I wanted to remember them...

I wanted to remember them, each one. The nurses, the doctors, the anesthesiologist. I wanted to remember their smiles, their warm, loving hands, their kindnesses, their understanding, and I can’t because there are so very many. More than dozens.

I’ve kept a mental diary so that I can put the names to the faces, and I find now that they are more notes and snapshots, somehow disconnected much like the whole thing from the beginning. It’s as if I went in and out of consciousness at times, often totally in the moment and then at other times, not there at all.

Flashes come back from time to time, like this morning when I suddenly remembered being wheeled into the operating room for my surgery. Without even realizing it, my eyes were teary and I found myself recreating being wheeled through the corridors of Brigham & Women’s hospital. The nurses had covered me with warmed blankets for the cold ride, and I remember that the corridors were narrow and filled with unexpected things. Like recycling containers. I never expected to see the large blue top loading plastic containers in the corridor outside the surgical suite. And the room itself. It was much smaller than I’d expected. Probably 12x14, the size of an average bedroom, but without the accouterments of a bed, or a sofa, tasteful artwork, end tables, and mood lighting. Not even any throw pillows. Nothing except stark white cold walls and huge, round amazing lights over the table strategically placed in the center of the room. They looked like giant bug eyes peering down at the empty table, waiting to swoop down and sting me as soon as I settled into where they set their sights.

I remember hearing someone tell me to make my way from the gurney to the operating table as best I could, so I scooched my way over, the ties on the back of the Johnnie flapping, devoid of pride or caring, and felt my cold butt cheeks against the cold white surface.

That’s the last thing I remember until I asked for crushed ice. I’d already been through hours of surgery and hours in recovery, and I didn’t remember a thing. As much as I wanted to remember them all, I couldn't.

For Meghan

Of my eight grandchildren, Meghan is the first-born. There’s always something very special about first-born children whether they be children, grandchildren, or any other familial mix. Meghan is the first-born of my first-born, so that makes her extra special.

I remember the day she was born, the first time I held her, the first time I babysat and watched her as she slept. I remember the night she gently carved the outline of my face with her tiny fingers in the dark as I tucked her into bed when she was three and a half. It was truly one of the most overwhelmingly spiritual moments of my life, and the poem I wrote and framed still hangs in the hallway of their home in testament to that amazing experience.

And I will always remember a phone call two weeks ago on the day of my surgery.

I’ve tried to make sure that my whole family has been a part of the information loop and decision making process all along. From my three grown children, to my ex, to my grandchildren, I felt strongly that we were all in this together somehow. Everyone’s degree of information has been a little different based on where they fall on the relationship wheel, what their tolerance levels may be, and how they process bad stuff, but they’re all in. Even the little ones. They may be little, but they deserve openness and as much honesty as they can handle, and so I’ve shared as much as I, and they, could. That’s what families do, after all, love each other openly, honestly, deeply, and unconditionally.

My own Mother died of breast cancer nearly twenty years ago, so I know first-hand how scary it sounded to tell them all I now faced the same challenge she had. She, however, was not as lucky as I because she couldn’t take advantage of the same options. They didn’t exist, first of all.

She didn’t even talk about “it”. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Hers was a generation of fright-based non-dialogue based on fear of a diagnosis of sure death, and so, like so many of her generation, she couldn’t talk about it. We all knew something was wrong, terribly wrong, and yet nothing was said. Ever. It was awful, and frightening, and left my Dad, my sister, and I on the outside without any ability to help, or even to know what she must have been going through.

Ten days before her death we talked about it for the first time, and she asked me not to second-guess the choices she had made. We were driving to the hospital because she couldn’t breathe. No ambulance. Absolutely not. She’d refused. She just knew the hospital was where she needed to be, and so I drove as fast as I could without frightening either one of us any more than we already were, and we talked as calmly and lovingly as we could for two people facing what had been denied for so very long.

“Please respect my choices, and don’t judge me”, she said, eyes straight on the road. “I’ve lived my life the way I wanted.”

I’ve so often wondered how she ever faced those fears alone. How very brave she was to want to protect us all from the pain she must have faced every day. I know her goal was to protect us. She didn’t. She couldn’t. We could only watch, powerless, as she stood alone in her battle with a disease that ate her up and ultimately took her last breath. In an awful way it ate us up, too, because we had to watch without any hope of helping….even a little.

I had to respect her choices, but I couldn’t make similar ones, and so when I got my own diagnosis of invasive breast cancer, I chose to let them in….all of them….because I know how very difficult it had been from the outside, and how very much I wished there was something, anything, I could do, even if it was to listen. I had wanted to be there for her, hold her hand, talk to her, anything, and that gift had been denied me, and so I made the conscious choice to see my own disease from their viewpoint, too.

