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!

In Suffering, Connection

To say that Al Klein and I knew one another when we both worked at a Fortune 50 company years ago would be misleading. More like we knew of one another. Despite working in the same department, the corporate culture never quite felt like it supported authentic connections. Clever and pithy exchanges among co-workers took precedence over sincere and heartfelt conversations. Bravado was king, and the shark-infested halls were no place to show fear, doubt or vulnerability. Especially vulnerability.

Twenty years after leaving the company, I received an email from Al. He was almost finished reading my book, and he felt the need to connect with me. Six months earlier – and after years of headaches and misdiagnoses – Al had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Following an emergency brain surgery, he underwent chemo and radiation, and was now adjusting to the reality of his post-cancer life, which included the strong likelihood that the tumors would return.

Within a handful of e-mails, Al and I had formed a nice friendship. No topic was off limits: spirituality, dream interpretation, relationships, our fears, our hopes, and the many ways that our medical challenges had changed us. Though we’d originally met through work, it was our mutual experience with suffering that truly forged our bond. The details of our respective illnesses were almost irrelevant. What we quickly discovered was that we shared similar responses to life-threatening illness: the difficulty in learning to sit (or more accurately, lie) still and allow others to care for us, the need to embrace the vulnerability that goes hand in hand with serious illness, and the desire to be better people and to help others, especially after receiving all that love and support and help while we were each the ones in need.

I believe Al put it best when he said, “I have a great family and great friends, and I've been overwhelmed by the love and support they’ve shown – that’s the silver lining though this ordeal. Actually, the love is so much more important than the ordeal.”

A couple years ago I invited Al and his wife to join me in New York City for a gala benefit I was chairing, but he told me he no longer enjoyed attending large events with lots of strangers. Instead, he invited me to join him for lunch after the benefit if I could stay in the area for another day. I declined, feeling the need to return to Colorado shortly after the fundraiser, but promising to get together during my next trip to New York.

The minute I received an email from Al’s wife months later, I regretted not having stayed that extra day to have lunch with Al. The email’s subject line read: A Note of Sorrow. The tumors had returned, this time more aggressively. Al had passed away the previous evening.

This life, for every one of us, is filled with suffering. Nowhere is this more apparent than in blood services. Every blood recipient is suffering in some regard, be it with an acute medical challenge or a lifelong transfusion-dependent illness. Every parent of a child who needs a blood transfusion understands suffering – both their child’s and their own.

But amidst all this suffering is that undeniable silver lining – the gift of authentic connection between people. Between a patient and a nurse. Between a blood recipient and a donor. Even between two former business colleagues who were once too clever to be vulnerable. 

Wonderful Life

Anyone who knows me well – or has browsed my Facebook page or picked up a copy of my book or even sat next to me on a bus for five minutes – knows that when it comes to “It’s a Wonderful Life,” I have a freakish attachment to this movie. I named my baby after the guardian-angel character, Clarence. My book’s title, Zuzu’s Petals, is a direct nod to one of the movie’s defining scenes. And since my 20s, I’ve watched this holiday classic one to four times each year.

"Help me, Clarence. Please. I want to live again."

Without fail, I cry unabashedly every time I get to a particular scene, you know the one: George Bailey leaning over the bridge, head bowed, hands clasped, tears streaming down his face as he implores Clarence to help him, to let him live again. Irrational as it may be, I find myself worrying that maybe this time George’s angel won’t come through. I blubber like a big old baby and wonder what if Clarence doesn’t answer his plea for help?

But you know what? He always does. That angel always comes through.

At some point in our lives, there’s a good chance that we’ll each feel like George Bailey, like things are hopeless, so much so that the only way out of our predicament would be with the help of angels. For some, our George Bailey Moment comes in the form of needing blood transfusions – for ourselves or for someone we love – and wondering if that blood will be there.

Last month, an old friend forwarded me a plea for help from another friend of hers. This man’s daughter, Katherine, was fighting for her life in the intensive care unit and was in need of massive amounts of a less common type of plasma. Apparently, she was depleting the hospital’s supply at a much faster rate than they could replenish it. The tone of the original e-mail was one of frantic urgency, the kind reserved for situations that are equal parts hopeless and hopeful. Situations that could really use an angel.

Having interacted with blood centers across the US for 12 years now, my initial message to Katherine’s father was one of hope: have faith in the vast network of non-profit blood centers to do what they do best: collect and manage blood, and, if necessary, transport it across the country to the people who need it, people like his daughter. I remained positive because, from personal experience, I know how absolutely essential optimism is in a situation like this.

And yet.

What if those who could donate the type of plasma Katherine required didn’t respond to this kind and desperate father’s plea for help? What if the blood centers weren’t able to come through for her? I kept checking Katherine’s CaringBridge and Facebook pages for updates, eager for news about a young woman I’ve never met. 

In the end, countless people responded to the plea for help, and Katherine was treated with more than 340 units of plasma. And then she was sent home.

In my worldview, angels are not just ethereal beings reserved solely for the afterlife. There are plenty of angels on earth, as well as potential angels waiting to awaken to their desire to serve. Sometimes, we’re the ones in need of an angel. And other times, we are called upon to be an angel for someone else.

I know I’m not alone in my gratitude for all the earthly angels who come through time and again for us blood recipients. Whether they’re blood donors or blood services professionals, they truly make this a wonderful life.



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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!

