Coincidence?

In the spring of 2000, my father-in-law, Rud, received a delivery of hay for the miniature donkeys that he and my mother-in-law raise on their rural property in Williamston, Michigan (to each his own, right?). The conversation between Rud and the hay guy went something like this – and, yes, I’m paraphrasing:

     Rud: How’s it going?
     Hay Guy: Not so good. You?
     Rud: Not so good.
     Hay Guy: My daughter Jovonne is in the ICU.
     Rud: My daughter-in-law Lauren is in the ICU too. 
     Hay Guy: Jovonne’s getting lots of blood transfusions.   
     Rud: Lauren’s getting lots of blood transfusions too. 
     Hay Guy: Good luck.
     Rud: You too.

Fast forward four years – I was in the middle of my six-year full-time speaking tour (thank you, Johnson & Johnson) and was emceeing a donor-recipient event in Jersey City, N.J. These are emotionally charged events during which a blood center will introduce a volunteer blood or marrow donor to a patient whose life was saved by that donor's blood or marrow – sort of transfusion medicine’s version of “The Dating Game” with everyone holding their breath for the moment the two people finally meet face to face. 

No matter how many times I’ve witnessed this sort of thing, I still cry like a big ole baby when it happens. And that night in Jersey City, when a single mother – attending with her parents and five-year-old daughter – was introduced to the man from New York whose marrow saved her life during a harrowing experience with leukemia, there wasn’t a dry eye in the banquet hall.

I hadn’t had time to meet the bone marrow recipient prior to the start of the program, so I simply followed the script I’d been given by New Jersey Blood Services, which mentioned that she and her family had flown in from Detroit. After the program ended and my duties as emcee were fulfilled, I made my way to her table to chat. It went something like this – again, I’m paraphrasing:

     Me: So you’re from Detroit?
     Her: No, I actually grew up in a little town you’ve probably never heard of in central      
           Michigan. 
     Me: What town?
     Her: Williamston.
     Me: Williamston? As in: your-high-school-principal’s-name-was-Rud-Hoag      
          Williamston?
     Her: Omigosh, yes! How’d you know that?

Jovonne and her parents and I laughed about what a small world it is, and I learned that her parents’ farm is right across the street from my in-laws’ home. Her father – aka “the hay guy” – shared with me the conversation he’d had with my father-in-law while delivering hay to their barn back when Jovonne and I were both very sick and not expected to live. “So you’re ‘that’ daughter-in-law,” he said, able to chuckle about it, now that Jovonne and I had survived our respective medical catastrophes.

During my family’s next visit to Michigan, my daughter, Clare, and Jovonne’s daughter, Kiley, hung out, played with Barbies, ate far too many cupcakes, and probably spent no time at all appreciating the “coincidence” that brought them together. But then again, the more I wander through this adventure called life, the more I believe that there are no coincidences, that the magic of synchronicity is everywhere if we only take the time to notice it. 

With Jovonne and Kiley the Night She Met Her Marrow Donor

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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!

We Are All Mothers

Me and My Kid

I know many women—lovely women, loud and funny women, quiet and reserved women, healthy women, brave women—whose plans for motherhood were thwarted. Preeclampsia, HELLP Syndrome, infertility, stillbirths, miscarriage, even busy careers that claimed all their attention until neither pregnancy nor adoption were viable options. They wanted to be mothers, to birth a child and marvel in the joy that comes with shepherding a mini-me through life’s stages, to revel in the role of cheerleader, confidante, and healer of skinned knees and broken hearts.

My chest tightens every time I meet another woman whose dream of motherhood never materialized, regardless of the circumstances that created the chasm between her and the child she once imagined. I know what I’m about to say runs the risk of sounding trite coming from a woman who spends countless hours with her daughter, a woman who got her happy ending to an otherwise frightening birth experience. But here goes: We are all mothers, regardless of whether or not we have children.

Clare with Aunt Dede and Cousins Sam, Andie and Peirce

My own daughter, Clare, has been blessed with more mothers than I can count. For quite some time following her birth, I was unavailable to mother her (funny how a coma will do that to a person). I consider my former sister-in-law, Dede, to be Clare’s first mother. For nearly two months, Dede cared for my newborn daughter, in addition to her own young children, 400 miles from where I lay in the ICU. 

When Clare returned to San Francisco to be reunited with Jeff and me two weeks after my hospital discharge, our recently hired nanny, Vi, took over as Clare’s second mother. Still unable to perform the simplest tasks of motherhood, I could only watch as Vi bathed and fed and nurtured my little girl. As my physical stamina improved (I’d been sleeping 15-20 hours/day when I first came home), Vi transitioned me into the role of my daughter’s caregiver with an ease not often found in 21-year-olds. She then helped my little family relocate to Boulder, after which she bowed out and returned to San Francisco in what felt like a subtle nudge for me to step up to the plate. Given my rough start with motherhood, any shred of confidence I’d previously held about being a mom was blown to bits as quickly as my health was.

