I've Been Zeked!

In the fifth grade, a new girl moved to my hometown of Wenonah, New Jersey. She was tall, like me. She was goofy, like me. She had a pool, unlike me. We were instant BFFs.

Throughout middle school and high school, Mischelle—whose name was misspelled her entire life until she decided to go by “Shelly,”—and I became fairly inseparable. Except, like, that time I told her I’d be over in ten minutes to pick her up for the mall and I completely spaced and went without her. (My mother ended up driving her there when she learned from Shelly that I’d forgotten her.)

After graduating from my MBA program back in (cough, cough, mumble, mumble), I decided to spend the summer before my job started traveling the country to visit friends. I met up with Shelly and her fiancé, Matt, at her parents’ home in Wenonah. After a few days there, we caravanned in two cars to Shelly and Matt’s apartment in Durham, North Carolina. At one point during the drive, Shelly and Matt pulled off the road even though we’d just had a rest stop. I pulled off too and asked them what was up. 

“Weird noise in the back of the car,” Shelly said. “I’m guessing Dad is behind this.”

Sure enough, when we opened their hatchback and unzipped one of their larger suitcases, there was a wind-up alarm clock nestled into their dirty clothes, still making a muffled clanging noise. And next to the clock was this little gem—the head of Zeke, a homemade ragdoll Shelly’s grandmother had sewn back when Shelly was still Mischelle. Time had not been kind to Zeke and he was missing his felt hat, one eye and entire body. 

“What the hell?” I said, as Shelly and Matt laughed.

“We’ve been Zeked!” Shelly exclaimed. 

She then gave me the background on this odd little doll head, telling me how Zeke had lost bits of himself over the years until one day he was nothing more than a bald one-eyed head. As kids, Shelly or one of her two sisters would often discover Zeke’s head tucked into their coat pockets—a favorite prank of their parents, who hoped to give their daughters a bit of levity on their walk to school.

I spent a week or so with Shelly and Matt in North Carolina, doing long training runs for my first marathon and lounging by the apartment complex’s pool all day while they were at work. We got into the routine of “Zeking” each other. I floated Zeke on a Tupperware lid in their toilet and shut the lid. The next morning, I awoke after they were already gone, but I found Zeke in the toe of one of my running shoes. Shortly after we went to bed one evening, I heard laughter from their bedroom. Clearly, they had just discovered Zeke tacked to the ceiling over their bed.

When I left Shelly and Matt’s to drive to New York for my new job, I stole Zeke. (Wouldn’t you?) When Shelly called me a few days later to accuse me of theft, I had my story ready. I told her I had put Zeke in an empty bag of Goldfish crackers on top of the refrigerator as my farewell Zeking. Neither could find the bag (because I’d already thrown it out), so they assumed they’d accidentally tossed it. Sadly, Zeke was gone for good. So they thought. 

 

Shelly and Matt’s wedding was scheduled for several months later. In speaking about the details with her a few weeks before the big event, she mentioned that they would be honeymooning in Aruba, but given the mischievous tendencies of Matt’s friends, they weren’t telling anyone where they would be staying.  

I expressed concern about no one knowing their whereabouts and promised to keep it a secret if she told me, that I’d feel better knowing that at least one of us knew where to find them in the unlikely event of an emergency. Shelly acquiesced and gave me the name of the resort. 

The day Shelly and Matt left for Aruba, I was giddy with joy over the devious plan I had hatched with the staff at their hotel. I had FedEx-ed a small box to the concierge so she could have it waiting in their room upon arrival. Zeke was tucked safely inside and the lid of the box was inscribed with a little rhyme: 

                          You tried to keep it a secret, 

                          But the locale of your honeymoon leaked.

                          Then a mysterious box arrives in your room.

                          Hey, honeymooners—you've been Zeked!

Remember, this was pre-email-and-texting days, and international telephone rates were high, so I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear from Shelly that day (though in hindsight, I'm sure she'd been dying to call me given the sheer awesomeness of this particular Zeking). Unbeknownst to me, she had her own plans.  When Shelly and Matt returned home, I phoned her immediately. 

"Well?!" I said, exasperated. 

