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Happy 31st Birthday, Megan Bosselman

27 Jan

The two hardest things to say in life are hello for the first time and goodbye for the last. – Moira Rogers

January 27, 1981 - Megan Bosselman Our First "Hello!"

Dear Megan,

It was minutes before midnight on your birthday, and I wasn’t feeling that writing magic when words flow together.  I’m revising your annual birthday message and  it and will post by tomorrow. If you were are Planet Earth, this weekend would still be full of “Birthday Weekend” events.

My gift to you this birthday is that I am going to finish your book this year.  My life is moving on.  I will update you on the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the team.  And last, but not least, I am changing my hair color this morning for Jay Leno grey and black to “I’m not in mid-life crisis but I’m going back to a younger looking hair color brown.”  Good-bye to the old, in with the new.

Try to move away from your eternal stress-free life to check the revised blog post tomorrow evening.

your mom…

 

 

 

And It Doesn’t Look Trashy….

8 May

I must be honest that it makes me laugh that so many of my friends believe that my last blog, “Joy Rising” was a casual introduction to let everyone know that I got a tattoo in Megan’s memory.  It cracks me up to hear people say, “so what did you get?”

Let me systematically settle the questions in your mind.  I do not have a tattoo. Even though I’m an artist, I’m also a Republican and own too many little black dresses with coordinating pearls.

Shocking as it may sound, my first weekend (fall 1979) at Tulane University in New Orleans, I did not venture to the French Quarter to slosh down a couple of hurricanes at Pat O’Briens and then drop by a midnight Bourbon Street shop to have barbed wire tattooed around my upper arm.  In those years, I did not know one single woman with a tattoo, and the phenomena of having prison fencing inked around your upper arm did not surface for another 17 years when Pamela Anderson popularized the design in the 1996 movie “Barb Wire.”

At the third anniversary of my daughter’s death, I did not get a tattoo. Furthermore, if I was going to get a tattoo, there is just something creepy about getting my son Ryan’s sacred “M” with wings design plastered across my aging skin.  As an artist, to grab Ryan’s memorial symbol and have it permanently inked on my body would be nothing short of stealing.  It’s his design.  It was his beloved sister.  As an artist (and mother) I feel my only legal copyright permission extends to crafting stationery in her honor.

Joy Rising was a prelude to a trip to Liquid Courage, but not for the reasons that all of you think.  Easter was on the horizon.  Even with moments of joyful breakthrough, I find it impossible to approach Easter Sunday without remembering that Monday when we moved Megan to Josie Harper Hospice House.  Or that Wednesday when I bathed her for the last time.  Or Good Friday when my girl and I said our last words.  My friend Cheri could see the unspoken pain on my face the week prior.  I tried to hide it in the midst of Illustrator Class. Peeking over the huge Apple monitor, she asked me if she could do anything.   Somehow it opened the door to what I needed…a friend to go with me to Liquid Courage.

You see, I wanted my daughter’s diamond stud, the one that ever glistened in the double pierce of her right ear, to be pierced in the top cartilage of my left ear. Left because Megan was left-handed.  Left because cancer presented itself on her left adrenal gland.  Left because in all those months (and years) that I sat at Megan’s bedside, my left ear was the closest to hearing her pour out her heart about life and death.  And left because her last good-bye came through my left ear.

I called Liquid Courage in advance to see if I needed an appointment.  My mom will be happy to know that I choose Jon, a professional trained by a witch doctor deep in the Amazon.  Only the best, Mom!  While I’m not lying about Jon’s tattoo and piercing educational background, he is the best in Omaha, and he had me drop Megan’s earring off 45 minutes in advance to be sterilized in the autoclave.

With no fanfare, Jon came out in the quietness of a Tuesday afternoon.  Though he made no inquiry into the depths of my soul, I told him I was getting my ear pierced in memory of my daughter.  In the most sterile of environments (wearing surgical gloves) he thoughtfully marked the perfect spot before pulling out a giant-size needle.  I told him I would cry, not because I was in pain…but just because.  Taking a deep breath, the diamond was perfectly inserted, as big crocodile tears rushed down my face.

Maybe this personal moment is nobody’s business.  But on this Mother’s Day I’ve not lost sight of the fact that as a mother sometimes the best gift you can give is your ear.

Key Notes:

  • My son is also a lefty.  So is my mom.
  • Having my ear pierced was completely painless.
  • If you and your son have matching tattoos, more power to you.  While I personally choose not be inked, I know it is a highly personal decision and I respect how others creatively express themselves.
  • If you are thinking of getting a pierce in the cartilage of your ear, go to a professional with a needle, and not a mall employee with a piercing gun.  Piercing guns shatter the cartilage in your ear, and if infected can take months to heal.

On a Lighter Note:

  • Left handed college graduates go on to become 26% richer than right-handed graduates.
  • While working at Kitchen Toyland, I had several customers come in requesting “Hurricane” glasses.  When I told them we did not have them for sale they would say, “I bet you don’t even know what those are.”  My response was always, “I bet I do!”
  • My friend Bailey instantly noticed my pierced ear.  Her joyful reaction was, “I love it…and it doesn’t look trashy!”

Joy Rising

4 May

Megan was all of fifteen years old when she asked if I would sign a parental waiver so she could have a big butterfly tattooed on her ankle/calf.  My emotionless, steely eyed response to her under-age request was ‘never gonna happen.’

Pulling out all of her God-given district attorney arguing abilities, she attempted in vain to pit her compelling argument against my unwavering reaction.   As a reader you should remember this was fifteen years ago, before body art was the norm.  I told Megan I would hate to have her lose a court case in her future district attorney job as a stodgy old judge made a value judgement on her character because Madame Butterfly was floating up over her conservative high heels toward the hemline of her Republican blue suit.  She told me it’s not fair for people to make value judgments on appearance.  I told her ‘Welcome to the real world.’  I rested my case with “When you come of legal age, choose your tattoo wisely.”

Many friends are surprised that I’m not a tattoo wonder, after all I did go to art school.  In my New Orleans college years I did wear vintage clothes (long before it was the celebrity rage) and I’d like to think I invented the double pierced ear (adding to a life long list of reasons for my parents to worry.)  College for me was the 80′s, two decades before Miami Ink, LA Ink and Kat Von D.