Over the years, more women showed up to mother my child. Jean, the part-time nanny and mother of two adult children, and Christy, the babysitter and yoga instructor who’s not interested in having children of her own, remain important relationships to my now teenaged daughter, even though both Jean and Christy moved away some years ago.

Yoga with Christy

Reunion with Jean

My sister, “Aunt Nooner” (it’s not what you think), mothers Clare from halfway across the country during their frequent telephone conversations, Karen’s innate sense of empathy doing more for my child’s emotional development than she knows. 

Goofing Off with Ghee

My mother—“Ghee” to Clare—has regular one-on-one outings with my daughter during which they discuss the gamut of life topics and share their own private jokes.

Favorite Teacher Cara Mentzel

Clare’s teachers, drama camp counselors, swim team coaches—they’ve all mothered my daughter in their own ways: developing her abilities, correcting her mistakes, protecting her, encouraging her, and fueling her desire to learn and grow. In other words, loving her.

Favorite Teacher Lisa Kennedy

Even the college student who noticed Clare, then five, looking lost and frightened in the crush of costumed people on that awful Halloween when a group of us were trick-or-treating and it was my daughter who was missing when the headcount fell short—I count her among those who’ve mothered my child as well. Not to go all “it takes a village” on you, but, truly, I am more grateful than words can express for every person who has ever had a hand in mothering Clare—be it for a year, a day, or the ten minutes it took that godsend of a CU co-ed to reunite my daughter with her parents in 2005.

Jill and Roscoe the Rescue

Lest we shortchange the mothering we have each done, let us remember that mothering comes in many forms—for example, the volunteer efforts of my friend Jill, who is childless but a mother nonetheless. Each week on Facebook, Jill posts photos and stories of the latest rescue pup she’s fostering, the love and compassion she has for these dogs abundantly clear.

Sabra Hosts a Party for Jesse

My husband’s niece, Jesse, is a small-town girl from Michigan who moved to Washington DC after graduating from college to pursue a career in public policy. Despite having no family in the vicinity, Jesse managed to navigate this life change well because my friend Sabra, also a DC resident, stepped in as her mentor, confidante, and yes, mother. Sabra has never given birth, but between her graduate school alumni association, undergraduate sorority, numerous junior work colleagues, and Jesse, she has mothered more people than I can count, myself included.

Sandra Takes Her Mothering to Rwanda

My friend Sandra mothers whole groups of children every time she visits another refugee camp in Africa, giving away hundreds of the indestructible soccer balls her company manufactures. For whatever brief amount of time she spends with these children—demonstrating the ball’s durability, kicking it around with them, or daring them to try to pop it—she is a mother to them, a maternal presence connecting through a shared love of soccer.

To mother is to nurture, to guide, to encourage, to love. It’s about embracing the opportunity to touch the lives of others, be they our children, our friends, or even a complete stranger who, in that moment, could use a hug or a kind word.

We are all mothers.

Happy Mother’s Day.


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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!

What Would Shelly Do?

In the fall of 2005, I attended a fundraiser in Minneapolis at which I knew none of the attendees, except my then 5-year-old daughter, Clare, who came as my date. Seated next to us were John and Brenda Warner, maybe five years my senior, from rural Iowa. Making small talk, I asked them about their connection to the cause being supported by the evening’s festivities. I then listened, dumbfounded, as John told me the story of their 25-year-old daughter, Shelly, who had developed preeclampsia ten months earlier. The details of her story – the sudden onset of the disease, the liver failure, the need for blood transfusions – were eerily similar to my own, but with one key difference – a week after the delivery of her baby, Shelly died. In gaining their first grandchild, John and Brenda had lost their daughter.

Since meeting Shelly’s parents, I’ve kept a framed photo of her in my office, right next to the one of Jenny Eller, whom I’d also never met. Jenny and Shelly – two vibrant young women whose lives ended too soon despite help from anonymous blood donors – became my muses. Every time I felt I couldn’t get on one more plane, give one more blood donation talk, host one more preeclampsia fundraiser, I’d think of these two women, and then just do it.

Bree (left) and Shelly (right)

Last weekend, I read a highly entertaining book about Shelly written by her best friend since childhood, Bree Housley (We Hope You Like This Song: An Overly Honest Story About Friendship, Death, and Mix Tapes). It was through Bree’s elementary-school eyes, then teenaged eyes, then 20-something eyes that I got to know the real Shelly. And let me tell you, she was one kind, crazy, outgoing, fun-loving, snort-laughing, shout-singing, pool-cannonballing, willing-to-try-anything kind of gal – the kind I would’ve hung out with in a heartbeat if we’d been of the same generation and from the same small town.

