We write to heighten our own awareness of life...We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection...We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it, to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth...to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely. When I don't write I feel my world shrinking. I feel I lose my fire, my color.
- Anais Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin
We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.
- C. Day Lewis, The Poetic Image
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Heroes, Large and Small
Maybe it's been nearly half a century since it happened, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It's like a touchstone, since earlier memories have faded from consciousness. Eight years old and diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma which, translated, means cancer of the soft tissue. I never heard my parents speak the word "cancer" out loud - never. They simply said, "You have a growth that needs to be removed." What I didn't know was what that meant, what lay ahead.
The oncology specialists at All Children's Hospital were grave and pointed: "She'll won't survive three months; the disease is rare; there are only two documented cases in medical history and both died; there's no cure." I can only imagine the devastation my parents felt hearing this news. Even so, not one of the children in our family of seven would've guessed it.
Much later, I learned that privately they argued over practicing faith healing vs. traditional medicine. But outwardly, they projected brave faces and hopeful hearts. They agreed to pursue both avenues of healing, in tandem. Doctors were permitted to do what they must - multiple surgeries, experimental chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant - while they fearlessly petitioned every church, denomination, and minister in our small community, asking my name be held up in prayer.
My mother begged the chief surgeon, C. Everett Koop (who, much later, became Surgeon General of the U.S.) say a prayer before operating. He agreed. I was a guinea pig, a literal experiment, a race against odds as a team of doctors attempted to remove the tumor, along with my lymph system up to the aorta. Next came trial levels of chemotherapy.
Photos reveal me shrinking to the size of a bony, frail bird and losing my strawberry blonde hair. I remember the arduous five hour drive to the hospital on a bumpy turnpike, feeling the rise of anxiety and nausea over the impending uncertainty of what was ahead, balling up my little fists to fight off the sickening ether mask, the sour smell of my hospital room, and the sheer white curtains, always pulled shut. Visitors never came, except the hospital priest - we were so far from home.
Yet, out of the horror an angel miraculously emerged. A young nurse, wearing a beautiful, intricately pleated and starched white cap, took special interest in me. As twilight set in, she would take me in her arms and rock and sing to me, occupying the sole rocking chair in the pediatric ward. I remembered her name for years and years. Now it's faded from my memory.
At the end of three months, I was still alive. Three years later, I was beginning to thrive. At the five year mark, the doctors pronounced me cured.
I think about the people who are the obvious heroes in my story: the doctors, who made such careful, calculated decisions and fearlessly executed them; my parents, who symbiotically imparted the ambient message that I was okay. But, it was the nurse who carved time out of her hectic schedule to hold, rock, and sing to me - in a place where every baby and child rightfully held equal claim on her attentions - she's the quiet hero I remember most.
The oncology specialists at All Children's Hospital were grave and pointed: "She'll won't survive three months; the disease is rare; there are only two documented cases in medical history and both died; there's no cure." I can only imagine the devastation my parents felt hearing this news. Even so, not one of the children in our family of seven would've guessed it.
Much later, I learned that privately they argued over practicing faith healing vs. traditional medicine. But outwardly, they projected brave faces and hopeful hearts. They agreed to pursue both avenues of healing, in tandem. Doctors were permitted to do what they must - multiple surgeries, experimental chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant - while they fearlessly petitioned every church, denomination, and minister in our small community, asking my name be held up in prayer.
My mother begged the chief surgeon, C. Everett Koop (who, much later, became Surgeon General of the U.S.) say a prayer before operating. He agreed. I was a guinea pig, a literal experiment, a race against odds as a team of doctors attempted to remove the tumor, along with my lymph system up to the aorta. Next came trial levels of chemotherapy.
Photos reveal me shrinking to the size of a bony, frail bird and losing my strawberry blonde hair. I remember the arduous five hour drive to the hospital on a bumpy turnpike, feeling the rise of anxiety and nausea over the impending uncertainty of what was ahead, balling up my little fists to fight off the sickening ether mask, the sour smell of my hospital room, and the sheer white curtains, always pulled shut. Visitors never came, except the hospital priest - we were so far from home.
Yet, out of the horror an angel miraculously emerged. A young nurse, wearing a beautiful, intricately pleated and starched white cap, took special interest in me. As twilight set in, she would take me in her arms and rock and sing to me, occupying the sole rocking chair in the pediatric ward. I remembered her name for years and years. Now it's faded from my memory.
At the end of three months, I was still alive. Three years later, I was beginning to thrive. At the five year mark, the doctors pronounced me cured.
