Unfinished Portraits

There was a woman. 

Her name was Eileen.

Duke by Eileen Potts Dawson

She sent me an unsolicited portrait of my sweet four-legged boy, Duke, shortly after his passing two years ago this month (see: The Kindness of Strangers). 

No request for money. Not even reimbursement for the matting or postage to ship it to me. 

Her only motivation: make the world a better place by sharing her art. 

Eileen’s art consisted of countless pet portraits that managed to capture each subject’s unique trait—their imploring eyes, that crooked smile, whatever it was that made each of them so loveable to their humans. 

Months after hanging Duke’s portrait in our home, our ornery rescue Dachshund, Jack, equal parts decrepit and endearing, passed. Without Duke as his guide dog, our blind, deaf and incontinent little guy had lost his way. And by way I mean marbles.

We gave Jack the best transition to the Great Beyond that we could: a five-egg cheese omelet, a fireside nap despite August temperatures in the 80s, and a home-visit from the Dr. Kevorkian of the pet world, Home to Heaven, who, with great tenderness and compassion, helped him cross the portal into life’s next big adventure.  

A week or so later, another unsolicited portrait by Eileen arrived. Jack—sans cataracts—looking every bit the 12-pound badass that he was.

Jack-Jack by Eileen Potts Dawson

Eileen and I developed a friendship, albeit from a distance. I sent her clients for her art. She sent me edits for my latest novel manuscript that features a dog as its protagonist (and even gave me a much better title, which I’ve since adopted). We both sent each other comedic election memes that kept us laughing instead of crying over the political climate of our country. And inspiring dog rescue videos when the political memes weren't enough.

Not All Projects Come to Completion

In December, when the Great Dane belonging to family friends passed away, I sent Eileen a check and a photo and asked her to work her magic. Because Eileen had already gifted me two portraits, I insisted she accept payment for this one. 

A month later, when the check still hadn’t been cashed, I emailed her, playfully chiding her for being so stubborn about accepting payment. The response I got stunned me.

"The truth is I'm not doing so well. Rose will be here on the 12th and I'm hoping she will get me going so I can do one more portrait."

Eileen had already shared her recent ALS diagnosis with me and I knew she’d left her 9-to-5 with the Madison public school system to focus on health. But it never occurred to me how swiftly ALS could fuck a person up. I insisted she forget about the portrait for my friends, but she said it brought her joy to do her art and so she was hoping she could complete this one for me.

A couple weeks later, Eileen’s sister, Rose, with whom I’d also become online friends, flew to Wisconsin to help her. She found Eileen so weak she had to be carried from her bed to her couch and back to her bed each day. She could no longer speak at all. With Rose's encouragement, Eileen managed to eat one piece of bacon and a bit of baby food—the most she’d eaten in days. 

Twenty-four hours later, Valentine’s Day, Eileen was gone.

It didn’t take long before people began posting their pets’ portraits, compliments of Eileen, on her Facebook page, a makeshift memorial to a talented artist and a generous soul.

It’s likely that Eileen donated and gifted more portraits than she sold because her heart was far stronger than her capitalistic instincts. If she was touched by the story of a cat or dog—usually a rescue animal—she poured that emotion into her art. And then sent that art to the humans associated with each portrait subject, regardless of whether or not she knew them.

I believe this was Eileen’s way of confirming that these pets had touched more lives than their humans knew.

And by doing what she did best—sharing her talent and compassion with the world—Eileen herself touched more lives than she knew.

You will be missed, friend. Woof!

Eileen Potts Dawson
1947 - 2017

Killing Him Softly

The following is a guest blogger story written by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous to protect her father's privacy. And it's a tough topic, but an extremely important one. I, for one, have seen enough suffering--my own and that of others--to be a proponent of the right to choose an expedited path to The Great Unknown when one's pain is too much to bear and it's clear that there's no returning from the abyss. 

