Third Time's the Charm

1971- and we were back in the USA. In a small apartment in Englewood, Colorado to be exact. D.Wayne had returned to working at KMart while trying to find his next chapter. Within a year, he decided to give selling life insurance a try, and walked away from the retail world.

Finding a small older home to rent in Denver proper, we moved... to 1699 S.Lowell Blvd. And soon enough, not being sure how long it would take him to make any money to support us, I started working as a nurse's aide on the graveyard shift downtown at St. Anthony's, Denver's major hospital at the time. Orthopedic Floor.

Insurance sales were hard to come by that year somehow. So we existed solely on my minimum wage job. Ouch.

I couldn't sleep in the day because D. would leave for work after I got home in the morning. Most often he'd come home for dinner, then leave for the evening to go to prospects' homes to try and sell. Somehow that was unproductive seemingly forever. So it was a struggle.

Usually he'd get home by nine, so I would have an hour to sleep before waking up to get ready and drive downtown to get to work by 11 pm. 

In the daytime, I would take my little babes in a wagon for long walks. Because if I stayed home, I knew I would inevitably doze off. And for the same reason, at work when it was time to sit down and chart my patients' reports, I had to stand instead of sit on the stools to do those write ups. 

Rinse and repeat. But we were young; it was manageable. 

After six months we tried a morning preschool. Not a great experience, so not for long. But soon we found the perfect babysitter. Our kids loved going to her home so much, that they didn't even want to leave and come back home!

So I slept four hours every morning and it was great. NO more mornings where the police pulled me over driving home erratically at 7am, or mornings when D. would come out and find me fast asleep with my head on the steering wheel. 

At least I parked in front of the right house!

But the BEST PART of all was buying our first home... 4185 S. Dale Ct, Sheridan, CO...  

1973- $18,500 GI bill, 0 down!
Sad- huge tree we planted in front yard is gone.

... and then getting a new job at Swedish Medical Center in Englewood... 

graveyard shift Newborn Nursery! 

YAY! Dream job!

Back in the day there was no rooming in for the babies and moms, so we had those precious newborns all to ourselves for our entire shift. Feeding, changing and cuddling babies all night long. What could be better than that?

The only drawback happened when we first got the newborns from the Labor and Delivery nurses, and we would be the ones to weigh and measure them. Weighing them on the scale was no problem, but measuring their height was scary! Super scary!

With just one hand, we had to hold them upside down over the countertop by their ankles, and use a measuring tape with the other to ascertain the exact inches! Because they were curled up still from being inside the womb, and that apparently was the best way to "uncurl" them to get an accurate height. Who does that? I had to be sure I was 1000% awake whenever doing so, and still it terrified me. Every single time.

So life was good, very good. And fortuitously many months later, a teenage Hispanic girl gave birth to a newborn daughter that she was giving up for adoption. Instantly I fell in love, and came home to announce that we were going to adopt this tiny cutie! However. Back at work that night, I was told the girl's aunt had convinced this 16 year old to keep her baby. My heart crumbled.

But at least it did make me aware that I was baby hungry and ready to welcome #3  sooner than later. So I started dreaming about it. And planning. 

Unfortunately as a couple we were really bad at communicating, so when I told my husband I was expecting and had turned in two weeks notice at work, it didn't go over as well as it could have. 

In fact, he didn't speak to me for the entire pregnancy. Ummm, it was a hard time. Really hard.

Another especially hard thing was early on in this pregnancy, when I was told at a regular appointment (probably at three months) that there was no discernible heart beat, no evidence the fetus was growing at all, and I had probably already lost the baby. Just wait and come back in two weeks to verify.

Not knowing was a bizarre torture. That was the most miserable two weeks of all.

No choice but to wait it out and return in two weeks. Exam revealed that not only was there a heartbeat and a viable baby, but that now there was a good chance I was expecting twins!! Hold my root beer float!

Roller coasters were never my thing, but that seemed to be the ride I unknowingly signed up for.

It took another month until the next exam to find out that twinning was not the case either.

On top of that, there were some other issues with my OB GYN. Well why not?

Normally the Drs. call the shots, but somehow I had picked up a book by Adele Davis, maybe the pioneer  of nutrition in the 20th Century. I had grown up on Wonder bread, margarine, and canned vegggies... like most of us back in the day, and I had come to the point now I was searching for better options.

And Adele championed things like raw milk, whole grains, home grown vegetables, etc. Packaged bread, among other things, was poison, and she was vehemently against prenatal vitamins because of the iron in them. Iron of course is foundational to health, but iron filings are toxic, and that was what was in the bread and vitamins, etc. Still is, by the way.

So I refused to take the prenatals, and my Dr. found that confrontational. You were conditioned to think Drs. were almost Gods, and never question. Apparently I had missed the memo.

Oh well. I made beef liver and onions for dinner 3 times a week instead, and to his credit D.Wayne never once complained, not did my two littles. They actually ate liver and onions! All the time!

Well not surprisingly I was able to make a memorable impression on someone else as well. We had gone to Illinois for our yearly visit, and the kids and I were in the back seat of my parents' car when I casually happened to mention that I was pregnant. Apparently that caused the wheel of the car to lose control and we ended up being driven into the side of the road. Fortunately it wasn't a ditch. And we didn't have to call 911 for my Father. Or Mother.

Spoiler alert-  funny enough, this baby would end up being born on my Dad's birthday. Pretty cool!

Again, life was good. Pretty much. And it wasn't like this was my first pregnancy. I was now at the point that I was pretty confident.

Actually maybe a tad overconfident. 

I thought I knew it all, having already survived two pregnancies, and working in the Hospital OB for a year. I was probably invincible, no? So I came up with the idea of having this next baby at home all by myself. What could go wrong?

Of course I never mentioned this to anyone else, because obviously I wouldn't need to. I would just be in total control of it all.

And then the day came. The labor pains began. Interesting timing. The baby had hardly moved that whole week. Strange. And stranger that I ignored it.

It was Sunday afternoon. I was finishing a report for Church that I needed to drop off. . , 

Uh oh, wait a sec, D.Wayne was home. Not part of my plan.

What? Suddenly I could barely move, couldn't talk, not in control of my destiny at all. Was no one paying attention to how it was supposed to go? Things were going downhill fast.

Whoosh, my plan was out the window. Arrangements were made behind my back, and soon I was ushered into the car. On the way to the hospital, of all places! 

