Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

I was sharing a midday meal with Jeff and Clare at an outdoor café in Paris when, remarkably, the sun came out for the first time in our four days there.  As the waiter retracted the awning overhead, we all remarked how blue the sky was and how we might actually have a day and a half without rain to explore the city before our flight home that weekend.

And then the text came through. Call me on my land-line when you’re able. Need to talk. xxoo, Mom.

Mom hadn’t texted me the entire three weeks we’d been gone, so clearly there was only one reason for her communication: bad news. For a minute I thought about pretending I didn’t see the text. Or flat out ignoring it. But I knew I couldn’t.

I stepped away from the table and as the phone rang overseas, I wondered which of my three dogs was hurt. They were under the care of our trusted house- and dog-sitter, but our rescue-Dachshund, Jack, was already pretty old and decrepit when he’d joined our family two years ago, so I figured he was the reason for the text. Or maybe Duke. After all, he’d been having seizures for years, and despite our efforts to control them with various supplements, perhaps he’d had a particularly bad one. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Gigham, our beautiful 60-pound alpha poodle.  She was so strong and energetic we were sure she’d be the last dog standing. We'd often joked that Gigs believed she was supposed to be an “only child” and was simply awaiting the day when this would be the case.

Mom answered the phone, and without so much as a hello, I said, “Which dog is it?”

Gigs at Three Weeks Old

“It’s Gigham,” she said, sighing. “She died the day after you left for France, but I didn’t want to tell you any sooner because I knew how much you and Jeff needed this break. And I didn’t want to wait until you got home because I thought that would be an awful bit of news to hit you with after a long day of travel.”

I stood there, speechless, on a crowded street in Saint-Germain-des-Pres and tried to wrap my head around what Mom was saying, but the only thing that cycled through my brain was Gigham, dead, Gigham, dead.

Mom shared the details, seemingly trying to get them all out before she lost her ability to speak.  Something about the plant-based sweetener xylitol that Donna was baking with and Gigham raiding the kitchen countertop and xylitol being deadly for dogs and Donna finding Gigham’s stiff body the next morning. But my mind was still stuck on two words: Gigham and dead. 

It didn’t make sense. Gigs was one of the most alive dogs I’d ever met. She’d launch herself from our back deck without so much as one paw hitting any of the six steps down to the yard. When we hiked, she was the one to run fastest and farthest, exploring everything possible, while Duke would stay closer to Jeff and me. And Gigs was always the ringleader when it came to finding unauthorized snacks whenever we left home. She would do the dirty work—popping open the bread drawer or the trash can door—and then share the spoils with her less proactive canine siblings. Sometimes, when we ran back in the house for something we’d forgotten, Gigs would already be at work in the kitchen, trying to decide where the likeliest treats could be found.

I was quiet as Mom continued talking, but then my breath caught in my throat, an audible gasp of despair. And that’s when Mom broke down and we cried together on the phone.  I glanced back at the table and saw Clare crying, no idea what had happened, but clearly knowing that something was up otherwise why would her mother be leaning against the side of a patisserie, one hand on her forehead as tears streamed down her cheeks?

A Kiss From Gigs

Gigs was a bossy dog, and Jeff or I would often remind her that it’s no accident that she was considered a “bitch.” She’d growl whenever Jack or Duke invaded her personal space, yet wouldn’t think twice about pushing them out of the way if either happened to be lying in a spot she decided she wanted. Once, she sat right on Duke as he lay peacefully on our bed.  Eventually, Duke noticed the excess weight and conceded his spot to his pushy sister.

Despite her ruthlessness, Gigs was also the family protector. Even though she slept with Jeff and me, Clare would often see Gigs patrolling her bedroom at night, poking her head in, having a glance around and—once satisfied that all was well—leaving as quietly as she came. Whenever I got out of bed in the middle of the night to pee, she always followed me to the toilet then sat in front of me facing out, as if she was my bodyguard.  Though she’d made an art form of badgering Duke, Gigs was his greatest asset whenever a seizure struck. Once, she began barking nonstop and with an unusual tone, and when we went to investigate, we found her holding Duke up against the couch as he was having one of his seizures. When she saw that we’d arrived, she ceased barking and stepped away to let us take over. She was a brat, to be sure, but she was a brat with a big heart.

