Aloha, cous

In the Hawaiian language, words can sometimes mean more than one thing in English. Aloha means hello and goodbye. It can also mean kindness, love and affection. To the Hawaiian people, they can do things “with aloha,” such as surfing, working or living, because they love it so much.

My first cousin, Kerry John, lived her life – most of it in Hawaii – with aloha, even when things were difficult. She passed away February 25, 2023, at 62 years old.

Way too young. Way too soon.

We were a little over a year apart in age, which makes her death even more unimaginable. I’m having trouble believing she’s gone.

As kids, we sort of grew up together. Her father, my Uncle Edib, was my dad’s younger brother, and we saw Kerry’s family in North Canton, Ohio, during regular visits to see my paternal grandparents, Sittu and Jiddu.

Or for weddings and funerals. Or the delicious Syrian food Sittu made. Or summer vacations. Truly. It was either North Canton, Pittsburgh or, once in a blue moon, Cleveland! My parents knew how to live.

My dad was the oldest of six, so there were a lot of Ohio cousins. But I think I was closest to Kerry because of our age and interests. We’d laugh and talk and play tennis in the street. She always beat me. Always.

Kerry had a way with words. She was smart, funny, kind and a natural at public relations and communications, which she studied at Kent State University.

After graduating from college, she worked in Cleveland for several years. Then she left for Hawaii with a friend and never looked back.

That was some 30 years ago. Hawaii was her happy place.

She started a business watching and caring for animals. And she was “Mom” to her own fur babies: several cats and parrots.

Kerry was truly at her best when talking to animals. She had a way with them. Knew what they needed, wanted and felt. Two-legged or four. She could see the world through their eyes.

Here’s an excerpt from a Facebook post of hers from a few years ago that I had saved:

“People tell you not to blink when you have children, but what about the dog who was with you before your children were even thought of? The dog who was by your side before you found the love of your life, the dog who jumped from apartment to apartment in your early 20s. No one tells you to cherish every moment you have with them. Cherish the dog. The one who’s been there through every breakup and every dumb fight with your best friend. That dog who slept in the bed with you when you were lonely and made you feel safe when you left home. Cherish him, because one day you’ll take him on a walk and he’ll start to get tired before you, and you’ll realize just how many years he’s been walking by your side.”

I can’t remember the last time we actually spoke on the phone. Or saw each other in person. It’s been so many years. But we never missed a Christmas or a birthday without a card or email greeting.

We always started our communications — texts, emails, cards and, back in the day, handwritten letters — with two words: “Hey, cous.”

And most often ended the conversation with, “Love, your cous.”

Her birthday was January 27. I emailed her and wrote something on her Facebook page, but I didn’t get a reply, which was unlike her. For the next three months until my April birthday, we were the same age, and we joked about it every year around this time. Not this year.

Her mom – my beloved Aunt Mary – said Kerry wasn’t feeling well the past few months or so. They often did Zoom calls, and on the last one, her daughter didn’t seem like herself.

It took doctors awhile to determine her diagnosis. This time, it was neuroendocrine cancer caused by a tumor that forms from cells releasing hormones into the blood. It was too late to treat.

She went into hospice care a few weeks ago. Fentanyl managed her pain and kept her comfortable. Her longtime friend, Joy – the person who had encouraged her to move to Hawaii – was by her side.

And on the last Saturday in February, Kerry was gone.

The thing is, about 10 years ago, Kerry was diagnosed with cervical cancer. It wasn’t easy, but she beat it. Even with some serious complications that left her with a ruptured colon and a colostomy bag.

But it didn’t seem to faze her. It was just a new way of life, her mother told me in a phone call last week.

At 88, my Aunt Mary has ongoing health issues herself. Yet the tragic irony is that this widow and mother of five, already has been through this.

Her oldest daughter, Patty, died September 24, 2001, of breast cancer. She was 45.

“It’s not how it’s supposed to be,” Mary said of losing two daughters. Her voice was halting. Fragile. Breaks my heart.

She is thankful for the comfort and support of her two sons, David and Michael, and daughter Kim.

Below clockwise from top left: Sisters Patty, Kerry and Kim; Kerry and a feathered friend; the Jamile and Esper John family at their 50th wedding anniversary in the early 1970s (that’s my father on far right with the mustache); the grandchildren at the same event (that’s me behind my Sittu with Kerry to my right and Patty on my left wearing glasses); Kerry and her mom in a past Ohio winter.

After Kerry’s passing, Kim posted something on Facebook that made me realize how much small things matter and how our lives impact others:

“Our family has lost a daughter, sister, best friend, pet-Mom, cousin and has changed her rank to an angel. We are heartbroken to have lost her way too early. To the amazing sister that let me use her ID to get into dance clubs when I was too young, who taught me how to get around the band camp rules, and for influencing my musical taste (among other things), I sure do miss you, sis. I know we’ll see each other again one day. Love you.

Just remember that tomorrow is never guaranteed. Tell those close to you that you love them.”

Not surprisingly, my cousin Kerry wanted her ashes scattered in the ocean. Her mother will keep some to put next to her daughter Patty’s urn.

A big mahalo to you, Kerry. That’s “thank you” in Hawaiian.

Rest in peace, cous.

Aloha. For now, anyway.