The next tattoo to surface belongs to my son, who in loving memory of his sister that passed on Easter Sunday 2008,  drew a calligraphy “M” with angelic wings.  The symbol embodies his amazing creative talents, and surely represents his most personal thoughts concerning his big sister.  Days after Megan’s death, Ryan sent me a picture mail from Liquid Courage displaying his new tattoo over his right shoulder-blade.  I cried.  A sacred moment.  A wonderful son.  A beautiful memorial.

Fast forward to March 2011.  Tattoos were the farthest thing from my mind.  After 30 years I decided to go back to college to upgrade my computer drawing skills into the 21st century.  ”Terrified” is hardly the word as I thought of being lost in a sea of 18 year-olds.  Hearing of my great adventure, two of my friends (Kathy Rosenthal and Cherie Phelps) signed up with me.  I won’t deny that on that first day I sent Kathy a text from the Metropolitan Community College parking lot to find out if she was in the building.  She wasn’t.  I had to enter the educational mecca all by myself and figure it out on my own.  I reminded myself that my dad survived living in a tent in the midst of land mine-filled fields in the Korean war.  Why was I afraid of being in a heated building with free cookies at the check-in table with helpful workers to map my way to class?  And what is more frightening than losing a daughter to cancer?

My friends arrived, flanking me on the computers on each side.  Class started, the information began to roll, and I found myself down the river, paddling to keep up.  I cried when I got home.

I kept going to class.  Kathy and Cheri continued to lean in to help me.  In the process I realized that I may have graduated top of my class, but after four caregiving years with my daughter’s survival at the forefront, and all the reality of adrenal cancer in the shadow, I lost sight of the fact that somewhere in there was an artist who loved to be creative from early on.  In the moments that I struggled in class, I wanted to say to Kathy and Cheri, “You know, I used to be an artist….”

Then one day it happened.  The computer language of Adobe Illustrator that had been so foreign to me started to be a recognizable language.  That day I brought a line drawing of Ryan’s tattoo.  I imported it, outlined it, expanded it, changed the appearance, and before I knew it, work I never imagined was on the screen.

From the non-tattoo mom, I need to say that my son’s tattoo began to call me back to life.  It made me realize that while I love Megan, and loved caring for her, I am more than a caregiver.  To rediscover the part of me that was lost in the cancer journey is truly “Joy rising.”

Key Notes:

  • Do one thing every day that scares you. – Eleanore Roosevelt
  • Kathy Rosenthal is the employee that worked for me for over eight years.  Our working relationship ceased when Megan’s health became critical.  She remains a crucial part of my life, and I account much of my success to her.
  • Cherie Phelps, owner of C Phelps Photography, is my competitor in the sticker business.  The quality of her character was best demonstrated in 2007.  She was but a stranger and a competitor to me, but in Megan’s dying days offered to come photograph me and my girl (free of charge) in our final moments.  Megan felt so assaulted by cancer, she declined to be photographed.  It is one of my few regrets…I wish Cherie could have captured our last sacred moments.
  • From my heart, I believe Kathy Rosenthal and Cherie Phelps signed up for class to support me in yet another life transition.  One sits to the right, and the other to the left.  Neither really needed to take the class.

On a Lighter Note:

  • Cherie brings me hard candy every week to class, even though she nags me about working out.
  • Sorry I have not blogged in over a month.  They have this thing in college called homework.

Project 23 – Tune In To Humanity

23 Mar

When asked the date of my daughter’s death, my response used to be “Easter Sunday, 2008.”  With the Christian calendar rotating every year, Easter Sunday can fall anywhere from mid-March to April.  The day she died was significant to me because my girl loves Easter.  Yes, Megan is a Christian, but loves the Easter Bunny, owned a real bunny, lived for the Easter egg hunt at her grandparents, and hoarded the Peeps.

Let me back track to the week of her death and tell you that because her pain had become so unmanageable at home, even with the extraordinary help of Tana and the Visiting Nurses Association, Megan was moved on Monday, March 17, 2008 to Josie Harper Hospice House.  With the average stay at Hospice House being 30 days, I had settled in my mind that she was going to be there at least a few weeks.

That thought changed on Friday, March 21.  With tumors up and down her spine, pain had become unmanageable even with the motherload of narcotics.  By mid-morning on Good Friday Megan was contracting in pain every fifteen minutes as though in labor.

Medical personnel was scrambling.  A palliative care physician was called on the case.  By early afternoon, with pain contractions every few minutes, the only viable solution was palliative sedation…placing Megan in the same kind of sleep you experience for a major surgery.  Pain was keeping Megan fully alert as I signed the paperwork at the foot of her bed, taking a seat next to her, she asked me, “Mom, will I ever talk to you again?”  My reply was, “All I know is that for now this is the immediate solution to your pain, and we will take it a day at a time.”  I told her I loved her, and those were the last words we spoke.

Friday night moved into Saturday’s dawn.  During that night-watch Megan was seizing from the high narcotic load, but the grimace on her face proved it’s ineffectiveness.  Tana came back to make additional medication adjustments.  I was glad for the relief for my girl but also glad for her conversation and company.  We talked for what seemed hours.  She told me to write a book.  When Tana left for her home I slipped back into the cushy recliner and from time to time flipped on the television to give me but momentary relief from our extraordinarily cruel circumstances.  Television allowed me to catch my breath.

When your daughter is dying you have heightened awareness of details, as every last moment counts.  Funny, I remember the small television in Megan’s room.  It was hard to forget since it was just like the one my parents gave me in the late 1970′s.  Small screen – VHS in the front.  Josie Harper Hospice House runs on a tight budget, and I assumed the television was someone’s old, yet generously donated  t.v.

Exhaustion overcame me by late Saturday and Aunt Shirley took watch that night into the Easter Sunday morning shift.  I went home and slept deeply, arriving back at Hospice House in the 9:00 a.m. hour. I set my purse down and said, “Megan, it’s Mom…”

From that moment on her breathing changed.  I had told Megan in that gloomy, uncomfortable calm before the maelstrom, weeks upon weeks ago, to please let me be there when she died.  Though in a deep sleep, she had awareness of my presence, and my arrival started her journey toward eternity.

Aunt Shirley stayed.  I called for Dann and Ryan.  My parents quickly arrived.  And for the next 15 hours we listened as Megan labored for every breath.  At approximately 11:45 p.m I told Megan that “God is rarely early, never late…and if you want to die on your favorite holiday there are fifteen minutes left in the day.”  She took two deep breaths of air and was gone.  Time of death:  11:53 p.m.  March 23, 2008.  Easter Sunday.