You can spout all the religious doctrines you wish in opposition, but let's remember two things: (1) Religions are manmade constructs and anyone who believes otherwise is probably trying to sell you salvation on television for a mere $99/month (I am not anti-religion or spirituality and I consider myself a "seeker"--but I do not believe in using religion as a basis to argue my own perspective), and (2) We can never--NEVER!--know the full extent of someone else's suffering, so how then are we to judge their choices? (Hint: we're not supposed to) 

"Freedom" is one of those buzz words that gets tossed around quite a bit in the American culture. Why shouldn't this concept extend to end-of-life choices? 

When it comes to departing the physical realm by choice, I'll take compassion over condemnation any day. 

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My dad’s last cocktail was alcohol-free. For a man who started most days with a screwdriver, this was unusual. Instead of vodka, he mixed some white powder that I had prepared into his orange juice, choked down the lumpy concoction, and was gone 13 minutes later. I was there with him. This is my story.

My dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2010. He had symptoms for two years before that, but like a lot of guys he didn’t go to the doctor (side note: GUYS! go to the doctor. Getting a wand stuck up your butt would suck, yes, but not as much as slowly dying over six years from a disease that could have been treated). By the time he made an appointment, it was too late. He had six years of a slow-motion death. He knocked everything off his bucket list, including a cruise to the Panama Canal. Oh, and a cruise to Mexico with me and my daughters, where he learned Gangnam-style dancing. That’s my dad.

Things got worse in 2015. He stopped his chemo treatment and entered hospice care, which is usually a 6 month or less deal. He was in hospice for almost a year. Then in June of 2016, when the cancer had spread to his spine and the pain was relentless, California passed a new law known as the aid-in-dying law. Similar to Oregon’s law, it allows patients with terminal illnesses to end their suffering without the stigma of suicide. Oddly enough, it became my dad’s lifeline for a while. Knowing the option was available to him gave him comfort, and pushing forward to get approval from his doctors gave him something to focus on.

I supported him in this — partly because I was pretty sure Dad would fill the prescription, then let nature take its course. I thought he wanted the comfort of having a choice, but not the fear involved in actually making that choice. I was wrong.

On a Sunday in August, I called Dad for our usual weekly call, which involved me trying really hard not to be impatient as he told the same stories over and over, obsessed over his need for earthquake insurance, and griped about all the people who annoyed him.

He told me that he would be seeing a second doctor that Tuesday, one who would confirm his diagnosis and back up the recommendation of the first doctor, that he be prescribed the medication. I decided to make the 1.5 hour drive down to be present during that visit. I had no idea I wouldn’t be returning home that night. The doctor said that he was eligible, and she would be arranging the prescription within days. I scrambled to arrange things so that I could stay. It was clear my dad was serious and he was ready.

It took three days for the prescription to be available. It wasn’t as simple as “phoning it in”, and only one pharmacy in the county would fill it. We were informed that it would cost $3,600 — the pharmaceutical company had jacked the price up as soon as the law was passed (thanks, a-holes). It came in 90 capsules containing powder, which the pharmacist had to empty one by one into a vial. Oddly enough, the pharmacy took my dad’s credit card as payment, which seemed to be a questionable business decision.

The label said “May be habit-forming”. I think not.

We made plans for Dad to take the medication that coming Monday, when his hospice team was available to be nearby and provide support. I was terrified. What if he chucked it up, or fell off the chair he had selected as his final stop? I felt comforted knowing that hospice would be within arm’s reach if I ran into trouble.

Only, they weren’t. Dad decided on Saturday that he was ready. He had a couple bites of breakfast, then announced that he wouldn’t be eating anything else, as he wanted to “get the show on the road”. The instructions told us to wait 5 hours after eating, so we agreed that at 3pm, he would take the anti-nausea pill, then at 4pm he would drink his final cocktail. And that’s when it really hit me. I started to get shaky and dizzy.

We waited. What did we talk about? I hardly remember. I kept thinking it wasn’t real, that he wouldn’t do this alone, without hospice support. It was unfair to me. It was selfish. My husband drove down with our kids to see him, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him of the new timeline. He drove off, and I walked back inside.