At least I saved face by dropping off that report en route.

Swedish Medical Center was ready for us. Seriously embarrassing to be surrounded by these nurses, friends I had been working with just the year before. 

Yes, I was in good hands on the delivery table for sure, but exposed in ways I hadn't intended. This was not at all the script I had written out in my head.

Then suddenly I was prone on the table, and quickly started projectile vomiting on these very nurses;  their faces went from smiles to ashen shock as the baby's heartbeat dropped in half, and kept plummeting. Alarms going off. They immediately directed D.Wayne to leave the room. 

Surprisingly though, the Dr. contradicted them, instructing D.Wayne to remain there.

Almost immediately an anesthesiologist bolted through the double doors and ran to slap some kind of gas mask over my face. 

"NO!" I gasped. 

And that was the last thing I remembered.

Every time I started to regain consciousness, I willed myself not to go back and face all I now desperately feared. I just couldn't. I couldn't go on. Powerless! Facing tragedy was so far beyond my abilities. So far.

Then one time I was coming to again, I heard soft voices from the corner of the room. Nurses discussing the baby's Apgar score. And it was pretty good. How on earth could that be? 

Unbelievable! The baby had survived! 

This little fighter was a BOY, and what a BOY! He had been in a rare transverse position (sideways), and had the cord wrapped around his neck three times! Prolapsed! And tied in 3 separate knots! It doesn't get any more dangerous than that. 

Everything had happened so fast. And it was all wrong! The baby was already too far down the birth canal to have an emergency C section. 

"Vaginal delivery is generally impossible and extremely hazardous even with expert intervention. IPV where the Dr. reaches in to grasp a foot and changes the position to facilitate a breech delivery has an extreme risk of death for both baby and mother."

I did not know this until my six week postpartum checkup when the Dr. shared the information. I had to pull off the road on my way home after the appointment to deal with the shock of what we had come so perilously close to.

Had things gone according to my plan of home birthing, there would have been no miracle. 

Having been forced to go to the hospital (only because it happened on a Sunday when my husband was home and forced the issue) was an absolute miracle. 

Having a highly skilled Dr. who could save both our lives was an absolute miracle.

Having a baby who was a genuine fighter for life was an absolute miracle. How had he endured so much?

Having a husband who was allowed to stay to witness this rare birth, when even I couldn't, was also an absolute miracle. 

He was so in awe of this special privilege, and it changed in an instant his attitude about having this baby when he saw the wonder take place in front of his eyes. From that moment on he held a special bond with Jared. 

It changed his Father's heart in the blink of any eye. Forever after that, he was never anything but supportive down the road, when I would tell him again (and again and again and again... ) of another baby on the way.

Jared arrived with battle scars, his face had some bruising, his ears for the moment were folded backwards, but no serious internal damages that would force an emergency helicopter trip to Children's Hospital. In fact, he was cleared to come home in a couple days like every other baby without all the drama. 

Like I said, miracle after miracle, after miracle.

The fact that this happened the way it did must have been some kind of harbinger of things to come in this little one's life. By the time he was a year old he had survived a few more close calls and hospital encounters. That paradigm remained throughout his life, often on the edge, nevertheless a survivor.

And an important lesson I learned, that even though this was a very rare occurrence, home births are risky. This was so far beyond the scope of any midwife, no matter how gifted. Time would not allow for survival had we not been in the right place at the right time. I would never ever encourage anyone to take that risk.

I am beyond grateful that everything went wrong that day so that everything could go right the rest of his days, and mine. 

Jared was born an entertainer as well as a fighter, and from the beginning he could make us laugh when nothing else could.

And our family felt perfect, complete.

It's a GIRL!

There's a first time for everything, or so they say. And being pregnant the first time seems to prove the rule.

So we married in June, 1968 in Logan, Utah, and spent our honeymoon driving to Illinois for our reception, then moving to Seattle. Two months later when my husband got drafted, we quit our jobs, packed back up and headed out to Idaho, his home state, where his notice came from. His mother and I drove him to the train station in a small town miles and miles away, and then cried in the car all the way back to Geneva. 

I was going to catch a plane back to Illinois the next day to stay with my family until we got word where he would be stationed, then we could make plans. But before that could happen, he showed up, having been rejected by the Army. How ironic that his back injuries from a motorcycle accident earlier that year turned out to be quite the blessing! So we packed the car back up and headed northwest again to find a new apartment in Seattle. 

D & Kawasaki

Our jobs rehired us. From then on, every month he would be drafted again, rejected again. Only by this time his papers had been transferred to Washington, so we at least didn't have to keep navigating the Interstate. And his work (KMart) held fake going away parties for him every month to celebrate, unlike that first actual party when we all thought he'd be shipping out. 

Rinse and repeat, the months went by. Such a joke! They laughed, he laughed, I laughed. 

So somehow it turned out it would accidentally be an opportunity to start a family. 

What were we thinking? We had never even given any thought at all to having kids. 

What were we smoking? We had never even given any thought at all to smoking. 

Yet here we were. 

The test was positive.

Fortunately, I didn't have a problem with morning sickness. Life seemed good, normal. 

However, reality check... the smell of the dry roasted peanuts he would buy was all of a sudden the most egregious of odors in the entire universe, and I would bolt out of the room if and when he opened the jar. Inevitably he would bring one home from work every week.

And there was that night I fainted in the bathroom and he found me unconscious after hearing the thud. Embarrassment seems to be a way of life for me. We then feared a possible ectopic pregnancy but it was just a scare. Life has bumps.

Of course, it worked out that almost as soon as we found out we were going to be parents and actually have to grow up, yes, you can imagine. He left one March morning to report again as usual for the draft. We knew the drill. 

But he didn't come home that night. 

I locked myself in the bathroom for two days and nights and cried and screamed relentlessly. Stopped laughing. 

And I never heard a word from him for two long, unbearable weeks. Not. one. word. 

D. was a founding member of the Y Americans his last two years at BYU. With his wholesome good looks, he sang patriotic songs, "This Land Is Your Land", "Freedom Isn't Free", on tour from Disneyland to the Ed Sullivan TV Show in New York. It was good times had by all, singing about freedom. Putting your life on the line for it, well that's a whole different animal.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXLklPUxAPY&list=RDXXLklPUxAPY&start radio=1

(Video-April 23, 1967 Ed Sullivan Show, close up @ 2:52) 

Freedom is a pretty abstract, almost generic term, as used by most of us, casually, and with only a layer or two of understanding and appreciation. But those who have paid a price for it, by losing an eye or a leg or a loved one, or through blood, sweat, and tears, have far greater depth, far greater intensity in actually loving freedom. Because love is far more a song, than a parade, than a feeling; at best it's deep purpose, unwavering dedication, a selfless way of life. Proving it.

