A Lotus Grows in the Mud (35 page)

“Y
ou got everything, Ollie?” Kurt asks as he peers into the back of Oliver’s 1972 blue Bronco.

“Yeah, Pa,” he yells back, his head deep inside the trunk, squashing his last duffel bag among his books, records, sports gear and prized fishing rod. We stand by the side of the road outside our home watching helplessly as he packs his belongings into his car for his first-ever move away from home.

“Oh, I almost forgot, your sheets are in the dryer,” I say, dashing back inside the house to grab the soft sheets that he loves so much. I roll them up, tuck them unceremoniously under my arm and run back out to the car. “Here they are, honey. You can’t leave without these.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, smiling his crooked smile at Pa as if to say, Gee, Mom and her sheets!

“Humor me,” I say. “It’s not every day your son goes away to college.”

So, here we stand, Kurt and I, in the middle of the street, watching our oldest child leave home. Braving it out, on the verge of tears, we make jokes, trying to act normal. After all, this is as it should be. We prepare our children to leave and seek a life of their own. I recall that day I left home, and the strength my mother and father showed. Only it’s me now. The roles have reversed.

Just then, John, Oliver’s friend who lives across the street, comes running toward the car carrying all of his bags. His mother, Lorraine, runs after him with some snacks she’s prepared for the journey.

“Johnny’s all ready,” she says as she puts the snacks in the car. “Isn’t it amazing that they’re going to the same university? How lucky is that?”

We all lock eyes and telepathically share the memories of car pools, sleepovers, lost walkie-talkies and—as they grew older—the late-night calls checking on the safety of our boys. But we say nothing. John and Oliver have been friends since they were seven years old, and now they are off together to experience the next chapter of their lives. Only they are going it alone.

“Okay, then,” Oliver says, emerging one last time from the trunk into the sunny California morning, his disheveled hair framing his shining face. “That’s about it. I guess it’s time to go.”

I look at him standing tall before me. Seventeen. Hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jeans self-consciously, not sure of what to do next. There is an awkward silence as if an angel is flying overhead. All I can think of is my tiny baby in that hospital, his heartbeat fluttering irregularly on the monitor above his cot, my hand pressed tenderly on his chest while I prayed for his life, so long ago.

I try to speak, to say something funny and glib like my father would have. “Don’t pick your nose in public. And remember to put the butter back in the icebox.” But I can’t find the words. I squeeze Kurt’s hand, knowing that he is feeling the same way. Where did the time go? How did Oliver speed through his childhood at such a pace? At this moment, we both want to turn back the clock and start all over again. Kate, my energetic firecracker of a daughter who ignites a room with her power and strength, is following hard on his heels. But, no, I can’t allow myself to think about that. It’s too unbearable.

I am happy that she is at school right now, for I fear her heart couldn’t bear to witness Oliver’s departure. Wyatt, also in class, is spared from this defining moment. I can still see him at Oliver’s graduation, holding on to his big brother for dear life, saying, “I don’t want him to go.” Then Ollie too, in his cap and gown, holding Wyatt close to him and lamenting, “I won’t see him grow up.” Our family unit is being disrupted and rearranged by the inevitable growing pains of life.

Oliver is his own person now, stepping out into the world just as I had, as we all have to. He is about to find his way, seeking his own unique
path on his own life’s journey. The umbilical cord is about to be stretched farther than it has ever had to stretch before. I can already feel it tugging at me deep inside.

“Come on,” John calls out from the other side of the Bronco, “let’s get on the road. I want it to still be light when this damn car breaks down.” He makes us laugh, breaking up my melancholy.

His mother pats him on the back. “Bye-bye, Johnny.” She seems to be in much better shape than Kurt and me.

“Okay, then, guys, you’d better get going,” Kurt says, letting go of my hand. He takes Oliver in his arms and squeezes him close with all his might. “Go get ’em, honey.”

I love how Kurt calls Oliver “honey.” I love how physical and loving he is with the children. Watching them embrace, I recall the first time Kurt ever laid eyes on Oliver. He met Oliver when he was only six years old, at a baseball game in San Diego, a year before he met me. Serendipitously, Kurt happened to be one of the ballplayers. He noticed the shy young boy sitting all alone on the bench. He sat next to Oliver and asked him if he wanted to play catch, and he did. They’ve been playing catch ever since.

I feel like my heart is shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. Now it is my turn. Taking a deep sigh, I bury my head in Oliver’s chest and try desperately not to cry. “Way to go, Ollie, you did it. Have fun, honey.” I’m trying to remain as upbeat as I can.