I said good-bye to Mom knowing there were more details to be discussed, but all I could do in that moment was stand on that busy sidewalk and share a three-way hug with Jeff and Clare. Our dogs are not “just dogs” to us. We cook homemade dog food for them. We take them on road trips. They sleep in the bed with us. They are family. We are a pack. And we'd just learned that one of our pack had died. 

Gigham. Dead.

We scrapped our plans to return to the Louvre that afternoon, and I cancelled my scheduled dinner with an old friend who’d relocated to Paris. We bought a chocolate mousse pastry in the patisserie and walked to the nearby Saint-Germain-des-Pres cathedral, where we lit the tallest candle possible for our precious Gigs. Then we set the pastry right next to it for her.

When we left the church, the blue skies were gone and the rain had begun falling again.

Gigham Spazmaginarum 12/14/2005 - 7/6/2011

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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 here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading! 

Big Brother

My family has never been known for its subtlety and decorum.  We are a loud, fun-loving, and at times obnoxious group.  An Alec Baldwin look-alike, my brother Tim is tall and imposing, and perhaps one of the most opinionated of our clan. 

Jeff's First Worthington Family Reunion, 1996

Shortly after Jeff and I were engaged in 1996, I took him with me to the Worthington Family Reunion, held every three years at the Jersey Shore.  Close to one hundred descendents of my maternal great grandparents—four generations worth—take over cheap motels and rental homes in Avalon and Stone Harbor for a week of reminiscing, drinking, punning, gossiping, eating, laughing, and arguing over the most inane details of times gone by.  We come from all over the country—California, Texas, Massachusetts, Florida, Michigan—and join with a handful of New Jersey holdouts “down the shore.” 

On the third day of the reunion, my brother and I were bobbing up and down in the waves thirty yards off the shoreline. “Why is it I had to hear that you’re freakin' engaged from cousin Bonnie?” Tim said, his tone equal parts flippancy and irritation. 

I tried to come up with something witty to deflect my brother’s underlying anger, but my mind went blank.  Why hadn’t I told him? I wondered.  We were sharing a rental home for the week.  I’d had plenty of opportunity to make an announcement, or to tell him in private. I could’ve simply introduced Jeff as my fiancé when we’d arrived at the reunion two nights ago. Better yet, I could’ve called Tim after I'd gotten engaged two weeks earlier.

It’s not that I didn’t care about my brother being privy to the big news. On some level, perhaps I cared too much.  Whether consciously or unconsciously, agreeing to spend my life with Jeff meant I was replacing Tim as the most important man in my life, a title he had held, despite our outward displays of banter, since our father’s death when I was six, my brother nine.

Ever since my first real boyfriend came on the scene in tenth grade, Tim had had something to say about my love life.  When he walked in my bedroom one morning to discover that Paul had spent the night due to heavy snowstorms, he took the opportunity to threaten him.  Just remember—that’s my little sister!  Paul didn’t try to get to the next base for weeks. When Tim came home from college and found out I had recently started dating a guy he once played soccer against, he said, “Joe Beatty?  What a douche bag!” I broke up with Joe a week later. As a freshman in college I started dating Dave, five years my senior and working construction.  When I transferred schools at Dave’s request and moved in with him, Tim was furious, but Mom forbade him to intercede, so instead he bought me a cake stand for Christmas.

“A cake stand?” I asked him once I’d unwrapped his gift.  “Isn’t this something you give to married people?”

“That’s my point!” Tim shouted across the crumbled gift wrap, half glasses of orange juice, and wadded up red and green Hershey’s Kiss foils that covered the floor my parents’ living room.  “You’re acting like you’re goddamned married!”  I broke up with Dave before the winter break was through.

It’s not as if Tim hated every guy I ever dated.  Bob passed the test easily, Jim eventually.  But Jeff?  Jeff was different.  As far as I was concerned, I needed no approval from Tim when it came to Jeff.  He was not a guy I was "dating."  He was the man I was committing to spend my life with, big brother approval or no big brother approval.

