Window of Consciousness
Vonda Halaufia

“Are you worried about leaving us?” I whispered in my Dad’s ear as he squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, we will take care of Mom, I promise. Thank you for all the lessons you have taught me and being such a great example and the best Dad. I love you.”

My father is dying. I’m saying good-bye. My mom and sisters are with me, and we are taking turns holding his hand, sharing a memory, and expressing our last good-bye. It’s ironic since my Dad has Alzheimer’s. He has not recognized my siblings nor me for four years. We have shared our childhood stories and memorialized his role in our lives during the four years, hoping to spark his memory and selfishly fill the loss of acknowledgement of our identities he shaped.

It began as a small issue of forgetting where he put his dentures and spiraled slowly to forgetting each of my siblings. He kept a journal of his thoughts and notes from books he read. As the disease progressed, his penmanship and written thoughts deteriorated. Dad knew that he had Alzheimer’s, and as time went on, his struggle to remember who he was and where he came from became evident. He began writing on the walls in our house: Aivini Hala'ufia, Koloa, Vavau Tonga, the friendly islands.

My Dad received a scholarship to the United States; he was a teacher in the Tongan Islands and had five children at his acceptance. Upon his graduation, our family had grown to eight. Finding a home was stressful for our family because of our color.  My parents were repeatedly informed we were dirty people and, therefore, a liability.  Fortunately, my father had a classmate that was moving out of his parent’s one-bedroom apartment and offered my parents his place—four in the bedroom, four in the kitchen, and two in the garage.  My parents were relieved, and we have the fondest memories in that small house.

Finding a teaching position in a majority white community, despite belonging to the majority religious ideology, became an issue of survival with eight children. He became a carpenter.  He wanted to teach, but he told me, “If one door closes, another will open, but there are usually more windows than doors in a house; find the windows of opportunity the door may have a line.”  There was never a hint of bitterness from him and this experience. 

Our family didn’t have much money, but we never felt that way.  My dad found a couple of old bikes in the landfill. He surprised us with these fixer-uppers by telling us to, “Look out the window.”  Surprises presented looking through the window included our first car, a new “used” station wagon accommodating our whole family. Two used lawnmowers to earn extra income and mowing our neighbors’ lawns who were widows for blessings.

“Eyes are the window to the soul” was the sage advice my father gave to me before leaving home to explore the world.  He told me that you could understand people better if you look them in the eye while speaking, and I should be suspicious of anyone who didn’t look me in the eye.  I found this helpful in my travels and, more importantly, in my relationship with friends and family. 

Since his memory loss, his eyes, still warm and loving, showed no recognition nor familiarity but welcomed and entertained me as a stranger.

He greeted me with his handsome smile on my previous visit and said, “Hi, how are you?”  I paused with a moment of hope that he remembered me.  But he added, “My wife is inside if you're hungry, she has food, go inside and visit.  I will come in soon.”

“Hey, I’m Vonda! Your favorite daughter.  Don’t you remember?”

He laughed nervously and awkwardly said, “I don’t know….go see my wife, she will feed you some good food.”

Now, my Mom is sitting by my Dad’s side.  She is whispering in his ear.  My sisters and I are sharing the memories that we whispered in Dad’s ear.  He gave us each a squeeze from his hand after our whispers, and we felt a welcomed recognition and final homage. My Mom kisses my father and holds him.  He pointed to our tall window and passed away in my Mom’s arms.

Looking through our tall window, we viewed the azure blue sky and majestic swaying pines moving with our sorrow, and our reflections mirrored our sad faces. We joined hands, said a prayer, and sang an old Tongan song to bring comfort to our despair and lift his spirit to flight.