 At long last I got the phone call and found out he was at Ft. Lewis in Tacoma, WA. And I would be able to visit him on Sunday afternoons for the next six weeks of basic training. 

I didn't even recognize him the first Sunday. Seriously! His hair had been shaved off and he wore black rimmed glasses instead of contact lenses. Walked right by him. Awkward.

It seemed more like prison. You had to sit at a table across from your husband in a big room with everyone else doing the same. But you had an hour to talk, so what could be better?

I quit my job and packed everything into our little car and moved myself down to a bad area by the railroad tracks in Tacoma. With $75 to my name, a room behind a dilapidated old one story building used as an insurance office had to do. And it did. Tacoma was the breeding ground for serial killers back in the day. The infamous ones. Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, later the prolific Green River Killer.

At least it was pretty quiet. Except for the trains. 

A lot went wrong there, so I couldn't really focus on being pregnant. Immediately got a job at Penney's in a Mall there, but after a month got fired when one of my coworkers told the manager I was pregnant. Against the rules back in the dark ages. 

It's ironic to be broke and unemployable when you're most needful, but some good life lessons. If only in hindsight.

Our cat, Midnight, given to us shortly after moving to Seattle, had become my best friend. My one friend. The only creature (other than my husband) that I knew within 1200 miles. Midnight ate off my plate, slept in my bed, and meant the world to me. But he was a tomcat after all, and needed his own time every night to go out and prowl around. There came the night he went out and didn't return. 

At dawn I went looking for my buddy, and found his body in the middle of the adjacent highway after he had been tragically run over in the night. 

Devastating. Tears became my only companion.

Military wife, of a Private, E1... consequently not really anything the Army was obligated to deal with. The saying was, "If you were supposed to have a wife, the Army would have issued you one." Besides, most of the guys he was stationed with were 18 or 19 year old kids, he was 25, having had college and mission deferments. They all called him "Grandpa."

"Grandpa"

When he was assigned six weeks later to Ft. Ord by Monterrey, CA, I again packed up our little Pontiac Tempest with all we had, and moved myself down there. Actually we had so much that I had to drive with my left hip up on the driver's door armrest. Pure class.

Two days down the coast, and I made it to Seaside, CA on June 3, our first anniversary! Immediately found an apartment and went out to find my missing husband. No idea how I arranged that without cellphones, but I did manage to pick him up and kidnap him for a couple hours to celebrate. By then I was almost 6 months pregnant and finally beginning to show a little. First time he'd be able to feel the baby kick. Felt official. 

Having been to an OB/GYN probably in March to confirm pregnancy, I never had the opportunity to go again for quite awhile. It was fortunate I did so well on my own. 

Or maybe just didn't know better. 

Somehow I became convinced I was the only person on the planet to ever experience being pregnant. Confident no one else had ever been in this circumstance. Despite looking around and seeing people all over the place who literally had to have been born. Wait, were they aliens? Twilight Zone or not, it was exhilarating to be the first and only pregnant mama. Maybe all those hormones go to the brain?

Grandma Lucy sewed this for me-
How I hated the regular maternity clothes of the day

In August, he was transferred to Ft. Benjamin in Indianapolis, IN. This time I didn't have to move alone, he had a whole week off. Just before we left, I went to the small animal compound on base and adopted the runt of the litter, a small pup the size of a hamster who barely had any chance of survival. And "Oink" became the focus of our trip to another very temporary home in the Midwest. Good practice for baby care?

Oink grew fast in Illinois

So I was dropped off in Illinois at my parents' home mid August and he went on to Indiana, coming to see us on the weekends. Or I would drive out there. For fun, I became hopelessly addicted to banana popsicles. My cousin, Vicki. hosted a great baby shower for me. It could have been worse, no?

Family support for the win.

Finally, I was able to get in with a civilian OB group six or seven weeks before my due date, the Army having to pay because I lived too far from an actual base to have to travel to Army Docs. 

And then, by the end of September, I was pleading with the Dr. to have my baby induced. Because instead of getting orders to the East Coast, as I had dreamed of, D.Wayne had just been given orders to Germany. He grinned like he had won the lottery. 

I wept. 

Never imagined being able to join him there.

Yes, of course, that was so above and beyond orders to Vietnam where literally everyone else he trained with at all three different bases were assigned. And of course, that could possibly change for him at any moment too. But he was a clerk by then, not infantry. Dodged a bullet, literally.

Naturally he was being shipped out on Oct. 10, my due date. Just no way to know at that time where precisely in Germany he would be stationed, so how to even let him know about the birth? I was not happy.

But life goes on. At Church one Sunday morning we met a young couple, and the husband just happened to be a pilot. Who just happened to have access to a private plane that belonged to a friend, so they invited us to meet them after lunch at the little airport that afternoon for a little fun.

And it was fun! 

Until.

Somehow the pilot thought at some point it would be a great idea to let D.Wayne try flying. So they traded seats and off we went. Practicing take offs and landings. A bit bouncy, a bit rough. What could possibly go wrong? Why nothing, nothing at all! 

Until. 

The men started talking about nausea and sharing experiences while flying and boating. Details. Evidently the pilot wasn't paying attention to the fact that a pregnant woman with a due date a week away was now seated right behind him. Luckily I had believed in the magic of saltine crackers my whole pregnancy so never experienced any nausea at all!

Until.

I vomited down the back of the actual pilot twice. Twice!!

D.Wayne drove me home and went back to help clean up the plane. I never ate Spanish Rice again the rest of my life. And we never saw that cute young couple ever again either.

So I concentrated on the coming event and how to make sure D.Wayne could be there. Or Plan B- at least we could find out where to reach him in Germany to let him know about his baby when she or he arrived.  But there was no assigned place yet we knew of to reach him, so a predicament. 

The Drs. had little sympathy, saying they had been notified about their own babies being born when they were overseas during the Korean War. But soon enough they acquiesced, and I was scheduled for induction at Sherman Hospital in Elgin on the morning of Oct. 8th. 

It all went perfectly. (Only enough Pitocin to get labor started and then a local injection for the episiotomy. Zero for pain.) 

