Pink is Power

You may not realize this, but October is a very special month. Not only are the leaves exploding in color, and we finally have an excuse to wear clothes we bought on a Clearance rack by mistake and can pass them off as “Halloween costumes,” but October is also a month-long celebration of something very close to my heart. Officially it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and tomorrow, October 29^th, is Wear It Pink Day! On this day we ask everyone to wear pink and donate a minimum of £2 ($3) to the Breast Cancer Research funds (to donate or find out more talk to me or go the website here: http://www.wearitpink.co.uk/ )

To me, the word “cancer” was like watching a horror movie – if I covered my eyes, it would disappear and not affect me. That was, until it invaded my own life. Almost two months ago, my mother, our Warrior Woman, was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer. The diagnosis could no have come at a worse time for her, either. I had only left for Scotland a week before, and my sister had left for university three days prior. My dad, our Superman, was and is an amazing rock of strength. But the fear of the unknown was strong, and none of us knew what we were heading into.

To give a little help, I flew home last week to surprise SuperMom right before her first chemo treatment. Dad and I had been planning the visit for weeks, and we were bursting with excitement to finally execute it. Before we arrived at the house, he dropped me a block away so that he had time to return to the house like normal. I walked up and rang the doorbell, giggling with excitement to surprise Mom. The door opened, and Mom stood behind it, calm as ever.

“Hey! How are you?” she asked, as if I was the friendly neighbor just dropping by. Her calm reaction threw me a bit off guard.

“Hi Mom… I’m good…?”

We stood there awkwardly for a long pause before the shock hit her. Slowly she asked, “Wait. What are you doing here?!” I was then allowed inside the house, where Dad was cracking up in the background. It turns out that poor Mom had taken a good few muscle relaxers just before I arrived, and she can now vouch for them and say they can mellow any situation!

None of use knew what to expect when Mom started the chemotherapy treatments. Personally, I was not prepared for the long Infusion Room lined with rows of reclining chairs and IVs. I had imagined a private room, not a party of patients. On the one hand, the sight can be heart-wrenching. Patients in all stages of cancer and treatment are there, from the very elderly to the elementary school children. Seeing a six-year old cancer patient hooked up to a million IVs will change your life perspective immediately.

On the other hand, each one of the patients is fighting for normalcy, but willingly and gladly. The atmosphere in the long, white room is not depressing; instead, it’s encouraging. Patients and their families bring in cakes and drinks to share; everyone shares their stories as well, and after the nearly six hours of Mom’s chemotherapy I walked out with an entirely new perspective on my life. For example, the patient sitting next to Mom, we’ll call him Gerry, was with his wife. They cracked jokes the entire time, swapping stories about Gerry’s bad reactions to morphine and experimental cancer drugs. Even though I watched the chemo meds slowly drain Gerry’s energy as the hours passed, he never stopped smiling, and took a sincere interest in my family, even sending me a wedding package the following day. Later I learned that the couple have two young children, and that Gerry is suffering from melanoma cancer in his brain and have yet to find a cure. This man has no idea when he will be able to leave the hospital or live a normal life with his family, yet he still finds something to laugh about every minute, even regarding his own failed treatments. It made me ashamed of how I have treated my own life: of any complaints I’ve ever made, of any negative comments I’ve ever voiced. Gerry still walks everyday with God and with laughter, just like my Mom. They are such an inspiration, like modern-day superheroes. They taught me that each of us must face a storm or two in our lives. For Gerry and my mom, it’s more like a hurricane. But ten years from now, we will all be able to look back on this. And when we do, we can either remember the storm clouds or remember how we danced in the rain.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for reminding me of that.

Wear It Pink Day is Friday, October 29, 2010. Please wear pink, donate money, or at least say a prayer to raise awareness and to help find a cure for all our superheroes out there. If you would like more information on how to help, contact myself or visit this website:

http://www.wearitpink.co.uk

Hidden Secrets of Heathrow

When you were a kid, I’m sure you were the same as me – staying up late, fighting sleep, thinking about what a party your parents must be having when all the kids go to bed. I just knew that’s what all Mommies and Daddies did when they put their kids to bed – have one big party, like a Ringling Brothers Circus in the living room with all the other Mommies and Daddies.

Now that I’m an adult, I know such musings are ridiculous. What goes on in an airport after hours, however, is a legitimate intrigue.

