A Circle of Care

Every nonprofit has an origin story.

Most people assume the story of Machiko no Ishi begins in a hospice room in Southern California. In some ways, it does. But not really.

During my wife Machiko's final months, she found comfort in a small plush companion that reminded her of our beloved Maltese, Max. As her world became smaller and quieter, that simple object brought a sense of reassurance and calm that was difficult to explain but impossible to ignore. After she passed away, I found myself wondering whether other patients might benefit from the same kind of comfort.

That question eventually became Machiko no Ishi.

What I did not realize at the time was that the roots of the organization reached much further back than either Machiko or me.

My father, Dr. William "Dr. Mac" McLaughlin, spent much of his professional life caring for families on the island of Kauaʻi. For many years he served as a physician in Kōloa, during the final era of Hawaii's plantation-based medical system. He cared for workers, their spouses, their children, and often multiple generations of the same family. Later he served at Wilcox Memorial Hospital, but throughout his career he remained, at heart, a community doctor.

The communities he served reflected the rich diversity of plantation Hawaiʻi. Many of his patients were Japanese, Filipino, Chinese, Korean, Portuguese, Native Hawaiian, and families of many other backgrounds who had come together through the islands' plantation history.

As a child, I never imagined that decades later I would marry a woman born in Japan.

I certainly never imagined that I would someday create a nonprofit organization with a Japanese name, focused in part on serving Japanese American and other Asian patients facing serious illness.

Life has a way of connecting dots that only become visible when viewed in reverse.

My father and Machiko shared a special bond. They genuinely enjoyed each other's company and held deep respect for one another. Looking back, I sometimes joke that he may have liked her more than he liked me. Like most jokes, there is probably a grain of truth in it.

What they shared was not simply affection. They also shared a deep connection to Hawaiʻi.

Neither of them was born there.

My father arrived in the 1960s as a middle-aged physician from Philadelphia and spent the rest of his life serving the people of Kauaʻi. I was a high school kid then so I accompanied him and my Mom when they relocated. Machiko arrived years later from Japan. Yet we all came to feel that Hawaiʻi was not merely a place where we lived. It was home.

That feeling has stayed with me.

Today my parents rest on Kauaʻi. When my own journey is complete, Machiko's ashes and mine will someday be scattered together on the islands we both loved.

Perhaps that is why I find myself reflecting on these connections more often now.

My father practiced medicine. Machiko no Ishi distributes plush companions. On the surface, there is very little similarity between the two. Yet beneath those differences lies a few common beliefs.

People deserve kindness when they are vulnerable.

They deserve dignity.

They deserve to know they have not been forgotten.

My father's work focused on helping people live healthier lives. Our work focuses on bringing comfort during life's final chapter. The methods are different, but the underlying purpose feels surprisingly familiar.

When I created Machiko no Ishi, I was not trying to continue a family tradition. I was simply trying to honor my wife. Only later did I come to appreciate that the story may be larger than I realized.

A plantation doctor caring for immigrant families on Kauaʻi.

A Japanese woman who carried her culture, warmth, and grace wherever she went.

A small nonprofit created in her memory.

Separate stories, separated by decades, somehow woven together.

Life rarely follows the path we expect. Sometimes we only understand the shape of the journey after looking back. For me, that journey has taught a simple lesson.

Acts of care matter. They matter in a plantation clinic. They matter in a hospital. They matter in a hospice room.

And sometimes they take the form of something as simple as a small white Maltese companion resting quietly in someone's arms.

Warmly,

Tom