The days and months ahead moved in slow motion.  The year anniversary of Megan’s death was also the annual memorial service for those that died in Hospice House the preceding year.  I went with Mom and Dad, and the pastor spoke on Psalm 23:  ”The Lord is my shepherd…I shall not want…He makes me to lie down in green pastures. He allows me to catch my breath.”

I thought first of me…those nights after Megan’s death where I could barely catch my breath.  I even wondered if I was having a heart attack.  Then I thought of my girl…the reality of dying was that her lungs filled with fluid to the point that she could no longer catch her breath.  I wept at the thought…”He allows me to catch my breath…”

Time marched on.  Early this year a long time friend re-connected with me via Facebook, having no idea of Megan’s death.  I told her it was on Easter Sunday, March 23, 2008.  Nancy, who I affectionately call “The Numbers Librarian” wrote how powerful it was that Megan died on the 23rd and referenced it to the 23rd Psalm.

The lights went on.  Megan Bosselman knew one Psalm by heart and it was Psalm 23.  Suddenly it became a message from her about “He allows me to catch my breath…”  I’d missed it all along.

Over the last three years I’ve thought of those old t.v.’s at Josie Harper Hospice House.  When the 2009 annual report came out with a request for money for new flat screen televisions I thought it was a great idea.  I prayed.

By March 2010 the same annual report arrived with the same shout out for funds for flat screen televisions.  I prayed.

It’s now year three, and I remembered a wise, old Pastor that told me “prayer never replaces action.”  A few months ago I called – surely that need had been fulfilled.  When it was made clear that the budget was tighter than ever, I decided that Project 23 – Tune In To Humanity would become my mission.

The world may say you don’t need a television if you’re dying and there is partial truth in that.  Megan was in and out of consciousness, but I was fully alert most hours of the day times the six days of her stay.  The average hospice patient resides at Hospice House for 30 days.  As a family, imagine 30 days with no audio or visual relief…just the sound of your loved one dying.

To this day I don’t remember a single show I watched – I just remember my gratitude for an electronic device that broke the silence.  If we have showers for our friends’ new babies, lives freshly arrived to this world, and give them strollers with i-pods, shouldn’t we give those that are on their way out the very best we have to offer in life?

Project 23 needs funds for 26 size 32″ flat screen televisions (one for each room) which will be mounted on a swivel base to direct to any part of the room.  The project includes 2 jumbo size flat screens (one for each family room), and one mega flat screen with surround sound for the training room (which trains staff and a host of volunteers).  The training room can also be used by families for private get-togethers where they can eat, play music, and/or show home videos.  Lastly, there will be two moving carts with dvd players, giving everyone access to home movies in their rooms, upon request.

This project has been thoughtfully and methodically planned out by Gary George, Executive Director for Josie Harper Hospice House, along with Terry Richarz, of Nebraska Furniture Mart’s Custom Electronics Design & Installation Department..  NFM Employees Andy Hemminger and Scott Patton are part of Terry’s stellar team of installers who surveyed the property and gave creative vision to carrying out this project with excellence.  Last, but not least, I’m grateful to Ron Blumkin, who has embraced this project on behalf of Nebraska Furniture Mart and finalized all pricing.  Nebraska Furniture Mart has exceeded my wildest expectations in low pricing to make Project 23 a reality.

Key Notes:

Absolutely no funds transfer through my hands.  You can donate online at:

http://www.hospicehouseomaha.org/012011/Support_Us%21.html

or mail a check directly to:

Josie Harper Hospice House

7415 Cedar St.

Omaha, Nebraska 68124

Your donation can be made in memory of your loved one, but be sure to specify Project 23 if you want the funds used for the television project.  Every dollar counts.  Your donation will affect the quality of life for countless people for years to come.  To date Hospice House has served over 3,300 residents.  The average length of stay is 30 days;  median length of stay is 8 days – meaning half of their residents come to Hospice House to live out their last 8 days.  Megan resided at Hospice House for six days.

All donations are tax deductable, and Hospice House will send you a receipt.

Many have asked me “What is the cost per room?”

  • Single Room – $1,000 (26 rooms total)
  • Family Room and Dining Room $3,000 each
  • Training Room $4,000
  • 2 Extra DVD’s – $300 each
  • Estimated total cost for project, including all wiring*, extended warranties and installation:  $36,000

*A substantial portion of the cost per room includes electrical work (not handled by Nebraska Furniture Mart) to make wiring and cable functional and safe to fire code for each room.

Again, every dollar counts, but if you are purchasing ‘a room’ a plaque will be mounted in memory or honor of your loved one, or with notation that your corporation has generously provided a television.

On a Lighter Note:

  • Is it a coincidence that this week Terry Richarz (my new BFF from NFM that is spearheading this project) celebrated her 23rd year of employment with the Mart?
  • I miss my girl, but thank the living God I no longer have to watch “The Bachelor.”

To My Girl, On The Third Anniversary of Your Death

Dear Megan,

Oh how we loved our television, from The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team to American Idol.  In your memory, may Project 23 give life and breath to those in the last days of their lives.

Always remember my last words. I love you.

Momoushka


The Funeral Speech for Megan Bosselman

9 Mar

Friday, March 28, 2008

I want to thank you all so much for being here for Megan. And you have been available not only just here at this service – but so many of you have also walked with us through the last few years, through all the ups and downs, all the joys and sorrows that accompany life, and I want to tell you from the bottom of my heart that I am truly and deeply thankful as we lay Megan to rest.

Rest. It draws up memories of home, and of quiet, and of peace. It comes with the sense that everyone and everything is exactly in its right place.

And so, as we lay Megan to rest, there are a few other things I would like you to lay to rest as well.

I want you to lay to rest any thought that God did not hear your prayers. So many of you have prayed for Megan over the years – for her health, for her life, for her happiness. None of those prayers have been wasted – God has been attentive to every one. He has heard every prayer you have offered up and has given each His full attention. And that, as in all things He does, is a sign of His goodness. And we have directly felt the love and support that came from those prayers.

