Beautiful Stranger

The first time I saw her, she was walking past me in an airport terminal in Detroit. She was tan, had a perfect white smile and a bounce in her step.  Oh, and a head as bald as a bowling ball. A few minutes after I heard the announcement that my flight would be delayed for another hour and a half, I searched for a seat and spotted her again. As soon as I sat down across from her, she smiled at me and said, "It's getting cold in here. Is it cold to you?'' For the next hour, we talked about everything and anything. It was in the first few minutes that I asked, "Is that your chosen look, or is there a medical reason that you have no hair?'' "Oh, that. I have alopecia." It's a condition that causes hair to fall out. "Mine started falling out when my mother was diagnosed with cancer four years ago,'' she said. "I think from the stress.'' She said it looked so horrible that one day, she asked one of her brothers to shave her head. "When my twin sister saw it, she cried. But I loved it. It looked so much better than having bald spots everywhere.'' She said she had a few wigs but didn't like the way they felt. "They're hot and itchy.'' The more she spoke, the more beautiful she became to me. At 26 years old, she was completely comfortable in her own skin. Her fingernails and toenails were perfectly manicured with French-style tips. The golden tan from head to toe (literally) was the result of an afternoon tanning session. It felt good being in her presence. And, it eased the anxiety I had been feeling about flying.  I was so impressed with her maturity, her demeanor, her attitude. Then she completely blew me away as she revealed more about her life. She has seven siblings that include a disabled brother, Michael. "I'm his caregiver.'' My mind conjured up images of a little boy who needed to be fed, bathed and babysat. I was only partially right. "He's 34 years old and 6 feet tall,'' she said. "He doesn't talk, but he laughs a lot and cries . . . especially when he hears holiday music.'' She feeds him, sings to him, and changes his diapers. She left him in the care of two sisters so she could visit her twin sister in California. "I hope they don't leave him alone with my dad," she said. "I take care of him, too.'' At 70, her dad stills works, but she makes sure the house is supplied with everything he needs. "I've been doing it since my mom died.''

The call to board came too soon. We wished each other well and went our separate ways.

I saw her one more time at baggage claim at LAX. We made small talk for a few more minutes, then watched as our suitcases came around the turnstyle. We said our final goodbyes and embraced. "You are such an inspiration,'' I told her. "I wish you a great life.'' She thanked me, wished me well, smiled, and walked out the door.

Wow! I just met an angel.

Lines in The Serenity Prayer popped into my head:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference . . .


Living one day at a time; 
enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardships as the pathway to peace
. . . That I may be reasonably happy in this life . . . 

 I will never forget her and the impression she left on my heart.

Hey, it's a living

I got a new job this week. No, I'm not leaving the full time job I love so much, just replacing the freelance gig I lost last September when the residential building industry led to my column's demise. (I need the money as my 17-year old daughter has chosen the most expensive college on the planet to study art!!!) For three short years, I was the columnist I had always wanted to be . . . well sort of. I wasn't exactly writing the prose I had envisioned. In fact, I wasn't doing much writing at all -- merely reporting the facts, ma'am, on new residential developments then trying to add a little personality in 20 words or less. "You don't have to sit side saddle on the toilet, like you do in my house. . . '' Nevertheless, people surprisingly recognized me from that tiny one-inch picture that appeared on the cover of the Detroit Free Press real estate section every Sunday. Okay, it was only two people in three years (and I think one of them heard somebody say my name out loud), but still . . . 

So, about this new job.

As part of the interview process, I was asked to write a simple story on how to walk properly. Who'd a thunk it? There are people out there who really need instructions on how to walk properly. (Part II: How to walk and chew gum at the same time.)  Hey, a few years back, I was assigned a story about toe fungus. I think that was an all-time low point for me. That's a long way from my participation in the death vigil of Liberace or my near-death experience with a sharp shooter when I refused to stay back as then Vice President George Bush boarded his private plane at Palm Springs Airport. It was 7 a.m., my editor was waiting for a story and because he scared the crap out of me, I wasn't about to let him down. Two TV reporters had been given permission to move toward the plane. Not fair, I said, as I darted in the same direction. When I got to the steps of the plane, everybody was looking at me, so I took advantage of the silence and asked the VP the first thing that came to mind . . . "Uh, how was your weekend?'' I can't recall his answer, but since it was the only question he answered before boarding the plane, I got an entire front page story out of it. (And an offer to have dinner with the sharp shooter on the roof who said he had his "sights" on my back side.)