"Well, what?" she replied, giving an Oscar-worthy performance of feigned ignorance.

When I asked her to detail every moment upon arriving at the hotel, she told me they had reserved a nice suite, but when they opened the door to their room the smell of cigarettes was so overpowering, they shut the door and demanded different accommodations. They never even set foot inside their original room according to her. I was crestfallen. And Shelly had me completely fooled. Now it was I who thought Zeke was lost for good. 

Two months later, my boyfriend decided it was time I met his parents. We both flew to Albuquerque, where we rented a car and drove to his folks’ home in Los Alamos, arriving after midnight. His mother had waited up for us and after an introductory hug, she immediately guided me to the Christmas tree to admire it. Ok, a tad weird, but what the hell. I admired the tree. But one compliment wasn’t enough apparently, and she insisted I continue to take in the tree’s beauty, her hands on my shoulders as if to hold me in place. I complied. And then--I screamed. 

Right in front of me, in a glistening hand-blown bulb, was Zeke, staring out at me through his glass confines. Shelly's dad had taken up glass blowing and she had obviously decided to put his talents to good use. Well done, Shelly. Well. Done. 

It took me years to bring myself to smash the bulb, freeing Zeke from his glass prison, but as they say in show-biz: the Zeke must go on! (or something like that). And what better time to do so than the occasion of Shelly’s first pregnancy. 

I was living in Los Angeles by then and had a good pal who worked in character licensing at Disney (read: had access to more Disney-character crap than should be legal). I bummed a half dozen miniature Winnie-the Pooh stuffed animals from her, as Shelly had already told me the baby's nursery would be decorated in Pooh motif. I then savagely cut off the face of one of the mini-Poohs, inserting Zeke in the gaping hole and stitching him in place, in effect creating a sort of FrankenPooh—cuddly body, creepy face. I stacked the Poohs in a tight box, three facing up, three facing down. FrankenPooh was facing down. I giftwrapped the box and mailed it to Shelly’s parents’ home, where she and Matt would be spending the holidays. Then, I waited. 

Unable to sleep for long stretches at that point in her pregnancy, Shelly woke up early on Christmas morning and sat in the living room killing time until the rest of the family got around. She scanned the gifts under the tree and found mine. Seeing no harm in opening a non-family gift without the rest of the gang present, she opened the package. And then--she screamed. Suffice it to say, the rest of the family was now wide awake as well. 

Um, thanks for the hat?

As the Zekings increased over the years, so too did the level of creativity involved. Zeke had been stowed inside a thick book entitled, appropriately, Zeke (the pages within having been carved out to fit his head), sewn onto a hat that was presented to me at a class reunion, and even baked into cranberry bread (a feat which required constantly pushing his head back to the bottom of the bread pan with a fork throughout the baking process, as it kept rising to the surface). 

Not even a death in the family was reason enough to put the Zeke-centric shenanigans on hold. Shortly after Shelly left town following my step-dad's memorial service, I found Zeke lurking in my refrigerator. 

Perhaps the greatest Zekecomplishment came to fruition the day Jeff and I picked up the developed photos from the thirty or so disposable cameras we’d left on the tables at our wedding reception—again, we’re talking pre-smart-phone-camera days. 

Aside from the 40 or so throw-away pictures of the ground and the sky that my four-year-old nephew had taken, there were loads of nice shots of our friends and family members. 

We flipped through hundreds of photos until we got to them—the photos of various wedding guests, each holding or kissing or cuddling Zeke. One of Zeke at the hors d’oeuvres table. One of Zeke at the urinal in the restroom. Even one of Zeke hovering over Jeff’s and my heads as we cut the nontraditional wedding pie!  

I still have no idea how Shelly pulled that one off, bringing Zeke to my own wedding without my knowledge. I'm perhaps even more impressed that none of my friends ruined the surprise. I tend to hang out with people who are as incapable of keeping a secret as I am. Bravo!

Me and Shelly's Mini-Me, Mary

When Shelly’s second child stayed with us last summer during a post-college road trip, I accused her of having Zeke with her, as surely her mother had put her up to something and we’d find him in the cupboards or dirty laundry when she left. 

I was on high alert for days after she departed, certain I’d discover him hiding in the next drawer I opened. But Zeke never materialized. 