“Sorry,” I said to Tim.  “I should’ve told you myself.”  No sarcasm.  No deflection with humor.  

My brother and I were quiet, both in our own minds, treading water over rolling waves in the salty Atlantic at dusk. Breaking the silence, Tim finally said, “I like him. Seems like a good guy.”

“He is,” I said. 

And with that the title was passed. 

Lauren and Her Big Bro on Tim's Wedding Day, 2010

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Smile On, Katy!

Katy Stowe had the world by the tail. She was smart, popular, and just five days away from her high school graduation. With her straight-A report cards and various student leadership positions, the energetic teen had applied to and been accepted at Auburn University, where she would attend in the fall. 

And then, life changed.

I met Katy in the summer of 2003 while I was giving a series of talks about volunteer blood donation to elementary and high school kids in Alabama. She had been assigned to introduce me to each audience during a two-day visit with the American Red Cross. The first thing I noticed about her – now in her mid-20s – was her smile. The obvious love of life that came through that broad Julia Roberts grin was infectious, and I found myself smiling back at her even before we were introduced.

Secondary to her smile were the apparent signs of lingering health issues: the slow movements, the slight drag of her right foot, the hairless, waxy-looking scars above her neckline and below the short sleeves of her shirt, – suggestive of the type of adversity most of us will never encounter. Curiosity got the best of me and, between talks, I asked Katy about the circumstances that led to her scarring. Without hesitation, she shared the details of her near-miss with death eight years earlier: the car wreck on a rural road, the flames bursting through the floorboards, the jammed door locks that trapped her in the car, and her miraculous escape – despite having several broken ribs, a broken elbow and a lacerated kidney – through a half-open window.

Downplaying any suggestion of heroics on her part, she told me about the years of physical therapy, the dozens of post-hospitalization surgeries that took place to release built up scar tissue, and the numerous blood transfusions she had received – all a result of having been severely burned over more than 60 percent of her body. 

“The toughest part,” she admitted, “was that it felt like all my friends from high school had moved on with their perfect lives while I was struggling just to feel normal again.”

With patience, determination, and time, Katy had overcome the physical and emotional challenges of her accident and reclaimed her life. Graduating with honors from Auburn, she then chose to pursue a career that involved saving lives through blood donation, much in the same way her own had been saved.

I looked up to see the next group of high-school aged students filing into the auditorium for my talk. I looked back at Katy and knew that the story of how she came to be a blood recipient at an age when life was supposed to be full of promise would be much more effective than my own story of a “middle-aged” woman who almost died giving birth. I asked her if she would allow me to introduce her and if she would then share her own story with this audience. She demurred, but consented.

After making brief introductory remarks, I sat down as Katy limped out in front of the students. I watched the faces in the crowd shift from studied boredom – that look that only a 16-year-old on a field trip can master – to curiosity, as they scrutinized every exposed scar on Katy’s arms and neck. And then there was that smile, which held their attention as Katy explained that life doesn’t always deliver on its promises, but that a small group of caring individuals -- in her case, blood donors -- are often capable of making up the difference.

Keep smiling, Katy!

Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!  

The Day Dad Died

April 28, 1968.

           

I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.  Not even this gross water sprout hairdo—a tight ponytail Mom has centered on the top of my head—can ruin my mood.  I’m wearing my favorite dress, the white hand-me-down from Pam Eldridge, who lives down the street.  It has a big fluffy skirt, tiny black roses all over, and it even ties in the back with a big bow.  I have my favorite storybook, Hansel and Gretel, all ready to go.  Santa gave it to me this past Christmas.  It’s really big. 

           

Today is going to be great!  I’m going with my best friend, Debbie, to visit her aunt, who lives in Maryland.  Her mom is driving.  I’ve never been allowed to go on a trip like this without my parents going too.  It’s just for a day, but still.  I don’t think the other kids in my kindergarten class have been allowed to go away without their parents.

Debbie’s mom blows the horn of her light blue car and I’m flying through the front door of our house before Mom can remind me to use good manners.  I yell good-bye to her as I go.  (Dad left earlier this morning. He likes to fly his small airplane on the weekends, so he's already hanging out with his buddies at the local airport.) 

