A friend of mine called me yesterday to tell me that she'd just been crying for 20 minutes after reading what I wrote about my mom.
Wow.
I felt overwhelmed with surprise that what I wrote could affect someone so deeply.
I also felt incredibly excited: what I wrote affected someone deeply!
Talk about dreams come true.
Apparently, because of my overwhelming sense of fear in starting this new blog, my underlying intent was lost in my initial post, she implied. Naturally, my goal was to be real--you surely sensed my hesitation in putting myself out there if you read that post. But my other goal was to state my intention, my dream as a writer, which despite my attempts, may not have occurred.
I'd like to do it again.
This time, however, with confidence that my current state of mind will send a different message than it may have before.
I love to write. It's like a puzzle for me, finding a way, a number of ways, to put words together that sound good and allow others to understand what I'm hoping to deliver. So, in a sense, I write for me, for the process, for the stimulation of my mind.
But now, after many years of writing solely for me, in journal upon journal, I want to write to make a difference for others. I want to share things in my life that I believe, in some way, will allow others to live the life they want to live. I want to express my feelings in a way that will inspire others to do the same, to live from what's real, yet sometimes really scary.
My dream is for my writing to be published so that others can find enjoyment and inspiration from what I write. And I say this here and now because because I've seen the power, in the last month in particular, in standing for what I want and sharing it with others.
But here's my challenge: if my goal is to write to inspire, to make a difference in others' lives in even some small way, then how do I remain true to who I am, if I am, in some way, basing the realization of my dream on external responses?
Suddenly, in the past month, it has become increasingly important for me to live my life without constantly being hung up on the fear of what others will think. Naturally, I always pretended that I didn't "care what others think," because to let on as such would appear weak. And weak doesn't look good. In fact, one regret that I have about my relationship with my mom is that I was always riding her about her incessant need to please others. "Quit worrying so much about what everyone else thinks," I'd tell her, in my most impatient of tones. I so wanted her to be free of that fear, free from the concern that she might let others down in some way, that she might not be good enough, smart enough, whatever enough.
It was so easy for me to point the finger, because the tendency I saw in her was the very one that I didn't like to see in myself. And didn't. I was aloof, pretended I didn't care, and most people believed me. Especially those on the 'outside'.
When I've told this to friends, in fact, they've told me it's hard to believe. It seems like I've got it all together. And it's true, sort of. I've been a master of keeping it together, pretending everything is fine, pretending that I don't care what others think...when really, it was everything to me.
It's this crazy dualism:
I don't want to live my life driven by the fear of what others think about me.
Yet...
My life is my relationships. They are everything to me. Without them, I have no life.
Right?
What is our life, really, if it's not the web of relationships we have with others?
So, I find myself questioning lately how to be true to myself, to live for me and what matters to me, yet simultaneously value the life, the relationships that I have. If I DON'T care about what others think, then who will I have? Is that my fear talking?
And in relationship to this blog...how do I write for others, and still be at peace when I have no idea how my thoughts are landing on 95% of my readers? Is that the incessant internal battle of confident writers across the world?
Geoff and I mused over this idea last night on our Christmas tree adventure.
Is it through humility and patience that I can sit with peace and still live out my dream?
If I leave them with an open-ended question, might some of them respond?
Hi, Fear.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Memorializing Mama
About a month ago, I received an invitation for a Body Donation Memorial up at OHSU.
Such a random introduction deserves a serious explanation.
OHSU is the Oregon Health & Science University up on pill hill above Portland. They run a body donation program that allows people the opportunity to gift their body to science for the benefit of budding professionals and their future patients.
My mom chose to donate her body so that others could learn from her illnesses.
She loved education.
She loved nursing.
She loved opportunities for learning.
This opportunity was her dream come true.