Recently, I was thrilled to learn that Shelly and Matt themselves would be visiting. 

They showed up for a couple days last week, a stopover on a road trip from Utah back to North Carolina. I threatened Shelly that Zeke had better not be in her luggage. She swore he wasn’t with her. And she was telling the truth. Sort of.

Two days after she and Matt left, a box arrived in the mail. It was addressed to me, though now that the dog has a monthly subscription to Bark Box, he believes every package that shows up is for him. 

I tend to do a lot of online shopping, so boxes arriving are commonplace. I opened it thinking it contained vitamins or books, two things I order online with regularity. Nope. It was a red water bottle, the type I don’t use. I wondered if Amazon had made an error. I handed the bottle to my daughter, figuring she could have it. She unscrewed the lid and then--she screamed. (Are you seeing a pattern here?) Tucked inside the bottle was, of course, Zeke. 

And so the burden of Zeking Shelly rests at my feet once more, and I take this responsibility with great pleasure. Ideas? Send ‘em my way! 

And down the road, when my body is old and giving out, I will likely request an open-casket viewing at my own funeral...just to give my childhood BFF the opportunity to pull off the ultimate Zeking: tucking a creepy little doll head into my cold dead hands. I mean, come on—what are friends for, right? 

Zeke Buddies for Life

Tiny Parades (APIWATWOL #8)

#8 in my "A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words Or Less" series. (For a description of how this series works, see Installment #1.)

Parades. Love 'em or hate 'em, but parades are a part of our culture. And believe it or not, the photo to the left, randomly selected for this APIWATWOL installment, is of a parade. Yeah, I know. Pretty pathetic, right? This is what 4th of July looks like in Boulder, CO, where what used to be my second favorite holiday as a kid, is about as exciting as Groundhog Day at any age. In other words, not very.                                                            
My pal Roxy (white shirt, big smile, long hair) invited me (red shirt, slouchy posture, dorky hat) to participate in this not-ready-for-prime-time neighborhood Independence Day parade when our girls were toddlers. I agreed because I'm originally from Wenonah, New Jersey, home to what I still believe is the best damn parade on the planet. As you can see, the participants in this particular parade outnumber the spectators by a 10:1 ratio. I'm still grateful to my late stepdad, John "Pa" Goodenbour, for cutting his usual bike ride short to cheer on Clare as she sat like a lump in the back of my decorated red wagon with no clue about the purpose of the event or the personal significance of July 4th parades in general to her mother (red shirt, slouchy posture, dorky hat).

Until our family moved away when I was 18, I missed being in the Wenonah 4th of July parade only twice. Three times if you count the year I was maybe four years old and utterly exhausted before reaching the halfway point. When I got to Lincoln Avenue and saw Mom on the curb, I dropped out and spent the rest of the parade collecting candy, tossed from the floats and firetrucks. Of course, bailing early meant Dad had to later explain to the judges that I really DID participate in the parade and, as such, deserved my $1 participation "prize."

Dad in the Wenonah July 4th Parade

On the morning of July 4th, everyone--like it or not--was, and still is, awakened by four one-minute siren blasts from the firehouse, where Dad volunteered until his death. That was the kickoff warning for the annual parade, which began at 9 a.m. sharp.  Our town was small. One-square-mile small. So small, in fact, that the parade actually went down Main Street, pulled a  U-turn, and went back up Main Street, passing itself as it went. That way, parade participants  would be sure to have people cheering them on the whole way. Plus, half the town seemed to be in the parade, so the other half of the town was already spread thin in terms of spectatorship.

Until I was 24-year-old, I never realized that a parade passing itself was odd. I distinctly recall the moment of my epiphany. I was in grad school at UCLA and one of my three male roommates had rallied us for the Rose Bowl Parade in Pasadena at 4 a.m. to ensure good spots along the parade route, which was about five people deep with spectators by the time the parade got underway. Partway through the parade, my bladder demanded attention and I told my roomies I'd be back soon.

"But you might miss the UCLA float," one of them said.

"That's okay," I replied. "I'll see it when the parade comes back from the other direction."