           

We drive for two and a half hours, eating snacks in the car and pretending to read the words that go with the pictures in my book.  Finally we arrive at the University of Maryland, where Debbie’s aunt is a student.  The whole day is amazing!  We walk around campus among all the grown ups.  We eat at the university cafeteria where the college students eat.  We visit Debbie’s aunt’s apartment and play with the stuffed animals on her bed.  My favorite is the five-foot long lime green snake.  Debbie and I slap each other with the snake, his silly red felt tongue hanging out of his mouth as his head whacks our bodies.

           

The ride home that evening seems to take a long time. When Debbie’s mom drops me off outside our home, I’m both exhausted and exhilarated. I burst into the house ready to share all the details of my adventures with Mom and Dad.  And then I freeze. 

           

Uh-oh. I’m not exactly sure why, but I’m in trouble.  Why else would Mom be waiting for me in the living room with that weird look on her face, sort of mad, sort of sad, but also sort of confused?

But why are her friends here? There’s Nancy, who lives around the corner from us.  And Evelyn, who lives right down the street (she’s the mother of Pam, who gave me this great dress).  And Susan, Mom’s best friend, who is single and spends a lot of time with our family.  They’re all sitting quietly around our small living room, Mom in the old orange wingback chair.  None of this makes any sense to me, but one thing is certain: I’m in trouble.  I can see it in Mom’s face.  I can hear it in the uncomfortable silence of the room.

“Lauren, would you come into the kitchen with me for a minute?” Mom says.  It’s more a statement than a question.  I quietly follow her.  When we round the corner to the kitchen, she turns to me.

“Your father had an accident while flying his plane today.” Her voice is calm, almost flat. “Daddy is dead, Lauren.  Do you understand what that means?” 

           

“Yes,” I lie.  “Can I go upstairs now?”

           

I walk in a daze to my brother’s room, where I find my three siblings staring blankly at the television screen.  I sit down and stare with them.  None of us says a word.  My adventures in Maryland are already forgotten.

* * *

Not until my late 20s do I begin to understand the details surrounding my father’s death, how he’d left early to spend the morning at the small rural airport nearby, where I suspect he liked to escape the weekday stresses of being a blue-collar sole provider for a family of six.  Another pilot had asked the men in the waiting area—my father among them—if anyone was willing to help him practice his take-off and landing maneuvers.  Though not fully-licensed, this man had enough instruction hours under his belt to fly without a certified instructor as long as there was a licensed pilot in the plane with him.  Dad agreed. 

During his first landing attempt, the pilot hit some telephone wires and crashed the plane.  My father suffered severe internal injuries and was bleeding profusely.  When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Dad was pronounced DOA—Dead On Arrival.  He’d recently celebrated his thirty-second birthday.

It’s now been 43 years, Dad, but you’re still in my thoughts, still a part of who I am and who I’m yet to become. Happy Father’s Day.

Supple Weidner Ward

March 5, 1936 – April 28,1968

Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!  

Lighten Up!

Years ago, I spent an evening with a grown man dressed in spandex tights, dark glasses, and a big bulbous red outfit that was allegedly a blood drop. Thankfully, it was not a date.

His name was Elmer, and he was pushing 90 at the time. His jokes were bad and his singing worse. He was part of the “entertainment” at a blood center event in Michigan at which I was giving the keynote address. I like to think of myself as an engaging speaker but, truly, it was Elmer who stole the show that night.

For decades, Elmer had been the perfect example of a “loyal” blood donor. Every eight weeks he was at the blood center rolling up his sleeve. When he turned 87, he began taking medication that permanently deferred him from donating. And that’s when Elmer morphed into his new role as the joke-telling, hand-holding, off-key-singing blood drop that showed up at blood drives to help ease the tension for first-time donors by sharing a laugh with them. Can you imagine any first-time donor being nervous once they laid eyes on him? At times, the joke was on Elmer: More often than not, people mistook him for a polyp!

