Writing
for Wellness
A
Prescription for Healing
Julie Davey
Idyll
Arbor – Smashwords Edition
http://www.writingforwellness.com
Idyll Arbor, Inc.
39129 264th Ave SE
Enumclaw, WA 98022
(360) 825-7797
© Copyright 2007, Julie Davey. All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transcribed, in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-61158-000-6
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and publisher.
All author’s profits from this book will be donated to City of Hope.
To Bob
my husband, my mentor, my inspiration
Contents
Each chapter contains writing samples, writing lessons and writing prompts to help the reader begin to heal and achieve wellness.
Foreword
While we all recognize that words can readily help or harm, this volume is testimony to the healing and restorative capacity of language. There are so many elements of a person’s life beyond his or her control, or even influence, that it is refreshing and liberating to realize that written self-expression can be a powerful reservoir of comfort.
Everyone associated with the seriously ill patient or someone who has suffered great loss or tragedy ― health-care providers, friends, and family ― instinctively understands the need for comfort and, within the limits of our collective capacity, we try to provide it. However, inevitably, even the most caring of us can become spiritually exhausted and depleted of compassion. Consequently, each person in contact with the patient has need of healing and restoration.
There are a great many sources of renewal ― religion, literature, music, and companionship, to name a few. This volume vividly demonstrates that a potent source of restoration of hope, compassion, and care comes through the act of writing. The simple, profound act of written self-expression is, in itself, a remarkable miracle.
As a medical oncologist for more than 35 years, I have cared for thousands of patients. I have seen the toll exacted by cancer on patients, families, friends, and caregivers. I have also been impressed by how effective this writing program has been and can be. I recommend it to you, the reader, as one worthwhile outlet for the universal condition of caring intensely about our fellow man.
Michael A. Friedman, M.D.
President and CEO
City of Hope National Medical Center
* * * * *
As a child, I enjoyed reading the dictionary. I delighted in words and their derivation.
As a physician, I learned long ago in medical school the power of words, as descriptors (Where exactly is the lesion?), and as diagnoses, without which there is no appropriate therapy.
As a mother of toddlers, I learned the importance for a child of being able to articulate feelings (“Matthew, don’t cry. Tell me what’s wrong. Use words; words are your friends.”)
Now, as I have followed Professor Davey’s writing classes, I have seen the healing power of words, used as precise tools, even as weapons by patients in their battle against cancer.
Professor Davey has taught her students to think and to articulate. For them writing has been more than an intellectual exercise.
By giving of herself and sharing her own integrity and loving kindness, she has inspired her students to reach deep down inside themselves, to feel, and to heal.
I am proud to have had a part of this experience that has helped so many.
Lucille A. Leong, M.D.
Associate Director of Clinical Affairs
Division of Medical Oncology
City of Hope National Medical Center
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, there would be no book at all without my husband Bob’s editing of the manuscript. Every contributor and reader owes him a debt of gratitude, as do I.
Thank you to Dr. Michael Friedman, President and CEO of City of Hope National Medical Center, for continuing to support Writing for Wellness classes on the campus and for endorsing them as an effective form of therapy.
Writing this book has been an honor. I have had the privilege of meeting hundreds of inspirational students who initially attended my classes to learn writing techniques to help them heal, but who instead taught me innumerable life lessons. As we continue to interact, I witness your courage, your determination, your tenacity, and your direct role in battling disease. You are my heroes.
Without City of Hope staff members Linda Baginski and Jeanne Lawrence there would have been no Writing for Wellness class. Shirley Otis-Green and Lynn Palmer have also paved the way, ensuring success. All have attended the classes and have their inspirational writing included in this book, along with those of Marilyn Rhodes, RN, who has also counseled many of my own friends and relatives. The stirring writings of City of Hope’s Annie Watson also appear in the book and reflect how she encourages, calms, inspires, and soothes patients who arrive for treatments each day. Thanks to Anna Escobosa, a colon-cancer survivor, who called CBS News and convinced them to do a story about our class. We were on the evening news and I was named Woman of the Week in Los Angeles.
Thank you, Dr. Lucille Leong, my oncologist, for your holistic view of medicine that includes both healing me and also sending other patients of yours to be helped by the Writing for Wellness class experience. Thank you, Dr. James Andersen, my surgeon, for giving me my life back after you expertly performed the 12-hour bilateral tram-flap procedure that restored me physically and psychologically. Thank you, Dr. Janice DaVolio, my dermatologist, for your talent and dedication in keeping my raging psoriasis from taking over my life. All three of these very special physicians have dedicated their lives to making dramatic and positive differences in the quality of life of their patients.
