Where it began…

I had a happy childhood. I was born in Pullman, Washington (Go Cougs!) but moved very early on in my life to Bethesda, Maryland, so my father could work in Washington, DC at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB). How great is that for a kid? It was 1970. The beginnings of Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, The Electric Company. I was able to spend time with Fred Rogers, Rita Moreno and Morgan Freeman. My Dad was a WWII veteran (Iwo Jima), which I didn’t know about until after his death. He and my mom met at Washington State University (he was a professor…she was his student). My brother was born 9 1/2 years before I was and, evidently, he wished upon a star for a little sister. We were a loving, warm family of four. We did all the things. We made ice cream on the front porch. We travelled together to wonderful places. My brother was an athlete and extremely smart. I was a dancer and that’s all I wanted to be, until I got a little older, went through puberty and realized I wasn’t built for ballet. So I ended up taking up acting…and cheerleading, because…high school.

My brother went away to college at the University of Virginia in the fall of 1979. In 1981, my 8th grade year, dad got a job working for Caspar Weinberger (then the Secretary of Defense under President Reagan) as the Director of DAVA (the Defense Audio Visual Agency). We were to move to San Bernardino, CA. Dad developed a funny itch in his throat and went to the doctor just before flying out to scout the area to find our new home.

This is where everything changes…and where the lessons begin…

One normal day at home while dad was in CA on business, the phone rang. It was his doctor. Dad was diagnosed with a rare esophageal cancer and needed to come home immediately for surgery and treatment. The rest was a bit of a blur. My brother came home from college to help take care of dad. Dad came home, had surgery at NIH (National Institutes of Health) and went through radiation treatment that was too painful to explain. His once strong Marine body was frail and tired. He managed, with help, to come to one of my ballet recitals with a smile on his face. That would be the last time I would see him in the audience. On the night of January 30th, 1982, while I was staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, I saw flashing ambulance lights through the window. Dad was taken by ambulance and never returned. I remembered a day a few months earlier where Dad asked my brother and I to come in close to hear him speak. He said, “I am not going to be here much longer. Your mother will need help. Remember to be there for her.” We remembered.

Mom was shattered. My brother was gutted and was never really the same. I was 12…and I was numb.

But we pulled ourselves up and kept moving. My brother finished at UVA. Mom and I had each other and we took a wonderful mother/daughter trip to London and did all of the wonderful things mothers and daughters do.

Fast forward to 1984 when my beautiful mother finds a lump on her breast. Although her first impetus is to ignore it, my grandmother is not having it and sends her to the doctor for a biopsy. Sure enough, the doctor tells her she has cancer and must get surgery immediately. My brother is now in Manhattan working. I am a Sophomore in High School and, well, here we go…

Mom was a fighter. She was positive and full of hope. And she really fought. She had 2 kids that lost their father. She needed to stay alive. My grandmother flew in from Oregon to stay with us and to help take care of Mom. It was so hard to watch my grandmother see my mother’s decline. As a mother myself, I don’t think I knew how tragic that was until I had my own children.

Easter Sunday, April 7, 1985. Mom was back in the hospital. The cancer had come back and she was suffering from pneumonia. But I called her that morning and she was up and eating a popsicle ready for us to bring her the Easter basket that we made for her. The cherry blossom trees were in full bloom on Kingsley Ave., our street in Bethesda. We headed to the hospital. We arrived and mom was no longer conscious. She had taken a turn. She was whispering though. “I’m coming, Cal.” She was talking to my father. My brother and I sat on either side of the bed, holding her hands. We counted her breaths until there were none. As we drove back to our house, the cherry blossoms had fallen and lined the street like a pink blanket.

When you experience something like this before the age of 16, you have two directions you could go in…up…or down. I knew from the moment my mother took her last breath, my journey had to go up. Although I only had 12 years with my father and 15 years with my mother, they were magical. I owed it to them and to myself to look up and not down.

It is a journey.

My heart is full. My light shines bright and I want to make sure others know that, no matter what is going on in your life, you can choose to hold the light…I am here to help you do that. Glad you are here.