Aloha ... from the San Diego Suburbs
This week we were supposed to soak up Polynesian culture, take in Pearl Harbor and a pineapple factory, hike Diamond Head, snorkel in Hunaume Bay and just pretend all of the problems plaguing us in the Lower 48 did not exist.
I also was to run 8.15 miles through the streets of Honolulu with 25,000 others. I figured I could do the early morning race and make it back before our party of eight had finished breakfast. The entire trip and my purported athleticism represented magical thinking on my part, given the streets remain relatively barren and I can barely walk 4 miles at a time, let alone run fast for twice as far.
Well before I called to cancel our resort reservations and those incredibly cheap Southwest flights, the Great Aloha Run had added a virtual option. (See? What did I tell you.) So, in January, coming off a serious illness, I began to plan a seaside route and download a Hawaiian music playlist for this weekend. Then I realized I would be walking for at least a couple of hours and started to run 3-4 miles at a slow-but-steady pace to shave some time off my eventual Aloha Run. Then the world caved in on me on the eve of race week, and now I’m doing what it appears many other participants are too and stringing together shorter runs to hit 8.15 miles by Monday’s deadline.
My brother-in-law passed away this week, leaving behind many family members, friends and three barely-adult children. They are in the phase of mourning in which well-wishers keep them busy thanking the flower-givers and meal-makers, clearing out their dad’s desk at work, fielding texts from college dormmates, and FaceTiming relatives from afar. They’ve shared their favorite photos and videos, laughed at childhood stories in online tributes. They were born and raised in Blacksburg, and the village is taking care of these native-children as every small-knit community does.
Phil made it beyond the 5-year survival rate for those with bone marrow cancer, an insidious disease that didn’t get diagnosed until one day he experienced double-vision while watching a soccer game. That’s how cancer works in those too young to expect it. A benign symptom leads to a terrifying future. So too did his life end under similar circumstances. He went in Saturday afternoon for a routine blood infusion. By Sunday morning, he was on a ventilator in an ICU. He remained that way until all three of his children could travel home and give their goodbyes. My sister reported that he died 25 minutes after being taken off life support.
Suddenly fulfilling a virtual race requirement seemed trivial, but Tuesday I set off to at least start accruing miles in memory of my brother-in-law. I wish I could have just kept going, but my childcare duties prevented more than an hour’s reprieve. I conjured my own fond memories and privately wondered if Phil thought of me as warmly as I did him. I cursed Covid, which prevented all of us from seeing him one last time last fall in yet another canceled trip. And, of course, I considered how we never really know when the Grim Reaper will appear. My brother-in-law lived as if each day was his last. The TikTok-like videos and kooky photos in recent years reflect that carefree attitude the terminally ill eventually embrace. Phil, though, lived his entire life like that. That’s why there are so many mourners still laughing and smiling through tears.
I always knew “Aloha” served a dual purpose in Hawaiian culture—both to welcome and bid farewell. It’s so ubiquitous at tourist traps, almost crass in its commercialization. But to those from and of the islands, it remains revered. And it’s in that vein that I wish my dear brother-in-law a warm welcome wherever his soul now resides, even if I never got a chance to tell him goodbye.