On June 11, 2010, Karen Ann Lasnover died after a long relationship with Non-hodgkins lymphoma. That morning, as my husband and I were taking in the peace and overwhelm of her absent soul, the phone rang. It was the hospice bathing aide asking if she'd want a bath today. I'm afraid she won't, I told her. She just passed away a few minutes ago. Naturally, the aide felt awful. I certainly don't blame her for the unfortunate circumstances of her timing. In a certain way, actually, I appreciate the call. It brought me back to reality, to the looming question of "what do we do now?!" In the back of my mind, I knew that we couldn't stay there forever watching her lifeless body.
A few weeks prior, I'd made a call to the donation program, asking them if there was anything that would keep a body from being accepted. As soon as I heard them add 'bloating' to their relatively short list, I felt sincere concern. My mom's legs had been swelling for months, and recently, we'd been having to bandage them. Suddenly, with this new understanding of mine, her dream was on the line.
So, as deeply sad as I felt in those moments after her death, I was also deeply driven to make her dream a reality.
When did she pass away, they asked.
10 minutes ago, I replied.
Driven indeed.
So, after a 10-minute interview, we waited nervously by the phone until they called with the news 10 minutes later. The dichotomy of feeling was amazing--on the one hand, I missed my mom tremendously, felt in deep disbelief that she was really, really gone, after 9 years of chemo-free fight. And then, this phone call. This absolutely amazing acceptance of her body into the program.
Success.
Dream come true!
After all those years, suffering through pain and immense fear, she made the cut.
OHSU could be the proud borrower of a body full of tumors, yet completely devoid of chemicals. Well, I mean, there'd be the Oreo cookie and ice cream preservatives, as well as 50 years' worth of nicotine. But point being...
Chemo-free cancer patient in the hands of inquiring minds...
Cool. Simply amazing.
"All righta!" Mom would say.
So, yesterday afternoon, together with Lena and Geoff, I attended a memorial in honor of the 34 amazing individuals that gave their bodies to benefit humanity.
It was so far beyond anything I EVER expected from such an event. I wish I could just push play for you on the video that I didn't make. That feels easier than attempting to capture the power of the 2-hour ceremony and share it with you in words.
The first three speakers were program heads and directors of sorts. Distinguished men in dark suits. After a brief scan of the program, I had the same expectations that I did when I walked into the auditorium. How personal can this be? How interested can they keep us? How do you honor the lives of a random group of people with only two things in common--death and generosity?
My expectations were exceeded within the first 5 minutes. Dr. Gary Ciment is the director of the Gross Anatomy course, and was the first one to speak. As you may understand, Gross Anatomy refers to the course in which students dissect entire cadavers. Am I scaring them? Do they think this is gross? What I didn't know is that Gross Anatomy is the FIRST course that a first year med student takes. The first day of class, they walk into "thirty-four draped patients," which, as med student Ximeng Yang describes, is a "daunting sight for anyone. The rows of florescent lights, the continuous humming of the vents and neatly stacked reference books all played their parts in removing the 'humanness' from this experience. As we explored the intricacies of our anatomy, finding, by our standards, 'cool' anomalies, 'awesome' nerves and 'sweet' vessels, the focus became pure academic, our motions pure mechanical, and our patients reduced to mere learning objectives. But when you get a chance to take a moment and look around you, you would see 124 scrubbed medical students clustering around and hunching over their patients; you suddenly realize the beauty in the moment. In that room, 34 selfless individuals gave their physical existence in order to provide us with this learning opportunity. 34 patients, 34 tables, and an experience that will last 124 lifetimes. As time went on, we found our free hand holding theirs, as if to somehow comfort them. We walked in with greetings, and said 'Thank you, see you tomorrow' as we left for the day..."
I understand that for some people, this concept, the idea that 124 med students would be poking and prodding my mom in her still state, is over the top. But for me, it's completely fascinating and amazes me to no end. At the end of the memorial, there was a time for people to stand up and share. I forced myself to walk down from the balcony, past the 250 members of the audience, and onto the stage to share this state of wonder that I felt. My heart was racing and I felt overcome with nervousness. I had no idea what I was going to say, and knew that, even if I had, I'd forget it as soon as I stood in front of all those strangers. I was determined to overcome my fear this time, to stand in front of all those people with the belief that I could say something that might, somehow, make a difference to at least one of them.
