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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.

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.”

The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team 5

23 Oct

Over a quiet lunch BFF Lisa and I caught up on life and love since our last spur of the moment meal.  In between bites of Chicken Picatta I told her,

“The new season of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, Making the Team has started and a bunch of 40 year-olds tried out.

Swallowing her mouth full of salmon Lisa replied,

“So, what?  Is there a “B” team now?  The Botox Babes?”

My laugh was followed by:

“Have I not taught you all things DCC?  There is no “B” team because they only bring their “A” game.”

The idea of a forty-year old in the Dallas Cowboys uniform is incomprehensible to us since both our lives were hypnotized by dress your age mothers.  Mental programming started early on.  Our moms, Bev and Ellie, believe nice girls don’t chew gum, no white shoes until after Easter, and no mixing of the metals (gold and silver) in jewelry.  “Are you wearing a bra?” is a personal favorite.  Don’t forget the ever annoying “Sit like a lady” bonus phrase.  But the winning Mom Mantra is “only girls from the wrong side of the tracks get their ears pierced.” Since my mom (Bev) and Lisa’s mom (Ellie) lived in completely different cities, just where were those railroad tracks, and who determined the wrong side?

The regulation as to who is approved to wear white on their wedding day puts a smirky smile on my face as I remember a time (or two) when a whispering wedding attendee said, “She shouldn’t be wearing white.”  The subliminal brainwashing was clearly effective, because when I watch “Say Yes to the Dress” with fifty year-old brides dressed like cupcakes, I cringe a bit and think they should be ticketed.

I must have passed the mantra of dress your age, whatever that age may be on to Megan.  Though she was so beautiful I had talent scouts call me from the pageant world, I refused to put her in an environment that dresses little girls like women.  When she became a young woman I saw to it that her clothing was fun and in-style.  Even when my girl was struggling with her weight because of the undetected adrenal tumor, I pressed her to enjoy her teens and the crazy fun clothes that go with it, because it comes but once a lifetime.

In the same spirit, Megan picked out all of my clothes, wanting me to dress my age and not beyond it.  As Megan expressed her final wishes she decisively said, “Mom, promise me you won’t dress like Barbara Bush at my funeral.”  Since Megan’s illness aged me beyond my years, and I am the black dress and pearls girl, her fears were not unfounded.  Still, it makes me laugh to this day.

I wish Megan could have been here to see the first episode of Season 5 of The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team.  The magic began when Kelli Finglass, Director of the DCC, emerged in her beautiful red dress, commanding the attention and admiration of over six hundred hopefuls.  In my world it was a touchdown.

As the hour-long premier show progressed, I was intrigued by the returning candidates, amused by the those with no God-given rhythm (I’d be in that group), and tortured by the commercial tease that alluded to the possibility of a returning veteran being voted off.

But the absolute showstopper, the moment that I wanted to phone my girl in heaven and say “You’re gonna love this!” was when the forty-plus year old DCC hopefuls stepped out onto the audition floor in hopes of laying claim to one of thirty-six positions consistently held by the young and the beautiful.

On one side, I have to applaud any woman (at any age) that has the mojo to reach for her dream and submit to the audition process.  But I did wonder what my son would think if me, his 53-year-old mom, put on crop shorts and a sequin bra and shaked it before a national audience and a 60 yard wide high definition TV that made me look like a double-wide trailer?

My first thought is not ‘he would die of embarrassment,’ but rather, ‘my death would be imminent.’  I contacted Ryan to find out what his reaction would really be, and he responded with three choices:

  • This is the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, not The Real Housewives of Omaha.  Fifty year old women are not cheerleaders!
  • I’m excited that you’ve found something to be passionate about…please don’t make me watch!
  • Hmmm…I thought I was the only athlete in the family, but good luck!

As four mid-life moms shaked it in high definition, Charlotte Jones Anderson, Executive VP of the DCC and newly appointed National Advisory Board chairman for the Salvation Army, leaned into Ms. Finglass and said,

If you ever see me on the dance floor…doing looks like that…and [I] think that I’m cute…Please tell me.

