moment we live and breathe. That spirited, beautiful, unique, pistol of a woman.

But that hasn’t helped to ease the ache, that sits right here in my chest. The longing for her. My mother.

I dreamt of you the other night, Mama. You walked in the back door of my home with your oxygen bag on your back and your poor excuse for a purse in your hand. You kissed me on the cheek, and when you pressed your face to mine, I could feel the softness of your skin. Your skin that never aged. I could smell you and your wavy hair was in my eyes. I can’t tell you the relief I felt. That you were here. Finally! I could help you to your usual spot on the couch, sit down next to you and tell you how very hard it’s been. That I am unterthered from the ground and adrift without you, Mom. How much I treasure you. How there is a gaping hole in the center of my body and I’m not sure I’ll ever fill it. What a time I’ve had, mom! As you would say, and often did, this sucks! But because you would be so pissed otherwise, I’m going to put one foot in front of the other and keep my chin up. That’s what you’d tell me if you were here. “Chin, up little bird”. But I have changed, Mom. Now I know. And now you know the answer to the biggest question of them all.

There is so much joy ahead of me, Mom. It is happening right now. If I’m lucky, there will be decades ahead filled with milestones like graduations, marriages, and, if I’m really lucky, grandchildren piled sky high around me. And there will be quieter milestones as well: shells discovered on the beach, a beautiful sky on a clear day, a really good song, snow on the mountain, a spectacular sunrise. The only problem is I will want to share them all with you. So here’s the plan, mom: I’ll focus on the times we did share, and on the deeply rooted memories of a woman who lived in the most vivid colors. A woman that felt and was grateful for every single second she was confined inside that ultimately failing frame. I’ll cherish the memories of a mother that loved her children fiercely and knew a thing or two about how to do this thing called life.

But here’s the good news, mama: now you are everything you dreamed of. It is all possible for you now. You are the ocean you fished and played in, and where my children splash. You are the stars in the sky that you laid under so many nights. You have always carried this place, Hawaii, in your heart. And now you are this place. Cradled here forevermore. You are home, mama. And that gaping hole in the center of my chest? That’s where I will keep you. Close to my heart. You will always be the stream running through my life. Through Josh’s. There is no beginning, no end. Just a continual flow. You did so good, mama. You showed ’em all and I am so proud of you. It’s time to rest easy. To breathe easy. Swim down deep, mama, and I’ll see you next time.

Your daughter, always,

Birdie