I want you to lay to rest any thought that God is not good. Whether we want to admit it or not, we have the human tendency to believe that God is good only when good things happen to us. But I’ve come to find that God’s goodness is who He is, and though we don’t always see the big picture that offers the context for the circumstances of life, the why of those circumstances, when we look closely, His goodness fills the picture.

God tucked Moses into a cranny of a rock so that the man could watch as God’s goodness walked before him, and in the last few years, God, in all His goodness, has truly hidden our souls in the cleft of the rock. Both Megan and I have felt the incredible protection of God as His goodness passed before us, through us, and all around us.

With every moment, the easy times and the hard times, we have come to understand this one unalterable fact: God, in all his wisdom and timing, is good.

In light of today’s gathering, of course, you will want me to prove that to you, so here’s an example. In case you don’t know, the day you graduate from college, your health insurance coverage as a dependent under your parents completely and utterly ends. If you get sick the day after graduation, well, then that’s too bad! But shortly before Megan’s own graduation, I felt compelled that she needed to have her own insurance. So I bugged Dann – no, I relentlessly nagged him – to get Megan moved to her own policy. She had had her coverage as an independent adult for only a matter of days at the time she was diagnosed. Of course, we had no way of knowing then that in the coming years, Megan’s medical bills would total over a million dollars and would have ultimately bankrupted us if she had not been covered. But God, in His goodness, held back those symptoms until the time when it would be substantially covered by insurance.

You see, God is good, and we are grateful. The difference between seeing God’s goodness and utter disaster was just a few days. I cannot begin to fathom how much God’s attention was on us as He moved in our favor.

Another example followed on the heels of that initial diagnosis. It was a Monday when we had learned that Megan had a tumor, and it was decided that she needed to go into surgery as soon as possible the following week. It was during the preliminary blood work for that surgery that one of the doctors discovered that Megan’s potassium level had fallen dangerously low and that she was at an extremely high risk for immediate cardiac arrest. We got the phone call from the doctor while we were out to eat, and his urgent words were, “Run as fast as you can to the hospital.” If the doctors hadn’t run the blood work that week, at that time, it likely would have been too late – Dann and I would have come home to find Megan collapsed on the floor from a cardiac arrest. Instead, God moved so that we caught the problem just in time. You see, God is rarely early, and He is never late. And following that surgery, Megan went into remission and entered what was to become the best year of her life. I have never seen her more beautiful and more alive than that particular year, and all of that was because of the goodness of God.

Someone once told me that God is busy on the behalf of one’s children. I think of the busy-ness of God concerning Megan Bosselman, and as I look back over the years and the thousands of kind acts that have accompanied them, I can tell you without hesitation: He is good.

It would be easy to dismiss this goodness. After all, so many of us prayed so earnestly for her wholeness and healing. It would be tempting to harbor the thought, “Why didn’t all our prayers make a difference? Why didn’t it make God do something we all so sincerely wanted?”

But, as C.S. Lewis once said, “That’s not why I pray. I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God, it changes me.”

And so, when all is said and done, whether laughter rises or tears fall, we are changed in the midst of our prayers. We are surrounded by, enfolded in the goodness of God, which simply continues, above and beyond our questions and fears, rolling on and on and on.

I want you to lay to rest any thought that Megan’s life was cut short and that she didn’t get all the good things she deserved. This was Megan’s life, and it was a beautiful life. Her life was full, and not a moment of it was wasted. And still, it was, as C.S. Lewis once called life on this earth, just The Shadowlands of what lies ahead. There is so much for her to leave behind, and yet, so much more to fly away into, so much more to rest in.

In the days before she left us, Megan would consistently tell me that she specifically wanted us to lay her to rest. “Mom,” she would say – she had this way of saying “Mom” that would just capture my attention – “Mom, I want you to lay me to rest.” It was as if she wanted to make sure that, when all was said and done, everyone and everything was in its right place.

In the days ahead, at an undisclosed place and at an undisclosed time just for Megan and me, I will scatter her ashes over the ocean and lay her to her final resting place. But for now, as you watch this final video, I want to invite you to join me in laying Megan to rest.

Megan and Shun Lee Fong - 2007

 

Key Notes:

  • This speech, given by me before a crowd of 550, was drafted by my friend and screenwriter Shun Lee Fong.  In the hours following Megan’s death (in the sanctuary of my living room) I expressed my heart as he typed, edited and helped me formulate my final thoughts.  Shun Lee is pictured in the above memorial video with the Post-it® note that says, “Get Better.”  My girl kept the picture of him with the “Get Better” Post-it® note on her small bulletin board until the day she died.
  • The opening song at Megan’s funeral, sung by Deb Reno, was “Standing on Holy Ground.” in honor of our daughter who couldn’t stand in the last days of her life because of spinal tumors.
  • Mid-ceremony Deb Reno sang, “He Hideth My Soul”, my personal favorite hymn and a reminder that God’s goodness passes before us (Exodus 33:22).  It was sung at Deb’s suggestion, remembering 20 years ago I talked about how much I loved that song.  It helped me make it through the 90 minute funeral.
  • The final song “Fly” by Celine Dion was personally chosen by Megan for her memorial video.  Special thanks to Lisa Iovino who tirelessly worked on the video in the few months before Megan’s death.  Her work included a trip to the ocean in freezing weather to perfectly film Megan’s name written in the sand.

On a Personal Note:

  • This blog is posted on Ash Wednesday, a day of deep reflection and fasting for much of the Christian world.  Many friends have asked me for a copy of my speech.  It has taken me three years to release it, and today is its first publication.  I chose not to post it on the day of Megan’s death, March 23.  I am reserving that blog for a project that I’m working on in her memory.  Regardless of your faith, may this funeral speech, given by a heart-broken mom (written with the help of a dear friend), call to remembrance all the good things in your life. Psalm 143:5

On a Lighter Note:

  • Some day you’ll see Shun Lee Fong on The Oscars accepting the award for Best Screenplay.  He is the most gifted writer I know.


Framed…on Valentine’s Day

14 Feb

I just love Valentine’s Day. When you’re little, what’s not to love about a jar of pasty glue, white doilies, and pair of dull scissors that artfully transform a shoebox into the love box?

In grade school, February 14th was the one day of the year everybody had to like you…or should I say even the class bully wasn’t excluded from corporate distribution of cards and candy.  I normally choose the cartoon box cards from the grocery store aisle, but the rich kids gave out Valentines that included a slot for a cheap sucker;  the mega rich gave whole boxes of chalky hearts with “Be Mine” messages.  Want to know what else I love?  That Valentine red color….