I think about the people who are the obvious heroes in my story: the doctors, who made such careful, calculated decisions and fearlessly executed them; my parents, who symbiotically imparted the ambient message that I was okay. But, it was the nurse who carved time out of her hectic schedule to hold, rock, and sing to me - in a place where every baby and child rightfully held equal claim on her attentions - she's the quiet hero I remember most.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Luke's Garden
April 1, 1997, first thing in the morning and the phone is ringing. "Hello?" I answered. "Are you sitting down?" asked our adoption coordinator. "You've been chosen for a baby." Missing a heartbeat, I sunk to the floor. "You better not be kidding me - this isn't an April Fool's joke, is it?" I asked pathetically. "Absolutely not!" he reassured me warmly. "She's having a boy in 5 days."
FIVE DAYS! There was so much to do: get a nursery organized, orchestrate leave from work, prepare our 3-year old daughter, find a place to stay in D.C., get kitty-care...
And we did. We had baby in arms by April 7, nestled into a Marriott, and began the task of phoning family to make our incredible announcement. Pencils in hand, multiple lists later, we agreed on a name: Lucas Matthew. Piles of legal paperwork had to be rushed here and there in the city before we could go home. Hold ups, snafus, road blocks, obstacles, delays, confusion - days passed and the hotel bill was mounting. We sought aide from our Bishop, who contacted a local member of our church: we could stay in their home 'till the paperwork cleared!
One large bed was available, giving us the perfect excuse for the hip practice of a family bed. "A perfect way to increase bonding," we thought. Our daughter slept holding Luke in her arms until feeding time. It was sleepless, beautiful, and made-up as we went along.
Once home, life fell into place. Daddy went back to work. Days were simultaneously busy and quiet, not doing much of anything except caring for Lucas, our daughter, and with energy leftover, each other. Friends flocked in with gifts, casseroles, homemade rolls. We continued the family bed.
A day before finalization, the phone rang. On the other end was my husband, weeping. "The agency called - the birthmother wants the baby back!" he choked. My grip on Lucas tightened as I descended into a tunnel-like darkness. Frantic calls to attorneys and our adoption counselor later, I learned she was perfectly within her legal rights. In the District of Columbia birthparents are allowed 30 days to rescind once the baby is placed. And so she did - on day 29. A hysterical sickness settled in when we were told it was our responsibility to drive the baby back. Once again we pleaded with our Bishop for help: he found a couple willing to drive the baby back to D.C. The birthmother would be flying in from the Midwest to pick him up - on Mother's Day.
It was early spring, bright and sunny, but I couldn't move. Anger, bewilderment, and an unending well of grief overtook me. I couldn't play with my daughter. I couldn't prepare dinner, do the laundry, pay bills, talk with friends. I'd been hit by a truck and left for dead.
One day my little girl begged me to watch her dance outdoors. She dressed up elaborately, as if to get my attention. Weakly slumped on a lawn chair, my mind wandered as my eyes tried to focus: oh, she's dancing - look at those horrible yews - God, the sun feels good - why is she singing so loudly - I hate being alive - maybe I could plant a garden. There it was. The smallest breath of life surging up in the form of wanting to do something.
The rest of spring and summer she and I were together, outside: she dancing, me shoveling limestone rocks out of the earth, cathartically flinging them into heaps, preparing the soil, and contemplating the perfect balance of color, form, and texture in every perennial. Perennials, not annuals. Something I could count on being there again and again, every year.
It was my daughter's idea to name it "Luke's Garden." She said it would be something beautiful to look forward to year after year - life springing up from a wintry earth. It was then I realized teachers come in many forms. This time it was my 3-year old.
FIVE DAYS! There was so much to do: get a nursery organized, orchestrate leave from work, prepare our 3-year old daughter, find a place to stay in D.C., get kitty-care...
And we did. We had baby in arms by April 7, nestled into a Marriott, and began the task of phoning family to make our incredible announcement. Pencils in hand, multiple lists later, we agreed on a name: Lucas Matthew. Piles of legal paperwork had to be rushed here and there in the city before we could go home. Hold ups, snafus, road blocks, obstacles, delays, confusion - days passed and the hotel bill was mounting. We sought aide from our Bishop, who contacted a local member of our church: we could stay in their home 'till the paperwork cleared!
One large bed was available, giving us the perfect excuse for the hip practice of a family bed. "A perfect way to increase bonding," we thought. Our daughter slept holding Luke in her arms until feeding time. It was sleepless, beautiful, and made-up as we went along.
Once home, life fell into place. Daddy went back to work. Days were simultaneously busy and quiet, not doing much of anything except caring for Lucas, our daughter, and with energy leftover, each other. Friends flocked in with gifts, casseroles, homemade rolls. We continued the family bed.