Thank you, Mary Ellen Lepionka, for encouraging me to continue the quest for publication. Thanks to Bill Durkee, Bill Matteson, and Joan Smith for reading various drafts of the manuscript and for believing in the value of this book. Elizabeth Terry, Rick Myers, Chakib Sambar, and Dr. Lois Neil also deserve thanks for serving as substitute teachers over the years and inspiring the Writing for Wellness students.
Thank you to all the contributors, those who took a chance to write from their hearts about what they were experiencing as a result of cancer or other tragedies in their lives. You did not have to share your stories but chose to do so to help others feel less isolated as they, too, try to heal.
For his belief in the book, his professional editing, and creative formatting, as well as his dedication to the project, I thank Tom Blaschko, president of Idyll Arbor
Heartfelt thanks to my former Fullerton College student, graphic artist Vince Williams, who designed the cover. Special thanks to photographer Markie Ramirez who captured the spirit of the class she also attends.
Special thanks and admiration go to Christine Pechera, Elizabeth Terry, Steve Rom, Jerome Williams, and Charles Fell whose tenacity and faith continue to transform the gossamer thread between life and death into a steel rod to lift themselves and others into the light.
Introduction
Cancer and other life-threatening illnesses and tragedies affect us all, no matter our age, our position in life, or our education. We all know someone in our family or among our friends and co-workers who has suffered. And sometimes, for millions of us, we have been touched very personally. According to statistics, one out of three people will be diagnosed with some form of cancer during their lifetime. For those who have not experienced it directly, there is the unspoken but nagging concern that cancer might pay an unexpected visit one day. This is an unwelcome, but common, bond we share.
Even if you don’t have personal experience with cancer, you may have suffered a tragedy or loss in your life — as a victim of child abuse, crime, abandonment, or neglect, or perhaps by losing someone close to you through illness or accident.
In more than five years of teaching expressive writing techniques to cancer patients and those who have experienced a vast array of tragedies, what I have learned is simple: words can help you heal. A doctor can help heal your body, and a psychiatrist or a good friend with a soft shoulder can help heal your spirit. But, focused and directed writing about what you are going through in the depths of your soul provides a unique and sometimes immediate sense of relief. That experience can also be the beginning of a special kind of healing.
I have written this book for many reasons, first to chronicle a unique and continuing class called Writing for Wellness, and next to provide guidelines for you, the reader, to experience the healing process yourself. I also hope to inspire others to start Writing for Wellness classes in small towns and large cities everywhere.
My personal journey with cancer connects me with those of you who are going through diagnosis or treatment now as well as those who have survived both. Since my parents both died from the disease and many of my friends and family members have as well, I can also identify with the caregivers, children, and friends of the patients.
Each chapter in the book begins with some of my personal experiences. Under Healing Words my students’ writings appear in each chapter, and almost all of the epigraphs (quotations that begin each chapter) are also student-written. It’s Your Turn ends each chapter and contains ideas and suggestions, a prescription, if you will, for you to use to begin writing your own story. There is also a Jump Start section with a sentence or two to help you begin to write.
Throughout the book, I use what we in the teaching profession call the “tell-one, show-one, do-one” method of writing instruction. First, I tell you my experiences through my own writings, next I show you written examples of how others (my students) have expressed themselves on the same topic, and, finally, I ask you to do your own writing on that subject. I find the method to be easy for writers as well as so-called non-writers to follow. Students in my classes who say they used to have trouble getting started discover they can begin writing almost immediately and are eager for the next lesson.
As you go through the writing exercises, listen to your own feelings and guard them. Once you have completed a lesson, there is no need to rush to share a piece of your writing. You may want to wait until you feel very secure with another person. Or you may choose never to share some of the things you write.
Every story starts with the first word.
Enjoy the process.
Part I: Getting
Started
Chapter
1: Class Is in Session
Cancer does not define you; you define you. It can never steal your identity or essence. You are not cancer and cancer is not you.
— Edna Teller
Since 2001, I have been teaching writing to cancer patients, their family members, doctors, nurses, caregivers, and others who may have suffered tragic events in their lives.
Writing for Wellness classes are held at the City of Hope National Cancer Center in Duarte, California, the site Lance Armstrong, one of the world’s most famous cancer survivors, chose to start his 2004 cross-country bicycle tour for cancer awareness.
