A Parallel Parking Surprise

Strangely, I began to get comfortable in the neighborhood surrounding the New York City hospital. We had been staying on there since Christopher, our nine-year-old, spiked a fever from an experimental chemo a few weeks before. He had been diagnosed with an adult-form of leukemia eight weeks earlier.

It would be our home until his immune system recovered which unfortunately was not any time soon as the aggressive chemotherapy destroyed all of his cells – including the healthy ones.

As a “local resident” as I often felt, I came to know the best coffee places, which Tasti D-’lite locations offered the most flavors and how long it took to jog up to Central Park. I even had a temporary membership to a nearby gym – a gift from my friends.

Some days, the strangers on the street felt like neighbors. So I didn’t find anything terribly odd about accepting help from a woman and her mother one Sunday afternoon in June.  My husband, Rich, on the other hand, felt very differently.

It was Father’s Day and Rich was spending the day with Christopher. Ryan, our seven-year-old, wasn’t allowed in Christopher’s room because he was under the permitted visiting age of 12. This rule could only be bent when Christopher didn’t have a roommate, which unfortunately wasn’t often.

More than a week had passed since the boys last saw one another– the longest stretch of time ever. Our plan was to meet in the hallway near the pediatric floor elevators and drag a metal chair or two into the corridor.

It was around 3pm when Ryan and I arrived in the city. As we neared the hospital lobby, Rich phoned to tell me that one of Christopher’s nurses had secured an empty room for us to meet and we could stay as long as we wanted. A huge smile stretched across my face as I shared the news with Ryan.

Once inside the room, the boys found a stray basket of LEGOS on the windowsill and quickly made up a Star Wars story.

Once they were settled, my husband looked at me and asked, “Where did you park?”

“On the street,” I said.

We had been trying to avoid parking garages because they were expensive.

"Did you have any trouble?” He asked, picking some lint off his blue t-shirt.

Parallel parking was not one of my strong suits.

“Well,” I paused. “I got some help. It was taking me forever to park the new SUV and I just wanted to get here...so, in the side-view mirror, I noticed a woman about my age, and her mom walking up the street. They had seen me struggling and through my open window, the younger woman offered to park the car for me.”

My husband stared at me, black eyes wide.

“The mother,” I continued, “stayed on the street while her daughter climbed in behind the steering wheel. Ryan was asleep in the back, so I scooted over to the passenger side just to be safe.”

“Did it ever occur to you that she might steal the car?”

“Yes. That's why I didn't get out.  But truthfully, I felt relieved. Besides, as we were getting out, I saw the woman helping another driver up the street,” I added as justification.

He just looked at me and shook his head.

Later, I wondered at what point I had become so accepting of strangers’ help. Accepting help, even from close friends, was never easy for me.

So why on that Father’s Day in 2007, did I let a complete stranger in New York City park my car?

My priorities had shifted.  All that mattered at that moment, was getting my family together. I also realized that accepting help was not new to me. I had been doing it for months -- from our church members who brought dinners, to the friends who took care of Ryan after school, to the more than 2000 people who got tested at three different bone marrow drives to try to find a match for Christopher.

Accepting help from that woman on the street had become part of my ordinary. In fact, it was among the many blessings I received along this very difficult journey.

On that warm afternoon, when that woman kindly offered, “May I help you,” I was not thinking about what she could take from me, but rather what she was giving to me.

                                                                                # # #

September 11th

Many of us in the New York area can tell you exactly where we were and what we were doing on September 11^th when the first plane hit.   What I have learned is that for those of us who can easily share our stories, there probably is a happy ending.  When that's not the case, it’s no longer just a story, but a tragedy and one that is not readily told.

Although, mine does not have a disastrous ending—thank God—it was still a precarious day as our then three-year-old son, Christopher, was scheduled to receive chemotherapy. He had been diagnosed with leukemia six weeks before. 

My plan that morning was to wake up early and go for a run before my husband, Rich, left for work and we came to the clinic. When I opened my eyes, Rich was already dressed in his running clothes.  As he grabbed his sunglasses and walked out the bedroom door, I almost called after him to say that I needed to run more than he did.  He likely would have relented, but for some reason, I decided I'd skip it that day. 

Around 8:50am, as I was rushing out the door with Christopher, the phone rang.  I told my babysitter to let it go to voicemail.  Later, I would learn that it was my husband calling. He worked in the World Trade Center One.

When we walked through the clinic door, every seat in the waiting room was filled with an adult watching the news when we arrived.  This struck me as both odd and rude as only children’s programs were supposed to be shown on this TV.   Clutching Christopher’s hand, I asked the room, “Can I switch to Blue’s Clues?”