Grateful For Go-Go Juice and Mustard

When you meet a little girl like Caroline Carter, you can’t possibly imagine the words blood transfusion or chemotherapy or surgery being remotely used to describe the regular activities of her life. Instead you’d think: there must be some mistake because this kid is so alive, so bubbly!

I had the pleasure of being introduced to 6-year-old Caroline before a talk I gave years ago, and I personally asked her permission to share her photo and story with the audience that day. At first she seemed shy about the notion of being in the limelight, but then, grinning ear-to-ear, she consented. An hour or so later, as an image of her beaming in her princess tiara filled the large projection screen at the blood center recognition banquet, Caroline beamed as well, even stood on her chair so the entire audience could acknowledge her strength and beauty and, well, bubbliness.

I had learned the details of her medical challenges from her mother, Karen, a sharp and well-spoken business woman who was determined to give her little girl as much happiness, joy, and normalcy as she could for as long as possible. At 4½ years old, Caroline had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer and given a 30 percent chance of survival. When the chemo, radiation, surgeries, stem cell transplant, and experimental antibody treatments took their toll on Caroline’s body, blood transfusions became a regular part of her regimen as well. In true childlike form, Caroline renamed the blood components to suit her youthful perspective. Red blood cells were “go-go juice,” for their ability to give her considerably more energy after being transfused. Platelets were “mustard,” and I believe their color pretty much explains that nickname.

Many of us often refer to blood transfusions as the “gift of life,” but to Caroline, go-go juice and mustard offered the gift of play: the chance to ride her bike, kick a soccer ball, or climb the rock wall. Go-go juice and mustard allowed Caroline to be normal – as normal as a kid could be between hospitalizations and invasive medical treatments. And allowing her daughter to lead a normal life, Karen would later tell me, was one of her greatest goals, no matter the ultimate outcome of Caroline’s struggle with cancer.

For three and a half years, go-go juice and mustard helped a bubbly little girl forget, at times, that she was a patient, and allowed her to simply focus on being a kid. A kid who loved to play.

This Thanksgiving, Nov. 22, would’ve been Caroline’s 13^th birthday. My own daughter, who is nearing the age of 13 herself, typically makes a “gratitude tree” each year for Thanksgiving, and then we each write down things we’re grateful for on its paper leaves. This year, I’m going to write “go-go juice and mustard” because, as a mom, I am grateful for the gift of play that these two blood components offered a beautiful and bubbly little girl who once touched my heart.

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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!

There, But For the Grace of God

Last month, I was scheduled to give a talk in Barcelona, followed by ten days of writing (read: playing) in Avignon and Paris. I was hoping to come across an appropriate story – someone interesting with a personal tie to the blood cause – for my monthly column in the America's Blood Centers newsletter while traveling internationally. Turns out, I didn’t have to wait very long. 

Despite my plan to sleep through the overnight flight to Spain, Brad, my seatmate, and I instead spent the better part of the flight in lively conversation about everything from business and travel to politics and religion (I know, I know – propriety was never my strong suit).

Ultimately, the conversation turned to blood, as it usually tends to do when you’re seated next to me on a plane. A long-time blood donor, Brad expanded his efforts in this area 12 years ago by registering as a bone marrow donor.

“A friend’s son needed a transplant, so I signed up immediately. I wasn’t a match for his child, but shortly after joining the registry I was told I was a near-perfect match for a 31-year-old man in Chicago.”

Brad underwent local anesthesia for the surgical removal of bone marrow through his pelvic bone. The marrow was then flown to Chicago where it saved the life of the young man Brad has never met, but whom he’s been told is doing well.

“I’m not going to lie, that procedure hurt,” Brad confessed, rubbing his hip as if the cellular memory of physical pain were still present. “And the recovery period was rough for me, especially when one of my kids got the flu and I had to be quarantined from him. It’s not easy being told you can’t even play with your own son.”

“So would you do it again?” I asked.

“I would and I did. Five years later, I was another perfect match, this time for a little boy with leukemia.”

“Even though you’d had such a tough time with the first donation?” I asked, probing to understand my new friend’s motivation.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Brad replied, “I figure, ‘there, but for the grace of God, go I.’” 

Having already discussed spirituality with him, I knew that Brad’s reasoning wasn’t based on religious dogma or duty, but rather an authentic sense of one human being wanting to help another human being – even if to do so was a pain in the...hip.

The second donation was also done surgically, and although his recovery period was easier, ongoing soreness was still an issue. I told him about the newer, more common, and simpler approach to bone marrow donations called peripheral blood stem cells (or PBSCs), which is performed much the same way as an apheresis blood donation. He’d never heard of this approach, nor was he aware that the majority of stem cell donations are now collected this way, rather than through the bone marrow. 

Brad then told me he’d recently received a third call regarding a possible match for his bone marrow. “Wow!” he said. “You’ve got me all excited about this now!”

Actually, Brad, I’m the one who’s excited. You see, lately I’ve been feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the crap going on in the world – whether it’s the shooting of a little girl in Pakistan who spoke up in favor of girls attending school, or the abduction and murder of a little girl who was walking to school less than 20 miles from my home – and I am saddened by the seeming lack of compassion that is exhibited daily. But you, Brad, serve as a reminder that there are good people out there, everywhere, everyday. I’m excited that people like you exist. Meeting you, Brad, was a reminder that if I pay attention, I don’t have to wait long to cross paths with a truly good soul – a blood donor, a marrow donor, an organ donor. You’re everywhere, Brad. And you make the world a much better place. 

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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!