I was particularly moved by the author’s struggle to deal with her loss. “Since Shelly’s death,” Bree wrote, “I’ve been trapped in this weird space of guilt where I feel I’m not doing enough to honor her. Not enough crying, enough talking, enough grieving. What is grief, anyway? Who decides how one should go about it?” 

So on Shelly’s 4^th deathiversary, as the author so aptly calls it, Bree, a self-described “anti-social shut-in type,” set out to live life more like Shelly did. Every week for a year, she committed to doing a different challenge – karaoke, talking to strangers, even dressing like a giant gorilla in a tutu. The key was to step out of her comfort zone and try something new, the same way Shelly would have. Every time Bree lost her nerve to complete a particular week’s assignment, she simply asked herself What would Shelly do? And then, she did it.

Earlier this week, I went to the health club for my usual lap-swim workout. It was 19 degrees out and snowing like nobody’s business. (Welcome to springtime in Boulder) I took one glance at the outdoor pool, covered in fog as the snow continued dumping, and I knew I’d be swimming indoors. (I’ve never been one of those daring all-weather swimmers.) But then four little words shot through my brain: What would Shelly do? 


Five minutes later, I shivered my way outdoors wrapped in skimpy gym towels (sorry, no photos available), and in my mind I heard Shelly’s voice yell “Cannonball!” as I jumped into the pool. I swam my laps in the most glorious snowstorm, a goofy smile on my face the whole time.

                                                                                              
Would that we could all have a muse like Shelly, a reminder to grasp the a-muse-ment that life has to offer … while we can. 

And remember, when in doubt: CANNONBALL!

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Shelly's parents are co-chairing Saving Grace: A Night of Hope to benefit the Preeclampsia Foundation in October 2013 in Iowa City, IA. Please consider attending (and join Bree and me for a cocktail in honor of Shelly) or supporting John and Brenda's efforts with a donation.  

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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!

Confessions

Years ago, after giving a talk to a group of blood safety laboratory workers, I was approached by one of the women in the audience. She had lingered in the back of the room until everyone else left to return to work. “You have no idea how perfect the timing of your visit is,” she said. “I really – really – needed a reminder of how important my small role with the blood supply is.” With tears in her eyes, she told me how burned out and tired she was, to the point of questioning her career choice. “I have a confession to make,” she continued. “I was going to quit my job today.” She told me that she now realized all she truly needed was to remember why she’d chosen this line of work in the first place; that, and maybe a vacation.

I have a confession of my own to make. It involves one of the first memories I have following the birth of my daughter. It was about two weeks into my post-partum nightmare in the intensive care unit, and I awoke to a man I didn’t recognize thumping his finger on my distended belly. That man was Bob Osorio, the head of the hospital’s liver transplant program, who – despite my lack of recognition – had been managing my medical care for about 10 days at that point.

When Dr. Osorio saw that I’d opened my eyes, he asked me if I knew what had happened to me. I was embarrassed because it felt like I ought to know the answer to his question, but I didn’t so I pretended not to hear him. Interpreting my silence as a no, he told me that I’d had a baby, that there had been complications, that I was very sick, and that I’d been given—and was still receiving—a considerable amount of blood. The minute I heard the word “blood,” my first thought was, “Blood transfusions! I’ll bet I have AIDS now!”

I immediately thought of that article I had read years ago about a boy – was his name Ryan? – who had contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion and was then banned from school, his family taunted by people whose fear got the best of them. I remembered another article about him years later, his face gracing the cover of People magazine. He had died. “I’m screwed,” I thought.

Mind you, this happened in the year 2000 – not the mid-80s. Yet I – a relatively smart woman and former blood donor—responded to the news of my blood transfusions not with the gratitude of having my life saved, but with the fear of dying from AIDS. In hindsight, I realize that if I’d been more knowledgeable about all the hard work being done behind the scenes to ensure the safety of the blood supply, perhaps my reaction might have been more appropriate and less driven by my ignorance and fear. Knowing what I know today, I am – understandably – embarrassed by my initial reaction to receiving blood. And knowing what I know today, I am not only grateful for, but in awe of, the advancements in transfusion medicine that are continually being made.

To me, what happens between the time blood leaves a donor and is transfused in a patient is nothing short of a miracle – a technological and scientific miracle. We in the blood banking community are fond of saying “blood donors save lives.” But that’s just half of the story. The fact is, everyone who has a hand in getting that blood – in its safest form – to someone in need saves lives.

A message to that woman who almost left her position in the lab all those years ago: thank you for choosing to stay. Thank you for continuing to not only save lives, but to forever change them. Your work is important. You do make a difference.

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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!