A man sitting against the wall looked at me and said, “You don’t know, do you?” I shook my head.  “A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”  My eyes shifted towards the TV where smoke was emitting from the first tower.   My vision darkened and the words that slid through my mouth muttered “I think my husband works in that building.”

The next thing I remembered is that Christopher and I were taken to a patient room down the hall. There, we were joined by a nurse, and our social worker.  Eventually, Christopher’s child-life specialist came and took him to the playroom.   

Our social worker asked me for my husband’s phone number.  Biting my lip, I paused, then slowly said, “201- 499 - 4.…” I couldn’t remember the rest.  None of my important numbers were written down, as I was always able to memorize them.  My husband referred to me as a walking telephone book.  Now in this moment of panic, my mind was blank.  I couldn’t remember anything.    Eventually, I think she called our babysitter to get his number.

It felt like I was caught in some cosmic landscape.  I was pretty certain my husband worked there, but a part of me wasn’t sure.   Weeks earlier, over dinner one night, I thought he may have mentioned something about his technology team at Lehman Brothers moving to the World Trade Center, but with Christopher’s recent diagnosis, my focus wasn’t there.   

Now, a voice inside me was screaming: How could you not have paid attention?   At the same, I wouldn’t let my brain consider the possibility that he might have been in that tower.   It was just too awful.

Around 11am, a call was patched through from the hospital. It was my husband.  I froze.

As I walked over to the nurse’s station to pick up the phone, I told myself – at least he is alive.   Thankfully, he wasn’t even hurt -- his call had only been patched through the hospital’s main number – and he was on the train returning home.

Apparently, he was on the ferry when the first plane hit.  He was late for work because he had gone running.  

In fact, he was more concerned that we were at the clinic and wanted us to leave immediately.   There was so much uncertainly and who knew where the next target might be.

After I hung up the phone, I turned and saw Christopher walking down the hall, now clutching a black lab stuffed puppy. He too was ready to go home.  We found his nurse, Noreen, and asked if we could just do the chemo another day.  Surely this wouldn’t be a problem, I thought, given what was happening in the world.  

Once again, I was reminded of the seriousness of Christopher’s condition.   We could go home, after he received his treatment. 

Now as I sit on my deck wrapped in a blanket, I think about that day eleven years ago.  The worries of this morning seem to pale in comparison.  So much has transpired since that day. 

Sadly, I’ve learned there is a difference between sharing a story and recounting the tragic moments of your life. The latter is not given away easily.

But I am thankful that on September 11, 2001, we were lucky enough to have a story that is not too difficult to tell. 

Remembering the details: How could I have been so wrong?

Over the last few years whenever I looked at this photo of Christopher with his full chubby cheeks and his round belly sitting with my sister Elizabeth on the blanket in our backyard, I felt such sadness in my heart.  Sheer pain ripped through me with each glance. Until just last week, I thought I had remembered the day so clearly.  Now I wonder, how could I have been so wrong? 

It was August of 2001 when my younger sister, Elizabeth, came from Colorado to spend time with us after Christopher was discharged from the hospital.  Three weeks earlier, on July 23, our seemingly healthy three-year old was diagnosed with leukemia.  Every moment thereafter was a struggle to live in this new space – a place I never visited even in my darkest nightmares.  Kidnapping was always a fear.  Cancer? Never.   

With each day, our hearts broke a little further as the life-saving treatment took effect on our child’s body.   His naturally skinny and energetic body became round and fatigued from all the steroids and chemo.

“Mommy, can I go upstairs and rest in my bed?” Christopher asked during dinner one evening the week after he came home from the hospital. I turned to him, my face full of anguish and said, “We can go with you.”   “No Mommy. It’s okay.  Stay with Ryan,” he said as he pushed the wooden chair back and climbed out of his booster seat.

Walking became difficult so often Christopher would just lie on the couch.  Eventually I had to carry him the few feet from the kitchen to the living room.  He didn’t even have the energy to fight with his little brother, Ryan. 

Over the years, the image of this photo would appear in my mind from time to time and I would wince internally. Then last week while rummaging through some old journals, I found an entry that described the day the photo was taken. 

I realized that my overall pain had overshadowed the reality of the day.  It wasn’t a day of sadness and suffering, but rather the first time in weeks that Christopher felt strong.  Here is the journal entry from that summer day:

Christopher is so cute – he has full chubby cheeks and they jiggle when he laughs and he laughed a lot today.  At lunch time, he suggested, “Mommy let’s go on a picnic in the backyard.” Elizabeth laid out a sheet on the grass in front of the jungle gyms and we carried our lunch of sandwiches, animal crackers and juice boxes outside. Later, Christopher said, “Let’s take a walk.”   We only got as far as the driveway, but still he wanted to go out.  I love the fact that despite all that Christopher is going through, he is still the same little boy.