At 3pm, I told Dad that he could still change his mind. That once he took the anti-nausea pill, it would be hard to turn back because we would then have to wait to get another one when we rescheduled it. He looked at me, popped the pill, and I knew this was happening.

For the next hour, we sat around and made small talk. I don’t remember much, but it went by surprisingly quickly. My mother had agreed to be there at 4pm to support me, but when the clock struck 4, she wasn’t there. My parents were long-divorced but still friendly. “She’s always late! This will teach her,” Dad said. Some marital wounds never heal over.

With shaking hands, I put 4 ounces of orange juice in a glass in front of him, then brought the powder over. Dad said he didn’t want my fingerprints on any of it — even though what we were doing was legal — so I humored him and used a napkin. I opened the medication and poured it into his glass. The powder puffed up around my face in a big white cloud.

At that moment, I was pretty sure it would be lights out for me instead. Waving away the clouds of powder in front of my face, I handed the drink to Dad.

The powder made a very lumpy concoction that must have been hard to choke down. But Dad did it, without hesitation. No last words, just a “Cheers” and he drank it down. My mom had arrived by then, and the three of us sat looking at each other for several minutes. Nothing happened. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: I can’t even do this right! And then his head tilted down and he began to snore. I had learned that the process could take up to 24 hours, depending on the person’s physical health. My dad’s was not good.

About five minutes later, the snoring stopped. Dad wasn’t breathing any more. It was over. He was gone. His ending was peaceful and calm, and on his own terms.

At that point things got really challenging for me. I’m going to document all the details, in the hope that they will help other people considering this process. As I’ve been talking to people about it, I’m learning that this has been going on for ages — that people use morphine or other drugs to cause the same outcome, with a wink from the medical establishment. This new law legitimizes it, but it doesn’t introduce a new solution. It just alleviates much of the guilt felt by all parties, and for that I am thankful.

Once Dad was gone, I called hospice to send a nurse out. It took about 45 minutes, which isn’t long — unless you’re sitting in a room with your dad’s body on a chair, mouth hanging open, color drained completely away. Then it’s the longest 45 minutes of your life. She pronounced him dead and asked me the time of death. Despite all my Grey’s Anatomy viewing, I had forgotten to note it. “4:13 p.m.”, I pronounced with confidence, totally making it up. “4:13 p.m.”

After that, there was nothing left but to wait for the funeral home to pick him up. True to form to his last moments, my Dad had recommended the cheapest possible solution, opting for an out-of-area cremation service that cost less. It took them four hours to arrive. Four more of the longest hours of my life, after the 45 longest minutes.

When they arrived, two well dressed young men who were very solicitous, they took an inventory of his clothing. ALL his clothing. They were rooting around to see if he was wearing underwear. I asked them to please stop, but they needed to know if he was wearing underwear so it could be returned to me along with his other clothing and belongings (like a watch, which came back to me with his ashes). Just say he’s not wearing any! I begged. Stop looking. My mom, in a rare display of awesome gallows humor, suggested we should have put him in shorts, because “it will be hot where he’s going”.

If you are going through this, I strongly suggest not looking when the funeral home staff puts the body on a stretcher. I really wish I hadn’t. To this day, my last memory is of Dad’s head flopping to the side, his arms flailing out. His skin was waxen and almost yellow. It wasn’t pretty, and I wish I hadn’t seen it.

They asked if my dad was a veteran. This stumped me. I knew he had served 28 days in the navy before being discharged for health reasons, but he never identified as a vet. Still, I couldn’t say no. So they got a flag, draped it over the stretcher, and asked “Ma’am, would you like to take a picture?” No, I really wouldn’t! I thought as I took the picture.

And then he was gone.

It’s been almost four months. Writing this feels cathartic. Not everyone responds well to this story; those who were raised Catholic, like my husband, find it difficult to process. But I know I did the right thing for my dad, and that I honored his wishes.