So, there I stood, gazing out at all those people waiting for me to say something meaningful. I honestly don't remember much of what came out, but I do remember initially asking all the med students to raise their hands once again so I could see all of my mom's students in front of me. As soon as they were up, about 50 of them in total, it hit me. All those people with their hands raised, they saw my mom. Some of them, at least 4 of them, grew to know her in a more intimate way than I ever did, or ever could. They got to see parts of her body that my mom and I used to fascinate over in books, areas of her body that we could only see covered with skin. I felt completely overwhelmed. Amazed. They loved her in a sense, too, and found comfort and knowledge from her as I had in my life. The connection that I felt between us was immense, and so powerful.
After I shared a few of those same thoughts with them, as well as some tears that I was proud to not have fought back, more family members came to the stage to share in various ways about their altruistic loved one. I remember one woman in particular, who walked slowly up the stairs with a younger woman and man. She spoke slowly, ultimately saying that she had been in the OHSU medical school 58 years prior. She was an older African-American woman, meaning that, in 1952, when blacks were still banned from white anythings, this woman was attending med school. Even more impressive was what she said about her memory of her Gross Anatomy course. Throughout her nursing career, in every interaction with every patient she had, she carried the image of her very first patient--a body donor.
Towards the end of the sharing session, med students started coming to the mic, one by one. Most of them started by sharing that they initially had no intention of standing up to speak, but had been so moved by the entire experience that they couldn't hold back.
That's how I felt, too. Completely moved.
All these people standing on a stage afront a sea strangers, and I hung on their every word. Don't stop talking, I thought. Keep going. Tell me another story. Tell me what you learned, what you gleaned, what you saw. Tell me about the tumors, about her feet, and about her bumpy knuckles. Tell me how my mom made your life better.
And that they did. They made it clear, with their tears and their gratitude and their shared experiences, that my mom's gift touched their lives, just like she'd dreamed it would.
I had no idea. Maybe she did, which is why she started filling out the forms in 2001. But her kind, loving way and passion for education and learning made a difference for many. Dr. Bill Cameron, Associate Professor for the Department of Behavioral Neuroscience, created a calculation which allowed him to estimate how many lives would be touched and affected by the gift of body donation. If 90% of the class of 124 go on to be medical professionals, and each one practices for an average of 30 years, and sees an average of one new patient each day, my mom's gift will have touched a million lives. One million lives could be better because of my mom?
And that's on top of all the lives she affected while she was living.
A student by the name of Rachel stood up to speak right at the end of the service. "Yesterday was the two year anniversary of the death of my mom," she said. "When I was assigned a cadaver of a woman who died at the same age as my mom," she further explained, "I almost asked to transfer bodies. I didn't think I could handle it."
Listening to this girl speak, I felt excited about the prospect of her having worked with my mom. She spoke of her patient's painted toenails, which Lena and I thought Steph must have painted. She spoke of the woman's young age, too. Since my mom was only 66 was she died, I thought there was a really good chance she was describing the same woman.
Part of me wanted to just pretend that I knew, to tell myself that, in fact, Rachel had gotten to know Mom. It wouldn't really matter if I knew the difference, I told myself. Just pretend you know.
But, my curiosity got the best of me, and I grew more and more excited at the idea of being able to talk to someone who had been at my mom's table. Soon after her body was picked up, I called the program director and asked him if we'd be able to find out how, specifically, her body had benefitted them. Could they tell us what they learned, what they discovered, and how things really looked different in her body from the others? He told me that, unfortunately, HIPPA laws prohibited him from being able to give me any information. I felt sad and dismayed, but quickly returned to the idea that, regardless of the information that I knew, she would be furthering science in some way. But when I started to hear those students mention details of the men and women they worked with, my hopes returned that I might get a closer glimpse.