I didn’t love Valentine’s Day – 2007, the year my daughter was in both chemo and radiation.  She was battling for her life, and I was fighting for emotional strength for the shaky walls of my heart as I watched my girl go through the most grueling of treatment.

In her book “How to Talk with Caregivers About Cancer“, author Ruth Cohn Bolletino writes:

One of the most distressing effects of cancer on patients can be their feeling of the loss of control.  They often feel they have lost control of their bodies, their functioning, and their lives, and are helpless to direct the course of their illness.  Besides being weakened physically by medical treatment, cancer weakens feelings of worth, competence, and self-esteem.

Ms Bolletino poignantly states Megan’s experience.  Before cancer Megan was a beautiful, self-confident woman who was going to conquer the world, and after two major surgeries and a few rounds of chemo her role changed to a twenty-something year old girl who needed her mommy (or dad) to meet most of her needs and perform even the simplest tasks.  Megan was not alone in her depression.  Cancer gradually ate away at my self-esteem.  My daughter’s life was slowly slipping through my fingers, and no Supermom powers could save her.

The condition of my heart became apparent on what should have been a normal trip to Target to browse their Valentine tchotchke items.  While my girl was resting at home, I went in search of the perfect Valentine’s gift.  Target did not disappoint.  In a sea of candy dishes I spied a beautiful cherry red glass picture frame with the word “love” in the lower right corner.  I collect glass frames, and to find one in Valentine red was delicious!  Even sweeter, the price was around $10.00, and within the My daughter has cancer so I can’t spend any money on myself budget.  Every financial purchase was reduced to ‘how many co-pays is this?’ and after accessing it was half a doctor co-pay, I splurged.

I left Target, bag in hand, in giddy enthusiasm.  I couldn’t wait to show Megan the frame.  Yet no sooner than arriving at home and barely pulling my gift from the sack, my girl gleefully said, “Oh, I love it, can I have it?”

There she was, with her bald little head.  How could I say no?

I felt like my sack of goodies had just been pried from my chubby little fingers.  As the frame left my possession, I told Megan we would just pick up another one.

If only that was the end of the story…

The following day after treatment Megan had her dad stop at a nearby Target, and Dann dashed in to get another Love frame.  When I pulled it out of the sack, to my horror it was not the cherry red glass that I had fallen in love with.  It was some discolored red-orange variation.  My look was glassy-eyed as I thanked Dann for picking it up, but in truth the detail freak artist in me was crazed over the color.  Crazed.

Somewhere over the next few days I went from Target to Target only to discover that the priceless treasure was already sold out.  If I did find one left on the shelf, it was the same bastard red-orange color that I wanted no part of.

I’m not proud in admitting that my internal feeling was maniacal.  It’s all I could think about, and come hell or high water I was going to find that frame.  Somewhere, at the point of utter insanity, I called BFF Lisa, who lives near a Target that I had not yet stalked.  I was honest about being a loon.  True to form, she was kind and gracious.  Since she has magnificent red granite counters in her kitchen, she validated me and said she knew what it was like to want the exact right red.  She went immediately, sensing my unstable mental condition, and called me from Target to let me know she had secured the goods.

Sweet Jesus…what are friends for?

It was impossible for Joe, the art student that lives with me, to photograph the frame without showing a reflection of his camera.  Suddenly it occurred to me that life imitates art, and the frame is a snapshot of my life as a mom caring for a daughter with cancer.  It frames that moment where I wasn’t a tchotchke hoarder, but a desperate mom whose world was out of control, and it seemed the only thing within my grasp was a ten-dollar red frame.

Lisa met me in my desperation.  Happy Valentine’s Day, dear friend.

The picture within the Love Frame

Key Notes:

  • Oscar Wilde wrote in his 1889 essay “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.”
  • St. Valentine is the patron saint of lovers.  He is remembered for secretly marrying couples in the Roman Empire.
  • The picture at left is the photo from the Love Frame.  Megan called the planter on the back patio “The Magic Pot”.  When each season was in its full glory, I would take her picture on the patio.  We would pray that by the next season she would be well.
    • God gave me four seasons for this ritual, and by the fifth Megan was too ill to pose for the photograph.
  • My book, Put Up Your Umbrella, will include a more detailed medical analysis of this story by Dr. Jane Theobald and commentary on the challenges faced by caregivers.

On A Lighter Note:

  • Lisa liked the Love frame so much that she purchased one for herself.  She is in a significant relationship, and the cherry red glass frames a photo of her true love.
  • Next year, have your cards mailed from Valentine, Nebraska.  Here are the details:  Valentine Post Office

On a Personal Note:

  • My first date with Dann was February 14, 1979.  In her final days, Megan told me one of her favorite memories with her dad was making her annual Valentine Box for school.

Happy 30th Birthday, Megan Bosselman

27 Jan

January 27, 1981 - Megan Bosselman

Dear Megan,

A year has passed, but my thoughts from the blog on your 29th birthday have changed little:

I cried last weekend.  Your birthday is the day I struggle with the most.  Holidays present their unique challenges, but your birthday is the one day utterly devoted to you.  I miss you more than you can imagine.

Though grief is often looming, much has changed in the last year.  Yesterday the mail arrived with a copy of “Extraordinary Healers”.  Your mom’s winning essay, Beginning to End, is the first in the book.  As I flipped through the pages I was humbled to be part of such an outstanding body of writing that reflects remarkable oncology nurses and their patients from around the world.  Even before your cancer diagnosis you encouraged me to write.  With the first fruits of my national writing in hand, I took a deep sigh and thought ‘but when my girl wanted me to write a book, did she imagine it would be about her life and death from cancer?’

Moving on to the Talk Soup that you love…

Ryan has done really well at his job in Overland Park.  You would be so proud of him.  The brother that you thought would only be suited for a career in video games has quickly advanced to Project Manager, overseeing more information than I can even fathom.  People ask me what he does for a living, and my response is normally, “not sure, but I know it’s something really smart.”