He knows I’m faking it. He gently takes me by the shoulders and says, “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be okay. Boulder’s not that far away, and I’ll be back all the time.”

“I know, I know.” I can’t help but remember how I tried to console my mother with the same naïve chant: “I’ll be home soon, Mom. I’m not going away forever.” But I was going away forever, and so is Ollie.

“Bye,” I finally say, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Be careful, okay? Don’t drive too fast. Oh, and don’t forget to call when you get there.”

Kurt takes my hand and squeezes it hard. Hang on, the squeeze is saying. Keep it light, and just hang on a little longer.

Oliver jumps in the driver’s seat and starts to turn the key in the ignition. John—my “fourth son”—jumps in the other side. Oliver starts the car, then leans out the window. “Gentlemen, start your engines.” He laughs.

Oliver takes one last look at Kurt and me, standing arm in arm in the street. I know he is capturing this snapshot moment in his memory, just as I had done. Now it’s my turn to stand and wave.

Oliver guns the engine, lays some rubber for laughs and peels out down the street. He is the joker, just like his grandfather, Rut, always breaking the tense moments with a flourished smile.

Kurt and I lean against each other, waving and smiling, smiling and waving, until our son’s car finally disappears from view. John’s mother, Lorraine, is across the street waving too. Catching her eye, we laugh at ourselves and wander back to our respective homes. The energy has distinctly changed.

Kurt and I walk quietly through our front door, unable to speak just yet.

Taking my hand, he leads me upstairs to Oliver’s bedroom. Pushing open the door against a tide of abandoned sneakers, jeans and T-shirts all heaped on the floor, we walk in and sit on his bed. Looking around at his belongings—his picture of Kurt and himself white-water-rafting in Colorado, a marlin he caught that we had stuffed, a photo of me holding him when he was a baby, an old fisherman’s lamp I bought him, trophies from karate and his hockey stickers—we sit in silence, letting the tears flow, wallowing unashamedly in the sadness of this passage in life.

“I can’t imagine Oliver not being here,” Kurt says softly.

“Me too, honey. Me too.”

B
eing a mother has been my finest and most joyous role, other than that of being a daughter. I loved being surrounded by my kids, in the house, all day, every day. I loved the activity, the busyness, the constancy of it all, the mealtimes, the snuggling, the middles of the night, the “Mommy! Mommy!” I loved being the one who had all the answers.
I loved the way they looked up to me with those big eyes, so adoringly, so uncensored, with so much raw love. I was the queen of the universe.

When they were little, I’d flash forward and try to prepare myself for the moment they’d leave. I imagined what fun it would be helping them fix up their first home, watching them fall in love, get married and have babies of their own. But nothing prepared me for the pain of this moment. The empty-nest syndrome is real. Everything changes. My father once said that when we kids left the house, we took the oxygen with us. Now I understand. Starved of my life force, my arms felt weak and useless with nothing to nurture, nothing to hold.

Thrown back on our own resources, we are forced to reexamine the parts of ourselves that we put on hold while our kids were growing up. We have to reexamine our relationship to ourselves. Who are we now? What are the things we sacrificed along the way?

“I lost me,” the character played by Susan Sarandon railed in a movie I did called
The Banger Sisters.
How many of us understand that feeling? We have to ask what we care about now, what our passions are. The most frightening aspect for many people, especially women, is the “What happens now?”

And, of course, one of the most important questions we are faced with at this time is the nature of our relationship with our partner. Losing our children to their new lives leaves us naked. We have only each other now. It can be very frightening to stand there stripped bare, trying to remind ourselves of the person we first fell in love with. Sometimes panic can set in. Some of us flee our relationships in denial, sensing our own mortality, fearing that the stopwatch ticking away to our old age has now begun.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Not if we keep this most inevitable of moments clear and alive in our minds while we are raising our children. We must make sure that we don’t wake up only when they’re eighteen years old and leaving home and it’s too late. The key is to continue to find places to enjoy each other and have fun as partners while the children are still growing. To make sure we don’t sacrifice every single living breath for the children. We need to take special time every year, even if
only an occasional night at a hotel. We need to say to our kids, “Mommy and Daddy are going to play now. You’ve got your sandbox; we need ours.” Believe me, they’ll cope. Not only will our relationships be healthier, but our kids relish Kurt’s and my time alone together, because it makes them feel secure knowing that their parents are still in love.

Faced with this time in my life, I once again remembered the words of my father. “What did you learn today, Go?” he used to say. I’m still trying to learn something new every day. Sad as it is to lose our children to the world, it allows us to set out on a whole new path. It gives us a chance to satiate our curiosity, to embrace life’s magic and all of its unanswerables. To be fired up by the things that excite and ignite us. There is so much still to learn, to see, to experience and to feel.

