‘HOW TO SPEND
EACH PRECIOUS DAY’

Pictured, George Fujita and his wife,
Pamela Jean Fujita-Starck.

---

George Fujita kept a journal
as he was dying of cancer as
a way to communicate with
his family and as a guide for
others with terminal illnesses

By Helen Altonn
Star-Bulletin

"No one wants to die . . . But whether young or old, the day may come when our physician will say, 'There is nothing more we can do for you.'" What will we do then? When there is no hope for cure? From here on out there is only death . . . ”

George Y. Fujita asked those questions after learning last year that he had terminal cancer. He found the answers on his journey to death July 8 at age 66.

He kept a journal and shared his thoughts by e-mail with family and friends on the mainland. He was working on a manuscript: "To Live: Hope for the Dying."

"If death is really inevitable, we all want to die well. We want to know how to spend each precious day. We want to live with dignity and hope to the very last breath, to be free of pain, and to hold and be held by loved ones."

Fujita retired in 1995 from the University of Hawaii after 35 years as a counseling psychologist. He was diagnosed with cancer in 1996, said his wife of 16 years, Pamela Jean Fujita-Starck, an administrator in the UH's Outreach College.

Doctors were hopeful after he had surgery and chemotherapy, she said. But tests in April 1997 showed more cancer activity and he stopped treatments, she said.

"Poke . . . another poke . . . With my right hand, I searched the area in my back where I had been poked. It slowly dawned on me that the poke was probably from my liver. I felt a certain stiffness. A knocking.

"In spite of these ominous reports (of multiple inoperable tumors), we decide to make another trip to visit family . . . I look across the seat at Pam and see she is happily anticipating seeing her sisters again. I say, 'This may be my last trip.' As I say this, I pick up her hand and place it on the lump (in his throat). She is shocked . . . We both begin to cry.

In response, his son wrote:

"Dear Dad, I really didn't like reading this one because of the sadness and fear, but it works very well to convey feeling and impel thinking. As usual, you are helping me again. That's the happy part, and why I like this one so much. Love, Tom."

Fujita had made many adjustments in his life after a near-fatal heart attack when he was 40 or 41, his wife said.

His early brush with death and his psychological training enabled him to record his feelings about terminal cancer, she said. "How does one find hope in hopeless situations?"

Fujita writes that he was so scared and anguished at times, he thought of killing himself.

Then, he said, there were times of "complete, unexpected and utter joy."

He talks of a "voyage" that started with his first encounter with death.

"Over 20 years later, I face death from a new crisis: cancer . . . Leaving the shores of medicine and known cures, I embarked upon an incredible second journey of knowledge and discovery, of great despair and boundless love. Through this book I chart my path and share with others the wonder that I have found."

Fujita-Starck said his writings initially "were motivated to reach out and have close communication with his kids and me and friends and family, because it's kind of a taboo subject.

"He wanted to help us deal with the situation and, eventually, his death. It's really not about dying. It's about living."

Working on the computer, Fujita's thoughts were transmitted almost daily to about 15 people. Later, his journal was shared with others who related it to their experiences with terminal illness and dying, Fujita-Starck said.

She said her husband saw himself as a navigator on uncharted waters.

"Too many have already gone across these waters, terrified and lost. Their frantic efforts to stave off death with miracle cures and fruitless surgery are well-known. If I can point out one treacherous reef or current, one clear landmark, it will be worth every minute of my life."

He loved the ocean -- sailing and kayaking -- and woodworking, his wife said, noting he built a good portion of their Manoa home.

They also enjoyed traveling and spent the last couple years visiting his children on the mainland. He had three sons and one daughter by a previous marriage.

"He was always developing himself, looking for clarity, to see what was important," Fujita-Starck said.

After his heart attack, she said, "He wanted to live life well, in meaningful pursuits.

"He had tremendous integrity as a person and anything he pursued, he pursued with intensity."

"Playing a hard game of tennis. Showering and dressing in a fresh shirt and shorts. Drinking a cup of good black coffee. When we can do this, I tell Pam, "We've stolen another day . . .

"There were fair sized puddles of water, and although the rain had stopped, storm-clouds still threatened . . . And even as we mopped the court, more dark clouds rolled out of the valley and hovered above us. We played six games, three to three. And then the sky ripped open in a tropical downpour. But we still stole a day."

Fujita told of his mother's death in a poignant article, "To Die at Home." The 94-year-old woman died in the Fujitas' home, where they had cared for her from 1984 to 1989.

The couple talked about various scenarios to care for him when his condition worsened, Fujita-Starck said.

She felt she could do it. She had help from Fujita's son Mark, who was living with them.

The other children also came on and off to help, and Kaiser Permanente provided home care services.

"I wake to a new pain across the top of my abdomen and a glorious Hawaiian Christmas. Mele Kalikimaka. Next to me, Pam squirms to wakefulness and as we hold each other, tears are streaming down our faces. With each gasp, I feel acute pain. We both know I may not see another Christmas . . .

"I open my first present . . . In it is a picture of Pam and me. Even as I look at it, I break into sobs. It is a one-in-a-million shot. A simple picture of me and Pam sitting on a bench in a park near Boston . . . The picture is a gift of grace."

In April and May, Fujita gave talks to UH student service personnel, giving them an opportunity "to hear from someone dying and have a notion what it's about," Fujita-Starck said.

He continued writing until a week or two before his death. Although he needed strong narcotics for pain and his activities were limited, she said, "He maintained a great deal of presence and dignity."

"We are all slowly coming to realize that not very long from now, I will be dead. Memories of me, the person I was, will remain, but the evolving spontaneous being will end . . . How does one deal with this unspeakable loss?

"At one level of awareness I want to just scream and cry . . . At another level, I see these remaining days as a time to live as I have never lived before. To rise early and to go to the mountaintop. To wait for the sun to break out of the distant horizon . . . To celebrate in wonder . . .

"I will try to engage each day. Accepting in grace that which is given in luxurious abundance . . . "

He gave his children something to pass onto their children, Fujita-Starck said. "A real sense of who they are and where they come from -- clarity about what's important in their lives."

Even as he weakened and communication was difficult, she said, "He continued to reach out, to touch here, small words here and there. His concern was always for us and making it as easy as possible."

He wasn't religious but he "was not unreligious," she said. "He found comfort in here and now."

"I am slowly coming to see beyond the grave. That in this present moment, I can create something that will live beyond my death . . . I have come to see that something will endure. When I die, there may be a feeling of a great void . . . But beyond this loss, I feel that something of value will persist."

Rushing home from work one day to check on her husband, Fujita-Starck found him in "his favorite red tattered overalls, 'Fujita & Sons,' above the breast pocket." He was working on a koa buffet table, "the table of our dreams," she said.

"Now as I gaze through my tears," she wrote in the journal, "I see him bent into his work, the gray pallor of the very sick obvious in his countenance. But his eyes burn with intensity and his face is filled with a huge smile.

"His moves are elegant and precise, his concentration complete, as he touches the soul of the tree and sails on."