A day before finalization, the phone rang. On the other end was my husband, weeping. "The agency called - the birthmother wants the baby back!" he choked. My grip on Lucas tightened as I descended into a tunnel-like darkness. Frantic calls to attorneys and our adoption counselor later, I learned she was perfectly within her legal rights. In the District of Columbia birthparents are allowed 30 days to rescind once the baby is placed. And so she did - on day 29. A hysterical sickness settled in when we were told it was our responsibility to drive the baby back. Once again we pleaded with our Bishop for help: he found a couple willing to drive the baby back to D.C. The birthmother would be flying in from the Midwest to pick him up - on Mother's Day.
It was early spring, bright and sunny, but I couldn't move. Anger, bewilderment, and an unending well of grief overtook me. I couldn't play with my daughter. I couldn't prepare dinner, do the laundry, pay bills, talk with friends. I'd been hit by a truck and left for dead.
One day my little girl begged me to watch her dance outdoors. She dressed up elaborately, as if to get my attention. Weakly slumped on a lawn chair, my mind wandered as my eyes tried to focus: oh, she's dancing - look at those horrible yews - God, the sun feels good - why is she singing so loudly - I hate being alive - maybe I could plant a garden. There it was. The smallest breath of life surging up in the form of wanting to do something.
The rest of spring and summer she and I were together, outside: she dancing, me shoveling limestone rocks out of the earth, cathartically flinging them into heaps, preparing the soil, and contemplating the perfect balance of color, form, and texture in every perennial. Perennials, not annuals. Something I could count on being there again and again, every year.
It was my daughter's idea to name it "Luke's Garden." She said it would be something beautiful to look forward to year after year - life springing up from a wintry earth. It was then I realized teachers come in many forms. This time it was my 3-year old.
Losing Her
Prius was her car of choice. I drove an SUV. When she needed groceries, she'd hook a small trailer to her bicycle and ride the 8 miles round trip to get stocked up; I'd drive my car or better yet, send my husband. A well-read subscription to The New York Times was carelessly strewn about her living room, while I neatly stacked my coffee table art books. She was completely smitten with Hillary Clinton, while I struggled with my schizophrenic intrigue for both Mitt Romney and Barrack Obama. Hers was an efficient, functioning vegetable garden. My hours were spent preening English daisies and Icelandic poppies for gazing on contemplative afternoons. While she sipped water from a Nalgene bottle, I was sucking down Diet Coke.
But, I'm ahead of myself. We met while each was walking her Pembroke Welsh Corgi: hers the classic warm butterscotch and vanilla brand, mine a more messy tri-color. We bonded instantly. The next year and a half was a series of long dog walks, cycling to our local gym, rediscovering yoga, attending and discussing films, dinner parties - even an afternoon spent baking the Barefoot Contessa's gourmet chocolate cake as a love gift to our husbands one Valentine's Day. We had each discovered a new friend and we were giddy with our explorative honeymoon.
The change was slow, over a few months, and barely perceptible at first. I might say something and notice a slight downward turn of her mouth. A couple of times, an air of disapproval. Longer pauses between phone calls.
A war had started - and it was in my neighborhood. Nothing was said, of course, but it was there nonetheless. A grating and grinding of differences, the rise of intolerance, judgement insidiously seeping in. My stomach knotted up: I was feeling misunderstood, alienated, and worst of all, unloved.
We felt things we either couldn't or wouldn't talk about. And then, one day, the silent chasm grew so large it was uncrossable. We had lost each other to perceived or imagined oh-so-important ideals. The war culminated in each retreating to her territory. It was over.
But, I'm ahead of myself. We met while each was walking her Pembroke Welsh Corgi: hers the classic warm butterscotch and vanilla brand, mine a more messy tri-color. We bonded instantly. The next year and a half was a series of long dog walks, cycling to our local gym, rediscovering yoga, attending and discussing films, dinner parties - even an afternoon spent baking the Barefoot Contessa's gourmet chocolate cake as a love gift to our husbands one Valentine's Day. We had each discovered a new friend and we were giddy with our explorative honeymoon.
The change was slow, over a few months, and barely perceptible at first. I might say something and notice a slight downward turn of her mouth. A couple of times, an air of disapproval. Longer pauses between phone calls.
A war had started - and it was in my neighborhood. Nothing was said, of course, but it was there nonetheless. A grating and grinding of differences, the rise of intolerance, judgement insidiously seeping in. My stomach knotted up: I was feeling misunderstood, alienated, and worst of all, unloved.
We felt things we either couldn't or wouldn't talk about. And then, one day, the silent chasm grew so large it was uncrossable. We had lost each other to perceived or imagined oh-so-important ideals. The war culminated in each retreating to her territory. It was over.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Cycling, Chaos, and Success
I rounded up the family for a rare bike ride on a spectacular Spring day. Not without protestations, mind you! It's not easy coordinating the interests of a 15-year old girl with a younger brother, an overworked professor, and underwhelmed homemaker.