My comment was met with blank stares. Further explanation from me regarding the "fact" that parades make U-turns and pass themselves on their return trips did nothing but evoke expressions of disbelief followed by sidesplitting laughter from Mark, Dean and David. It took quite some time for me to live that one down.

I retold the story of my Parade Shaming in 2011, when I returned to Wenonah, NJ, specifically to participate in the parade as that year's "Hometown Legend." (Remember: this town is so small its annual parade has to pull a U-ey; similarly, the definition of "legend" requires taking some liberties.) It was great fun, but my biggest regret that day was forgetting to secure a Costco-worthy bag of Tootsie Rolls beforehand. As the lead car in the parade, Clare and I were met with the expectant-turned-disappointed looks from kids along the route all awaiting their early-morning sugar rush. My bad.

Susan, Yours Truly, Mischelle, and Andrea

Another great honor with regard to the Wenonah parade occurred in 1974, when me and my cadre of sixth-grade gal-pals won "Best in Parade," which came with a whopping $20 prize. My mom had long since figured out the key to winning Best in Parade, and she shared her insights with her ambitious parade-entering offspring: follow the headlines of the times and create some sort of light-hearted play on words around a hot topic. Not too edgy, not too political, and certainly not mean spirited. Living in Wenonah, after all, was like stepping into a Norman Rockwell painting. Quaint was far more important than cutting edge. In this case, my pals and I did a mash-up of a popular airline ad with Nixon's impending impeachment. A voila--Best in Parade!

Even when times were tough, the parade seemed to offer the perfect escape from the realities of a less-than-perfect life. Just two months after my father's sudden death in a small plane crash in 1968, Mom, now a single-mother with no (paid) job, no college degree, and no savings, rallied her children and put together a Charlie Brown-themed entry. Tim was Charlie Brown, Steph was Lucy, Karen was Linus and I--that little knucklehead in the white bathing cap and sunglasses--was The Red Baron.

Wenonah Parade, 1968. Even the death of one's spouse wasn't a good enough excuse to forgo participation.

While we didn't win Best in Parade, I suspect everyone watching us that day would've liked to award Mom Best Attitude in Parade for her courage in the face of daunting life circumstances. (FYI, these were the same people--friends and neighbors, all of them--who had quietly and graciously taken up a collection for our family when news of Dad's death spread like wild fire through our town.)

The photo above was given to me by Mrs. Sparks when I took a grad school pal to Wenonah with me to experience the magic that is the 4th of July parade. Mrs. Sparks always hosted a brunch following the parade, and her son Don, an old friend from childhood, invited us to join them. Seeing me there, Don's mother felt compelled to pull out her old photo albums and tell me how brave Mom had been during that time. Since then, I've always liked Mrs. Sparks a bit more than I already had for taking the time to share those kind words with me. Even two decades after the fact.

So, yeah, parades. Love 'em or hate 'em, they'll always hold a special place in my heart. Specifically, the Wenonah 4th of July parade.

                                     

The Journey to Fuck-If-I-Know

Ever get in the car and just start driving for hours on end, not even sure where you’re headed?

Yeah, me neither.

Yet that’s exactly how I feel lately. It’s not that I’m some sort of baby boomer control freak (she’s lying). Ok, maybe a few echoes of that persona still persist from my 20s and 30s. But Life has done a great job of showing me that sometimes the best things are those we never planned, controlled, pitched or imagined.

My husband? The guy sent an 8-page letter threatening legal action to the corporate conglomerate I’d recently joined (truth be told, we were being rather dickish to his smaller start-up). I was copied on that letter. A few months later, we were engaged. And in five days, we’ll celebrate 19 years of an overall pretty damn good marriage. Didn't see that one coming!

My kid? The one you’re sick of seeing me post about on Facebook? Not what you’d call a planned pregnancy. But clearly she was ready to show up and show up she did (in the most dramatic of ways). Now, I can’t even begin to imagine my life without her to share the fun. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for that creative and loving goofball of a soul. She totally rocks and I adore the shit out of her. Again, surprise!