Perish the thought.  Before Ms. Jones Anderson completed her sentence, Ms. Finglass overlapped the absurd idea with,

I will tell you.

Since there must be some life lesson in this blog, in comes in the reality that even the beautiful and successful Charlotte Jones Anderson depends on friends who keep her moving forward toward excellence and away from being delusional.  I am grateful to have the same camaraderie with Lisa.

Lisa was kind enough at the two-year anniversary of Megan’s death to say, “When was the last time you saw the counselors at The Cancer Center?” honest enough to say, “You’re not wearing those jeans!  Megan would want me to tell you.” and loving enough that she would never let me go on high definition TV to shake my boot-tay.

Sweet Jesus…if you don’t have a friend, find yourself one.

Key Notes:

  • The new video screen in Cowboys Stadium is largest HDTV in the world.  It is 60 yards wide, stretching from 20 yard line to 20 yard line.
    • In a May 26, 2009 article, Chad Mumm points out that The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders onscreen are 101-feet tall.
  • I had enough try-out failures as a teen to know I should hang up the poms and move on to my next passion.
  • Every friend should not have the right to give you constructive criticism or input.  Reserve that privilege for an inner circle of friends that know you best and truly love you.

On a Lighter Note:

  • The “No God-given rhythm” group danced as Lady Gaga’s Poker Face played in the background.  Mickey Spagnola, columnist for the Dallas Cowboys and rookie DCC judge, kept his.
  • My ears were pierced before the age of 16.
  • I wore a new black dress from Von Maur’s designer department to Megan’s funeral.  I did not look like Barbara Bush.
  • I am eternally grateful to Joseph Essaghian of Belldini for his help in picking out my clothes.  This ruffle sweater in red is my new personal favorite.

Out of Egypt

9 Oct

This is my Dad.  Charles Alphonses Wilscam, Jr.  It was on his Bucket List to travel to Egypt, and he accomplished that goal the fall of 1974.

I think my dad was born an architect, so it’s no wonder that he wanted to see one of the Seven Wonders of the World; the Great Pyramid of Giza.

Dad’s Bucket List also included marriage, having three girls, and ensuring that all become college graduates.  You gotta know that was very forward thinking in the 1950′s.

Mom and Dad gave us the liberty to choose both the university and the major, but by golly, we were going to college.  My memory is a bit foggy, but I think they even said, “I don’t care if you major in basket weaving…”    Since I love all things arts and crafts, that was not such a bad idea, but as I mentioned in the previous blog, I choose international studies at Tulane University.    Two years into the elite program, I made the phone call to tell Mom and Dad that I was changing my major to art.  While I don’t remember all the details of that conversation, I do remember telling them I didn’t want to have this big career, and spend my life dreaming of art.  While my passion was art (not architecture) it was clear early on that I was my father’s daughter.

It was a rocky go at first.  An art major requires massive amounts of studio lab time. I exhausted myself and ended up leaving Tulane my junior year with every intention of returning.  As one might imagine, it was me (the middle child) who challenged Charlie’s very soul in checking that college graduate thing off his Bucket List.  Somewhere in the  I’m on a break from college and finding myself timeline, I thought maybe earning a bachelor’s degree wasn’t for me.

Sweet Jesus, I’m going to Beauty School!

That revelation was probably the most hair-raising for my parents, but somehow Mom and Dad reasoned with me to finish my degree at the University of Nebraska at Omaha.

As time passed, I met Dann Bosselman, got married and pregnant (in that order), and slowly and methodically completed the required hours.  Those days were not without their own hardship, as I stood in freezing Nebraska temperatures, [pregnant with Megan and resisting the temptation to barf at every moment] waiting for the city bus to take me to the university.  I wasn’t so passionate about college at that time, but I promised my parents when I married Dann that I would finish my degree.  College Graduation

Finally, in 1981 I put on my cap and gown and graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree (with thesis in drawing) from the University of Nebraska at Omaha.  As the trumpets sounded for the mid-year graduation ceremony, hundreds filed into the arena.  The department of art students were the end of the pack, and with my brown BFA tassel swinging in joy, I filed in with the last few.  Not far into the ceremony I felt my dad’s presence.