Agony? Sure, but just when I became panic stricken and thought it was the end of the world  because I could handle no more, the nurse directed me to look in her eyes, and unequivocally reassured me I could handle it. 

Me? Comforted by the voice of experience and her absolute confidence, I managed to ask her how many children she had. None, she said. 

I knew I was going to die right then. 

But surprise! After four hours of intense labor, ta da... "IT'S A GIRL!" 

And I was handed the most beautiful baby you could ever imagine. A thick mop of black hair, blue eyes, long dark lashes, delicate pink lips, porcelain skin, dainty fingers and toes... 6 1/2 pounds of exquisite perfection!

(So sad that Dads couldn't be in the delivery room at that time.) 

I was so overwhelmed with joy, I couldn't speak. Heaven was close, so close. Silently I was wondering when the Tabernacle Choir was coming into that sacred room to sing. Where were they?

When the proud new Daddy went down the elevator to the Lobby to tell my Mom we just had a baby girl, she said his smile was beaming like nothing she'd ever seen before, it lit up the entire hospital. 

My world changed the instant I held her. In a flash, unconditional love pulsed through every cell in my body, something beyond imagination until that very moment.

In an instant the world had dramatically changed and became not just more breathtaking, but fiercely threatening as well. Instinctively, a Mother Bear was born at that very moment. 

                                                         THE NAME

But a little background. We had been locked in a naming duel for months. If we had a girl, D.Wayne wanted the name Monica, while I dearly loved the name Amy, because of a beautiful song, "Amy" sung by Glen Yarborough. 

Then in June we got a telegram from D.'s sister, Karen, that they just had their 4th girl. 

And named her Amy!

Plan C- D.Wayne was still was holding our for Monica. That was not an option in my mind, but I switched to subbing Jennifer for Amy, in honor of his mother, Jennie. 

Just the day before the birth, we had received a check for $3 from D.Wayne's Dad for some reason, from his account in Afton, Wyoming. When I saw that, it reminded me of the Homecoming Queen our senior year at BYU, Afton Young, the most stunning beauty I had ever seen. 

Perfect!

They let us bring Afton home early, two days later, before he had to leave, to share a precious few hours. And almost two months later, we joined Daddy in Bavaria, Germany. 

And she grew up to be beautiful, inside and out.

                                                                     

                                                             EPILOGUE

Yay, we got to leave the hospital after 3 days, which was a day early, because of D. Wayne having to ship out, so we got a special day together before we were left behind. 

And I spent the next almost two months awake nearly 24/7, watching her breathe in and breathe out, just to make sure she stayed alive. Somebody had to do it, right?

Oh, and nursing her every waking moment because I was worried she wouldn't be getting enough milk to survive if I didn't. Neurotic much? So she almost doubled her weight in two months, but I got the Dr. to prescribe a certain formula just in case she was actually secretly starving but just didn't look like it.*

Early on my Grandma Lukey advised that her doctor back in 1920 told her that drinking a little malt liquor was the secret to increasing milk flow, so I bought some thinking it kind of medicinal. But when I put it to my lips to try, it was so beyond my pay grade to swallow, that I couldn't do it. I wrote my husband about it. Boy, was he livid!

*Breast feeding had gone out of fashion well before my mother's generation, so my parents were not at all on board with my choices. And truth be told, it didn't begin resurging much until the 1970's. By the 1980's almost 60% of babies were breast fed.

And soon it was time to move on to the next chapter.

After All Is Said and Done

Whose Idea Was This??

With such an auspicious Hospital background, it's a wonder I didn't finish Medical School. Or even start. Didn't finish Nursing School either, although I did the first two years at University before going crazy and switching majors my Junior and Senior years. How does that go? The best laid plans....

I don't know, maybe there had been signs. Like when I flew home from Utah for Christmas vacation my Freshman year. The hospital actually hired me as a Nurse's Aide for those two weeks. I was so excited! Until I passed out at the bedside of my first patient and hit my head on the bed rails before starting an intimate relationship with the floor. 

This was following my first ever plane trip the day before, which was in a vintage WWII aircraft that the Pilot and his wife, the Stewardess, had bought to start their own private company. What a ride! Maybe I had a "planeover" the next day? We did actually make it, against all odds, obviously. Unfortunately, the enterprising couple perished in it a couple years later. Anyway, I digress.

So my friends there, the Staff, picked me up off the floor and put me in a private room and faithfully monitored me that day. How embarrassing! When they would leave my room, I would jump out of bed and put my uniform back on and start taking care of my assigned patients again. Till the Nurses would see me, and whisk me off my feet and right back to bed. Then they would leave, and I would quickly get dressed again, sneak out, and carry on. Rinse and repeat. Good intentions, but.... The next day was better. We all pretended I was normal.

It wasn't the end of the world, of course, but the next summer I decided to apply as a nursing intern at the Insane Asylum, Elgin State Hospital, instead of returning to St. Jo's. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

_________________________________________________________________________

If you're curious about that epilogue, you have to go back to 1/20/2011 for the first installment of those State Hospital days. (There's 5 days of memories about that starting there until I get around to getting more organized.)

Frank Pascente Jr.

Yes. That was his name. Frank Pascente. I think he may have been in room #327 when our paths crossed. I had been a teenybopper Candystriper at St. Joseph Hospital (Elgin) for 3 years by then.

How I had loved serving patients on the 3rd floor of the hospital, whether it was delivering meal trays, feeding those who were unable to feed themselves, filling water pitchers, changing sheets, sponge baths, giving gentle massages, emptying bedpans (ok, not so much, but sterilizing them wasn't bad), taking temps and blood pressures, running countless specimens upstairs to the Lab, other things I can't mention... whatever the nurses wanted me to do. 

But some patients were just more fun, more memorable than others. And my favorite of all time, and the only one whose name I can remember was Frank, the G.O.A.T. What the heck was this young guy doing in the hospital, for heaven's sake? The young were few and far between in those rooms. While I was used to interacting with patients and getting along well with everyone, this was the first time anyone paid so much attention to me, teasing me and basically being the big brother I had always wanted but never had. So yes, he was extra special in my book. I didn't really know why he was there week after week, but I looked forward to seeing him every day that I was there. 

Frank was really good looking, in an Italian kind of way, and really good natured, in an Italian kind of way! In his late 20's, dark hair, charismatic smile. He was married with two young daughters. Happy and fulfilled. Never complaining or upset. So I just assumed whatever he was there for was being handled and all was ok. He was such a bright, bright spot. I didn't ask questions. And so it went. Good times, I thought.