So anyway, after several days of pondering the notion of writing this walking story -- me, a 20+ year journalist having to take a writing test -- I decided to give it a shot. With a bit of sarcastic humor (an excuse I could use later should I get rejected) and that damn Abominable Snowman song playing over and over and over in my head (Put one foot in front of the other . . . ), I did some quick research and began amusing myself with tips on how to step, move forward and swing your arms just so.

I was pretty happy with the final piece. Apparently, my new editors were, too. In fact, they told me during our face to face interview that they liked my humor and could use more of it. Just as I received my first assignment, I was reminded that I would be writing at a sixth grade level. Was I just complimented or insulted?

Without revealing the source of my ghost writing, I'll give you a hint. If you're sitting in your company break room next year and happen to see a poster on the wall with great tips on how to walk properly, you'll know where it came from.

Hey, it's a living!

Men! She said sarcastically.

Damn, I had way too much sugar today -- an extra large Mr. Pibb!!! Now I feel logy. (Isn't that a funny word? Logy, logy, logy. Say it 10 times fast.) It's well after midnight. Can't sleep . . . again. Spent the day at Best Buy, Walmart, Best Buy, Target and Walmart again. And, I didn't even get to shop. I just grabbed things I thought I might need on the way to and from the TV departments where my husband was searching for the perfect TV for his birthday. (Hmmmmph. How did these Hershey chocolate bars get in the basket?)  For some strange reason, the 50-inch TV in the living room isn't enough. The bedroom -- that place that is supposed to be for sleeping and, well, you know -- is about to become a private viewing room for the latest DVD releases. Oh goodie. What is it with men and their big boy toys? After we got the 50-inch TV a few years ago, our neighbor had to go out and get one, too. Only his was bigger -- by two inches! I guess that's a lot in boyland. Last year, my husband finally replaced his old 4-wheel drive Toyota with a new -- at least twice the size -- F-150 King Kab. The worst part is that it took him 15 years to find it. What fun we've had shopping at car lots weekend after weekend after year after year. When he finally saw it, his eyes turned to saucers like a kid at Game Stop. I nearly blew the deal when I insulted the salesman who, oops, made a mistake, giving us the wrong price then discovering it just as we were about to sign the paperwork. Sometimes, my no-holds barred personality works. Other times, it just pisses people off. It worked after my husband purchased an AS IS lemon at an 8 Mile Road car dealership that included trading in MY Jeep. It took me two hours of badgering the owner, doing everything from insulting his integrity and accusing him of taking advantage of the little guy (me) to threatening to call my media friends at Problem Solvers and crying, I actually got our money and our Jeep back. I should have been given an Oscar for that performance. The guy charged us $200 for the repairs they did on the Jeep which we thought was fair especially since it ran for another few months, enough time to find another vehicle (which we later found out had been stolen.) That wasn't my husband's fault. We did everything we could, including searching CARFAX.com. The VIN was somehow switched. It even fooled the Secretary of State's office employees who tagged it for us. It wasn't until we sold it that we learned its history . . . Where was I? Oh, the F-150. Turns out, my husband really wanted it and even at the higher last-minute price, it was a good deal. Sorry, honey. He went back the next day, probably described me in "Lucille Ball'' terms and came back with his new toy. I had to admit, it was pretty cool. Okay, so back to the TV. Personally, I'm not much of a TV watcher. It didn't bother me that we had to use binoculars to see the 13-inch that we had propped atop my dresser half way across our bedroom. But, I do love my husband and for all that he doesn't say when I come home from shopping trips with bags full of "stuff,'' he deserves it.