In my work with blood centers over the years, I’ve seen some fairly bizarre stuff – and by bizarre, I mean fun! I’ve seen grown adults shouting out their financial pledges just to see a colleague get shaved. I watched a blood center CEO take a pie in the face for the sake of employee morale (my own hand might’ve been on the pie tin at the time). I’ve seen a blood drive recruiter wear more red at one time than should be legal (you know who you are, Dan). I’ve witnessed collections staff forming instantaneous human pyramids and blood recipients dressing as bloodhounds and howling their way around town on scavenger hunts. And two weeks ago at the Association of Donor Recruitment Professionals’ meeting, I saw Wayne’s World mullets and teased-out Cyndi Lauper hair, parachute pants, and off-the-shoulder new wave tunics being sported by a group of crazed blood banking professionals on a jam-packed dance floor. All this “bizarre-ity” adds up to a heck of a lot of fun.

Let’s face it: Working to save lives through blood transfusion is serious business. Those who work in blood banking have all met the patient with a remarkable medical story involving massive amounts of blood. Or the doctor working in a rural community who ran short on O-neg. Or the parent who lost a child after years of cancer treatments involving regular transfusions. Many have experienced the scare of a severe blood shortage, or the challenge of managing donor turnout after a horrific event like the Virginia Tech shootings, 9/11, or Hurricane Katrina.

All too often, those of us who work in "life or death" situations--whether it's blood banking or critical care in the hospital or disaster relief--feel the weight of our responsibility on a regular basis, and we lose touch with the lighter side of our personalities. After all, patients are depending on us, so we must take our work seriously.

But that doesn’t mean we must always take ourselves seriously. So I say: Lighten up! That, and impose an age limit on wearing spandex.




Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!  

Life's Too Short

The day I set myself on fire, I knew I had a problem.

The morning began like most.  The alarm clock began its annoying bleet-bleet-bleet at 4:00 a.m.  I quickly groped for the clock radio, as not to wake my husband, Jeff, or Spike, who was sleeping in the center of the bed on her back with her hind legs spread-eagle and her front paws in praying mantis position.  I took a moment to envy her carefree existence.

Still exhausted, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and mentally fumbled to understand why it was that I was getting up so early.  I had begun this insane routine a few months back in hopes of actually catching up on all of my work—warped logic not only because it didn’t work, but also because I didn’t give a rat’s ass about my job. 

I was thirty-seven years old and spending sixteen hours a day working for a CEO with whom I didn’t see eye-to-eye, in a company at which I didn’t feel I could be myself, in an industry that held no appeal for me.  Go figure. 

I had joined this small video game publisher six months prior as vice president of marketing, leaving behind the more stable environment of an educational publishing conglomerate.  Initially, when the recruiter’s call came through, I laughed.  Video games?  Me? 

Then the compensation package was quoted and I stopped laughing.  I thought about the hefty increase in salary, the potential for a big bonus and an even bigger stock payout.  I also thought about the thrill of coming into this “turn around situation,” and how invigorating it would be to join the management team that would foster positive change within the organization.  But mostly, I thought about the money. 

In a matter of minutes computerized war games had gone from being a senseless form of violent entertainment, if not a bit of a joke, to being, well, not so bad.  After all, they were just fantasy, I told myself, a way to kill time and relieve stress. 

“Oh puh-leeze,” I could hear my conscience chortling from deep within me.  I ignored the little bugger and signed the employment contract the day it was offered. My plan was to do this job for a couple of years, work hard to help the company succeed, vest my stock options, and take the money and run. 

Then I could solve world hunger.  

By the end of my first month, I knew I had made a huge mistake.  But the embarrassment of leaving so soon after starting, and the promise of big bucks kept me miserably in place.  I slogged my way through work, day after day—and often on the weekends, too—trying to focus on the positive.  But none of the rewards, including the money, offered any sense of authentic joy or lasting satisfaction. 

Realizing that the snooze button was due to activate soon, I turned off the alarm and slipped out of bed.  After a quick shower, I pulled my freshly fluffed and heated robe from the dryer and wrapped myself in it.  I walked to our small second bedroom, where our makeshift meditation area was and sat cross-legged on the floor preparing to “om” my way to a state of centered calm.  Lately I found that I needed this brief bit of time to just sit with my thoughts—or lack thereof—before launching into the world of animated violence. 