And then that winter weekend I showed up as usual and took the elevator to the 3rd floor, stopped in to #327 to check on Frank and see if he needed anything, before going to check in at the nurses' station. But he wasn't there. Did they move him to another room? Send him home? I went down to the nurses' station and saw the Head Nurse coming out and said, "Where's Frank?"

I knew her well and she knew me well too, and how close I was to him, and she just stopped in her tracks, not knowing what to do. 

"Oh, Muffi, I'm so sorry. We just lost Frank. You knew he had cancer, right? The cancer won."

WHAT?  WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?

I couldn't believe her. And I couldn't not believe her. I couldn't fall apart there in the hallway. And I couldn't not fall apart. The nurses and aides all came to comfort me. But I was out of control. Totally out of control!

I don't know how I found out later what funeral home he was taken too. I don't even know how I got home. I only knew I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. And that I wanted to. Somehow I got it in my head and heart that I should go there for the viewing. 

And so I did. 

When I got there, I froze and couldn't move from the back of the room. Just wasn't possible. So there I was, paralyzed and blending into the back wall. Only a few awkward moments passed, but it seemed like eternity. Then someone noticed me, left the group gathered around the front of the room where Frank now laid, grasped my hand and gently walked me up to the casket. Without saying a word. It was Pat, his widow, whom I had never met, who had no way of knowing me. And yet, somehow she did. 

Who does that? What kind of angel can emerge from the midst of her own grief to reach out to some obscure shy teenager without much of a right to be there, an uninvited distraction at best. I had wanted to melt into the floor until she reached me and gently helped me out of myself and gave me the borrowed strength to see my buddy one last time. 

Who does that? Maybe the kind of person who married the kind of person who earlier reached out to me, despite unimaginable pain and suffering, to make me feel like a mere run of the mill teenager mattered.

In all the millions of moments since that time, I have many times thought of Frank and Pat, and been so glad that these two had each other for the brief time that they did. And that they crossed my path, however briefly. I think they were both very rare humans and I'm so grateful for their example. It's given me the inspiration and courage to be mindful of others in the midst of unbidden trials, in the tsunami of grief, through the many, many decades since these special souls showed me who they were, and how to walk in those footsteps of the One who cares most of all for each and every one of us.

The Most Dangerous Day in Human History

Candystriper life. Seeing a lot of unexpected things working in a hospital environment maybe helped me grow up fast in some ways... or grow up weird. There's that. Because so much there was literally life and death, the culture at High School wasn't all that compelling to me. So during the school year, I was more committed to spending weekends at the hospital rather than at football games and parties. I felt strangely mature because I was treated that way there by patients and staff, and I seemed to handle emergencies and dire circumstances there well. Calmly.

JFK Addresses Nation

Until that one day. October 27, 1962. The Cuban Missile Crisis. The most dangerous day in human history. When Nuclear War was suddenly ominous and imminent. The world had spiraled out of control. President Kennedy was addressing the nation and all the patients' televisions were simultaneously pulsing with the bleak and terrifying reality. Never had we been closer to the annihilation we had been getting ready for since the air raid sirens sent us under our desks in elementary school and Jr. High. Immediately I accepted that I wouldn't be going home from the Hospital to tell my family I loved them and to face the end together with them that afternoon. Unbelievable. Overwhelming. And the only thing left to do was to keep helping people where I was. Calmly. Until we were wiped out.

It probably sounds bloody dramatic, but it actually was that close. Seriously. Life on planet earth was hanging by a thread. Blink, and what happens? 

Perhaps we all are closer at times to the final curtain than we realize. What would you do if you suddenly found yourself aware that the apocalyptic end was a only breath away? 

I don't know if you believe in miracles or not, but there's the story of the one man who truly saved the world at that critical moment.

https://www.gzcenter.org/the-man-who-saved-the-world-from-a-nuclear-war/.

And here's the years later declassified scoop:

https://www.usni.org/magazines/naval-history-magazine/2021/june/black-saturday-declassified

The Irony

St. Joseph Hospital, Elgin, IL

Does it make any sense to you at all that on many days, tiny me was "in charge" of our tiny ER? Me neither. But there I was in the diminutive (2 exam tables) room across from the hospital kitchen and next door to the Morgue. That was it! Dr. Andy Nowakowski was the official Elgin Police Department Physician, so accidents, crimes, DOA's, etc. were supposedly sent to (125 bed) St. Jo's instead of to the newer, bigger Sherman Hospital a few blocks away. Hmmm.  

At any rate, when I was there, always by myself, if someone came in (no advance notice back then (no cell phones, etc.) ambulance or walk in, there would just suddenly be people showing up at the door), well there I was! Just me. Can you imagine how reassuring it would be to rush into a hospital ER in sheer desperation, only to be met by a 13 year old volunteer who would get you on an examining table? Yep. So I would immediately call up to the 4th floor Surgery Department, and a Resident Dr. accompanied by a Surgical Nurse would jump on the somewhat rickety service elevator and appear a few minutes later to save the day. Or at least try to. 

To pass the time in between these pressing emergencies to deal with, I would assemble surgical trays for the sterilizer. Some days were slow. Some days anything but.

Somehow I never reacted emotionally. I got used to different situations and was always able to be calm regardless of the degree of injury. Until that one day. They brought a baby in from an auto accident. This was an age of no seat belts, no car seats, not much in the way of accident prevention; but according to my perception there was a heck of a lot less traffic, less idiots on the road, at least that's how I remember it. Your mileage may vary. 

So I had them put the baby on the exam table while we waited for the Dr. and Nurse to appear. And as soon as they did, I bolted from the room. The one and only time I ever did. That miniature little nose had been severed and was only attached by the tiniest of flaps, and it seemed unbearable to me that this vulnerable itty bitty human had to suffer like that. I couldn't take it. I had to leave.

I'm sure there were many people that came to that room in greater agony than that little soul, but for some reason, it just hit me harder than anything else had. Perhaps because most patients were adults. Ironically, 10 years later I would find myself, arms loaded with a laundry basket full of wet clothes to hang in the sunshine, swinging open the back door of my house, and knocking my own 18 month old baby boy off the porch, thus severing his nose. At the hospital in Denver, the Dr. who was stitching him up told my husband that he was way more concerned with me than the baby because I was so unhinged. Life is weird, no? So sorry, Adam.

