My father was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer on Thanksgiving 1991. I brought my family (wife and 3-year-old daughter) to Hawaii from Chicago because the prognosis was grave. The surgeon told us that cancer had spread throughout his body and he had less than six months to live. When we brought him home after a few days of convalescing in the hospital, he was in severe pain so we took turns caring for him since he was bedridden. We returned home to Chicago with heavy hearts knowing that he would be gone in less than six months. It was my plan to take leave from work in April and return to Hawaii to help care for him…to help him die. I received a call on December 23rd from my older sister. “You have to come back as soon as possible. He had a really bad night and we need your help.” I was on a flight the next day with my computer and work papers. It was the busiest time of year for me, but my company was very understanding and let me take leave with very short notice. We took 8-hour shifts to sit with him and watch him wither away. Dad had always loved music and I was blessed with some of his musical talents. I played the piano in the living room with the doors open so that he could hear it. One day, I borrowed my sister’s guitar and played and sang some songs at the foot of his bed. He smiled through his pain and drifted off to sleep. I stood up and crept silently out of the room promptly slamming the guitar against his foot. He woke with a start and laughed as he shook his head. The lighter moments were few, vastly outnumbered by highly emotional and stress-filled ones. The next morning after a horrible night, when I was the only one in his room, he shed a single tear and exhaled for the last time, the death rattle. It was the only time that I saw him cry. I kissed him goodbye and sadly went to the living room to tell those that were there that he had passed quietly. Something broke in me that morning. I still haven’t figured out how to fix it. From that time forward, I have always associated that very emotionally charged time with the holidays and lost touch with the spirit of the season. I actually dreaded the Holidays. Sixteen years later, divorced and having just moved to NYC, a friend invited me to participate in a Christmas gift-giving activity. A men's support group wanted to purchase Christmas presents for children who were in a hospital which was located in a low-income area of Brooklyn. They wanted to hand out presents since the kids would be spending Christmas in the hospital. We went to Toys R Us, and bought presents based on the age and sex of the kids that were in the hospital. Then we put on our Santa Hats and went to distribute the presents. It turned out that my present was for a 10-year-old African American boy. He had been hit by a car and was confined to his hospital bed in a hip cast. His grandma had been sleeping in his room since the accident. She looked very tired but was able to muster up a weak smile. I gave him his present (a remote-controlled ambulance), ironic but he was so happy to have a toy to play with. Granny asked me if anyone had told me that I looked like Mr. Miyagi. I admitted that it was my nickname and we all laughed as I tried to release the ambulance from its Miyagi-proof packaging. I taught them how to say Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in Hawaiian. We laughed and smiled forgetting for a short while about his pain. All too soon we said our goodbyes and I left the ward. “Aloha – y’all!” “Aloha Mr. Miyagi!!!” When the group congregated in the lobby the organizer told us this story. . . Many years earlier, his sister had been hospitalized. She too was in the hospital during the holiday season. She received a doll that she treasured for years until she passed on. His family buried that doll with her because it meant so much during her time of suffering. He went on to tell us that he had made the decision to use the money that his family had saved up for a Disney World vacation. He wanted to "pay it forward" and share the good feelings of the season. He used their vacation fund to buy all of the toys. I watched his wife and kids as he told his story. It was so powerful to see the expressions on their faces change from irritated and disappointed to "moved" and “fulfilled”. I too was moved. It doesn’t take much effort to make a difference in a person’s life. This act of thoughtfulness will stay with me because, in giving, I was the recipient of a greater gift. Try to turn your eyes away from yourself and perform random acts of kindness. Pay it forward. Several years later the Shack Hawaii Kai had their annual Christmas party and offered a buffet to those who donated toys. On Christmas Eve I was fortunate enough to participate in the delivery of those toys to a shelter. Two waitresses and I packed the toys into my car and drove to the shelter to drop them off. When we got there, a person opened the gate and we drove in expecting to just drop off the toys. He asked us if we wanted to give them out. We looked at each other, then said YES!!! I warned them that I would probably start to cry as we loaded up a cart and took the freight elevator to the second floor where the families were living. As he opened the elevator gate, we could hear the sound of children and parents excitedly talking all at once. The children formed a line with their parents to get the toys. It was such a wonderful moment and made us feel so good to see the smiling faces of both the children and their parents. It's times like this that make me happy to be alive. A little-known fact is that Pat Morita (Mr. Miyagi) spent much of his childhood years in hospitals due to a variety of ailments. After he had attained his fame and fortune he would go to the Shriner’s Hospital in Honolulu to distribute toys with the condition that there would be no press coverage. He did this as often as possible because he knew what it was like to be in a hospital during the holidays. I am proud to look like him and hope that I can be like him.