On that Tuesday morning so very early on the morning of my major surgery, when I heard Meg’s soft, frightened little voice there was no question in my mind. At nine, her fears are bigger, her questions more direct, and her concern deeply genuine. I heard it all in her “Grammy” the minute I picked up the phone at 6:30 AM.

“Good morning, Meghan, what a nice surprise”, I said, smiling to myself and knowing her fears deep in my own heart. “Are you getting ready for school?” I asked, and she said she was.

“You sound a little scared, Meg, are you okay?”

“I’m afraid something will go wrong”, was all she said, and I could hear so much more. She had labeled my surgery from the beginning as Grammy’s “boob-ectomy” and, for the life of me, I don’t know where she got it. We all liked it, though, because it added a little humor to a humorless disease.

“Thank you Meghan, for being honest. It’s a pretty scary thing to think about, I know. You know how very much I love you, right? Well, it was important to me from the very beginning that I did everything I could possibly do to make sure that things wouldn’t go wrong. That’s why I went to the best doctors in the best hospitals in the world and will get the very best treatment possible. I left nothing to chance because you are so important to me, and I guarantee you I’ll get better. I’m a little scared myself because it’s a very big surgery, but I’m not worried. I’m in the best of hands, and God and all his angels, including you, are protecting me.”

Her little voice perked up, and she seemed to brighten, wishing me luck with the surgery and telling me she’d see me soon. I asked her again what I ask each of my children and grandchildren every day “Do you know how much I love you today?”, and she smiled and answered a big, hearty yes, reassuring me that we’d be just fine. She was an insider, something I hadn’t been able to be for my own Mom, and I know how very much that reassurance meant to her.

Yes, I respect my Mom’s choices, but this isn’t my Mom’s breast cancer. Things have changed. Thank God and years of dedication and research. We talk about it now. We survive it. We cry together. We walk together. We hold each other and support each other, and we survive together.

I will get through this because of you, Meghan, and all my grandchildren. Because of my children and their families. Because of my friends. Because of my co-workers. Because of the care-givers, doctors, nurses, and all who have touched me on this journey back to full health. Because I wasn’t alone….ever.

If I could go back, I would change things for my Mom, but I can’t. I can only teach my children that the only real way to fight is by reaching out, letting others in, and joining hands with those you love, accepting their love and support, their tears, their fears, and sharing it all…together.

Sometimes being brave means reaching out and making a difference, saying thank you, and multiplying the love, the assurances, and the hope. It’s about being able to accept what others need to give you in their own moment of need, even if it’s their little fearful voices in the early morning light.

It’s going to be okay, Meghan. Really. Just keep holding my hand, and we’ll get through this…together. I promise.

All my love always,

Grammy
1-4-3

Dear Blue Knights Drum Corps

I wrote this open letter to the Blue Knights Drum & Bugle Corps from Denver, CO, on the occasion of their participating in the DCI World Championships in 2007. It was my privilege to have spent ten days with them in late June and early July traveling up and down the east cosat from show to show. This letter was placed on the food truck for all members to read before preliminary competition in Pasadena, CA..


Dear Blue Knights,

I know I’m probably just a blur to most of you by now…just one of the many faces on the food truck over the course of a summer filled with nondescript places punctuated by thoughts of “Remember the time when…” kinds of stories….

I only spent ten days with you, but they were ten days I will cherish forever.

As fate would have it, I discovered you were short a cook (or two) when GM was working with me on housing for the Beverly show, and so…I volunteered. Nobody could understand why a Massachusetts woman with seemingly no ties to a Denver drum corps would drop everything to cook for 170 people she didn’t know, least of all the Blue Knights.

Well, it’s all about taking chances….and being ready and willing to accept opportunities when they’re placed at your feet.

First, there are no accidents in life. Whatever “decisions of chance” brought you all together in Pasadena, California, each of you is there…in this moment… for a reason….to contribute something important to the whole, and in doing so, create the ultimate prize….

Synergy….when the whole is even greater than the sum of its parts….when you come together as one, connected at the brain and heart for the purpose of creating a single memory indelibly etched into your collective hearts and souls forever.

I challenge each of you to be in the moment….in the zone…live it….breathe it….and cherish the chance to find a way to become one voice, one body, one emotion…no longer individuals brought together by random choices, but a single entity that cannot be split apart. You are the only Blue Knights corps that will ever be like you….you are unique….and you are amazing.