After Life

The tiny ER, where I was sent to spend most of my time that year, was next to the tiny Morgue, which had a door with a window of frosted glass, so you couldn't see in clearly, no doubt a good idea. But you could see motion. Very quickly that summer I had become convinced that I was destined to be a Doctor who would save the world. So suddenly the ER and neighborly Morgue had great significance for me. 

One day early on that first summer, I came in from outside through the Ambulance Entrance, and stopped in front of the Morgue door because I could tell there was activity within, and I was intrigued and fascinated. Until. The loud buzz of a saw and cracking sounds shot out from that now gruesome-to-me-room, and I fled, running and crying out the Ambulance Entrance to escape the grim reality. I had never even imagined before there was such a thing as a cranial autopsy. And I was certain that even though I had been able to handle blood and guts and tears and screams, this was a bridge too far, never going to be something I could deal with. We all have our limits, right?

Ironically enough, I did end up going back into the Morgue itself several times that summer. Turned out that Felix, the Pathology Tech from Puerto Rico, took an interest in my MD aspirations, and encouraged me, or so I thought. He would take me upstairs into the Pathology Lab at times, and then downstairs into the Morgue, when no one else was around, to show me the ropes. I still vividly remember the first dead body I saw laying on the metal slab in the middle of the room, a young woman of 28, with very black hair and very yellow jaundiced skin. Just seeing her so young body, forever stilled, and thinking of what her family must be going through was a shock. There were other cadavers, of course, but isn't there always something about the first that you can't forget? I am so grateful to have never witnessed a young child there.

I don't know if those kind of places should be some kind of hallowed or not, but I do think the dead deserve respect. Apparently Felix felt otherwise, as I soon enough discovered. Come to find out, he was not actually interested in medical goals, or dead bodies, but in young girls and their live bodies. His wife was an aide I knew from the OB floor. I wonder if she knew what he was up to? I had no problem in bolting from that situation after what he tried with me, but soon enough I noticed the Morgue being used as a rendezvous spot for him and an older teenage girl who worked in the kitchen. Awkward! But my chilling time with the corpses was over.

Hospital Interlude

Candy Striper. What on earth? Could that be what you called someone who made fudge? Cotton candy? Random possibilities come to mind with that term, but actually it was the moniker for teenage girls who volunteered at hospitals in the USA back in the 60's. All because of the pink and white striped pinafore that was the ubiquitous uniform identifying such a strange creature. 

Well count me in!

I started out on a rather humble level at thirteen. Maybe I'd read a book where cute interns fell all over themselves drooling over starry eyed, fresh faced, teeny bopper volunteers in such beguiling outfits. Must have been way into fiction back then. Anyway I signed up, and the matronly Supervisor of Volunteers soon had me sitting around a table with other girls, all of us sewing dolls of some kind for little patients. Did I mention I don't sew? And I didn't want to learn, seeing as a sewing circle in a back room didn't seem like a handy way to meet interns, after all.  

So call it an inconvenient reprieve. They signed me up as a "victim" for the emergency crisis practice drill. On a blistering hot summer day, we were on cots in the hostile sun out on the hospital lawn, waiting to be triaged by the (hopefully handsome) firefighters/paramedics. I was really into it, having passed junior high drama class and even making drama club, but by the time they got around to me, it had kind of gone to my head, and I couldn't even remember my own phone number by then, much less what bones were supposed to be broken, wounds festering, etc. Or I feigned it. Go figure, there were a few puzzled hospital personnel who were not at all impressed with my performance of a scatterbrained fake casualty. And surprisingly, no hot date with a first responder either (never mind that I'd never had a date of any kind at all yet).  

It must have been obvious that I wasn't just a one trick pony because the next thing I knew, I was assigned to sit at the front desk so I could greet and shepherd visitors to the right rooms. Even though I have absolutely no sense of direction, I could do this, as the elevator was right behind me, so I could look up a patient name, give a room number, and nod knowingly to the elevator over my shoulder. One Saturday a middle aged wiseguy came up to me and asked me what exactly I was doing there. "Oh," I smiled, "I tell people where to go." He started laughing and said, "You do? Well hey, that's everybody's dream job!"

I did all this with such utter finesse, that I was promoted to the medical floor pretty quickly! Soon I was running countless samples up to the Lab on the 4th floor and refilling ice water for patients at St. Joseph Hospital. Somehow I graduated quickly to feeding the helpless, emptying bedpans for the bed-bound, changing bed sheets, taking vitals, running to the rooms when the light when on to call the nurse, and giving back massages in the evenings to relax weary muscles and bones and souls into merciful, if constantly interrupted, sleep.  

I felt useful, needed, appreciated. I could make a difference, albeit small. Finally I had a purpose. So basically I decided to live there. Well almost. My Mom said the car automatically would just drive to the Hospital. And I received pins for volunteering hundreds and hundreds of hours every year.

And although there was recognition and honors along the way as well, it was just icing on the cake. Making a difference, however small, was the intrinsic reward.

But often these random functions were punctuated by the very grim reality of people in pain, people on the edge, people with needs far beyond what I had ever imagined. And I remembered the first day on the floor when I came face to face with reality. 

At the far end of the 3rd floor was the Ward, with beds for men who were indigent, or at least without sufficient insurance. On my first day making myself useful by going up and down the hall with a cart full of ice water, I finally found myself in The Ward, going from patient to patient, refilling their metal pitchers, helping some to get a drink, when suddenly a hand of bones shot up from a bed and grabbed mine. Startled, I looked down into the bed where a wisp of what once had been a man lay, and as his eyes penetrated mine, he almost loudly gasped, "Help me! Help me! They're taking my body away from me!" I was paralyzed by what this literal skeleton had just uttered. Or was it by the sheer inexplicable strength of the grip he momentarily held me in? But just as suddenly he turned away, releasing me as his strength and voice both faded into eternity. I never knew his name, but never will I forget his anguished face.

One Failed Nun

In my early teens I had dreams of becoming a nun and going to the Congo to work with Dr. Albert Schweitzer and saving lives. Guess I was a hopeless romantic, and I was enamored of Mother Teresa. I actually wanted to be her. Only in Africa. 

"See the face of Jesus in everyone," she admonished.  

Well, I didn't become a nun, haven't been to Africa, and Schweitzer finished out his life without even knowing I ever existed. And so I was left with the task of finding the face of Jesus in random people throughout the ensuing decades, with varying degrees of success.  