As I lit a match to light a small candle, I accidentally dropped it.  In the split second that the match fell downward, I assumed it would simply burn out as it hit the heavy fabric of my robe.  Instead, the oil-based coating of the fabric softener caused a bluish flame to immediately engulf my entire lap like a flambéed dessert. 

 “HONEY, I’M ON FIRE!” I screeched. 

Jeff launched naked from the bed.  At the same time, I managed to stand up and was pulling the burning robe off my body as I made my way toward the bedroom exit.  We almost collided in the hallway as I threw the robe to the floor.  Jeff made a flying tackle and easily extinguished the flames. 

I stood—naked and in shock—two feet from Jeff—naked and in shock—as he lay on the floor covering the terrycloth culprit.  Our eyes met and we simultaneously broke into uncontrollable laughter at the absurdity of the situation. Then, just as quickly, I melted into a mass of heaving sobs.

“Life is…(sob)...too short…(sob)...to work…(sob)...at a job…(sob)...you hate!”

Having completed this insightful observation, I sank to the floor.  Jeff crawled over to me and wrapped me in a hug.  He rocked me in his arms and told me that no amount of money was more important than my sanity. 

I resigned the following week.  


Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!  

Happy Birthday, Kid!

Every year, Harold Mintz sends a birthday card to his own kidney. Sure, that’s kind of weird in itself, but wouldn’t you think he could simply put his hand on his gut and whisper, “Happy birthday, kid”? Instead, Harold signs and seals a card and then sends it to the address of a woman who was once a complete stranger. You might even say they were from different worlds.

Gennet Belay grew up in Ethiopia. When she was twelve, she developed a kidney infection that landed her in the hospital. Her father insisted that she wasn’t ill (after all, he reasoned, children don’t get sick) and discharged her from the hospital against medical orders. Left untreated, Gennet’s kidney infection worsened and, years later, nearly cost her her life.

In 1987, Gennet and her husband and baby immigrated to the US, and eight months later, both of Gennet’s kidneys went into failure. She began receiving dialysis treatments upwards of three times a week and was added to the kidney transplant list. Eleven years passed, and still no kidney. 

The whole time, Gennet prayed for a miracle. While praying on New Year’s Eve of 2000, Gennet distinctly heard a voice tell her: “This year is the end of your suffering.”

Enter Harold. As a life-long blood and platelet donor (and a member of the national bone marrow registry), Harold already knew how good it felt to help people. His wife and 10-year-old daughter already had plenty of reasons to be proud of the impact he was having on the lives of others. But after reading about a teacher who donated a kidney to one of her students, Harold felt compelled to take his giving up a notch. He picked up the phone and began the process of becoming a “live donor.”

Months later, Harold went under anesthesia, and one of his kidneys was removed and transported across town where Gennet was waiting to undergo her 45^th surgery in two decades. That evening, while recovering from his own surgical procedure, Harold received a phone call. His kidney recipient was doing great, he was told. And his kidney? “Peeing up a storm,” according to the doctor who phoned to share the good news.

Harold and Gennet were later introduced and have since shared many family meals and celebrations together. Harold has given countless talks at high schools, and when he speaks of blood and organ donation, his eyes light up. I’m not kidding – this guy is on fire about the subject!

Harold believes there are no coincidences. Gennet believes in miracles. And I believe in the synchronicity of life that brought these two strangers together to form a lifelong bond of friendship. They come from different worlds, but they now share a remarkable experience – one that underscores the depth of humanity that dwells within us all.

Harold once told me his guiding principal in life has always been: follow the fun. Apparently, Harold’s idea of a good time is to help others. With thousands of people dying every year while awaiting organ transplants, we can only hope that more people follow in his footsteps and discover the “fun” in helping others. And next April, Harold’s kidney just might be getting a birthday card from me, too.




Download a PDF of the first 4 chapters of Lauren's memoir, Zuzu's Petals: A True Story of Second Chances, FREE here.  Click on the link below the green "Buy the Book" button.  Happy reading!