I arrived on the 19:50 flight from Glasgow to London preparing for a long night. Due to a technical error (ie late booking), my flight included an overnight layover in Heathrow before heading on to sunny Texas for a visit to the folks. After a “mechanical delay” (which never instils confidence in an airline), I arrived in Terminal 5 at 20:30. Since my flight to DFW was not scheduled to depart Heathrow until 10:30 the next morning, and since I was completely skint, I decided I could easily stay the night in the delightful lounges of Heathrow Airport.

Upon arrival in Terminal 5, two separate employees told me Terminal 3 was where I should be. Naively, I followed their guidance. Here begins the wonderment of miscommunication in Heathrow. I waited for a bus to make the 10-minute drive to Terminal 3, where I had to go through security for the second time that night. After I had stripped down and up again, I stumbled to the ticket counter to get my boarding pass.

The two at the desk were pleasant, and as the one printed out my ticket she smiled and said, “Oh, but you can’t stay here. Terminal 3 closes in 2 hours, but Terminal 5 will be open and very nice.” Another big smile.  I managed to thank her and return the sentiment, but by this time I was feeling the weight of my luggage. Oh yes, I have not mentioned that I was lugging my laptop, a week’s worth of clothes, and my wedding dress because I didn’t trust the airport people not to toss it in the air like a lead balloon.

Stumbling a bit more but still confident, I took the 10-minute bus back to Terminal 5. I had not made it 20 steps into the terminal when two security guards told me I was not authorized to return to Terminal 5 and would have to make my way to Terminal 4, where a “pod hotel” was located. “It’ll only cost, say, 7 quid an hour. It’s great!” the guard promised me. He lied.

The so-called “pod hotel” seems to be completely unknown to any member of staff in Heathrow airport. I know because I had a member radio out for more information, and it seemed every staff member with a radio was stumped. (I later found that there was a “landside hotel” rather cheap, but still £45 for a minimum 5 hours.) Since the last Terminal bus was leaving, I decided to take a chance and go to the only other terminal I had been told might help: Terminal 1.

After another 10-minute bus and a third strip search from security, the clock was pushing ten o’clock as I entered Terminal 1. The first thing that struck me was the quiet – I could see no rushing passengers, no radio-talking staff – not a soul to be seen. Finally, a small female staff worker came into sight, and I pounced (or I staggered, as my wedding dress was really dragging me down by this point). “Please ma’am,” I gasped, “where is the overnight lounge?”

She gave a sly smile and came close, as if to share an important secret. “You’re looking to stay overnight?” She looked me up and down. “Right, follow me.”

As we walked, I saw zombie-like passengers waiting in long queues all over. I prepared myself for more lugging, but my guide suddenly made a sharp turn down a hidden hall on the side. The lights were dim, and the walls were frosted glass. I felt like we were going into Batman’s secret lair. We came upon a lone guard, who started to question my presence in this obviously elite area, but my little guide cut her off.

“She’s an all-nighter.”

The guard immediately closed her lips and let me through into another deserted corridor.

Down, down, down we went, and if I had not been sure she was staff and that I could easily tackle her, I would have questioned the intelligence of my decision to follow.  But, I was curious as well. Is this what happens in airports after hours? Am I being led to a room full of other curious tourists where we will meet Saw-like fates to pay for our bad life decisions? Maybe this is the “pod hotel” – of doom!

A buzz of voices slowly became audible, and, as there were no screams of terror to be heard, I began to relax. Civilization! Praise the Lord! And not only were there people, but there was food! And seats! And my guide…. Had disappeared. Vanished into thin air. But no matter, because I could finally rest. Or so I thought.

Not one hour had passed when the overhead lights suddenly went out. No warning, just BOOM! I don’t think a horror movie has been made about airports, but if they ever do it would start like this.  A lone figure with a big flashlight appeared, herding all the sleeping passengers into a coma-like creep through the terminal. That’s right – Terminal 1 was now closing. “But don’t worry, we have a nice, quiet room for you, away from the crowds and the lights…” I have never been more terrified.

There were about 20 of us victims, standing nervously in a line before an “access only” door, which could have led to a vengeful reaper or a pit of snakes for all we knew. The lone figure swiped her card and punched a few codes to finally gain access to the “restricted area” that she ushered us into, all the time sickeningly repeating, “Almost there, almost to your nice, quiet room…” She may have cackled.

After a short walk and a few more locked doors we were ushered into a small room. It was there, in those uncertain moments, we found… paradise! For, lo and behold, we had vending machines! Free toilets! And, best yet, RECLINING LOUNGE CHAIRS! We had straggled through the desert and found our manna, us 20 survivors. And I sit here now, in that same lounge, still a 10-minute bus ride and eight hours away from departure, but years from now I’m sure we will have Terminal 1 Survivor Reunion and reminisce the terrors of Heathrow after hours.