Favorite work to date? A decade of blood donation advocacy and professional speaking that came out of the blue after nearly croaking and burning through San Francisco’s blood supply in record time (see “pregnancy” above). All began when an executive from Johnson & Johnson sat in one of my audiences and asked my husband to have me call him. A few months later, my occasional pro bono talks for blood centers and Rotarians had transformed into a full-time paid speaking tour, with no requirement to tattoo the J&J logo on my forehead, let alone mention them. Who knew?!

So here I am on a journey to fuck-if-I-know-where and I have no clue as to what it’s leading me to, if anything at all. It's the journey of chronic, at times calm and at other times mind-numbingly debilitating, physical pain and loss of mobility--today being one of my more challenging days. (You know it’s bad when you have to leave your gentle restorative yoga class after only five minutes of what most able-bodied people would think wasn't worth the time it took to pull on their yoga pants.)

This against-my-will journey has been underway for a good five years—the prior eleven being no picnic either where my wellness was concerned. But I had no idea that the road would get even bumpier than it already was. Pain has a way of coloring everything you do, see, feel, believe. Instead of the rose-colored glasses I wore in my younger pre-medical-crap days, too often chronic pain is like viewing life through tar-colored glasses. Dark indeed.

This journey has taken me to places I wouldn’t have otherwise explored, and for that I’m grateful. I love new experiences and marvel at the immeasurable ways to tackle and perceive this mysterious thing called Life. I’ve experimented with all manner of approaches to wellness from the mainstream (take this pain med and go away until it’s time for another surgery) to the downright laughable (if spending tens of thousands of dollars to experiment is your idea of funny). Some things work, some don’t. Among those that work, some days they do, some days they don’t.

The upside of pain is the noticeable increase in my sense of compassion for others, knowing that they may be masking their own pain—be it physical or emotional—much in the same way that I tend to do when I’m out in the world…or even at home with my family. (Hearing myself whine about pain bores me, so I’d rather not. Except now. In this post about pain.)

Pain also helps me connect with others with whom I might not otherwise, like the guy with the amputated leg who swims at my pool and who, like me, didn’t expect his health to take the turn it did. Or the older woman with whom I shared a water jogging lane recently. When I jokingly lamented about the activities I could no longer do, without an ounce of judgment in her voice she responded, “Well…perhaps we’re meant to do different things at different stages in our lives.” Sure, it’s a pretty simple concept, but her words helped me more than she knows.

And recently when pain and insomnia kept me awake all night and I blogged about it, I was flooded with emails from women who were dealing with their own physical ailments and the challenge of remaining positive—or even mildly optimistic—that goes hand in hand with pain. I spent days having interesting and, at times, laugh out loud funny email and Facebook exchanges with several of them.

So today, as I was driving home from the pharmacy with my pain med prescriptions after bailing on gentle yoga, I was struck with the thought that maybe, just maybe, there’s a point to all this bullshit. Maybe my own journey of chronic pain is taking me to a place where I will be able to answer the question: What’s it all about, (Alfie)? Could it be that perhaps—like those two months spent screaming and hallucinating and sucking up blood transfusions in the ICU sixteen years ago—this current and unwanted journey into the bowels of chronic pain is taking me to yet another awesome and rewarding place where I can grow as a person, share what I’ve learned, and maybe even help others as they face similar circumstances? At some point, will I be able to look back at these years of two steps forward, one step back, and say, “Aha! I get it now!”?  Is that where this journey is taking me?

Honestly, I haven’t a clue. But for today—and with the help of a giant snuggly poodle and the couch—I’m hopeful.

The Kindness of Strangers

It’s been exactly one week since my husband and I had to make a decision that was equal parts obvious and heartbreaking—that of accelerating the process of our cherished Duke’s passing. While I’ve felt zero remorse about our choice, I’ve certainly had my share of moments since then ranging from somber to blubbering. Fewer as the week wore on, but still.

As my sadness subsided, I managed to jumpstart my writing routine and even returned to the gym for three days straight. (Since the new year I had begun to view my monthly membership dues as a donation to a not-so-nonprofit wellness organization, justifying my absence from the gym by virtue of my limited remaining time with Duke.)

But still. During a lively phone conversation with my father-in-law this morning, our poodle’s passing came up and once again I found myself wiping away tears I thought I'd exhausted.