The room was illuminated once again, and I bounced out of my seat and down the stairs to start in on my quest. I figured I'd first find Rachel, since I felt relatively confident in my assumption. I found her quickly, as everyone else was in line for cookies and punch, and wasted little time.
"I was thinking that you might have worked with my mom, since you said you worked with a younger woman?" I asked.
She asked about Mom's age and cause of death, and then told me reluctantly that her patient had been 58 and died of leukemia. After making a bit of conversation with her, she pointed me in the direction of someone she thought might have worked with mom.
I made my way to the east corner of the room where a group of tall, good-looking guys were standing in a circle.
"Hi," I said, determined to overcome my social fear. "I'm hoping to find a student that worked with my mom, and I was told that you might have been at her table?"
Again, downloaded him with the details as the three other guys stared at me intently.
"Sorry," he said. "Our patient was older and died of lung cancer. But I think I know who might have been at her table."
My hopes were high as he walked me over to a guy across the room in a blue shirt. Again, I gently stepped into this circle of socializing students, hoping to achieve my mission. I'm sorry, he replied, as his friends looked my direction. Our patient was 75.
I braved my way through 3 other interactions like this, feeling completely awkward yet eager with each conversation I had. My head was spinning. What do they think of me? Am I making them uncomfortable? This is so awkward. They're all staring at me. One girl that I talked to told me that there was a list that had all the patients ages, genders and causes of death. "I wish I had my list on me," she said so sweetly. Me too, I thought. Me too.
I told her I was going to go talk to the director, as I'd been led to believe that he might be able to point me in the direction of 'my mom's group'.
After a brief, cordial conversation with him, however, my hopes were back where they'd been after my initial phone conversation.
"It would be nearly impossible to tell you that information," he said. "We have so little information about the patients, in part because it's hard enough for the students to work with the bodies. If they knew more, it would be even harder."
My mind went spinning even further. If I continue asking around to all these students, am I going to risk making them uncomfortable? If I do find them, is it going to be completely weird for them that the daughter of their cadaver is probing them for information?
And with that last thought, I gave up.
I let my meaning-making-machine give up on my mini dream within her big one.
As we drove away, I felt sad and disappointed. I got my hopes up, and then fell hard through awkwardness and embarrassment.
Recognizing and accepting those feelings, however, made room for the wonder to return. The fascination and amazement is deep enough to crowd out any negativity that arose with my upset.
It's clear to me that, regardless of my knowledge and understanding, my mom did her part. In some way, maybe even in a million ways, she made a difference. Her gift benefits the rest of us, in even further reaching ways than Dr. Cameron laid out in his calculations.
I am inspired in a way I never thought possible because of her generosity.
I am amazed and fascinated like I never knew I could be.
Thank you, Mom.
Thank you SO much for living your life as you did for me, and gifting it to the rest of humanity.
And thank you, students and faculty of OHSU.
It is clear, the respect you offered my mom, and awesome, the opportunity you created for her generosity to be appreciated.
You're in my heart forever.
For further photos and tributes:
http://tributes.com/show/Karen-Lasnover-88803679
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lasnover/sets/72157624264557201/show/
http://nonnativebilingualism.blogspot.com/2010/10/monkey-bench-switch.html
http://nonnativebilingualism.blogspot.com/2010/08/nana-lives-onand-on-and-on-and-on.html
Such a random introduction deserves a serious explanation.
OHSU is the Oregon Health & Science University up on pill hill above Portland. They run a body donation program that allows people the opportunity to gift their body to science for the benefit of budding professionals and their future patients.
My mom chose to donate her body so that others could learn from her illnesses.
She loved education.
She loved nursing.
She loved opportunities for learning.
This opportunity was her dream come true.
On June 11, 2010, Karen Ann Lasnover died after a long relationship with Non-hodgkins lymphoma. That morning, as my husband and I were taking in the peace and overwhelm of her absent soul, the phone rang. It was the hospice bathing aide asking if she'd want a bath today. I'm afraid she won't, I told her. She just passed away a few minutes ago. Naturally, the aide felt awful. I certainly don't blame her for the unfortunate circumstances of her timing. In a certain way, actually, I appreciate the call. It brought me back to reality, to the looming question of "what do we do now?!" In the back of my mind, I knew that we couldn't stay there forever watching her lifeless body.