Your brother and Andrea separated when she went off the culinary school.  For today, I’m only allowed to ask once a year if he has a girlfriend, and I used that ticket up around January 3.   You brother’s next ticket will be handed to him this weekend as he packs off for work in exotic India.  I can’t wait to hear about Ryan’s Great Adventures in a nation where he will stand a head above the crowd, and a land that loves curry, food that your brother despises.  I told him to find me a beautiful and unique umbrella…maybe one with a cobalt batik print (similar to the one the two of you left rotting out in the rain.)  If that is not possible, I told him “don’t come home without bangles.”

For today, I miss having the white decorated birthday cake waiting for you on the table and the bouquet of balloons tied to the kitchen chair.  I miss Birthday Week, but I also miss Birthday Countdown where you would systematically remind me “Mom, did you know my birthday is coming up?”

It was just like yesterday that your dad drove me to Methodist Hospital (the evening of January 26) in full labor.  We were not alone.  Countless other Baby Boomers, who must have sensed the forthcoming snowstorm, arrived right before us.  Those were not the days of midwives and private but posh hospital birthing rooms. You had to take a La Maze Class and bring a birthing coach along with your hospital bag.  What the heck was a birthing coach?  Since your dad had a broken leg and was in a hip cast, Molly was my coach, but she was swishing her way down the Colorado ski slopes on January 26.  We never thought you would arrive on your due date.  We planned early or late, but on time for a first baby was not in our vocabulary.  Little did we know I was birthing a daughter who planned everything, and valued the commodity of time until her last breath.

That night it was ‘take a number’ for a labor room line, and initially I landed a premier spot on a crash cart in the hallway.

Since there was no room at the inn, your dad resigned himself to the Father’s Waiting Room so he could elevate his throbbing leg. I didn’t mind so much being alone in labor.  Call me old-fashioned, but having a posse of family watch me writhe in pain was far from glamorous.  It bothered me a bit that no one heard my feeble cry for ‘epidural, please!’, but for the most part alone was good.  Well, if you call alone a place with countless nurses and doctors flying by, I was alone.

When the glorious moment of delivery arrived, a team wheeled your mom’s giant-sized sugar cookie body into a hospital surgery room where under the brightest of lights I began to push out a bundle joy.  There was nothing unexpected about the pregnancy.  What was unplanned was the speed at which you shot out into the world into the slippery hands of an obstetrician that caught you inches above the linoleum floor.  This is not a made-for-blogging drama moment, but the real life truth about the day you were born.  The physician’s face burst into a pool of sweat as he eked out, “You have no idea what almost just happened…”  followed by “It’s a girl!”   With those three words I sat up in a leap of utter surprise!

Swaddled in a pink blanket, they wheeled you to me from the nursery later that day.  My life was wonderfully and irrevocably changed.  What I didn’t realize, Megan, was that the sudden catch before hitting the linoleum floor was symbolic of how fragile your life was.  It was the first evidence (and an often repeated pattern in your life) that God was rarely early, never late.  Dr. Haswell caught you just in time.  8:32 a.m., to be exact.

Last month I felt compelled to ask your dad for your Message Translation Bible with the hot pink vinyl cover.  I just wanted to know what you had marked, knowing that you did nothing carelessly or without calculated purpose.  I knew whatever you flagged or highlighted had great significance to you, and I wanted to see if you left us with any final thoughts.

I have gone through almost page by page, and it appears you highlighted only one passage in your Bible from Isaiah 41.

I’ve picked you.  I haven’t dropped you.  Don’t panic.  I’m with you.

There’s no need to fear for I’m your God.

I’ll give you strength.  I’ll help you.

I’ll hold you steady, keep a firm grip on you.

I cried, without reserve, upon discovery of your notes.  It is dated 3/5/08.  Just 18 days before you died.

This is clearly your hand writing…but penmanship that was fighting for composure.  I love that you underlined “I’ve picked you.” but the double line of ink shows me how much you were struggling with motor function under a heavy narcotic load in a near paralyzed position.  Highlighting in yellow and underlining in ink took tremendous effort, but you marked what was important to you that day of your life.

Surely I have digressed to talk about your dying, but your life taught all of us about living.  I wrote the essay, “Beginning to End”, but you lived from beginning to end knowing there is a God in heaven that didn’t drop you, but picked you.

No matter the translation or the verse, it is my sacred honor to know God picked me to be your mom.

Happy 30th Birthday!

love,

momoushka

Key Notes:

  • Megan was not a Bible scholar.  Pastor Les Beauchamp of Lifegate Church visited Megan on 3/05/2008 and gave her that verse to reflect on.  Pastor Beauchamp did not know that Megan was almost dropped in delivery.
  • My girl highlighted her bible 18 days before she died.  Thank you Nancy and Joseph for pointing out that the number 18 stands for “Life.”
    • Joseph Essaghian writes:  18 stands for life.  Chai is how it’s pronounced.  In Hebrew every letter has a numerical value.  All words therefore have numerical values and the kabbalah is all based on the mathematics of the words.  For example words that have the same numerical value share a significance with each other and so forth.  The word for life which is Chai (Hebrew letter Chet is 8 and Hebrew letter yud is 10) is 18.
  • The Message Bible, which was easy for Megan to understand, was a gift from her dear friend Julie, who now lives in Africa.

On A Lighter Note:

  • I took Art History during the latter half of my pregnancy.  A fellow student often passed me her sugar cookies under the desk.  It is still a favorite recipe that I affectionately call “Art History Sugar Cookies.”
  • Ryan brought me beautiful silver bangles from Mexico.  (Note to Ryan:  don’t forget to text your mom every day from India and let her know you are o.k.)

On a Personal Note:

  • I just learned that Dr. Glenn Haswell stepped into eternity on Wednesday, June 30, 2010.  His obituary states, “A faithful Christian, Glenn blessed the lives of all who knew him with his testimony of faith and strength.”  In my hours of hard labor with Megan, he privately shared about the power of suffering and his faith in Jesus Christ.  Dr. Haswell was well acquainted with suffering and was the recipient of two kidney transplants in his lifetime.  He shares a commonality with Megan, who lost her left kidney to adrenal cancer.  On January 27, 1981 Megan Bosselman fell not to a linoleum floor, but into the arms of love.  Dr. Glenn Haswell was Megan Bosselman’s first contact into the human race.  From the depth of my heart I believe that on June 30, 2010, my girl was there to meet him at the gates of eternity.

The Depths of Johnny Depp

23 Jan

It seems that what Pirates of the Caribbean is to this generation,  the 1940 Oscar Winning version of The Thief of Bagdad was to me.