Rest in peace, Dad. I picture you dancing gangnam-style with a screwdriver in hand in the great beyond.

Little Girl

You were five, I was twenty-nine.

While your mother and I laughed and talked of our business plans and then laughed some more, you quietly moved closer until you were snuggled into my side on the couch. Your mother took notice and told me you’d never done that, that you were always shy around strangers. Your mother loved signs and she took this as a good one.

I grew to love you and your brother. I loved our Chuck E. Cheese outings. I loved our Amy Grant shout-singing sessions as we drove in my red SUV, which you’d named Rosy. I loved that crazy Thanksgiving when neither your mother nor I had much money so we pooled whatever freezer-burned items we had and invited anyone else without plans to join us with whatever freezer-burned items they had. Nearly twenty people crammed into my one-bedroom apartment and you spent the night rubbing my dog’s belly as you snuggled into your mother’s side on the floor.

When your mother asked me to care for you and your brother if something ever happened, I agreed without pause. A year later, cancer happened. You and your brother, seven and nine at the time, watched as she hemorrhaged on the floor of the public library before she lost consciousness. That must have been terrifying for you.

It took a decade for the cancer to claim your mother, so strong was her desire to be there for you kids. You and she had a fight the night before she died and when she asked you to stay with her, you refused. You never forgave yourself for that, no matter how many times I told you she already had.

When you asked me to perform your wedding ceremony two and a half years ago, it was I who wanted to refuse. I didn’t think you and your betrothed were ready for the commitment of marriage, despite the baby growing within your womb. But stronger than my misgivings was my desire to remain a part of your life, to stay connected to you for those times you’d need to figuratively snuggle into my side. 

Having your own daughter changed you. Leaving your marriage changed you. You rose to the challenge of being a single mother and it seemed that all the previous false starts of your life were drifting farther and farther into your history. You held a steady job in a stable company. You got promoted. You bought a better car, one more suitable for transporting a toddler to and from daycare during the workweek. And when I came to visit you a few months ago I told you how proud I was of you, how happy I was for you and for the joy you had found in motherhood.

But I missed the signs.

I didn’t see how much you were showing your brave mommy face to the world while battling your demons in private. And now I want only to rewind the last 48 hours, to board a plane, to come to your apartment and sit on the couch with you. I want to tell you that you are loved—LOVED!—and that whenever life overwhelms, you must trust that things will get better, that they always do. 

Right now, I want nothing more than to pull you close and snuggle you into my side.

Farewell, Little Girl

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My goddaughter, Christine, had no life insurance or savings to secure her beautiful and funny little girl's future. If you would like to help, please join us in supporting Reilly and ensuring that this sweet two-year-old has the funds she needs to launch a college education or career when she turns 18. It takes a village, and every bit helps. Many thanks in advance for supporting the Christine Young Memorial Fund. Feel free to private message me with questions regarding the fund: Lauren@LaurenWardLarsen.com. 

If She Dies...

The story goes like this: After receiving the “you’d better come now” phone call from our mother, my sister Karen arrived in San Francisco on the 5^th of 38 days I would spend in the intensive care unit. I was nearing the triple-digit mark in pints of blood transfused, and apparently – though I can’t confirm this because I was comatose at the time – I looked like hell.

My brother, ever the family patriarch since our father’s untimely death when we were kids, felt the need to warn Karen before taking her into my hospital room. “Heads up,” Tim said to her in the ICU hallway. “Lauren is twice her usual size and looks as if she’s been floating facedown in a river for weeks. It’s not a pretty sight.”

They entered my room and took their places on either side of the high-tech bed, where Karen – both my best friend and nemesis growing up – got her first glimpse of me: bloated, unconscious, amber-yellow skin, lips curled back from my teeth, and tubes, wires, and machinery crowding and connecting to my barely functioning body. Despite years of working with the sick and dying in hospitals and nursing homes, Karen’s expression betrayed her shock that the ghastly and unresponsive body in the bed was indeed her little sister. It was at this point that my brother leaned across my distended abdomen (thank you, liver failure) toward my sister and said, “If she dies, I get her bike.”