Please picture the moment.  Hundreds of graduates on the main floor, ALL the parents in the grand stands.  Well, all but one.  With camera in hand, and pride in his countenance, there was my Dad sitting in the empty seat behind me.  While you might think that could be counted among life’s most embarrassing events, I knew first and foremost my dad was so proud that I had accomplished my degree, but he was also satisfied to have achieved another life goal.

My older sister preceded me in the pomp and circumstance of higher education when she graduated from Tulane in 1978.  I was on the six-year college plan, and followed her a few years later.  Finally, when my younger sister Adie graduated from Dartmouth in 1985, Charlie’s Bucket List item was satisfied.  Three girls. Three graduates.

It was also on Dad’s Bucket List to start his own architecture business and build it big.  The early years of Wilscam, Inc. were staffed by Mom the secretary and a couple of grade school girls (me and my older sister) that would run around the dining room table collating brochures for potential clients.  Those days were lean.

Years passed.  He added partners.  He built it big.

On August 30, 2010, after fifty-seven years in architecture at a casual staff lunch, Dad officially retired.  As things were winding down, Dad asked me to drive Mom home.  Surprised by this request, I reminded Dad that he lives with Mom, but ‘hey, if you want me to drive her home, I’ll go with it.”

Just blocks away from their front door, Mom took a deep breath and told me that Dad was no longer in remission.

My dad has cancer.  Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL)  While it has been carefully managed for over two decades, the last scan brought the news that cancer is aggressively on the move.

Many have asked me if receiving news on cancer ever gets any easier.  The answer is positively, “No.”  Cancer thrusts you into the great unknown and it becomes its own wilderness.

By experience, I can tell you a thing or two about the desert times in our lives.  It was in the beginning months of Megan’s battle with adrenal cortical cancer that my pastor gave a profound teaching on the Israelites coming out of Egypt.

By day the LORD went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night.  Exodus 13:21

Pastor Ray, not knowing my growing obsession with umbrellas, carefully explained that the pillar of cloud, in the scorching sun of Egypt, was symbolic of a servant carrying a parasol over his master.  Similarly, by night the servant would go ahead of the master with a torch of fire.  No air conditioning in the desert by day…No street lights by night.  His conclusion was that though God led His people out of Egypt into the desert, He nonetheless carried the umbrella to shield them from heat and sun of day, and held the torch of light for the darkness of night.  Metaphorically, God Almighty was their umbrella.

I can list, absolutely, four life moments in 53 years of my life where I knew God spoke to me;  Pastor Ray’s sermon on the “Cloud by Day” was one of them.

For today, I don’t live in the heavenlies, but in real life as my dad faces five more rounds of chemotherapy.  I  dropped by my parents’ apartment Tuesday night.  Mom was knitting hats for unknown women journeying through chemotherapy at the Immanuel Cancer Center.  Both my parents were watching The Food Network.  We made small talk.  Mom and Dad wanted to know when “The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team” would begin its new season.  I told them soon.

Mom worries that I’m underfed and got me a big bowl of soup, with lots of Cheez-it crackers on the side.  An hour later, Dad walked me safely to the car as I choked back tears knowing Wednesday would be another full day of chemo.

I’m in the wilderness…but I do know where to find my umbrella.