Mom must have let we watch it (over and over) on some Saturday afternoon matinée after parole from Reading Prison. Count on YouTube for the classic; when I found the above clip of the genie in the humongous diaper-like pants with hideous toe nails that curved over his feet, it brought back that old magic feeling.  From the fantasy to the flying carpets, from harems to handsome sheiks, and from bangles to a bottled genie, what’s not to love? When I was five, it wasn’t about sorcery, but about a world beyond my more than wild imagination.

I remember so lovin’ that movie that when my mom would take me to the grocery store, I would place my little foot (in worn out red Keds) on the black matt for the automatic doors and say “Abracadabra” in my mind.

Sweet Jesus….I was opening the doors to Schwegmann’s Grocery!

So back to Pirates of the Caribbean.  You should read the story for yourself, but as it goes a nine-year-old girl named Beatrice Delap writes actor Johnny Depp /Pirate Jack Sparrow a letter telling him the students were planning a mutiny and they could use his help.  Clearly, there was not a sea of doubt in Beatrice’s mind, wondering if her dream could come true.  Even though the Pirate of the High Seas was busy filming the Pirates of the Caribbean On Stranger Tides (fourth in the series), and he probably has more fan mail that I could fathom, Beatrice boldly penned her request to paper.  I’m not sure if the urgent message was sent by land or by sea, but it somehow arrived in the hands of the handsome pirate.

The best part of this story is that in full ahoy-matey attire, Jack Sparrow delivered.   On October 8, 2010, Depp made an unannounced appearance at her London Primary School.  I try to imagine, if while sitting at my fourth grade desk, how I would have felt if Genie in a Bottle appeared to grant me three wishes?  Beatrice must have been in shock as “shiver me timbers…” blasted through her mind.

I have no doubt that there is a broad spectrum of opinion regarding Mr. Depp, the actor.  From helpless heroines that hope Jack Sparrow will rescue them from stormy waters, to the opinionated critics that have no time for the senseless notion of those who run with scissors (Edward Scissorhands), to the cult followers of Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory that wonder why Mr. Depp would remake the classic….opinions vary like the tide.

Regardless of your opinion of Johnny Depp, the actor, it should be remembered that in real life he is not the characters that he portrays.  In stumbling across the article on Jack Sparrow and Beatrice, I became a fan of the man who not only made a girl’s dream come true, but learned of the man who donated a bounty of over two million US dollars to Great Ormand Hospital after almost losing his girl to a critical illness.

Mr. Depp recounts the experience as one of his ‘darkest moments,’ and adds, “It was the most frightening thing we have ever been through. It was hell. But the magic was that she pulled through beautifully. Great Ormond Street was terrific, a great hospital.”

Like me, Mr. Depp knows the hell of walking the hospital halls as your child’s life hangs in the balance.  There is no acting about it.  Your priorities change in a moment, and you would trade all of your treasure for the health of your child.  It all ended well for his beloved daughter, and Johnny Depp could have left that hospital and never looked back.  Instead, he has returned on more than one occasion to donate money, to visit other sick children, and to have non-paparrazzi attended photo shoots with nurses and staff.

Things ended differently for my girl.  I believe she is abiding in the deep ocean of God’s love and in a place I’ve yet to sail to.  But as I approach Megan’s 30th birthday (January 27, 2011), Johnny Depp inspires me to put up my sail and boldly revisit my past.  You don’t have to be Jack Sparrow to rescue a hurting world.

Like any good pirate, I have a map and a secret plan that will be revealed in the days ahead.  That inspiration, mateys, comes in part from understanding the depth of Johnny Depp.

Key Notes:

  • I love the fact that Beatrice Delap understands “You have not because you ask not!” and had the courage to write Jack Sparrow.  I can’t think of any pirate lingo, but “You go girl!” comes to mind.
  • Megan and I enjoyed the eerie nature of Secret Window, a 2004 psychological thriller film starring Johnny Depp.  Mr. Depp plays a disturbed actor who holes up in his farmhouse and wears the same flannel shirt every day.  When we saw the movie while Megan was in Hospice, she told me she didn’t want me isolated from society wearing the same creepy outfit every day.
    • Note to Megan:  I am still wearing the same pink fuzzy robe you gave me, sometimes for hours on end, as I write at my computer.  Your Tea Cup Maltese has eaten off part of the sleeve.
  • Secret Window was written by Stephen King.  On Writing by Stephen King has been foundational to improving my blogging ability.

On A Lighter Note:

  • God Almighty is a bit of a pirate when He says in Isaiah 45:3, “I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the LORD, the God of Israel, who summons you by name.
  • I understand Ryan is getting me a new robe for my birthday.

Flying High in 2011

4 Jan

The worker monkeys at WordPress sent me my 2010 report card for blogging.  Since little has changed since my K-12 overachiever grade-grubbing days, I just thought I’d show off my report card bearing the big “Wow.”

Now, I don’t know what adjective the big bloggers got (you know, those who have thousands of loyal followers).  Maybe a word like ‘blog-tastic’.  WordPress didn’t tease me with a list of words that I could earn in the future, if only I worked a little harder at blogging, so for now I’m happy with “Wow.”

Maybe I was most excited to learn that the number of readers that viewed my blog is equivalent to the number of bodies that fill 22 full to capacity 747 jumbo jets.  That’s just a lot of people waiting to fasten their seat belts and pull out their Kindles so they can discover where they’ll find the next Sweet Jesus in my cyberspace column.

Take off really began for me a year ago (January 3, 2010) when I posted the blog about The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team.  The response astounded me.  More than my mom was reading it.  Lots more.

The blog became a runway to show me there is a big world out there that includes First Class passengers like Judy Trammell, Kelli Finglass and Sunni Cranfill.  It includes my pilot and literary coach, Erin Reel, who has been instrumental in guiding my craft through these changing months from depression to vision.  Don’t forget the caregivers that board the red-eye flight, grabbing a blog or two in the midnight hour with their sacred and limited time.  I am deeply honored by all.

I’m humbled, too, by all the friends that laughed a bunch, cried without apology, and continued to cheer me on in my writing.

Happy New Year, to 22 jumbo jets of readers.  Your support reminds me, “Wow! I have a flight to catch.”