It’s an age-old family joke that elicits a scowl from our mother every time my siblings and I say it to one another, usually when one of us is embarking on a lengthy journey or precarious endeavor. “I love you” has never come easily for my family, and humor – served with a healthy dose of “noogies” – was our preferred expression of affection growing up. Tim’s utterance of those seven words, at a time most would deem highly inappropriate, brought an immediate smile to Karen’s face while simultaneously incensing the attending nurse, who hadn’t yet come to know, or appreciate, my family’s sick sense of humor.

The off-color jokes continued over the coming weeks, most frequently during the worst of times. While sitting in the ICU waiting room after receiving particularly disconcerting news about my prognosis, my family and a few close friends had a group meltdown. Not one of them was able to muster any of the optimism they had taken turns providing when one or another of them would lose faith in my ability to recover. Then, without warning, my sister started laughing. “She can’t die,” she said with such certainty the others stopped crying long enough to hear her reasoning. “Why not?” someone asked. “Because,” Karen said, as if stating the obvious, “that would deprive us of the pleasure of killing her for putting us through this nightmare!” And with that, the tension broke and tears were transformed to laughter, offering the briefest of reprieves – but a reprieve nonetheless. 

Inappropriate? You bet. Lacking tact? Yup. Necessary for my family as they dealt with the devastating probability that I wouldn’t pull through? Absolutely!

Not only do I enjoy hearing the dark humor anecdotes of my time spent in the ICU, but I applaud my siblings for having had the courage to “go there.” Sometimes, the only way to face the horrific is with irreverence and absurdity. In the toughest of times, I find that humor is like chocolate: the darker it is, the better it is for you.

"No, you can't have my bike."

And I'm happy to report that my bike remains unequivocally in my possession.

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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!

Remarkable

I’m not in the habit of phoning men I don’t know and inviting them out for drinks, but after reading about Dave Claflin in the local paper years ago, I did just that. “You don’t know me,” I said to Dave, “but we need to have a margarita, dude.”

We met at a Mexican restaurant here in Boulder, where we swapped details about our respective needs for massive blood transfusions.  I’d heard quite a few blood recipient stories at that point in my advocacy work, but Dave’s story blew my mind. 

Just as he was about to walk his five-year-old triplet daughters to kindergarten one morning, Dave felt a sudden wave of nausea, which he assumed was food poisoning.  When the feeling didn’t pass after a few days, he assumed it was the flu.  New to Boulder, Dave hadn’t yet secured a family doctor, so when his symptoms persisted for six days straight he went to the hospital’s emergency room hoping to get some medication to treat his “flu.”

Following protocol, the ER professionals made Dave don one of those rather homely hospital gowns and ran him through a number of tests. While waiting for each of the test results, Dave began to feel more and more anxious about pulling precious resources away from people who were “really sick.” The ER was busy that day and Dave decided to leave so that others could get the care they needed. He began to dress himself, but—fortunately—someone had inadvertently taken his pants from the room. And so, he stayed. 

                                                                                                                                               

The next time a doctor entered his room, it was with a greater sense of urgency and concern.  What Dave thought to be the flu was actually his aorta—yeah, that fairly important main artery of the body—in the process of tearing! Suddenly, things kicked into high gear as Dave was wheeled into a 16-hour emergency open-heart surgery—the first of four that Dave would undergo during the next three days. The aortic tear was so large, Dave’s blood vessels leaked fluid into his chest cavity, causing his heart to stop numerous times. Needless to say, massive amounts of blood were transfused throughout—125 pints to be exact.

If you met Dave today, you’d look at this athletic 40-something guy, who still cycles and rock climbs, and you’d say one word: remarkable.  It’s remarkable that this man is still alive, and yes—like many of us “second chancers”—out there spreading the word about blood donation. It’s remarkable that Dave got to the hospital in time. It’s remarkable that his pants mysteriously disappeared, preventing him from walking to his likely death in the hospital parking lot or on his drive back home. It’s remarkable that medical advancements are such that an aortic aneurysm wasn’t a death sentence. It’s remarkable that there are people who care enough about others that they’ll take the time (and the needle) to—literally—give a bit of themselves away.