But now, the lights are dimming, and, is it me, or has our group of twenty been drastically reduced? If I disappear, Mom, know I was at Gate 2, eating out the ice cream vending machine… 

Carfin's Choir of Comedy

     We all have this friend. You know the one, the special friend who gets herself into ridiculous situations on a regular basis. The one who starts fights in night clubs due to a "misuse of a ladder" or who gets put into hiding in the backroom of a homeless shelter because one of the clients mistook her for the "tart tha ruined me an ma mates! Ah no, cauz yous never fergit ah face!" whilst chasing her around the kitchen with a teacup (all true stories). Well, in my social circle I am this crazy person. And yesterday was just another typical day.

     This year is the 350^th anniversary of the deaths of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Louise de Marillac. To celebrate, the St. Vincent de Paul Society and the Daughters of Charity (who sponsor the VV program as well) hosted a large service at the Carfin Grotto, which is a replica of the famous Lourdes Grotto. A few hundred people were expected to attend, including many prominent Catholic leaders, such as the Archbishop who had ridden with the Pope in his Popemobile. As we pulled up I recognized one of the coordinators of the service (we’ll call her Karen). She must have spotted us as well, because before I knew it she was running in 4-inch heels towards the car. We had not even parked when Karen strutted up to the window and asked me to jump out of the car because she had a “special job” for me. Being optimistic on that rare, sunny day, I cheerfully (and naively) agreed and sprung out of the still-moving car.

Gardens of the Grotto, www.carfin.org.uk

     Through the throngs of people gathering, Karen led me to the center of the busy grotto where a stage was set up for all to see. Another man wearing an official-looking sash gave me a warm smile.

     “Ah, here’s the celebrity! And all the way over from America!” he teased. I laughed, and then realized we were standing directly in front of the microphone and our voices were echoing across the Grotto. We stepped away, and Karen quickly dove into the details as the official-looking man disappeared again.

     “We need you to lead the rosary during the opening procession,” she stated, her eyes scouring the growing crowds as she went through last-minute details in her head.

      I was a bit shocked, but honored as well. “Yes, ok, I can do that –“

     “Right, and we’ll be singing the hymns as well, so here’s the book,” she said as she shoved a large hymnbook into my hands, “and just keep singing until the procession is over.”

     As her eyes were still searching the crowds, she missed seeing my jaw-dropping state of shock. “But, I can’t –“

     “Great, thanks again!” And Karen ran off just as the bells began to toll, meaning the procession was to begin. I was left standing on a stage with nothing but a microphone and a hymnbook in my hands. I looked out to see over a thousand expectant pairs of eyes, and a scary realization made my stomach drop. These people had all heard the official man announce me as an international celebrity, although completely by accident. They were expecting the next Charlottle Church. And there I was, shifting awkwardly on stage and looking around frantically for someone to rescue me.

Mass at the Groto, www.carfin.org.uk

     The bells tolled again, and I could see the Archbishop beginning the procession, so I hesitantly started the rosary. Repeated prayers are easy enough, but soon I ran out of rosary beads. I could see Karen mouthing words to me, something about “SING!”, but I just held the hymnbook in my shaky hands. The silence began to grow, though, and I knew what I had to do.

     Lifting my eyes up to the skies and knowing that someone was having a good laugh, I started a hymn that looked easy enough. “Ave Maria, Ave Maria –“ Oh, wait! I have to sing it! “Aaaaaaa-vayyyyy MarIIIIIIaaaaa!” I looked around frantically. Surely, someone knew this song and would sing along so that I, the leader, could follow! But instead I only found very perplexed faces from the crowd. I tried again.

     “AAAAAAAAVAY! Ma-REEEEEEEAH!!!!” Nope, yelling didn’t help. Suddenly, I saw movement in the corner of my eye. Karen jumped on stage and grabbed the hymnbook from my hands. “Ahhhhh-VAY, ay, ay, Ma-ree-AH, ah, ah…” She smiled at me, but shook her head as I slowly backed away from the microphone. Sensing my escape, Karen, snatched my shirtsleeve and pulled me back to the microphone. Foiled again! For the remainder of those excruciating 30 minutes, I played back-up singer to Karen with hymns I had never heard, usually missing both the beat and tone.

     Afterwards, I was graciously thanked for my work. Perhaps it was the effect of the sun or the distraction of the grand procession, but no one commented on my failed performance, though I was not asked for an encore.

     All in all, I believe I get brownie points with the Man Upstairs for staying on that stage for Him. However, I don’t think I’ll be invited to join His choir of Angels.