The best part about this day, we agreed that this TV would be a present for both of us as our birthdays are only a month apart. No, that wouldn't be right, he said, knowing that I wouldn't really watch it that much anyway. "Hey, I know,'' he said. "I'll buy you the full-motion mount to keep the TV on the wall and off your dresser." I don't think he was kidding.

Right now, as I listen to him whistle through his noise as he doses off, I realize that I am blinded by this giant light in the middle of the room. I look up to see that all that the racket he's been making for the last few hours involved mounting my birthday present to the wall (Great, I got it early!) so he could hook up his birthday present. It couldn't have been two minutes after he climbed into bed to enjoy it that the nose symphony started.

Where's the frigging chocolate?

Shannon's Aura

Not a week has gone by since the untimely death of Shannon hasn’t crossed my mind. I gave up on asking “Why?’’ long before I ever met this beautiful young woman. I’ve seen too many pass before her. Nevertheless, she has left a mark that will stay with me as I travel through my own life.

We met a few years ago as she was pitching a fundraiser for Gilda’s Club Metro Detroit, a cancer support community where she came for support. She was in the midst of a clinical trial to treat her breast cancer that was not cooperating despite her heavy chemotherapy regimen.

First diagnosed at 25, she knew the odds for long-term survival were not good. Like many young women diagnosed with breast cancer, her tumors were aggressive. Determined to live her life to the fullest, she focused instead on her upcoming role as newlywed and her new mission -- to help other women in her age group facing similar challenges.

Statistically, women under 40 make up a relatively small number of overall women (and men) diagnosed with breast cancer. Still, that number ranges near 250,000 nationwide with about 11,500 new cases annually.

With little emotional support available for women with breast cancer in their 20s and 30s --Shannon first came to Gilda’s Club with her idea to create a group specifically for this demographic. With full support of our program director who became the group’s facilitator, Shannon proudly dubbed it, “The Rack Pack.’’ It didn’t take long for the comfy chairs in our clubhouse to be filled.

These women, who should have been out exploring the world, planning weddings, starting careers, or turning dens into baby rooms, were here instead, struggling with physical and emotional scars and uncertain futures.

At Gilda’s Club and beyond, they formed the most amazing bond, helping each other cope. Shannon was a powerful force, one who always came with a good attitude, a sense of hope, a reason to keep moving forward. She was beautiful, smart, sensitive and warm. But, there was something else about her -- spiritual energy, an aura, perhaps -- that made people want to stay close by.

While juggling her treatment (which required regular travel to Texas from her metro Detroit home), Shannon decided to give something back to Gilda’s Club for supporting her and her loved ones. Having been part of a successful fundraiser in Austin, she set out to recreate one for this local cancer support community in Royal Oak.

It wasn’t long before her family and friends were working on what would become Bras for a Cause, a fantastic evening held last September that raised nearly $50,000 for Gilda’s Club. Her uncle, Dave Coulier of Full House, served as Master of Ceremonies.

She wanted to do it again this year, setting her new goal at $100,000. But, as plans got under way, Shannon’s illness took over.

Shannon Iezzi Watson was 29 years old when she slipped away, creating a sadness that continues to linger around here. Her friends, several with the same cancer type, hang on to hope that modern medicine, different circumstances and faith will allow them more time than she had.

Now, it is these women along with Shannon’s husband, Kevin, his mother Edie, and a handful of other loved ones, who are carrying Shannon's bright torch. Despite their own grief, they are honoring Shannon’s wish. Through a lot of tears, I’m sure, they are working from Shannon’s notes to organize this year’s event in her honor. Bras for a Cause: In Memory of Shannon Watson, will be held on Saturday, September 18, 2010 at the Royal Oak Music Theatre. Coulier, will repeat his role as MC. It will include a strolling buffet, live and silent auction, a display of decorated bras and a fashion show featuring the most creative bras modeled by women who truly deserve to shine – breast cancer survivors who could easily be drawn into sadness but instead choose to focus their own beautiful energy on making sure that Shannon’s Rack Pack will be available to other young women.

While Gilda's Club is a place that prides itself on providing emotional and social support to people with all kinds of cancer, it's the people who come here that make it successful. Shannon may have initially joined Gilda's Club for herself, but she touched and inspired a lot of people along the way with her great attitude, her knowledge and her humor.

