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The Goddess Speaks By Pat Gee |
Colleague’s death
teaches a lesson about
reaching out in lifeThe deaths in March and May of two people I cared about included some lessons about life that were of the type that repeat themselves until you get them right.
One, is that life is precarious and you don't have all the time in the world to let people important to you know you care about them. Two, you should put aside your own discomfort to reach out to them, so you don't kick yourself later in regret.
When George Steele, a copy editor at the Star-Bulletin, died in March, it was a shock that such a close colleague was gone. He was the kind of guy who went around trading put-downs with everyone, yet was a serious follower of Zen Buddhism.
He died a few days before the second anniversary of the "new" Star-Bulletin. He had a lot of health problems but I believe he died of a broken heart. His mother, the last significant person in his life, had passed away months before and he never got over it.
When this newspaper survived Gannett's attempted shutdown two years ago, it was George's idea for the newsroom staff to march from the old building, which we shared with The Honolulu Advertiser, to our new Restaurant Row office after we closed our last edition for Liberty Newspapers at noon. The walk was symbolic of the changeover, and would also put Gannett on notice that we were not just alive, but intending to kick some butt.
When it became obvious George was having a hard time, a few staffers actually did something about it. Assistant editor Mike Rovner went to his apartment to make sure he knew, "We care about you, and you're going to get back on your feet!" Graphics artist Dave Swann called George every day to check on him. They found George in his apartment when he failed to show up at work one day.
I knew George was hurting, but I didn't have the time to really talk it out with him. I bought a few inspirational cards I hadn't even signed. Then I got a funny feeling that I'd better start delivering them before something bad happened, so I put one in his mailbox at work. But it was too late.
AT GEORGE'S memorial, Mike urged everyone to reach out if they see someone hurting. That really stuck with me, like a pin poking at a guilty conscience. I know at least some on our staff also chided themselves for not doing more to help George when they had the chance.
I'm not saying that showing more concern would have made a difference. All the caring in the world doesn't necessarily prevent someone's demise. Many would prefer to cook a seven-course dinner or grow a garden of roses for someone than mumble the words, "I feel so bad for you. I wish I could do something."
But I don't think, "I don't know what to say," or feeling uncomfortable is a good enough reason to back away.
So when I heard that my aunt's health was deteriorating in mid-April, I was filled with a sense of urgency to visit her.
I found her lying in bed, barely able to talk or stay awake, and unable to stand. But when she saw me, her face lit up with the big, wonderful smile I've known all my life.
"Hi, Patty! Oh, how beautiful!" she said of the Easter egg tree I brought her. But her speech was not clear; the words were muffled. That was the last time I saw a vestige of the aunt I knew, the one who took care of us when we were kids. It killed me to see the vibrant person -- whose mind stayed sharp until the end -- so frail and incapacitated.
Her name was Fannie Wong and she would have been 92 on June 18. She had a no-nonsense approach to life, but really knew how to enjoy it. When I reach "old age," I want the same spirit of adventure she possessed.
She was the last of my father's family who grew up so poor in Palama that they often ran out of food. The worst time, she said, they were too weak to move, so "We lay on our beds for three days," until an uncle found them. But if one's wealth can be gauged by how much they are loved, she ended up very rich.
Although we visited her on special occasions, we knew we should have spent more time with her in spite of work and family obligations. When she lay dying, almost oblivious to our presence in the end, I asked myself why we didn't give her this much attention when it counted, when she could enjoy our company. Death vigils are often superfluous.
It was when she couldn't talk much at all that I visited her more than I ever had, chattering on in a one-sided conversation ... holding her hand, massaging her feet, showing her how much she meant to me by just being there. At least, I hope, I wasn't too late for that.
Pat Gee is a reporter for the Star-Bulletin.
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