Wonder has not left the building.

A
fter one of my meditations, I wrote the following:

O
ne smile can mark you forever. It did me. I met a little boy in Lima, Peru, who melted my heart, and took me on an unexpected journey to the heights of joy as well as to the depths of despair. Another left-hand turn.

It is unusually chilly in Lima. I arrived last night from Los Angeles, at the request of an organization called Operation Smile, which travels the world helping children who need reconstructive facial surgery. I’ve always wanted to give in some way to this special charity that flies volunteer doctors to third world countries to help deformed children whose cultures sometimes believe they have been touched by the devil.

“Yes,” I finally said to the call, “I can go.” The charity gave me the option of traveling to Vietnam, Africa or Peru. The Lima dates were the only ones that fit my schedule, and, happily, Kurt, Oliver and Boston were able to join me.

The plan is to go on to some of the ancient Incan sights I’ve always wanted to see. But what we found first in Lima was greater than any anthropological site. We found a human spirit, so alive, so joyful, and yet also so damaged and so scared.

We are on our way to meet the doctor from Operation Smile who will perform the surgery. One by one, we peel out of the elevator of our hotel, jet-lagged and bleary-eyed. He is waiting for us, sitting in the lobby in his overcoat, sipping coffee.

“I hope we’re not late,” I say apologetically.

“No, not at all,” he says, rising to shake our hands. “But we should get going. There are two hundred kids waiting for us at the hospital.”

“Two hundred? Are you going to operate on all of them?”

“No.” He smiles sadly as he opens the door to the van and we all shuffle in and sit down. “The children you’re about to see are all suffering from some sort of facial deformity. Some are far worse than others, and some we simply can’t help. But the majority, we hope to do something about, eventually.”

It’s misting and gray outside as our van weaves its way through the wet streets of Lima until we reach the old hospital. It is run-down and cavernous, and reminds me of the old hotel in Livorno, Italy, where I first met my loving friend Aldo. Inside the grubby hallway, with its green paint peeling off the walls, the acrid smell of antiseptic cuts the air. It feels as cold and unwelcoming as the Peruvian winter.

Walking down a long corridor, we glance into the many empty rooms. Simple cots are cramped together and lined up against the cold wall, just waiting to bed the sick. I am so grateful that at least part of our family is together for this experience. It is unlike anything we have ever done together before. The vacations we took before were always to places with beautiful white sandy beaches, or we rode bikes through France, or we went to England, making fun excursions to the Tower of London atop a red double-decker bus. It is good to be here, very good.

We can hear the children before we can see them. Trailing toward a wide, open hallway, the noise of laughing, screaming and excited chattering greets us.

“Prepare yourselves,” the doctor warns.

Rounding the corner, we are met with a wall of faces and sound. The children let out a huge cheer, squealing and clapping and pressing forward to meet us. A camera crew turns on their lights, the paparazzi start snapping away, and everyone jockeys for position in the melee.

I spot a young boy’s face behind all the others in the crowd. A dark, middle-aged woman, perhaps an Operation Smile volunteer, is lifting him up. He’s waving his hands wildly at us, or so it seems. His mouth is
extremely deformed, but he has the widest, most compelling smile I have ever seen. Beams of light burst out of his mouth. His eyes dance with happiness. Shy and self-conscious he isn’t. His electricity, his aura, his joy is so blinding that, for a moment, I can see nothing else.

Spotting us from across the room, he extends his arms with great zest toward Kurt and me. As if pulled by a magnet, we are drawn to him, sharing in his joy. What power this little Incan child possesses! The boys follow us as we cut through the crowd to be practically attacked by his hugs and kisses. His mouth is unable to close because of the severity of his condition. His sloppy kisses lift my heart. He has Kurt and I in a tight headlock, both his arms clamped around our necks, laughing and kissing one and then the other. We look at each other and smile. We are clearly falling in love with this very tenacious spirit.

I can tell from the guttural noises the boy is making in his throat that he cannot speak. “What’s his name?” I ask the woman who was holding him.

“Juan Carlos,” she says. “He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

“Are you his mother?” Kurt asks.

“No, I run the orphanage where he lives in Trujillo. I told him he was too old for this surgery, when he saw it on television. He saw the pictures of the other children who’d been helped. He became most insistent. I had to borrow a truck and drive all the way here. It is very far. But Juan knows how to get what he wants.”