A few weeks prior, I'd made a call to the donation program, asking them if there was anything that would keep a body from being accepted. As soon as I heard them add 'bloating' to their relatively short list, I felt sincere concern. My mom's legs had been swelling for months, and recently, we'd been having to bandage them. Suddenly, with this new understanding of mine, her dream was on the line.
So, as deeply sad as I felt in those moments after her death, I was also deeply driven to make her dream a reality.
When did she pass away, they asked.
10 minutes ago, I replied.
Driven indeed.
So, after a 10-minute interview, we waited nervously by the phone until they called with the news 10 minutes later. The dichotomy of feeling was amazing--on the one hand, I missed my mom tremendously, felt in deep disbelief that she was really, really gone, after 9 years of chemo-free fight. And then, this phone call. This absolutely amazing acceptance of her body into the program.
Success.
Dream come true!
After all those years, suffering through pain and immense fear, she made the cut.
OHSU could be the proud borrower of a body full of tumors, yet completely devoid of chemicals. Well, I mean, there'd be the Oreo cookie and ice cream preservatives, as well as 50 years' worth of nicotine. But point being...
Chemo-free cancer patient in the hands of inquiring minds...
Cool. Simply amazing.
"All righta!" Mom would say.
So, yesterday afternoon, together with Lena and Geoff, I attended a memorial in honor of the 34 amazing individuals that gave their bodies to benefit humanity.
It was so far beyond anything I EVER expected from such an event. I wish I could just push play for you on the video that I didn't make. That feels easier than attempting to capture the power of the 2-hour ceremony and share it with you in words.
The first three speakers were program heads and directors of sorts. Distinguished men in dark suits. After a brief scan of the program, I had the same expectations that I did when I walked into the auditorium. How personal can this be? How interested can they keep us? How do you honor the lives of a random group of people with only two things in common--death and generosity?
My expectations were exceeded within the first 5 minutes. Dr. Gary Ciment is the director of the Gross Anatomy course, and was the first one to speak. As you may understand, Gross Anatomy refers to the course in which students dissect entire cadavers. Am I scaring them? Do they think this is gross? What I didn't know is that Gross Anatomy is the FIRST course that a first year med student takes. The first day of class, they walk into "thirty-four draped patients," which, as med student Ximeng Yang describes, is a "daunting sight for anyone. The rows of florescent lights, the continuous humming of the vents and neatly stacked reference books all played their parts in removing the 'humanness' from this experience. As we explored the intricacies of our anatomy, finding, by our standards, 'cool' anomalies, 'awesome' nerves and 'sweet' vessels, the focus became pure academic, our motions pure mechanical, and our patients reduced to mere learning objectives. But when you get a chance to take a moment and look around you, you would see 124 scrubbed medical students clustering around and hunching over their patients; you suddenly realize the beauty in the moment. In that room, 34 selfless individuals gave their physical existence in order to provide us with this learning opportunity. 34 patients, 34 tables, and an experience that will last 124 lifetimes. As time went on, we found our free hand holding theirs, as if to somehow comfort them. We walked in with greetings, and said 'Thank you, see you tomorrow' as we left for the day..."
I understand that for some people, this concept, the idea that 124 med students would be poking and prodding my mom in her still state, is over the top. But for me, it's completely fascinating and amazes me to no end. At the end of the memorial, there was a time for people to stand up and share. I forced myself to walk down from the balcony, past the 250 members of the audience, and onto the stage to share this state of wonder that I felt. My heart was racing and I felt overcome with nervousness. I had no idea what I was going to say, and knew that, even if I had, I'd forget it as soon as I stood in front of all those strangers. I was determined to overcome my fear this time, to stand in front of all those people with the belief that I could say something that might, somehow, make a difference to at least one of them.