All week I’d been trying to think of some way to commemorate Duke within the home because, let’s face it, it’d be kind of creepy to continue maintaining the makeshift shrine I erected on a table in the foyer. I mean, at a certain point a girl’s got to tuck away her dead dog’s ID tag and quit lighting candles for him, right?  But I had no idea how, what.

Until I emerged from my workout in the outdoor pool at the gym this afternoon and sat poolside checking email on my phone. There, in my Facebook “other” in-box, was a message from a friend of a friend, someone I’d never heard of or met, a complete stranger. I noticed immediately that her message contained one of my favorite photos of Duke, which I assumed she had downloaded from my Facebook status or the most recent story on my blog. But then I realized it wasn’t my photo at all, but rather a beautiful charcoal portrait, a replica of my photo of Duke, in which she’d managed to capture the soulful imploring eyes of my big furry son perfectly.

And the tears came again. This time, however, they weren’t for the loss of Duke, but rather the kindness of the artist, this woman I’ve never met, who had not only been moved to draw my beloved Duke Buddy but also offered to send me the portrait. No cost. No strings attached. Just one of those rare and wonderful connections made for no other purpose than that of expressing one’s humanity.

Ain’t life grand?

"Duke" by Eileen Potts Dawson

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P.s. I’ve since done more checking into the artist of my soon-to-be-hung portrait of Duke (ok, so maybe I’m a bit paranoid as a result of a past stalker experience triggered by the publication of my book) and would like to reciprocate her kindness by sharing her contact information for anyone wishing to have a companion animal portrait created. Eileen Potts Dawson can be reached at http://companionanimalportraits.com

Louise Is Here

Bonnie’s cancer returned with a vengeance exactly one decade after it nearly claimed her life in 1995. As the months wore on, we both suspected that taming it a second time was unlikely, and so Bonnie began the legal process of setting up a trust for her two kids, her living will, and her estate executor paperwork, all of which I would manage upon her death. We candidly discussed her impending fate, laughed about all the crazy good times we’d had together, and spoke of her two kids, then 17 and 20.

She felt good about the stability her son, Chris, seemed to have created in the past year: he was dating a loving and grounded young woman, held a steady job at Boeing, and had removed his lip piercing and added long-sleeved shirts to his professional wardrobe to cover a plethora of tattoos. It was Christine on whom most of Bonnie’s trepidation centered. School wasn’t her thing, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her life professionally, and Bonnie worried that her death would be much more difficult for her daughter to weather.

At the end of a visit with Bonnie in July of that year, I made her promise to hang in there until after I returned from a long-scheduled two-month family sabbatical in France. Her mood was lighthearted as she said, “Don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere yet.” Weeks later, at the Denver airport, I made one last phone call to her before boarding our flight to Paris. “Go!” she admonished. “I’ll be here when you get back. Promise.”

A month later I was lying on a massage table in Provence while the therapist—whom I’d been told was also somewhat psychic—worked on my body, which still suffered the residual effects of a near-fatal illness five years prior. She spoke very little English and my French was limited to the ability to order wine, ask where the restroom was, and say please and thank you. Needless to say, conversation was minimal.

Lulled into a state of complete relaxation, ­­­Colette broke the silence of my massage by saying, “Louise is here.”

“Excusez-moi?”

“Louise. She is here.”

“Pardon? Je ne comprends pas." 

“Louise. She is here, how you say, ‘her spirit’—it is here. She bring to you love. You must bring to her love aussi.”

“But I don’t know anyone named Louise,” I said, wondering why my relaxing massage was being interrupted by what felt like a woo-woo snipe hunt.

“I do not know why, but the spirits, they use the number two name.”

“The what? The number two…the middle name?”

“Oui oui. Yes, the middle name. They use it to speak with me.”

“Huh,” I said. “I don’t know anyone whose middle name is Louise.”

But the massage therapist was adamant. “Louise is here. She bring to you love. So much love. You must give her love.”

So what’s a girl to do? I sent this seemingly imaginary Louise love and enjoyed the rest of my massage, albeit with a little less relaxation.