Where ever Shannon’s soul has settled, surely the aura around it is still beaming.

P.S. In all my years as a writer, I still have not come up with words to ease the pain that loved ones feel after such a traumatic loss. I can only try. To Kevin, Shannon's family and the amazing, courageous women of The Rack Pack, I wish you comfort in knowing that your lives have been touched by an angel disguised as a wife, a daughter, a sister, a niece, and a friend. May her spirit continue to inspire us all.

Man in the Mirror

Recently, I had the privilege of talking with a cancer survivor about his life - more like the life he envisions since going through his diagnosis in February and surgery. Prior to this conversation, I only knew him in passing. Still, I could sense his inner struggle. While my background isn't social work, my training as a longtime journalist, I suppose, taught me how to read people. Then again, who isn't struggling after a cancer diagnosis? No matter, I welcomed his request to talk with me about some ideas he had about changing careers. As I suspected, the conversation really wasn't about that at all. It was about the transformation that was occurring as a result of his cancer experience -- the transformation that so many cancer survivors go through if they are lucky enough to work (and live) through the physical and emotional agony that the disease stirs up.

While the process is often painful, many cancer survivors (and care givers) say it's worth the experience. Some go so far as to call it a "gift." I'm not so sure I could call it that, but I get it. I lost my mother, my mother-in-law and my sister-in law to cancer. And, I watched both my sister and my son struggle with it. Personal experience tells me that there is no good in cancer itself, but there are great things ahead for survivors and their loved ones whose senses are awakened by the experience. Facing mortality has a way of doing that.

For this 50-something father with two kids, the changes are under way. He told me he's ready to be happy but he has some obstacles in his way, namely a bad marriage and a high-stress job. He wants to run away from it all. He wants to chase the dreams that have been swimming around in his head for too long.

In a nutshell, this man is deperate for change even if it means he has to wipe his slate clean. "I want to be happy,'' he said. "I want to simplify my life. I want to help people.'''

I get it. And, I know that thousands of others who have walked the cancer path -- or any other life-altering experience -- get it, too. Life is short. But, not so short that it can't be filled with fun, laughter and personal rewards.

I have been lucky enough to come out of my son's cancer experience with a new sense of appreciation for my life and all who cross it. Years of exposure through my career as a newspaper journalist to crime, corruption, death, disaster and battles over petty things couldn't compare to my year in a pediatric cancer ward where dozens of children, including my own precious one-year-old son fought for their lives. More than a few did not win. I don't think I've witnessed anything more painful than watching a parent say goodbye to a child. (Nor have I witnessed anything more amazing than watching and feeling the energy in the room as a young boy descended into heaven.)

Fortunately, my story didn't end that way. Despite his rare kidney cancer, my son is now a happy, healthy 14-year-old. The impact of the experience, however, has lifelong repercussions. Even today, my eyes well up at hearing him laugh, watching him play baseball or putting a band-aid on his latest scrape. Still, I panic when he complains of leg pain, a headache or anything else that most parents would pass off as growing pains, stress, or the common cold.

I often wonder why I put myself smack dab in the middle of a cancer support community, where I am reminded daily of the nightmare my family went through. Some days are harder than others. Some days, we celebrate remissions, successful surgeries and non-cancer-related events that include weddings and births and marriages. Other days, we mourn, we cry, we try to cope because as much as we know about the sadness of cancer, the hurt and frustration are just as painful as they were the last time and the time before that . . .

Then, someone walks into my office -- someone who is struggling to make sense of his own nightmare. Like so many, he wants there to be some good from this. For some reason, our paths crossed. I can help him simply by listening, sharing my own experiences, and encouraging him to keep moving forward. And, I doubt he knows this, but he has already helped me. He's my reminder that I am in the right place right now.

My new friend still has quite a journey ahead of him. Cancer has changed him. It has made him evaluate the life he has been living for so many years. It has forced him to look in the mirror. And, slowly but surely, it will give him the courage to make choices that will enrich the rest of his life.

From someone who is still stumbling, my advice to him is "One step at a time.''