My experience began a few days following 9/11 when I was walking on the City of Hope grounds to an appointment at my oncologist’s office. I witnessed a group of very young children, some only five or six years old, dressed in their slippers and pajamas. On that clear, warm fall day they were in a single line following a young man in his 20s, who wore a volunteer’s identification badge.
As they walked around the medical center’s grounds outside its pediatric oncology building, they skipped, clapped their hands, and waved their arms. Each tiny child had a bald head from chemotherapy and wore a surgical mask for protection against germs, obviously young leukemia patients on an exercise field trip from their hospital beds. While their leader counted out, “One! Two!” the children kept time. Some marched in military style; others bobbed their heads to imaginary music. All of them seemed to be enjoying their outing.
As the children passed by, I felt a tug at my heartstrings. They were so young to have a major disease, yet they seemed to be coping with what life had dealt them. As I watched, I also realized that the volunteer was doing something significant, selfless.
At that defining moment, I vowed to do something myself to help other people. I had never consistently volunteered anywhere before. Over the years, I had occasionally taught Sunday school, tutored underprivileged teens prior to their SAT tests, and helped with various civic projects when my husband was mayor of our small town.
But this was different. This time I knew I wanted to try to make a continuing and significant difference in people’s lives. Following that young volunteer’s example, I was determined to give something back.
Less than a week earlier, two hours after the World Trade Center Towers collapsed, I was in my classroom facing 30 journalism students at Fullerton College as we all tried to make sense of what had just happened. I told them that we should promise to devote ourselves, in any way we could, to ridding the world of evil.
With tears in my own eyes, I stared at their tear-stained faces. I was barely able to speak.
“We all have skills,” I told them, my voice cracking. “Use yours; help somebody. Make a difference.”
My students, ranging from 18 to more than 60 years old, nodded in agreement. I told them I was convinced that volunteering could help us begin to heal from the tragedy.
Over the years my parents, who were both very generous with their time and money, told me that when bad things happened not to feel sorry for myself but to take action because, “There’s always someone worse off than you.”
Recalling their words, I asked myself what I could do immediately.
That day during my appointment, I revealed to Dr. Lucille Leong my deep desire to volunteer. She encouraged me and gave me some names and numbers for contacts at City of Hope.
I had seen volunteers driving cancer patients around in golf carts from building to building on the 112-acre campus to assist those who had trouble walking to their doctors’ appointments. I could do that.
Or, perhaps I should offer my assistance in the public relations office since I knew how to write news releases. Maybe I could publicize new cancer treatments to get the word out to those who needed help. My mind was searching to find a place for me.
Driving home I continued to think about what I had to offer. Then suddenly, it came to me. I realized I could teach writing to my fellow cancer patients/survivors and their caregivers to help them express what they were going through.
That afternoon I called the Patient and Family Resource Desk and outlined my plan. I explained I was a two-time survivor, having had breast cancer in 1984 and again in 1996, telling them I was also a full-time college writing professor. I added what I had discovered firsthand, that when people write about tragedies in their lives, they feel better.
Then, with the assistance of Linda Baginski, herself a breast cancer survivor, and another cancer survivor, Jeanne Lawrence, and Shirley Otis-Green, all part of the Patient Services team, we named the class “Writing for Wellness” and sessions were scheduled almost immediately. If there was any red tape, they had sliced right through it.
The time and place were set and flyers were posted. As we had outlined, the class would be open to cancer patients, their family members and caregivers, and all staff members at City of Hope. The flyer also said the class would be open to anyone who had experienced a major illness or tragedy. We stressed that no previous writing experience was necessary.
I became excited about the prospect of the class, but I wasn’t sure if anyone would actually show up.
The room I was assigned for the class (shown on the back cover) instantly created a positive atmosphere. Named the “Hope Village Comedy Theatre,” it is a small room with all its walls colorfully painted with almost life-sized caricatures of comedians, actors, and cartoon characters. Lucy and Desi, Laurel and Hardy, Bart Simpson, Garfield, and many others smile at all who enter. I could not help smiling back.
The room had two pianos, a small stage, and lots of comfortable chairs.
Strongly believing in the power of effective group dynamics, I immediately moved some tables and chairs into a horseshoe shape with the opening facing my chair. That way, everyone would be able to write and to see everyone else. I did not want to lecture or stand at a podium. I wanted no barriers between my “students” and me. I wanted to be on the same level as them. After all, we were all in this cancer thing together.
I later learned that there were weekly Bingo games held there for the pediatric patients and their family members, and it was also the site of many adult support-group meetings. The room exuded positive energy.