I returned to our rental home in Mazan, went about my day and waited until it was morning in California so I could make my weekly call to Bonnie. It was only 7 am on the Pacific Coast, but Bonnie had always been an early riser, so I wasn’t concerned about waking her. Our mutual friend, Kelli, answered the phone, her voice weary.

“Bonnie passed away this morning, Lauren,” she said. “Her mom checked on her about an hour ago and she was already gone.” We spoke for a few more minutes before saying our good-byes.

An hour later, a thought popped into my mind: Bonita L. Young. How many times had I seen her formal name on the reams of legal documents I’d signed months earlier? Always Bonita L. Young. Never Bonnie. And never more than “L” for the middle name. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember if Bonnie had ever actually told me what her middle name was. I immediately dialed her number again, and this time, her mother, Iva, answered. I offered my condolences before asking, “What was Bonnie’s middle name?”

“Louise,” Iva said. “Why?”

One of Bonnie's favorite words was "believe." You could find it lurking throughout her home, spelled out with large metal letters on the mantel or woven into a throw pillow on her favorite reading chair. For Bonnie's memorial service, I decided to add it to an enlarged photo of her, which I knew was one of her personal favorites. Believe! it shouted in both word and image. 

If ever there was a situation that prompted me to believe, it was that moment lying on a French massage therapist's table as she told me Louise is here. 

Miracles Can Happen

While boarding a flight back to Michigan with her sister, 24-year-old Natalie Taylor had a tough time concealing her emotions. An elderly gentleman remarked, “You two look very upset.”

“My husband was in a bad accident,” Natalie replied.

“Well, just remember,” he said, “Miracles can happen.” Then he moved on to find his seat.

Five months pregnant with her first child, Natalie had planned this trip to Florida to visit her sister Sarah as a final hurrah before the realities and restrictions of motherhood set in. Her vacation was cut short, however, when a friend of her husband’s called from a hospital to tell her about the accident. 

“He mentioned bleeding and I kept asking him ‘Where was the blood? Where was he bleeding from?’” Natalie says. “The minute he told me, ‘the mouth,’ I knew it was bad.

Growing up, Josh Taylor was a very science-oriented kid. He loved chemistry and went on to major in it at college, where he met his future wife. “He was more scientific than spiritual,” says Natalie. “I never really saw him read anything religious in nature; he was always saying ‘let’s talk about what we know for sure.’” As a case in point, Natalie dug through a box of momentoes to find Josh’s college thesis for me. Its title? Oxidation of Trialkylboranes Derived from Terminal and Symmetrical Internal Alkenes Via Potassium Permanganate: Unexpected Coupling Reactions. Point taken.

Josh cycling across the country for charity.

After college, Josh went to work for a medical supply company, selling devices used in the procurement and preservation of human organs prior to transplantation. Having volunteered with an agency that worked with troubled kids, Josh had developed a strong humanitarian streak, and as such, he was excited that his professional work combined two of his passions: science and helping people.

Josh had been carveboarding (think: surfing on a downhill road) when the accident happened. “They told me the trauma to Josh’s head was so severe his entire brain stem was crushed,” Natalie recalls of her candid conversations with the doctor. “He said, ‘Everything from the neck up is destroyed and his brain is not working. From the neck down, however, everything is perfect.” 

Although Josh had not signed an organ donation card, Natalie knew exactly what her practical, caring, and fit husband would want: to not waste a set of healthy 27-year-old organs. And so she gave her consent, signed the paperwork, and even noted the irony in seeing the logo of Josh’s employer on various forms and equipment throughout the donation process.

At her husband’s funeral several days later, numerous friends tried to console Natalie. “People said all the typical things to me: he’s in a better place, he’s at peace, this was God’s plan. But Josh would’ve said, ‘Forget all these common niceties. Let’s talk about what we know for sure.’” And what we know for sure is this: six people’s lives were saved by the loving decision of a pregnant young widow. 

Though for different reasons, the man on the plane was right: miracles can happen.

Natalie and her son, Kai. 

Natalie Taylor is the author of the memoir, Signs of Life, which I highly recommend.

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Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, free.  Click here and go to the link below the "Buy the Book" button.  Zuzu's Petals is also available on Kindle and Nook.  Hardcover signed and inscribed copies are available at  www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy reading!