Ok, I could have tried harder. 

There surely have been more than a few times when I've been certain I have encountered angels on earth, and seen them touch the lives of others as well. Then there have been those few tender times when I've been given the sweet honor and privilege to serve as the hands of the Divine. And I have had abundant opportunities to gaze into the eyes of souls around the world, many, many aglow with love and goodwill, if not unmitigated joy.    

Yet seeing in some, the searing unspoken pleadings deep within, and in some, a glint of malevolence, in still others, only hollow emptiness. For some, I have surprised them with unasked for help, and from some I have received welcomed kindness. From some I have turned away. Not a spotless track record. But I have never thought of them as sharing any literal DNA from the One who walked the shores of Galilee in the long ago, despite Mother T's injunction and Christ himself reassuring us that, "Even as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

However, time is growing short for me to grasp that principle and more broadly apply it. I do have faith though that the world has been set up by default to supply us endless second chances. But I wasn't even looking for opportunities when I went for a walk on a beautiful morning this week. Downtown San Diego, 2021, and it was perfect. Absolutely perfect! My eyes were drinking in the lush verdant landscape following a full day and evening of rain. My favorite color is trees and favorite fragrance is after the rain fresh, so it was mesmerizing as I meandered up and down some hills that housed now closed campuses, generously endowed with breathtaking landscape. Heaven! And so of course, there He was. Jesus. Where else would He be?  

I didn't recognize Him. At all. 

But He immediately recognized me and made a beeline towards me. Not knowing who He was, this sudden pursuit startled me, interrupting my intense bonding moment with nature, kicking in that fight or flight response. Which made me pretty uncomfortable, so I instinctively started zigzagging across the grass, abandoning all paths, until hitting the city sidewalks. While I sped up, hanging out on the streets there has evidently kept Him in better shape, so after half a dozen blocks, He caught up to me. Small in stature, unkempt, with long gray hair and beard, He more reminded me of someone I intensely disliked, so it was pretty jarring, hard to recognize Him and make an immediate Jesus connection, even though He now was only inches away.  

It was impossible for me to understand what He was saying because of His whisper, so He repeated himself three times. Thank goodness, Jesus assured me He actually didn't want a sexual tryst with me. Temptation much? I mean, that would be a sin after all, did He think I didn't know Christian basics? And anyway, my husband would be upset if he found out I was capable of such shenanigans, when it's all I can do nowadays to keep up with the dishes. I could hurt myself. So what a relief! However, He made it emphatically clear that He did want to smoke crystal meth with me. Seeing as I have yet to even try coffee, I told Him no, had never tried that and never will. You don't think He meant that as a commandment, do you? 

Maybe. Anyway, I took off again and He kept chasing me. I called my husband, who's not religious in the least, and didn't care who the heck it was, and he told me to duck into a restaurant or something. So finally I ran into a little food market at a corner gas station and explained my predicament to the cashier. He said they often call the cops on this guy and a couple others but they won't pick them up because putting the homeless in jail if they possibly have covid is an issue. Perhaps if the Police won't handle it, the Pharisees will. Remains to be seen. I hung out in between shelves for 15 minutes and then walked, shaking confidently, to the apartment building.  

Just as I was about to turn the corner to the entrance, lo and behold, I saw Him coming my way! Was this like the Second Coming or what? I mean, this year has been pretty Apocalyptic, right? Anyway, it's beyond my pay grade to decide, so I jumped into the little coffee shop there on the corner and hid beyond a pillar so He couldn't see me from all those floor to ceiling windows. He was angry and no longer whispering at all. Maybe like when He got fed up with those money changers at the Temple back in the day? He marched up and down the block a couple times, so I had to keep ducking and slithering back and forth around the pillar so as to stay hidden from every angle. 

Finally it was quiet outside. He was gone. Then I realized the way I had been acting in the coffee shop made me look way more suspicious than He ever did, and I would likely be the one getting arrested. Awkward! So I fled the scene.  

Well so much for nature walks and close encounters.

So just to be clear, I generally am not at all afraid of homeless people. I go out of my way to interact (unless there's a group), give food or money or whatever I can whenever I can, because no one should have to suffer such an uphill battle just to survive when there's more than enough abundance around. Obviously. So I don't need to see the face of Jesus in everyone (though I really do love Christ more and more every day). Their very own faces pierce my heart. Usually.  

Still, not a good idea to chase me down. Just a word of caution. 

 

So if you believe there is an afterlife, and if it has sufficient room for most of us, what do you think the chances are Mother Teresa will ever speak to me?  

Silence of The Lamb

Shy? Timid? It's not that I didn't have a voice. I just couldn't use it. 

Of course I could chime in at Grandma's, at home, with a few friends. But certainly not at school. So I pretty much limped my way through grade school without ever raising my hand. Oral book reports were sheer agony. I wouldn't even play my flute-a-phone along with the other kids in fourth grade during our class music lessons. What if someone heard me hit a wrong note? Oh, the horror!

 

And then came Abbott Junior High! Maybe bullying was a big problem back then too. Maybe not. But I never bullied anyone, and I never was bullied by anyone. Well, except Harvey. Harvey Eisner. My 7th grade English and Social Studies teacher. Mr. Eisner was young, short, cocky.... What he lacked in height, he made up for in volume. Arrogance personified. There was nothing much humble about him. Maybe he had something to prove?

So one day he decided to prove how absolutely worthless a shy, timid girl could be. He was inspired to call on me to answer a question. Trembling, I barely whispered. And apparently he took that as a personal insult. He immediately instructed the class to move their desks into a circle, surrounding me in the middle.

"Now," he boomed, "pretend you're in the middle of the ocean, and you're drowning. You need to call for help. "YELL FOR HELP!"  

"Help," I sputtered, in a totally inaudible murmur.

"YOU'RE DROWNING!" he bellered, "YELL FOR HELP! NOW! YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT! DO IT!"

"Help," I repeated, moving my lips, and finding my breath heavy, but soundless. I was petrified. Further, I withered.

From there, it only escalated, with him becoming more and more agitated and belligerent, and me more and more terrified, more and more humiliated, silent and shivering, fully willing myself to drown and disappear forever.

Does fear make you scream out in terror? Or does the scream die in your throat?

Finally, Mr. Eisner sneered in utter contempt and with total disgust. 