My first class was in the evening. I set the time from 6:30 to 8:00, realizing that many cancer patients still had jobs as did their family members and caregivers. I also wanted people from the general public to be able to attend after work. I brought coffee, soft drinks, and desserts.
As I left my house with the food, plus a coffee maker, cups, plates, plastic utensils, and a tablecloth, my husband, Bob, teased, “What are you teaching anyway, cooking?”
Throughout my years of teaching high school and college, I have been known as a “feeder,” bringing snacks to most of my classes, especially when overseeing the late-night production of campus newspapers. Bob had seen this all before.
My journalism students, notoriously hungry and frequently broke, always ran to help me as I negotiated my way to class with shopping bags stuffed with food they would soon be devouring. But that night at City of Hope as I unloaded my car, I felt odd, unsure of myself.
Over the years, I had taught thousands of students ranging from high school sophomores to senior citizens taking college courses, but I felt this class would be like none other.
Then, suddenly, as I was setting up the room and refreshments, I became very nervous. My palms started to sweat; a sense of dread swept over me.
What had I gotten myself into? What if the cancer patients or their family members broke into tears and sobbed? What if someone who had suffered a great tragedy felt worse after coming to my class? I wasn’t a trained psychologist. How arrogant of me to think I could actually help someone in such a simple manner, “Writing for Wellness” indeed.
I stared at the clock. It was 6:25. Five minutes to go. I wanted to run out of the door. Then a short Hispanic man in his late 60s who spoke with a slight accent walked in. He was smiling and shook hands enthusiastically. He picked up some refreshments, sat down, and opened a notebook. He had his pen ready. He talked very rapidly.
“I’m Bob. I had pancreatic cancer. I should be dead, but I beat it! Plus, I’m a diabetic, too!” he told me proudly. “Now, I want to write poetry.”
I sighed and immediately felt at ease. Then, as eight more people showed up, carried desserts and drinks to the tables, and sat down facing me, I realized I might be able to handle it after all. They all looked eager and friendly.
As soon as everyone was seated, I asked the participants to introduce themselves and tell about their experiences with cancer or other diseases or tragedies. I wondered if people would be hesitant to share that information with total strangers. They were not. I had to choose from among several raised hands as we started to meet one another.
Joan, 60s, who had almost no hair, talked about battling breast cancer. Marilyn, 50s, a registered nurse with daily and often stressful interactions with cancer patients, revealed how her job affected her. Milynne, 30s, with a slight jaundiced look and very little energy despite the sweet smile on her face, told us she had liver cancer, but she was determined to write about what she was going through. Ramona, 60s, fighting cancer for 12 years said she wanted to thank her daughter for helping her. Tony, late 40s, was not a cancer patient. He had come to the class because he had lost his only child, a 27-year-old son in an accident. Tony said he wanted to see if writing about the tragedy would help him find some peace.
On it went. Some were patients, some were family members, and some were health-care professionals. Others had seen the flyer and thought the class might help them deal with some catastrophe in their lives.
One thread tied us all together — the desire to write about our experiences.
As each person spoke, I began to see what a great need there was for such a class, an outlet for those holding in the stress that dealing with cancer or any other serious medical situation or tragedy can create. These people needed to talk, to write, and to interact with others who were going through similar experiences. I became aware of how intently the students were listening to one another’s stories and I completely forgot about my nervousness.
Following their introductions, I gave mine. I told them I had been a college writing professor for more than 15 years and had written many newspaper and magazine articles, one published novel, and, like everyone else who lived near Hollywood, a couple of unsold screenplays. But, when I said I was also a two-time breast cancer survivor, I could see visible changes in their faces. They knew we had a lot in common.
I wasn’t just another teacher.
And from my experiences in that room, I continue to realize that it isn’t just another class.
Healing Words
Participants in the class share their writings, their fears, and their dreams. In this section throughout the book, you will share those with them. As you read what other cancer patients and people who have gone through tragedies have written, you may also find ideas and ways to express what you have experienced.
* * * * *
Donna Logan, 36, an elementary school teacher, was diagnosed twice with an aggressive form of breast cancer. She had two mastectomies and was healing when the cancer returned. In a desperate attempt to save her life, she left for North Carolina for clinical-trial treatments at Duke University Medical Center. Family members pitched in to care for her three small daughters left behind. Donna’s husband, Matt, a local high school football coach, traveled between the two states, dividing his time as best he could. Prior to leaving for her treatment, Donna and her mother, Theda Clark, attended Writing for Wellness class. Everyone in her family was affected by Donna’s cancer, including her 10-year-old daughter Lindsey who wrote the following:
As Brave As a Lion
As brave as a lion, as tough as a bear,
She fights even when she loses her hair.