Key Notes:

  • Subscribing to my blog (upper right corner of this page) gives you instant notification when a new blog posts.  It also makes me feel like I have a lot of friends.
  • The Lit Coach has me on a schedule to post every Sunday, with final blog in her email box the Thursday before.  I’ve missed a few flights in the last year.

On a Lighter Note:

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

21 Dec

Valerie Bosselman - Embossings

Not because of the commercialization of Christmas, but because I come from a creative and crafty family, December has always been a month of mass excess in decorations.  I come by this socially acceptable hoarding legitimately.  Nana had trees everywhere;  the main tree, the blue tree, the dog tree, and the light up ceramic trees, just to name a few.  From the moment you are born into our family, you receive your first annual Christmas ornament from every member of the clan, and by the time you turn 21 and set up your own home you have enough holiday hoop-la to start a small boutique.  Megan was the queen of all Christmas, and in 2006 (as she was recovering from spinal surgery and preparing for chemo and radiation) she had two floor-to-ceiling trees filled with delightful memories.

That all ended when Megan died.  The first Christmas without her I was barely shuffling along, and Santa and his elves stayed sealed in their boxes.  I did put up the trio of trees (all purple) in the kitchen but I think it was erected only to mask the great emptiness I felt inside.

By year two, I was moving forward…sort of.  The Alice-in-Wonderland-like tree with crazy purple ornaments was placed in the exact same spot as the year before.  The only spark of new life was  Joe mounting the 4′ wreath on the outside of the house, but even with this addition it would be safe to say (regarding my frame of mind) that  ”The lights were on, but nobody was home.”

This year is proof positive that we do need our friends in the grieving process.  On just a normal day of working at Kitchen Toyland, as all four cash registers were chiming, my manager asked when I was putting up my Christmas tree.  The look of horror on my face was quickly translated by another manager who said, “Wait, you haven’t put a tree up since Megan died, have you?”.  In symphony the third employee confirmed, “We are all coming over.  You are putting up a tree.  It’s time.”

Resistance was futile.

Mittens by Mom

The good news was that under the mask of terror, I was calculating a different life.  Moving forward into 2011, I want things to be different;  not the same old every day existence.  If indeed I am going to find a life without Megan, I must make different choices for the days ahead.  If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result, then I knew I needed to ‘do it different’ this year.

Our past does define who we are, and in discovering my future I decided to unearth the box of wooden treasures from the place that I found myself as an artist.  Those were the best of years.  My children were in grade school and the light of my life.  Off of a little 8 foot table in many a school auditorium, I was making a living (and a good one at that) selling framed prints of my hand calligraphy and simple stencil designs.  The money propelled me to bigger and better equipment (an embossing press), and contacts around the city.  To a world that said, “You’ll never make money as an artist,” local craft fairs became a cash cow.  I had heard about The Country Boutique, a bi-annual in home craft fair that was the mother of all craft fairs and Omaha’s standard of excellence.  Though they needed no additional partners, Jean and Quink invited me into their empire, a decision that irrevocably changed my life.

So, you’re all wondering about a name like “Quink?”  Her full name is Quanita Ann Arlt.  As the story goes, she drank Wink pop in high school, and with friends unable to master pronouncing “Quanita” they coined her Quink since she was that girl who was always drinking Wink.

Ornament by Quink Arlt

To say the least, Quink was the Bell of the Country Boutique Ball.  I’d pray the night before that the Quink cuteness would sell out quickly so customers would actually look at my embossings.  Little prayer was needed.  The sell-out was fast and furious.  Armloads of quintessential Quink would be swooped up.  Sometimes shoving and grabbing was involved.

Quink and her infamous wooden ornaments were not only stalked by Omaha’s elite, but also scouted by Better Homes & Gardens.  Family Circle, Women’s Day, Midwest Living, and Decorative Woodcrafts are just a few of the magazines that featured her projects and creativity.  Since I was a part of the elite group of artists, I had first pick of the prized ornaments, and each year I would select a few for me and the kids.  My mom bought them several, too.  Before I knew it, I had a tree full.

It should be noted that Quink was probably my first business mentor.  She pulled me into her world, and always offered helpful advice on what sells, what to create, and how to market my work.  Her unique genius overflowed into my home life.  She is a woman who does everything Martha Stewart style;  if you are invited to her home for tea, by golly, the homemade cookie will match the seasonal napkin.  Oh, I forgot, on entrance into her home you would most likely wipe your feet on the rug she hand hooked the night before, in between cross stitching a couch full of pillows.  Don’t be fooled by her adorable frame and perky blonde hair.  She can handle a band saw and cut out those Santa heads like nobodies business.  And do you need a new backyard trellis or fence?  Picture a shorter version of Martha Stewart in protective goggles revving up a chain saw.

I don’t know why I boxed Quink-ville away for so many years.  Truthfully, her life intertwined with mine more than ever after the boutique.  Her husband Norm was diagnosed with colorectal cancer in February of 2000;  stage 3 with chemo and radiation the recommended protocol.  When I called in 2004 to tell her that Megan had cancer, our hearts were knit together on a new level of understanding.  Since she does all things with excellence, it is no surprise she was a wonderful friend and sounding board as Megan journeyed through adrenal cancer.

Sweater knit by Mom

My heart unfroze a bit in Who-ville this year as I unboxed the treasure that is Quink.  With a big live tree perched center stage in front of the main picture window of my home, Joe put on the lights and the next night I hung the ornaments.  I mixed in my other favorites; little sweaters and mittens lovingly knit by my mom.

Aunt Shirley told me that this holiday season I should read the book “When God Winks.”  I guess it is about the intertwining of relationships and coincidences that bring us to who we are in life.  I haven’t read the book, but I can safely say, “I’m glad God gave me a Quink.”

Merry Christmas!

Key Notes:

  • When I unpacked the picture above of my holiday embossings from the 1990′s, I made a decision to not sell my embossing press.  Maybe I’ll go back to the work I love, too.
  • My friends from Kitchen Toyland are still coming over the see the tree, but this year I felt I needed to unpack the memories of my life alone.
  • I want to be clear that my friends did not force me into putting up a tree.  We all had a sense that it was time to take this step forward.

On a Lighter Note:

  • Wink later became Squirt.  It was a Canada Dry product.
  • Quink still watches Martha on Tivo and claims,  ”She’s funnier now after her stint in the crowbar hotel.”
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