Where to go? We didn't know - I figured it best to just get moving. Meandering through our historic neighborhood, one wild wipeout and bloody shin later, we made it onto a sidewalk alongside the busiest road in town. Blithely in the lead I veered to the right, onto a promising looking dirt road. Hearing a rise of complaints behind me which I chose to ignore, I plowed ahead. The dirt road led to some muddy potholes, then into a farmer's cornfield.
Along the edge of the field there appeared to be a narrow trail, maybe for the farmer to walk on. Rocks, deer gnawed corn cobs, branches, and what appeared to be poison ivy cluttered the trail. "Just more of an adventure!" I thought, promptly crashing down on a pile of natural debris, a nearby bush scraping my face. Soon we were all walking our bikes, the terrain far too difficult to navigate.
Around the corner, high rise office buildings came into view. "Ugh, not at all what I want to see," I said. We rode on, miserably looking down at what became a macadam road, surrounded by civilization. One twisted ankle, a bloody leg, scarcely any water, and muffled tears later a segment of our group threatened to turn back. "No, we're not giving up!" I commanded, angrily cycling on.
Another dirt path came into view and my husband took the lead. This time, the trail was even and gradually approached a forest. Oddly, the path continued long into the woods and was even somewhat manicured. A silence fell on us as we cycled amongst large oaks and maples, wild jasmine, flox, and fiddle-head fern with the sounds of scurrying bunnies, squirrels, and a distant woodpecker serenading us - all the way home.
It occurred to me how much like life our trip was: not always being sure where you're going - but, setting forth, bravely meeting uncertainty, discomfort, and even danger along the way. And while moving forward, we may catch glimpses of order, beauty, and unusual peace. Once home - a bit weary, perhaps even shaken - we're find ourselves richer and, if lucky, wiser for having made the journey.
Where to go? We didn't know - I figured it best to just get moving. Meandering through our historic neighborhood, one wild wipeout and bloody shin later, we made it onto a sidewalk alongside the busiest road in town. Blithely in the lead I veered to the right, onto a promising looking dirt road. Hearing a rise of complaints behind me which I chose to ignore, I plowed ahead. The dirt road led to some muddy potholes, then into a farmer's cornfield.
Along the edge of the field there appeared to be a narrow trail, maybe for the farmer to walk on. Rocks, deer gnawed corn cobs, branches, and what appeared to be poison ivy cluttered the trail. "Just more of an adventure!" I thought, promptly crashing down on a pile of natural debris, a nearby bush scraping my face. Soon we were all walking our bikes, the terrain far too difficult to navigate.
Around the corner, high rise office buildings came into view. "Ugh, not at all what I want to see," I said. We rode on, miserably looking down at what became a macadam road, surrounded by civilization. One twisted ankle, a bloody leg, scarcely any water, and muffled tears later a segment of our group threatened to turn back. "No, we're not giving up!" I commanded, angrily cycling on.
Another dirt path came into view and my husband took the lead. This time, the trail was even and gradually approached a forest. Oddly, the path continued long into the woods and was even somewhat manicured. A silence fell on us as we cycled amongst large oaks and maples, wild jasmine, flox, and fiddle-head fern with the sounds of scurrying bunnies, squirrels, and a distant woodpecker serenading us - all the way home.
It occurred to me how much like life our trip was: not always being sure where you're going - but, setting forth, bravely meeting uncertainty, discomfort, and even danger along the way. And while moving forward, we may catch glimpses of order, beauty, and unusual peace. Once home - a bit weary, perhaps even shaken - we're find ourselves richer and, if lucky, wiser for having made the journey.
A Ladies Luncheon
The moxie of my 88-year old aunt amazes me. She recently relocated to our tiny, East coast town - all the way from Texas. Why? To live with her 85-year old sister, my mother. We moved her into their new digs last week, out in a country cottage with a beautiful view of verdant green mountains.
Our first outing together: rally the ladies' walkers and wind our way up a hill to the main building for lunch at the progressive care facility's lovely dining room. After all, lunch is included in the cost of their independent-living cottage.
All dressed up, make-up carefully checked, we began our stroll. Not an easy one, given my aunt's hip replacement and Mom's degenerative spine. I got to the top of the hill first, thinking I'd hold the door open and help park the strollers (as I call them).
But, nothing prepared me for what I saw: a hearse, motor running and coldly waiting, while staff rolled a blue cloth-covered body out the door. I glanced down the hill - good, they were both still a ways off. Sobered, I quietly watched the ritual: open the hatch door, roll the gurney to the edge, slide the lifeless body in, carefully maintain the thoughtful cover. Quickly, the hearse drove off and the staff walked briskly inside just as my mother and aunt's smiling faces appeared at the top of the knoll.
My private experience reminds me of how closely life/anticipation/joy coexist with death/dread/sorrow. They always have and they always will.
With renewed appreciation for my lovely ladies, I held the door open and we headed toward our free lunch.
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