That chemo just won’t go away,
But she still fights it every day.
She’s had cancer three times now,
And it has everyone wondering how,
Through all of this, she remains calm.
I’m proud to say that she’s my Mom.
— Lindsey Logan
* * * * *
Charles Fell, 60s, a deputy State Attorney General in Hawaii, was unable to move. He lay completely still in his sterile hospital room, his wife, Elena, in gown, gloves, and mask beside him. She had heard about Writing for Wellness class and had come to the Hope Village kitchen one morning before my class to ask me if I ever made “house calls.” Her eyes were pleading and I had no idea what lay ahead.
I immediately agreed to meet her in Charles’ room inside the six-story hospital. When I arrived, nurses told me to wash my hands, put on a hospital gown, gloves, and a mask for the visit. Immediately upon entering his room, I could see that it was only Charles’ body that was immobilized. His spirit and mind were very much intact. He greeted me, thanked me for coming, and asked if he could recite a poem for me. For several minutes, lying motionless, he recited a wonderful poem he had composed that, when printed out, would have been more than a page of writing. I got tears in my eyes as I saw him, only able to move his mouth, yet he was eloquent, clearly in love with language. And, as he recited his descriptive and lyrical poem, writing was also obviously helping him cope.
He was, I learned later, at the lowest physical point possible before a transplant can take place, probably as close to death as he had ever been. He would begin the transplant in a matter of hours. If it worked, he would live. If it did not, he would die. Period. After his bone marrow transplant, Charles, still wearing a surgical mask, sat in the classroom area I reserve for “masked bandits,” apart from the other patients who may have germs or bacteria. Even months after transplant, patients still have to be careful.
A few weeks later, Charles wheeled in again, this time under his own power. When I last saw him in person, he was ready to go back to Hawaii and he was walking and waving his arms in delight. The transplant had taken. Charles had made it. In the following poem, which Charles composed at night and dictated to Elena the following morning, he describes how he and Elena dealt with his cancer diagnosis.
Cancer’s Montage
A tear on the plate,
And I’m up and out; I’m late.
A tear on a plate,
And my wife ponders my fate.
A tear in a cup,
And we ask ourselves how much?
A tear in a cup,
And our fingertips touch.
A pull on a sleeve,
And a phone call comes.
A pull on a sleeve,
And she whispers she loves me.
A gaze at the night sky,
And the stars are still there.
A gaze at the night sky,
And we ask ourselves why?
A tear on the bed,
When the Bible is read.
A tear on the bed,
But nothing much ever said.
— Charles F. Fell
* * * * *
Robert Prado, 68, the father of seven children, had finally worked enough years to earn his retirement from a major glass company. He thought life would be sweet from then on, no schedules or pressures, just enjoyment. Then things changed. Robert writes about how a simple request from a grandchild helped give him strength to fight and ultimately beat the almost always deadly pancreatic cancer that had nearly consumed him.
A Thousand Times Yes
Retirement at last!
Now I can enjoy life more.
Then the doctor says, “Cancer!”
After surgery, radiation, chemotherapy,
And pills, pills, and more pills,
All this is making me more ill,
More ill than the cancer.
A lot of bad days and a few better days.
On the bad days I feel like giving up.
Then a good day comes along and I feel better.
On one bad day when I felt like giving up,
A small voice said, “Grandpa, could you tie my shoes?”
And I said, “Why yes, precious, a hundred times yes.
In fact a thousand times yes!”
— Robert Prado
It’s Your Turn
On a piece of paper or at your computer begin to describe your experience with a life-threatening disease, a major loss, or a tragedy. You may be or have been a patient, a spouse, a friend, a family member, or a caregiver. Write about how you feel now or have felt during the crisis. Include as many details as you can. Journalists use the word “when” if they have trouble getting a story started. The three dots indicate places for your words.
Jump Start
When I first was told … had … I felt … After a while, I felt … and as time progressed, my emotions changed to …
Continue to write and include answers to these questions:
Is your condition/situation a continuing one?
How does/did the experience affect you emotionally?
How do you feel now? Give details.
Did anything positive come from the experience? Explain.
Remember, you have an interesting story to tell. Don’t leave out important details. You’ll get the idea. After you describe the events, stop to see how you feel. Did writing help you? Explain how. Sometimes people experience a physical sense of relief; others say it is simply mental peace of mind. Telling your story may release your stress or simply allow you to put the events into perspective. When you are through, place your writing into a personal notebook or computer folder.