Key Notes:

  • The definition of remission:  A decrease in, or disappearance of, signs and symptoms of cancer. In complete remission, all signs or symptoms of cancer have disappeared, although there still may be cancer in the body.
  • I came home from Mom and Dad’s to an email from Sunni Canfill, cheerleader extraordinaire for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, reminding me to take care of myself.  I had not heard from her in weeks, and the timing was nothing short of prophetic.  I’m trying, Sunni Girl!
  • According to Trivia-library.com, “The idea of umbrellas originated among the aristocracy in ancient Egypt. The modern umbrella, with ribs of steel covered by fabric, was created in the late 1700s.”
  • In Ancient Greece and Rome, umbrellas were used exclusively for shade from the sun.  European woman began to carry umbrellas in the 1600′s, mostly as shade from the sun.

On A Lighter Note:

  • Thinking of torturing your parents and making the “I’m majoring in art” phone call?  It should be noted that I had already demonstrated a certain level of artistic talent, and my art training began when I attended pre-school at Joslyn Art Museum.
  • My literary coach, Erin Reel, told me I get only one “Sweet Jesus” per blog.
  • By golly, my children Megan and Ryan earned college degrees.
  • Wondering what The Seven Wonders of the World are?  Here you go, free of charge!  Wonder no more….Click here.
  • I look so much like my dad that when he dropped into Sur La Table one afternoon, employee Diane saw him and said, “You must be Val’s dad.”
  • I look so much like my dad that I’ve been at Sur La Table, with my dad on the opposite end of the store, and a customer said, “There is a guy on the other end of the store that looks exactly like you.  Is that your dad?”
  • I look so much like my dad that years ago at a business meeting the client said, “You and Val look exactly alike.”  My dad responded with, “I hope that’s a compliment to Valerie.”

The Language Barrier

27 Sep

It was not a magical beginning when my parents packed me off to Mexico City in 1972 on a heavily supervised four-week student exchange program.  I was 15 years old.

When the Braniff International flight landed in the capital city, I realized I wasn’t in Kansas any more, where farm folks drive within the white lines and signal their turns.  I come from a family where my mom still uses her imaginary break when I drive.  I was a stranger in a strange land, suddenly surrounded by four young Latino teenagers who whisked my gold Samsonite suitcase into the back of a Volkswagen Beetle and zoomed forward onto Paseo de la Reforma, past the famous El Ángel on the roundabout.  Bumper to bumper in a city nine million strong, my new friends laughed as they sang along in broken Spanglish to Harry Nilsson’s “Without You”.

I was scared for my life, but didn’t know how to say it in Spanish;  grade school language had hardly prepared me for the real world.  I wanted to go home.

Turning back was not an option.  There were no cells phones.  In the early 1970′s most families in Mexico City waited more than a year to secure home telephone service.  Even if I found a land line, cost per minute was wildly expensive.  And how exactly do you call the dad that served in the Korean War, lived in a tent, walked through fields of hidden landmines, to say, “Hey, Dad, I’ve been here 60 minutes and this Mexico adventure is sorta not workin’ for me?”

I also knew my older sister would not welcome me home with open arms.  The card she handed me as I boarded the flight said,

I’m going to have so much fun when you’re gone–swimming at Ron’s, driving around.  The room will be a giant mess when you get home, but it won’t matter cause I’m moving your junk into the basement with the dog. Don’t forget my silver and other presents.

Thankfully, the first days passed without event.  So did the horrific diarrhea. Before I knew it I was in love with the simplicity of life in Mexico City, and found Antonieta and Leticia Alvarez (my Mexican sisters) and their friends nothing short of enchanting.  I called mom and dad and asked for an extension on time (and more money) and spent the entire summer living la Vida loca.

The Alvarez Family 1972

What had been terrifying territory became a world where I thrived.  Between the incessant exchange of dialogue among Mexican girlfriends to afternoons in front of the telenovela, I excelled in a new language.  From chicken mole to the pyramids of Teotihuacan, every day brought new vocabulary and a new adventure with Toni and Leticia who always gave meaning to carpe diem.  I was fortunate to return the summer of 1974 to study at Universidad Iberoamericana, a prestigious Jesuit university in Mexico City.  I took four hours of college level classes in the morning, and in the afternoons the Alvarez Family saw to it that my life continued to be full of the Mexican experience.  My language skill was so honed from those months of studying that it became the ticket to my enrollment in Tulane’s international studies department.