Wow, what a difference.  My memory was incorrect on almost every account.  Somehow my brain recalled only the harsh side effects of the treatment and forgot my little boy’s amazing spirit. Maybe it was my sister’s visit that encouraged Christopher to want to celebrate, but somehow he found the strength to do so.   

Now, when I look back, I remember the hope and joy I felt that day and how we sought to live each moment.  

How could I have been so far off in my memory?  

Is this the case with other memories any of us may have? 

Do we just apply a general feeling to our past memories?  If it was a hard time, then do we mostly remember the struggles?  I won’t kid myself into denying how incredibly difficult that first month was.  But how did I forget the joy on that sunny afternoon?  Thankfully, I have other journals to remind me of the truth.   But this experience has helped me to realize how important it is to not only record our lives in picture but also in print. 

GOD IS WITH US EVEN WHEN WE ARE YELLING AT HIM

It seemed like an ordinary day when I woke up on a Friday morning a few weeks ago. It was a cloudy, muggy morning in Northern NJ.  But one thing was different – it was my wedding anniversary and because of that my mood was unclear.

It became clearer as I was preparing breakfast for myself.  Twenty minutes before, I had dropped Ryan – our second and youngest child– off at middle school so I was home alone. As I sliced some onions and other vegetables, I could feel a range of emotions pushing against my heart.  


Most immediate was a burst of gratitude that Rich and Ryan are still living and physically in my life.  As I turned the stove on, the sweet face of my oldest child – Christopher -- appeared in my mind. A smile formed at my lips and a tear slid down my cheek.  How could this possibly have happened? I wondered. Sixteen years ago on that beautiful sunny day, Rich and I could never have imagined that such a tragedy would occur. And as if a key had turned and a channel in my heart had become unblocked, the tears started to fall one after another.

“I just miss you so much,” I said out loud.  Sadness became mixed with anger, “Why did he have to die?” I shouted.  “Why did You have to take him? He was only 9!” My voice was progressively rising. “Why can’t he be here?” I was now shouting and sobbing uncontrollably.  The tears were falling so quickly, I could barely see.    

And then a scream parted from my lips.  But the sound was not my own.  It reminded me of a wounded lost animal.

After what seemed like forever, my crying began to slow.  Seeking to find an anchor, I considered going to church, but quickly dismissed the thought as I knew I didn’t have the energy to move much past the kitchen.   Instead I called another anchor -- my mom.  Just hearing her voice and knowing that she understood helped to ease my pain a bit.   Afterwards, still seeking comfort, I decided to watch an episode of Charmed.  This series had become my companion the months after Christopher died when I couldn’t do much more than watch TV.

Grabbing the remote, I sat down on the living room couch and clicked the power on.  My eyes did a double-take as the program before me was Morning Mass.  How could this be? I wondered. Pressing the information button, I saw that the station was on Channel 10.  This struck me as strange as no one in my home watches this channel.  Then in a moment of clarity, I realized I must have turned it off on this station while channel surfing last night.

Still, it felt like God was saying to me, “if you can’t come to Me, I will come to you.”  

Equally surprising was that the priest was reading one of my favorite gospels – the one about the boy and the five loaves of bread and two fishes.  This reminds me of Christopher and how even young children can impact many.

Mesmerized, I continue to watch.  In the homily, the priest spoke of how we only need to use our two hands to do God’s work.  Even the Prayer of the Faithful felt like it spoke to me.  The lecturer prayed, “For all those who have died, may they enjoy the fullness of life with God in heaven.”  Earlier I was crying about Christopher’s death, but now they were praying for his life.

After about 15 minutes, feeling uplifted but still intent on watching Charmed, I reached for the remote to record the Mass and change the channel to 37. But my movements were slow and instead channel three switched on.  It was a broadcast of a bible study class!  Pages from the bible appeared on my screen and the host had underlined the words “God is with you.” My skin began to tingle.

From the window, I could see that the sun was beginning to shine outside.  Inside my heart was beginning to soften and grow lighter.

After I finally did turn to Charmed, I took a moment to reflect on this morning’s experiences.  Perhaps if we open our heart to the pain, we can gain some clarity to the many gifts that surround us.  And God is with us even when we are yelling at Him.

Standing beside me

As I turned to leave Rocca's Cafe the other night, I glanced down at the floor and noticed a petite woman not much taller than me standing at the counter. It was her new french pedicure and her bright yellow flip flops that caught my attention. Flip flops and bare feet -- two reminders that the warmer weather was definitely here. Just the thought of summer brought a lightness to my step.