So, there I stood, gazing out at all those people waiting for me to say something meaningful. I honestly don't remember much of what came out, but I do remember initially asking all the med students to raise their hands once again so I could see all of my mom's students in front of me. As soon as they were up, about 50 of them in total, it hit me. All those people with their hands raised, they saw my mom. Some of them, at least 4 of them, grew to know her in a more intimate way than I ever did, or ever could. They got to see parts of her body that my mom and I used to fascinate over in books, areas of her body that we could only see covered with skin. I felt completely overwhelmed. Amazed. They loved her in a sense, too, and found comfort and knowledge from her as I had in my life. The connection that I felt between us was immense, and so powerful.
After I shared a few of those same thoughts with them, as well as some tears that I was proud to not have fought back, more family members came to the stage to share in various ways about their altruistic loved one. I remember one woman in particular, who walked slowly up the stairs with a younger woman and man. She spoke slowly, ultimately saying that she had been in the OHSU medical school 58 years prior. She was an older African-American woman, meaning that, in 1952, when blacks were still banned from white anythings, this woman was attending med school. Even more impressive was what she said about her memory of her Gross Anatomy course. Throughout her nursing career, in every interaction with every patient she had, she carried the image of her very first patient--a body donor.
Towards the end of the sharing session, med students started coming to the mic, one by one. Most of them started by sharing that they initially had no intention of standing up to speak, but had been so moved by the entire experience that they couldn't hold back.
That's how I felt, too. Completely moved.
All these people standing on a stage afront a sea strangers, and I hung on their every word. Don't stop talking, I thought. Keep going. Tell me another story. Tell me what you learned, what you gleaned, what you saw. Tell me about the tumors, about her feet, and about her bumpy knuckles. Tell me how my mom made your life better.
And that they did. They made it clear, with their tears and their gratitude and their shared experiences, that my mom's gift touched their lives, just like she'd dreamed it would.
I had no idea. Maybe she did, which is why she started filling out the forms in 2001. But her kind, loving way and passion for education and learning made a difference for many. Dr. Bill Cameron, Associate Professor for the Department of Behavioral Neuroscience, created a calculation which allowed him to estimate how many lives would be touched and affected by the gift of body donation. If 90% of the class of 124 go on to be medical professionals, and each one practices for an average of 30 years, and sees an average of one new patient each day, my mom's gift will have touched a million lives. One million lives could be better because of my mom?
And that's on top of all the lives she affected while she was living.
A student by the name of Rachel stood up to speak right at the end of the service. "Yesterday was the two year anniversary of the death of my mom," she said. "When I was assigned a cadaver of a woman who died at the same age as my mom," she further explained, "I almost asked to transfer bodies. I didn't think I could handle it."
Listening to this girl speak, I felt excited about the prospect of her having worked with my mom. She spoke of her patient's painted toenails, which Lena and I thought Steph must have painted. She spoke of the woman's young age, too. Since my mom was only 66 was she died, I thought there was a really good chance she was describing the same woman.
Part of me wanted to just pretend that I knew, to tell myself that, in fact, Rachel had gotten to know Mom. It wouldn't really matter if I knew the difference, I told myself. Just pretend you know.
But, my curiosity got the best of me, and I grew more and more excited at the idea of being able to talk to someone who had been at my mom's table. Soon after her body was picked up, I called the program director and asked him if we'd be able to find out how, specifically, her body had benefitted them. Could they tell us what they learned, what they discovered, and how things really looked different in her body from the others? He told me that, unfortunately, HIPPA laws prohibited him from being able to give me any information. I felt sad and dismayed, but quickly returned to the idea that, regardless of the information that I knew, she would be furthering science in some way. But when I started to hear those students mention details of the men and women they worked with, my hopes returned that I might get a closer glimpse.
The room was illuminated once again, and I bounced out of my seat and down the stairs to start in on my quest. I figured I'd first find Rachel, since I felt relatively confident in my assumption. I found her quickly, as everyone else was in line for cookies and punch, and wasted little time.