Beyond diplomas, the experience of being in a foreign land where my life was trusted to those around me for care gave me the perfect training for entering the land of cancer with my girl.

Clearly, cancer is a ticket that nobody chooses to buy.  Nonetheless, on Monday, July 19, 2004 when Dr. Jon Morton’s office called to say they found a mass on Megan’s left kidney, we took off into the great unknown.  Since Megan was not a minor, she took the initial call.  I just remember her face going blank as she thrust the phone into my hand and said, “I don’t understand what they are saying, Mom.”  I listened to the nurse and translated back to my daughter that we needed to return to the hospital for another CT Scan with contrast.

That Monday night ended with a call from Dr. Langdon, my next door neighbor and the man who would be Megan’s oncologist, to clarify the day’s events because even though the nurse had given the diagnosis in English we had difficulty with the meaning.  I hung up the phone, thinking I could trust the team that would be responsible for my daughter’s care.

Much like my south of the border experience, our introduction into the world of cancer left me feeling like I was in a place I didn’t want to be, surrounded by people I didn’t know, who were speaking a medical language I’d never heard.  Our future was uncertain, and I was utterly dependant on those around me.  I felt sick to my stomach.  We both wanted to go home, to an existence free of abnormality – free of cancer.  There was no turning back.

Mexico City was not like cancer in that my daughter’s journey was life and death. But what both required, in abundance, were trust and translation.

I didn’t spend July 19 on WebMD or a google search of all things adrenal. Instead, I spent that night laying next to my girl in her bed, praying that an angel would guide us in the uncertain day ahead.  I trusted Dr. Caitlin Foxley, Megan’s primary internist…and I trusted my next door neighbor who made the late evening call.   And for whatever I didn’t understand, I had a willingness to say “¡No comprehendo!”

Key Notes:

  • It is imperative that you are cared for by a doctor that you trust, since you are trusting that physician with your life.
  • Be an informed patient, but remember that a lot of what is written on the internet is wrong.  Even if it is correct, it may not apply to your particular circumstances.  Everybody is different.
  • Don’t be afraid to say, “I don’t understand.”  If your health care provider makes you feel stupid, find another.
  • If you are given printed material that is too technical, be willing to say, “Can you explain this on a level that I will understand?”
    • Further Notes:  I am a college graduate that got an “A” in genetics, yet I often said, “Can you repeat that?”, or “Can you explain that at a third grade level?”

On a Lighter Note:

  • I don’t remember if I bought my older sister silver in Taxco.  The room was a giant mess when I returned, but my junk was not in the basement with the dog. I think she speaks three foreign languages.  I could not have made it through the last six years without her.
  • Since Megan’s death I have been at several social events where a physician will sheepishly approach me and say, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your daughter’s adrenal cancer?”  I now know the language.
    • Alternately, should you encounter a doctor outside his office, they generally – almost always – hate it when people ask them medically oriented questions (can you blame them?  Make an appointment).
  • Mexico City 1974My son Ryan does not believe the photo in the previous blog is his mother.  I thought I would throw in one more as proof positive.
    • Mom’s note to Ryan: I know the last six years have been anything but carefree…but there was a day that your mom was young and fun [and yes I know I'm wearing a halter dress].  For the record, my Mom helped me pick out this gown for formal events in Mexico City, summer of 1974.

Final Notes on The Alvarez Family:

  • Because of a less than dependable mail system, somewhere over the years I lost track of my Mexican sisters, Antonieta and Leticia Alvarez.  I am hoping that some day through a google search they will locate me.
  • It’s been 36 years since my last visit to Mexico City.  My ability to speak Spanish is dormant, and I need to return to a language school to renew my fluency.
  • While “Hispanic” or “Latino” seems to be the correct term in the 21st century, Antonieta and Leticia were proud of their heritage and in the 1970′s wanted me to refer to them as “Mexican.”
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