Then, I noticed beside her a boy around 13 in a red and white running shirt -- he towered above her by about five inches. My heart clenched and my breathing paused. Then as if I was learning a new concept, I thought 'Ah, yes, children grow and can become taller than their moms -- especially their petite moms.' On my way out, I couldn't help but wonder what Christopher would look like standing beside me.

What If?

What if to add some variety to your day, you introduce something new. It could be as simple as driving down an unfamiliar street or a street you haven't taken in some time. What new experiences could you have by creating this one small change in your day?

On my way to teach a yoga class one rainy morning last week, I took a new short cut. It wasn't intentional. It was a last minute quick left turn. Thankfully there was no on-coming traffic. Instantly, I was mentally transported to a different rainy day when the boys were little. My surroundings reminded me of our many visits to the library for story time, and our other travels around town. If I let myself, I could actually "hear" Christopher and Ryan sitting behind me, buckled into their boosters, and giggling sweetly. This experience led me to think, what if? What if, we are just open to new possibilities?

Later in the morning, I had to run errands in Ridgewood. Rather than parking right outside the store, I parked at the top of the Avenue, grabbed my umbrella and walked in the drizzling rain. More 'what if's' poured into my brain. What if I wrote down on a piece of paper all of the careers that might have been fun to pursue. Actor? I could take a local acting class through the community program. Teacher? I could volunteer at an elementary school to share some talent that I have. Master Gardener? Well, I'd have to get past my fear of killing the plants first. Maybe I can start with one small plant. I just have to let myself try.

Another what if comes to mind - What if things don't go as planned? A fun appointment gets cancelled. A friend can't visit. How do we handle these small disappointments that at times can feel so big? Well, just like moms plan rainy day activities for small children, we need to have have our own bag of tricks readily available. What if: you write down 20 things you would like to do. The first 5 or 10 might be easy, but for the rest of the list you might have to do think of things you used to do --like when you were in your 20's or even as a kid. Or maybe it's things you would like to try, but haven't ever had the chance. Let this be your basket of tricks. We just need to be open to try.

WHAT IF?....you fill in the blank.

Reconnecting with my Dad

My head rests gently against the side left door of my family’s 1979 Ford station wagon as I sleep on the long car ride up to Mad River in Vermont. Beside me sleep my sisters’ Elizabeth and Camille. In the tippy back, my other two siblings, Melissa and Anthony, also sleep. It’s surprising that we all fit with the ski bags, suitcases and poles.

My dad slides the driver side window down just a crack. The frigid air sneaks into our warm car and I momentarily wake. “Dad, close the window. It’s cold,” a few of us screech. My mom is talking quietly to my Dad. Softly in the background, I hear the symphony music that my Dad is so fond of.

It’s “his” music that has brought me back to this car ride. It’s a few days after Christmas 2011 and we are visiting my Father-in-law, Richard, and his wife Brenda at their home in Pennsylvania. Everyone around me is getting ready for bed as I sit here and write.

Earlier my father-in-law made a facial expression that reminded me so much of my Dad. Then later when we were playing Rummy 500, he turned on a television station that happened to feature “my Dad’s" music – the music that my Dad always played on our long car rides up to Vermont. If I had just let my eyes close, I could have easily returned to that time in the 1970’s.

Now after our card game has finished I can do that. I’ve ripped out a piece of paper from the pad we used to keep score and begin to write. As I do, it is as if I’ve entered a dream state as those physically around me grow hazy and I travel back in time.

We finally pull into the parking spaces beside the North Jersey Whiz Skier’s Lodge at Mad River Glen – a lodge that my father and some of his friends started in the 1960s. The bright spot lights above the parking area combined with the swoosh of cold air through opened car doors jolt us awake. “Suzanne, grab a bag,” my mom calls to me as I start to wander toward the front door empty handed. The snow squeaks under our feet as we walk – a good sign that they’ve gotten some fresh snow lately. Once inside the foyer, my Dad greets some familiar faces.

It’s so nice to hear his voice again,” I think as I write. His smile lights up his face. “Dad, it’s so good to see you again!” I say without any words. No words are needed to communicate with my Dad since he died two years and three Christmases ago. This experience of writing the memory and actually bringing it forward to the present is new for me – at least as it relates to my Dad as I do this often with my son, Christopher.

Have you ever tried to write down a memory as it appears to you? We all have connections that trigger memories that can transport us back in time. Music is a popular trigger. The next time you remember something, consider jotting it down on paper – what you recall will likely be more vivid. It’s also a good way to help retain memories.

Sitting at the dinner table at the Silver Dollar in upstate New York – a good half way point for dinner – I smile as my Dad smiles and say again, “Dad it’s sooo good to see you.”