But as someone whose father bled to death when she was in kindergarten, the most remarkable thing to me about Dave’s story is this: because of the collective efforts of every person involved in the blood donation and transfusion process, there are three little girls—now feisty teenagers—who know what it’s like to grow up with their dad. Soccer games, back-to-school nights, first dates.

Remarkable.

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Lauren's book, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances (In The Telling Press, 2011), was the #1 Top Rated memoir on Kindle for 7 straight months. Hardcover copies are available at www.amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy Reading!

Speaking of Death

Years ago during a particularly hectic speaking schedule, a woman followed me out of the conference hall where I’d just given a keynote address at a regional Red Cross meeting.  I was rushing off to catch my next flight, but she seemed determined to have a word with me. She looked as if she’d been crying, even a bit angry, and I wondered if I’d somehow offended her with some of my, shall we say, offbeat humor.

“That story,” she said, gripping my arm. “The one about Jenny Eller…”

Jenny’s story was – and still is – one I tell often, not because it’s got such a happy ending, but precisely because it doesn’t. 

Jenny was seventeen when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Decisions regarding college scholarships – Princeton or Berkeley? – were superseded by chemo, blood transfusions, and appointments with the oncologist. As Jenny’s need for blood grew, so too did her desire to give back. She volunteered with her local blood center, helping them recruit more donors, speaking at community events, and making thank-you calls to those who’d given an hour of their time to donate blood.

Years after her diagnosis, in a hospital room filled with friends and family, Jenny lost her battle with leukemia. She never did get that college degree, but she did get four more years that she wouldn’t have otherwise gotten had it not been for all those blood components - red blood cells, platelets, and plasma - that supported her body throughout the cancer treatments.

On the night she died, Jenny’s father, Dean, promised to carry on her work with the blood center. Within days of burying his daughter, he spoke in her place at a luncheon to recruit blood donors. Four years and many blood center talks later, Dean left his career as a mortgage banker and took over as CEO of the blood center. And two years ago, the new Jenny Eller Donation Center opened its doors to the public. More than fifteen years after her passing, Jenny continues to have an impact on others, not the least of which, me.

While some wonderful, in fact inspiring, things have come about as a result of Jenny’s death, I’ll bet her parents would trade them all for more time with her here on earth. But death is a part of the “business” I'm in.  Not everyone gets the second chance that I – and many others – did.  Not everyone gets to shrug off their need for blood transfusions as "that time I was sick.” Not everyone gets a happily-ever-after.

I wondered if the woman who’d followed me into the hallway and was still gripping my arm was going to scold me for highlighting this harsh reality in what was billed as a “motivational” talk. I braced myself for whatever she had to say. 

“I was sitting in there listening to your story and the other stories you were sharing, and I found myself getting upset – even angry – at the unfairness of it all.”  Then she started crying. “I lost my daughter to leukemia a few months ago,” she continued.  “They tried everything, including regular transfusions, but in the end she still died.  I guess hearing all those blood recipient stories with happy endings really started to make me feel like I’d been ripped off. But then you shared Jenny’s story and I realized I’m not alone. So thank you for doing that.  I really needed to hear her story – and how her parents responded to that loss.”

Death is the one experience in life that we all have in common.  Ultimately, there’s no escaping it.  In my line of work (heading up the Foundation for America's Blood Centers), we certainly hope to help patients defer death – to give families more time together to build more memories and share more joy. So I'll continue to fight the good fight, but I'll never shy away from sharing the heartbreaks that are inevitable.  I owe it to all those who’ve lost a “Jenny.”

Jennifer Eller
1974 - 1995

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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 copies are available at amazon.com, or signed copies can be ordered at www.laurenwardlarsen.com. Happy reading!