The greatest gift you can give each other is the gift of synergistic performance….reach out to each other…find your soul connection and then touch the crowd with the power of that connection. Reach out to them, and bridge the gap between you and they….Honestly and intentionally invite them into your uniqueness….most people will tell you to think about it….I challenge you to feel it.

Don’t pretend to dance….DANCE….don’t pretend to reach out….REACH….challenge my emotions and make me FEEL a part of the performance….I don’t want to just witness your performance…. I want to feel a PART of it. Make all of us a part of it…That’s effect!!! Engage us!!!

I’ll be watching….reach out to me…and everyone who wants so much for you….go ahead…take the chance….you’ll never get an opportunity quite like it again.

For those of you who will age out and cross over to the dimension of spectator after Saturday’s Finals performance, seize these next few days, not selfishly, but with ultimate generosity….this time is more special than you know. I aged out nearly four decades ago, have since taught, managed, judged, and been involved with corps all this time, and the feeling is still the same. There is nothing better than being on the performance side of the line….nothing!

As for me, I’m glad I took the chance to be there with you, even for just a short time…I’m glad I reached out and took the opportunity placed at my feet. You’ve made a difference in my life, and I will be forever grateful. The reason I chose to drop everything was simple…I’d just been diagnosed with cancer.

I will get through it. You gave me the chance, and the will, to see that. I will take your strength, your conviction, and your passion with me on my journey over the next year, and I will “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

There are no accidents in life….life is about opportunities and what you choose to do with them when they present themselves….

Now you have an opportunity at your collective feet….I know you’re ready…take it…embrace it…all of you as one…and “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”!

My fondest regards and deepest gratitude,

Linda O’Connor

The Ferry Meeting

The second thing that caught my eye was the Coldwater Creek bag in her right hand. Unmistakable and strangely exciting….they always have clothes that you can’t find anywhere else….different…and they fit!

“I love Coldwater Creek,” I said, and she smiled broadly. “Me, too” she replied excitedly and shared that her shopping excursion had been very successful. She held other bags in the mix, too. Bags of different sizes, colors, and shapes, but the Coldwater Creek bag was a standout. Just like the red bandana she wore wrapped around her head. That was what I’d noticed first.

Now that we’d broken the ice with the bag talk, it was time, so I took a deep breath and asked “Like wearing bandanas, or are you one of us?”

She looked at me and smiled, admitting that she’d lost most of her hair after only the third chemo treatment. It was as though a faucet had been turned on and the flow of liquid information ran in strong and powerful streams, almost as though the shut-off valve had been holding everything back against its will. She was open and honest, and a delight!

“You, too?” she asked, and I told her that I had just been diagnosed with Stage 2 multi-focal infiltrating ductal carcinoma….breast cancer. She looked surprised. I guess because I wasn’t wearing a bandana yet, but I told her there was a great likelihood that I was right behind her.

As we stood there waiting for the ferry back to Port Kent, New York, we stood and talked and shared about experiences past and future, what to expect, things to know, problems to avoid if at all possible, and we became sisters. Her name was Diane Winch, and she was a bit shorter than I. Five years younger, too. Hers was an in situ Stage 1 ductal cancer that they found early enough on which to do breast conservation surgery. She hated the first chemotherapy treatment as it made her sick as a dog, and then she demanded that they give her the real drug instead of the generic. She needed to be her own best advocate, too.

And so we traded names and addresses and stories for the hour’s ride, and we hugged really hard at the end of the trip. She stared into my eyes and told me to fight it with everything I’ve got, and she told me that I’d given her something. She said she was awed by my positive attitude and ability to openly and honestly face the challenge of this cancer. She told me that most people are afraid to talk about it and don’t know how to treat her these days, and I’ve found the same thing.

Yes, I have cancer. That doesn’t make me any different than I was yesterday, or make me appreciate the smell of the ocean any more than I did yesterday. It doesn’t define me, and it doesn’t own me. I get up every morning and I go to work. I leave, and I hug as many people a day as I can. I always have. I always will.
I think the worst thing any of us can face is the absence of human touch. Don’t isolate me because of my cancer, and don’t be afraid to talk to me. I need to live, and love, and laugh just as I do every day, and have for the past sixty years. I need to refill my bucket every day, so hug me, laugh with me, cry with me, walk the beach with me, ride the ferry with me, and close your eyes, too, to smell the fresh air around us every day….just like you would have…yesterday.

I need you at my side, my friend. Don’t be afraid. I’ll hold your hand tightly, and we’ll get through this…together.

Best of luck, Diane…my thoughts and prayers are with you…and all those fighting cancer.