"YOU DESERVE TO DIE! GO ON, JUST DROWN!"  

His words seemed to hang there, resonating within that room. I was completely paralyzed. The kids who encircled me were in absolute shock. The deafening silence filled the time and space. What had just happened? Ironically, those words seemed to be echoing as the classroom slowly, robotically returned to normal as the kids moved their desks back into the customary rows. My group therapy session was over.

All I remember after that is leaving the classroom and running home. When I got there I told my mom I was sick. And everyday after that when I got a block away from the school, I would get sick to my stomach and turn to walk back home. For three weeks I was absent. I never told anyone what happened and how scared and humiliated I was. I can no longer remember how I got the nerve to return to school one day, with shame as my constant shadow. 

I never liked or respected him after that. I just wanted to keep as far away from him as possible. We had to face each other every day for the rest of the year. But I don't think I sought revenge and ever wished he would die. Just that he would leave me alone. And he did.

As an adult, I now think maybe he was trying to do me a favor even, to help me get bolder, to grow. But I didn't see that then. And later on I did find my voice. Although I hope that he didn't repeat that performance for the good of any other students after that, I am grateful for the experience that year of feeling such disdain, such painful ridicule, so that I could feel empathy for all those who have been, and are being, bullied to one degree or another. I know my experience is a mere fraction of what others go through, and my heart is broken for them. 

Ironically, many, many years later I read that he had a grown daughter that was assaulted and murdered in her own apartment. I expect her father raised her to be bold, to not go quietly into the night. I wonder if she yelled for help, or was too paralyzed with fear? And my heart is broken for Mr. Eisner.

Getting High (Jr. edition)

Abbott Jr. High School, Elgin, IL

Ever gone out of your comfort zone and deliberately entered into enemy territory? As a mild mannered 11 year old entering the adult world of Junior High School?

7th grade held no auspicious beginnings for me. Unceremoniously dumped by my lifelong (so far) best friend. All because my Mom wouldn’t agree to letting me host a “surprise” birthday party for Pam that she was determined to have, I headed out solo on the first day of school. Later, Mom confessed she watched me amble down the street all alone in my new fiaco black and white striped pencil skirt Grandma had sewn for me, and with my trendy ducktail haircut, courtesy of the local Barber. First day at Abbott Jr. High. A lonely vision of sophistication ready to burst onto the scene. She wept.

Apparently I would be in need of a new best friend right off the bat as Pam continued to ignore me even after summer vacation ended and school began. Indeed, for the rest of my life. Hell hath no fury like a former friend who can't manipulate you. So I figured I needed a fresh start and a good way to make new friends with so many unfamiliar faces would be to join after school clubs and get involved in shared activities. What choice did I have?

Plan A- Try out for the popular super duper Choral Club. Of course! But only logical if you can at least carry a tune, and I was under no illusion that I could. However, knowing my limitations and being extremely shy, (I actually had invented lip syncing long before it was discovered in the real world* - you're welcome), I fearfully mustered up the courage to go wait outside the room on the appointed afternoon for auditions. When my turn came, I hesitated; then in an out-of-body moment, gingerly stepped in front of the music teacher and the student officers of The Club.  

What was I thinking? It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to have a difficult time lip syncing when I was told to sing a certain number acapella, as it were. Glancing quickly at the floor, I saw no gaping hole to fall into. I paused, waiting for a miracle. Where was God when you truly needed him? I had no choice but to open my mouth and see what could possibly emerge from it. 

Yep, you can only imagine. It wasn’t pretty. Understatement. Even though I dared not look at them, somehow I saw their astonished faces. I think they were too stunned to laugh. Or cry. Yeah, no call back, go figure. No becoming one of the elite. Unbelievably, I was allowed to remain in school and no one harassed me. At least, not to my face. Maybe they couldn’t believe their ears? Fortunately most of the student body had missed the audition, and the entire incident failed being mentioned in the school paper, so I wasn’t treated like the pariah I knew myself to be.

Plan B- Give it a rest. Wait. Till next year. Try again. Of course nothing musical. Actually the Speech Club (Drama Club) was THE most prestigious, most vaunted club to be a part of at Abbott Jr. High, they put on all the plays, so why not? Some people never learn. Last year had to sing. This year had to speak. And I was no better at that than singing. 

Club Advisor Marge Zarndt had been a teacher even way back in ancient times. When my parents were in High School. A relic. A  4’10” veritable relic. With badly dyed blond hair, strident voice, obnoxious personality, miles on her wheels. What she lacked in height, she made up for in charm. Ha! She was a pistol. What did I expect? A resounding no? Good, then at least I wasn’t disappointed.

So it was with the greatest unexpected pleasure several weeks later that I was able to grant her fondest request when she came to me on bended knee (well not literally or I wouldn’t have been able to see her) and begged me to join her Speech Club. Yes, it’s true!  

Want to hear the rest of the story? For an assignment in Mrs. Zarndt’s Speech class a few weeks following my greatly failed attempt, we each were assigned to come up with a monologue to perform. Are you kidding? Me? (My folks nixed the sudden trip to Alaska.)

Against all odds, I came up with a monologue. I transformed myself into another girl, another time. Props to my props. A gypsy costume with full skirts and scarves and a fake finger I’d sewn out of flesh colored panty hose that was the climax of “my” story as I suddenly tossed it into the middle of the room. The art of disguise can release a magic all its own. The class was mesmerized, the teacher, spellbound. I had no idea what had happened, or how. All I knew was that later that day Mrs. Zarndt trekked through the school to find me, and in her best rendition of a humble human, begged me to join THE CLUB. What else could I do? I gave in.  

*Truth-

Yes, I absolutely did invent lip syncing back in the day! In order to coax me out of my shell in 5th grade, my parents signed me up for both private singing lessons and private elocution lessons. Guess they were desperate. Violet Brady Stewart, a powerhouse of a woman at Grace Methodist (my church at the time) was my singing teacher, a VERY big, older woman with an even bigger, overwhelmingly powerful voice. She would play the piano and sing along with me whatever musical piece she chose for me to sing.

At the end of the year just before the recital, my Dad came to my lesson with me to see how it was all shaping up. He was totally deaf in one ear, and even with his hearing aid for the other, not the best at hearing, so he was a bit apologetic when remarking to her after my private performance that he couldn't hear me at all. "Well, yes," Mrs. Brady Stewart responded,  "I've never actually heard her voice either."  

I was excused from the recital.