Save your writing. It tells the story of what you are going through or what you have already experienced. As you read this book, you will be guided through specific steps in It’s Your Turn to help you heal by writing.
Chapter 2: Personal Experience
Fear of an early death is not fear of death itself. It is fear of being forgotten, of disappearing into that blackness of forever
— Christine Pechera
That first night of class, I told my students about my own experience with writing for wellness.
My father, a retired florist in his 60s, had contracted aplastic anemia. It was determined that he had been exposed to DDT over many years when he was manager of a large wholesale floral company. The doctors told him DDT exposure had been identified as a major cause of his condition and that he needed an immediate bone marrow transplant. That was impossible because, at that time, only siblings could donate the marrow and his older sister was too ill to serve as his donor.
At the time of my father’s exposure, the late 1940s and into the 1950s, apparently no one realized that if DDT killed bugs, it might also kill people. Later, Rachel Carson wrote about its deadly effects in her book Silent Spring. Today, the substance is banned in the U.S. and most other countries.
Immediately after he was diagnosed and my mother (Mozelle), my brother (Lynn), and I were told that his condition was terminal, I found myself desperate to say many things to him. I tried to talk to him in person but it didn’t work. Words caught in my throat and I ended up crying and, I’m sure, making him feel very sad in the process. We Americans, as a culture, sometimes have a hard time putting our emotions into words when we are face to face. It can seem strained and awkward for everyone concerned.
My parents were not ones who often said, “I love you!” to each other or to my brother or me. People today, at least in California, now say that routinely, sometimes to near strangers. Times were a bit more formal in the 1950s when I was growing up. The love era of the sixties allowed many to express more freely those once-private emotions.
My parents’ actions always showed their love; my brother and I knew how they felt. I assumed my father probably knew how I felt, too. But somehow when a person is terminally ill, all of those emotions rise to the surface. If the opportunity to speak or to write is not taken, then it is truly lost forever.
I needed to write him a letter.
With pen and paper I told him how much he meant to me, how much I loved him, and how grateful I was to have had him for my father. I sobbed as I composed the letter and had to recopy it because of my tear stains. It was my first experience with the healing power of writing.
I felt greatly relieved after I finished the letter. I wrote things I had wanted to tell him for years and never did. I took some time to go back and revise the letter until I felt it was ready to send.
Here is part of my letter:
Dear Daddy,
… other memories are of taking bouquets of flowers you gave me to Mrs. Briscoe, my third-grade teacher at Steele School. I realize now that, by giving those special gifts to her, you were showing me that teachers were special people — people you held in high esteem. I know that had a big influence on my choice of careers. No other kid in my class ever brought such large or expensive bouquets to her. Others might bring a rose or a bunch of sweet peas from their gardens, but not a real bouquet wrapped in green florist’s paper with a package of Flora-life inside. This made me special to my teacher and she’d often say, “You’re so lucky to have such a nice father!” I knew that.
The last memory and probably the most important one was how you treated Mom all those years. We could always tell you loved her, and continue to. You don’t always remember Valentine’s Day or even her birthday without some coaching, but you show your love every day. You do it by being there for her, enjoying being together, and helping in so many small ways to give her a good life. That kindness does not go unnoticed by her or us. Lynn and I could always tell you loved each other and still do. It was nice to come from that kind of home. So many people never see or experience true love in their lifetimes.
Thank you for loving me. I love you, too. Julie
I mailed the letter to Colorado Springs. My mother telephoned to tell me how much he cherished it, rereading it numerous times. And later, from his hospital bed where he spent his last days, he choked back tears to thank me personally for writing it.
After he died, as I left the hospital, I noticed the structure itself stood as an ominous symbol. I had a hard time even looking at the building without feeling deep sadness. Again I wrote, that time to myself, my words reflecting a bitterness at losing my dear father and leaving him there inside.
Memorial Hospital
The town’s largest building is a massive concrete structure,
Towering over small bungalows of wood and plaster.
Inside, antiseptic people scurry with special instructions,
Individualized diets and powerful potions to save, nay prolong,
The lives of those confined, those labeled, “The Terminals,”
Who are talked to in unnatural, too-soothing tones about
Tomorrow and Future when those locked in their beds by weakness
Know that Today is all there is.
Relatives with eyes sore from tears held in,
Sit all night, counting breaths; others go home but do not sleep.
Telephone calls break the night’s silence, making knees weak
And stomachs churn, although “expected.”
Still, in morning’s light, coldly and monolithic
The large structure remains,
The only tombstone not in the cemetery.