Cameron and Dulles airport

If I heard her last name I have forgotten it, for which I am sorry. I can’t forget her first name, though, because she is, in essence, one of mine already. Cameron. Serene, gorgeous, intelligent, graceful Cameron. She appeared to be about twenty and on her way to meet her boyfriend, Jake, in Newburyport, Massachusetts, not far from where I live.

We were twenty in all, bound together by a storm that kept us on the ground in Roanoke, VA, for more than three hours. Flashes of lightening circled the field in waves as would-be travelers stood at the windows, both in awe and dismay at being held captive by Mother Nature.

Finally, an announcement over the PA system signaled a break in the weather before the next storm, and our United Airlines representative told us we were going to do a “quick turnaround once our plane was able to land”. We watched as the small jet made its way through the dark sky and intermittent lightening, and felt a sigh of relief when it taxied up to our window. Passengers ran between raindrops, covering their heads with bags and newspapers as best they could, and puddle-jumped into the terminal.

“Let’s rock” was the only direction we got, and the twenty of us who remained in the terminal gathered what little we had and crossed paths with those going in the opposite direction, not unlike opposing teams after a hard-fought game, only without the high-fives or handshakes.

“Good luck” a couple of weary travelers were heard to offer. “It’s nasty up there.”

No sooner were we on the plane and settled in when the flight attendant told us to pay special attention the safety instructions for this flight…and we all did. As quickly as we were buckled in, the pilot taxied out and did the fastest take-off I’ve ever seen. It felt as though we were going five hundred miles an hour before we left the ground and our ascent was seemingly straight up, unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I always gauge the take-off by prayer and where I am in the Hail Mary (after I finish the Our Father). I have it timed so that when I get to the word Jesus the plane softly lifts and begins it gradual ascent. Every time! Not this flight. I wasn’t half way through the Our Father when we were off the ground and screeching away from the Roanoke airport. I was somewhere in the “forgive us our trespasses” range, which was way too soon and made me very uncomfortable

“They must know what they’re doing”, I thought as we struggled through the clouds and awkwardly bumped our way into the stratosphere in this little plane, and then I thought to myself “How strange that I longed to go home for my scheduled biopsy instead of die in a plane crash”.

I closed my eyes and waited silently with the others until we were comfortably clear of the storm and then settled in, hoping we’d make our connecting flight at Dulles on the other end.

We missed it by five minutes, and there were no flights out until morning.

That’s when I saw her. She looked worried and alone and vulnerable, and she was asking the attendant what she should do now that she had no way home.

“Boston?” she asked when she finally turned around and looked at me, and I nodded yes. There were only three of us for whom the flight was a connection. The rest of them were already home, somewhere in the DC area, and beds and families to warm and comfort them. Somehow, we lost sight of the third, who preferred privacy and seclusion, perhaps not trusting strangers in an altogether strange place.

“My Mother is going to be so worried” Cameron said in a “boy, am I in trouble now” kind of tone. She shared that her Mother had told her it was a bad idea to try to go to Newburyport alone to meet Jake, but you know how college kids are…invincible.

As we walked toward the reservation desk to attempt to find our way back to Boston for the morning, I told her to call her Mom and let her know that she was fine, and that we’d be fast friends for the night. My grandson’s name is Cameron, so she and her Mom should know that I’d take care of her as my own. “I’ll talk to her if you’d like”, I told her, but Mom seemed pretty happy that she’d connected with somebody “reputable”.

She was a Junior at the University of Miami, a Marine Biology major who had never swum with dolphins. Her parents were both doctors, and we sat and talked and shared until she really was one of my own. We played games and asked great questions of each other like favorite color? And Holtz or Chopin? That one got her because they were so different, and she was surprised I would know that, too.

She was a cellist, and she told me about the time United lost her cello for four days! Since then she bought it a seat next to her. This time she didn’t bring it because she was going to see Jake.

We played the psychological game of favorite animal and two adjectives that describe it, and favorite color and two adjectives that describe it to see it how we see ourselves is congruent with how others see us, and her answers were dolphin, graceful and intelligent, and blue, serene and gorgeous. She had it all together.

She was competitive, got good grades, respected her parents, and had the most amazing smile. We got snacks and blankets, and settled in head to head on the benches at Dulles airport, and I felt I had nestled in her into my fold the best I could for the brief hours til morning.

As we got on our plane the following morning, separated now, I could see her some seven rows ahead of me. She looked ready to go off on her own. She turned around, smiled, and waved confidently, giving me a high five sign. I smiled back and returned the gesture, nodding that everything truly was fine. She had only been mine for a few hours to watch over, and I’m so glad our paths crossed as they had.
Guardian angels have a way of being there just when we need them the most. I’m glad she was there to watch over me and keep my mind off the biopsy scheduled for the next day. 7/11/07