"I was thinking that you might have worked with my mom, since you said you worked with a younger woman?" I asked.
She asked about Mom's age and cause of death, and then told me reluctantly that her patient had been 58 and died of leukemia. After making a bit of conversation with her, she pointed me in the direction of someone she thought might have worked with mom.
I made my way to the east corner of the room where a group of tall, good-looking guys were standing in a circle.
"Hi," I said, determined to overcome my social fear. "I'm hoping to find a student that worked with my mom, and I was told that you might have been at her table?"
Again, downloaded him with the details as the three other guys stared at me intently.
"Sorry," he said. "Our patient was older and died of lung cancer. But I think I know who might have been at her table."
My hopes were high as he walked me over to a guy across the room in a blue shirt. Again, I gently stepped into this circle of socializing students, hoping to achieve my mission. I'm sorry, he replied, as his friends looked my direction. Our patient was 75.
I braved my way through 3 other interactions like this, feeling completely awkward yet eager with each conversation I had. My head was spinning. What do they think of me? Am I making them uncomfortable? This is so awkward. They're all staring at me. One girl that I talked to told me that there was a list that had all the patients ages, genders and causes of death. "I wish I had my list on me," she said so sweetly. Me too, I thought. Me too.
I told her I was going to go talk to the director, as I'd been led to believe that he might be able to point me in the direction of 'my mom's group'.
After a brief, cordial conversation with him, however, my hopes were back where they'd been after my initial phone conversation.
"It would be nearly impossible to tell you that information," he said. "We have so little information about the patients, in part because it's hard enough for the students to work with the bodies. If they knew more, it would be even harder."
My mind went spinning even further. If I continue asking around to all these students, am I going to risk making them uncomfortable? If I do find them, is it going to be completely weird for them that the daughter of their cadaver is probing them for information?
And with that last thought, I gave up.
I let my meaning-making-machine give up on my mini dream within her big one.
As we drove away, I felt sad and disappointed. I got my hopes up, and then fell hard through awkwardness and embarrassment.
Recognizing and accepting those feelings, however, made room for the wonder to return. The fascination and amazement is deep enough to crowd out any negativity that arose with my upset.
It's clear to me that, regardless of my knowledge and understanding, my mom did her part. In some way, maybe even in a million ways, she made a difference. Her gift benefits the rest of us, in even further reaching ways than Dr. Cameron laid out in his calculations.
I am inspired in a way I never thought possible because of her generosity.
I am amazed and fascinated like I never knew I could be.
Thank you, Mom.
Thank you SO much for living your life as you did for me, and gifting it to the rest of humanity.
And thank you, students and faculty of OHSU.
It is clear, the respect you offered my mom, and awesome, the opportunity you created for her generosity to be appreciated.
You're in my heart forever.
For further photos and tributes:
http://tributes.com/show/Karen-Lasnover-88803679
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lasnover/sets/72157624264557201/show/
http://nonnativebilingualism.blogspot.com/2010/10/monkey-bench-switch.html
http://nonnativebilingualism.blogspot.com/2010/08/nana-lives-onand-on-and-on-and-on.html
Monday, November 29, 2010
Inspired for Real
I thought about doing this a week ago, starting yet another blog, but was thwarted by fear. Again. I thought it would be neat for me to have a blog where, instead of feeling the need to relate the topic to Kaya and our bilingual process, I could write about whatever came to me, about whatever topic hit me in the face. When I went seeking a name last week, however, and popped in a few ideas to checked their availability, I couldn't come up with anything that I liked enough to follow through with the idea. I let that be my excuse to listen to my doubts: Just stick with the blog you have. You have a niche there. You have automatic readers, people who will read it because of their interest in Kaya, in bilingualism, in parenting. If you start another blog, where are you going to get your readers? And what if you don't get any? AND, what will that mean about you, as a person with a blog with no focus? I was clear that no readers and no clear focus would clearly mean something about me. Something bad.
