She's 82 now and it shows. I never expected her to act or look her age. The first time I noticed that my mom was not herself was about 10 years ago. Even in her early 70s, she would often get up to walk to the market, a few blocks away. I always drove her there instead, but when I wasn't around, she went on her own, unafraid of the many dumbass, helter-skelter drivers in congested Honolulu.

But it happened quickly. I'd come over and she'd be sitting there on the couch, asleep and motionless. Mouth wide open. This wasn't the woman who raised me. Then again, with all the growing incidents of forgetfulness -- eventually, she would forget to feed herself -- I had to come to grips with the truth. She was and still is the woman who raised me. Raised three of us. Alone. No support from her three exes.

So it's come to this, my mom staying with my sister for the past three years. Yesterday, she was in the hospital for the fourth time in that period, the second time in the past two weeks, all from falling and hurting herself. She's become frail, sometimes semi-conscious in some ways. Late in the day, or like yesterday, early in the morning, she lacks any focus, fades in and out, and slips. That's not the mom I remember, but over the past few years, I've gotten used to this. She forgets, but somehow she can pinpoint things. She knows I'll be there most nights to change her and tuck her into bed. She still says the same thing.

Good boy. Good thing I nevah drink, never smoke. Hard time three kids. Whew.

One night, while I kissed her goodnight and met her forehead with mine, she said something unusual. Now you big boy. Everybody grown up. Now what I going do?

I'd thought about this often before. She devoted herself to us with every ounce of energy, every fiber in her being. I always knew we were in her soul, even if we were arguing and hating each other's guts. But what is there to do for someone who's done her job? I had no answers. So I kiss her and pull the blanket over her, make sure her feet are covered and warm. She's asleep within seconds.

That was just a few nights ago. With her health declining rapidly, there's no way I can see my sister and I continuing to care for her. Not when I usually work nights (except in the summer), and not when my sister is busy with all her other meetings and stuff.

Care home. I refused to think of that as an option before, but my mom needs 24-hour care, realistically, and we can't provide that. Not when she has a weak heart, abnormal white-blood cell count and all kinds of other problems, like being severely underweight no matter how much we try to feed her.

It's about what's best for her, as always, and now I am getting used to the concept of other people watching over her. It's going to be horrible for me, maybe not right now, but definitely later. She was a girl who was sent away from home (Kula, Maui) to go dorm on Oahu at a school for the deaf and blind. How many 8-year-old kids could stand being away from their mothers and fathers for nine months in a row, year after year after year?

A lot of her pals from those days, the other deaf folks, have passed. Her world shrank quickly. She misses Esther, the one from Palolo, dearly. Thelma is still strong, though. Finally retired from her job at 78.

My mom is one of the strongest people I've known, but abandoning her is not easy. I suppose the "correct" way to phrase it is that we'll provide her with caregivers, professional caregivers. Whatever. It'll be hard. But sometimes loving someone means letting go. I just hope she still feels loved when it happens, after it happens. I'll still see her almost every day. There should be some peace in my mind and heart, knowing that she'll have instant medical care when necessary. That she'll gain weight, and hopefully, God willing, still live many more years with that sharp wit intact.

But I don't ask for things to get easy. Nobody promised that. What we have is enough.

Previous Article: Mongol: Pupule's hype machine
Next Article: Dude, his children were ordered to surf