— Julie Bolger Davey
(Edward Lynn Bolger died at age 67.)
Healing Words
Allison Anderson was 22 when her father was diagnosed with cancer. When I first met Allison, I had no idea what emotions she was holding inside. She looked and acted much like other young students of mine at the local community college. She was taking Journalism 101 along with about 25 others who came directly from work for the weekly three-hour class. They came in carrying large drink cups and sandwiches for the 6:00 to 9:00 p.m. seminar, all trying to get a degree while working full time. I never minded them eating. None of them talked much for the first half hour or so, winding down from their jobs and the stress of freeway traffic. But, Allison, more quiet than most, was never one to wave her hand to be called on or to call attention to herself. She seemed distracted, in another world. One evening, I gave an assignment to the group to write a “nostalgia” article in which they were to recall a special moment from their childhood. When I read Allison’s words, I realized why she had been so quiet.
Many and Many a Year Ago…
As a little girl, my favorite thing to do was to read poetry with my father. Before I could even spell my own name, Dad would read me poems about war, loyalty, friendship, and love. He would call to me, “Ali, do you want to bring me my books?”
Beaming, I would run to his bookshelf and grab the worn-out books and carefully bring them to him. I would curl up beside him and pretend I could follow along on the page as he read aloud.
“Daddy, now read Annabel Lee, okay?” I would plead.
And he would begin.
“It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea…”
I would sit up with him until I fell asleep and like magic, I would wake up the next morning in my own bed.
When I was able to read myself, we would take turns. He would choose a poem and then I would. If I would mispronounce a word, he would gently correct me and we would discuss its meaning at great length.
Like all little girls feel about their fathers, I thought my Dad was the smartest man alive. But, my teenage years saw a waning of our recitals. I would much rather hang out with my friends than hang out with Dad and read. He never mentioned the change. It would be years before we read together again.
Two years ago, my father was diagnosed with cancer. It was growing from his jaw. A couple of months after his diagnosis, we were told that there was nothing more that could be done. His doctors told him to go home and enjoy the rest of the few weeks he had left. It would be a strange reversal for me to go from the one who was always cared for, to becoming the caregiver.
Thankfully, my mother forced him to get a second opinion. City of Hope would perform the surgery that would extend his life — the removal of his jaw.
The whole family was on pins and needles during his 18-hour surgery. It was successful. Afterwards, only my mother, sister, and I were allowed to see him. I sat down on his bed in the Intensive Care Unit and opened a book.
“It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea…”
— Allison Anderson
(A year after Allison wrote this in my class, her father died.)
It’s Your Turn
Words are sometimes all we have. Speaking them in person is often too painful. We choke up; we don’t seem to get them to come out in the way we intended. Writing them down may make us shed tears in the process, but afterwards we feel comforted knowing that we have said what we wanted to say to the person we loved.
Jump Start
Dear
…
As I look back over my life to this point, I remember a time
when …
I feel fortunate because without you …
Don’t worry about spelling or grammar. Realize that you can go back later and fix those things or add additional facts, feelings, and details. Get started now. Think of this as a work in progress. Take time to write today and tomorrow and the next day. Then, as appropriate, send or deliver the letter. If the person has already passed away, you may want to read it aloud as if you are addressing them. Or, read it to a living relative of theirs. Then, put it safely away in a special place and read it from time to time when you think of that special person in your life. Your words will keep the person alive through your memories.
Chapter 3: Violet’s
Story
We never really die, do we?
We live on in the hearts and spirits
of those we touch.
My grandmother lives on through her writing.
— Vivianne Wightman
It was an older and wiser person who taught me the most valuable lessons I have ever learned about how writing can provide comfort after tragedy and illness and even create peace of mind when the end of life is near. Violet was the model student for Writing for Wellness. Here is her story:
Sitting on a Cloud
When 91-year-old Violet Wightman walked into my writing class at Fullerton College and proceeded to introduce herself as a friend of both Sergei Rachmaninoff and Amelia Earhart, I was dumbfounded.
First, I didn’t actually believe her, and second, I could think of no response but a rather unenthusiastic, “That’s nice.”
I immediately pointed to the student next to her to continue with the first-day introductions.
Violet instantly recognized my skepticism and at the next class brought a yellowed newspaper clipping and photo showing her with the famous aviatrix. I didn’t dare ask about Rachmaninoff.
So, when she announced that he personally wrote a polka for her when she was a world-famous concert pianist, I never doubted it for a second.