In other words, if they don't come, it wouldn't be because they didn't like my writing. It wouldn't be because they didn't like me. It would be, I told myself with confidence, because they didn't like the topic.
Rejection avoided.
Success.
The reason I write, lately, is because I love the process of breaking down a situation, putting it into words, analyzing the hell out of it to see if it makes sense and flows well, and then hoping to god (Should I capitalize that? Who am I going to offend if I do? If I don't? Should I say Buddha? That feels more appropriate for me, but sounds awfully awkward!) it will somehow make a difference in others' lives because it made a difference in mine.
I recognize, and can openly say now, that I write to make a difference for others. I have at least 40 journals from the past 30 years of my life, where I wrote for me, and only for me. I've hit a point, however, where I find that I love writing for others, recognizing that I love the process so much that writing for others becomes, in a sense, writing for myself.
In the past month, my blog on bilingualism morphed from a focus on my challenges with parenting in my non-native language to an arena where my primary intent was to dig deeper than I've ever dug and expose what's underneath. Beneath the anger, beneath the confusion, beneath the doubt.
Now, I find that I want to write about ALL sorts of things real, many of which have nothing to do with my role as a non-native speaker, or my place as a parent, but instead, everything to do with my existence as a person.
With this blog, I intend to create a space where I can be real, and inspire others through doing so. I'm excited, nervous, curious, and thankful to have been inspired to step around my fear and write from my heart, about whatever comes.
I can hear the thoughts now, very loudly: Now I'm a blogger just like everyone else. I have no focus. I'm writing about whatever. Why are they gonna wanna read what I write? Of course, there are counter thoughts, too, as you know. It's a whole conversation, usually: I do have a focus. Being real. I do have readers. They'll come from my other blog. At least some of them will. Right?
Self-doubt is so powerful, and for that reason, I write here, for you, for me, for the right to be real. Because maybe, just maybe, if I leave room for the possibility that it can be, your life will be a lot different, (better is all relative...) because you read what I wrote.
In other words, if they don't come, it wouldn't be because they didn't like my writing. It wouldn't be because they didn't like me. It would be, I told myself with confidence, because they didn't like the topic.
Rejection avoided.
Success.
The reason I write, lately, is because I love the process of breaking down a situation, putting it into words, analyzing the hell out of it to see if it makes sense and flows well, and then hoping to god (Should I capitalize that? Who am I going to offend if I do? If I don't? Should I say Buddha? That feels more appropriate for me, but sounds awfully awkward!) it will somehow make a difference in others' lives because it made a difference in mine.
I recognize, and can openly say now, that I write to make a difference for others. I have at least 40 journals from the past 30 years of my life, where I wrote for me, and only for me. I've hit a point, however, where I find that I love writing for others, recognizing that I love the process so much that writing for others becomes, in a sense, writing for myself.
In the past month, my blog on bilingualism morphed from a focus on my challenges with parenting in my non-native language to an arena where my primary intent was to dig deeper than I've ever dug and expose what's underneath. Beneath the anger, beneath the confusion, beneath the doubt.
Now, I find that I want to write about ALL sorts of things real, many of which have nothing to do with my role as a non-native speaker, or my place as a parent, but instead, everything to do with my existence as a person.
With this blog, I intend to create a space where I can be real, and inspire others through doing so. I'm excited, nervous, curious, and thankful to have been inspired to step around my fear and write from my heart, about whatever comes.
I can hear the thoughts now, very loudly: Now I'm a blogger just like everyone else. I have no focus. I'm writing about whatever. Why are they gonna wanna read what I write? Of course, there are counter thoughts, too, as you know. It's a whole conversation, usually: I do have a focus. Being real. I do have readers. They'll come from my other blog. At least some of them will. Right?
Self-doubt is so powerful, and for that reason, I write here, for you, for me, for the right to be real. Because maybe, just maybe, if I leave room for the possibility that it can be, your life will be a lot different, (better is all relative...) because you read what I wrote.
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