She had come to my class as a frail, hard-of-hearing woman who had many health problems, but she didn’t want to discuss them publicly. She wanted to write.
Over the next several years, Violet came to my classes. She became a fixture. She was talented, humorous, and energetic. She was always immaculately dressed, sitting among students in their torn blue jeans and sweatshirts. She still holds the record at Fullerton College, an institution with 22,000 students, as the oldest ever enrolled. She also remains my all-time favorite student.
She was quick-witted and sarcastic, a combination that sometimes took the other students by surprise.
“I don’t have to do what you say!” she loudly announced in class one day when I was assigning what she thought was unnecessary homework. “Remember, I’m older than you!” Then, she winked.
Her tanned, pierced, and tattooed 19-year-old California classmates howled with delight.
She would often refer to me as a “slave driver” after I assigned what she felt were overly difficult writing projects. But, at each class session Violet would smile gratefully at me from her seat in the front row. We understood one another without words.
She was, indeed, a model student, bringing in parts of her sometimes racy in-progress novels, stories of her childhood in the Arizona Territory before its statehood, as well as some of her unforgettable and lyrical poetry.
Other students had taken my freelance writing class to learn to sell short articles to magazines and newspapers, hoping for some needed cash to help with the rent on their apartment. But Violet had her own immediate dream, a dream to see her words in print before she died.
Then, when she was 96, she developed breast cancer and she saw her dream to be published as urgent. After she told the class about her diagnosis and her surgery, I revealed that I, too, was a breast cancer survivor. Violet and I became even closer.
“We really are like sisters, you know,” she said, smiling. “But, just remember I’m the older one!”
Many times in class I felt that she was actually my teacher and I was her student. As she talked about growing up in the horse-and-buggy days in Globe, Arizona, and then traveling around the world as a concert pianist, I knew she had far more life experiences than I would ever have. She had also lost her husband in a car accident in Europe and had raised four children as a single mother.
Her life had not been easy.
“I want my poems published,” she announced to me one day after class. “I want to leave them to my family. I’ll need your help.” I learned later that she had also written musical backgrounds for her poems and had often sung them to her grandchildren.
As her health continued to deteriorate, one of Violet’s classmates, Ellen Mortensen, a registered nurse, volunteered to type Violet’s poems onto a floppy disk so they could be more easily accessed by a publisher or printer.
I knew that a professional publisher was out of the question for Violet’s poems. She simply didn’t have the months it might take to try to find an agent or to query a mainstream publisher. In fact, it seemed she had so little time left that I wondered if her dream would ever be realized. Cancer was consuming her before our eyes.
One day Violet asked to address my entire class. She stood and faced the students, holding onto my desk to steady herself. She was always stylishly dressed and her hair was nicely done. From her days as a globetrotting performer, she also knew how to command an audience’s attention. She paused to be sure everyone was listening.
“You know that even though the doctors tell me I’m going to die, I am not going to!” she said with determination, her voice strong with resolve.
We were immobilized by her announcement. We knew she was getting weaker every day, yet she insisted on attending each class session even though she often seemed to be in great pain. To ensure her safety as she walked on the campus, her family hired a nurse to accompany her. Violet seemed to resent the lack of independence, but she also seemed to know she needed the assistance.
Although she often surprised us, none of us was prepared for her words that day.
“No, I tell you, I’m not going to die!” she said. “I’m just going to sit up in the sky on a cloud and watch you all. Think of me up there whenever you see one of those big white fluffy ones. That’ll be me.”
Violet’s clear blue eyes stared at each of us as we wiped away tears. As she started to slowly walk back to her seat a few feet away, she turned and gently patted my hand. I could barely speak when I tried to start the day’s lesson.
After class that day Ellen and I took the diskette with Violet’s poems on it to the college print shop and asked the instructors for help.
“We need these poems printed as a book and we need it done immediately; she doesn’t have long.”
The printing instructors and their students began working feverishly to get the book of poems ready for print. Within a few days we got an urgent call. They needed our immediate input.
“We’re almost ready to print, but we don’t have a title and we don’t know what color the cover should be!”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Make the cover violet, and call the book Sitting on a Cloud.”
A few weeks later when Violet saw her book, she was delighted. Then, as she did with many things, she decided it could have been better. She liked to control things and we had made some important decisions without her input.
“That’s Julie’s idea for a title, not mine!” she grumbled to the class. “And, I’ve always hated violet — both the color and my name.”
Then she smiled. “I love my book, though,” she said with pride as she gave each of us an autographed copy with personal notes thanking each student and me for our support.