I am shocked that Juan is an orphan; he seems so happy. I wonder if he is like this all the time. “Are his parents dead?”

“No, he ran away from home when he was four years old because he was so badly beaten. His family were very ignorant and thought he was possessed by the devil. He lived on the streets for at least two years, we think. He only came to us when the police picked him up.”

The more I hear, the more attached I become to this child. I look at his tattered clothes. I see that he has no shoes. Suddenly, I want to do everything I can to help him. I wave the doctor over, who is talking to some volunteers, and introduce him to Juan.

Juan takes his arm and puts it around his neck and kisses him. “Wow, what a grip!” the doctor laughs.

“Listen,” I tell the doctor. “I know you’ve chosen a little girl. But if we choose another child, will you operate on her anyway?”

“Yes.” He nods.

“Then I’d love Juan to be our child too.”

The doctor speaks quickly in Spanish to the woman who brought Juan to the hospital, and the smile falls from his face. He leads us away to another part of the room. Although Juan has also melted his heart, it seems he is too old for the charity’s work. “Juan is seven, and we only operate on those under seven,” he explains. “That age was chosen because it makes the recovery easier, and because we have to stop somewhere.”

“Please?” I plead. “He isn’t much older than seven, and they may not know his true age anyway.”

“We’ll see.”

We are whisked off to another part of the hospital to meet the other children who are going to be operated on today. It is excruciating, meeting these kids who have been rejected from birth, and who, feeling like freaks of nature, have been so badly damaged psychologically that they may never integrate fully into society. All the while, though, I can’t stop thinking about Juan.

Coming back to the children, Juan is still waiting there, still beaming that smile of his. I turn to the doctor and press my hand on his arm. “So, what’s the answer?” I ask.

He pauses, looks from Juan to me, and back again, and then sighs. “How can I possibly say no?”

When all the necessary paperwork has been completed and the doctors are ready, we escort Juan to the operating room for his surgery. He is such a brave little soldier, seemingly completely unafraid. We all have to dress in green scrubs, which are not my outfit of choice. The worst part is that I have to wear a horrible green hat and tuck my bangs up under it. Looking in the mirror, I now know the reason I never got the part of a Copa girl when I was dancing in New York: my forehead is so high when you pull the hair back from my face. Throwing caution to the wind, and looking pretty much like my father, I come out, take one look at Kurt in his hat and laugh. He doesn’t look so hot either.

The cameras of a documentary crew rolling, the four of us looking
like goodness knows what, we don masks and gloves and help get Juan ready. He is so happy and excited that he can hardly contain himself. Kurt lifts him into his arms and carries him in.

The doctor tells me, “Goldie, would you please sit here? And, Kurt, can you put Juan in Goldie’s arms?”

Juan is so happy to be plopped into my lap. He throws his arms around my neck, kisses my face, bounces up and down in my lap and can’t wait to get started. We’re all standing around looking at him and laughing, bubbling over with happiness and expectation. It couldn’t have been more different than my childhood experience of having my tonsils out at seven and being terrified of the sterile, seemingly hostile environment of the operating room.

My nose wrinkles at the horrible smell in the room, which only reminds me of that bad memory. I can see from Boston’s and Oliver’s faces that they can smell it too. “Is something leaking?” I ask the anesthesiologist.

“No.” He laughs. “It’s just the gas. Here, try to get Juan to put this mask on his face, but go gently—kids are often very frightened by this part.”

Someone tells Juan in Spanish what’s about to happen.

The anesthesiologist needn’t have worried. Even though the mixture smells bad, Juan grabs that mask and sucks in with everything he’s got. There isn’t an ounce of fear in this tough little street kid. He looks up at me with an expression that says, Aren’t I doing good? The more he breathes in, the heavier he becomes in my arms, all the light and life and energy dripping away from him. When I can feel the full weight of Juan’s body, as he gives in to the gas, Kurt helps the doctor lift him off me and lays him, deadweight, on the operating table.

The surgery begins. My family gathers round while the anesthesiologist sits at Juan’s head monitoring vital signs. I look at my children and Kurt, our eyes meeting above our masks, with looks of amazement that we are really here, sharing this moment. This is a most unusual Monday morning.

Now that Juan’s face is in repose, we are able to see for the first time just how disfigured he is. We want him to be helped even more. We all
participate in our own way. The doctor calls for a scalpel, and Oliver hands it to him. I give him the scissors he asks for. We watch in awe as he takes the scalpel and begins to cut into Juan’s face, sculpting a new mouth.

Over the next two hours, we watch in fascination as the doctor moves what there is of Juan’s palate, bringing his massive top lip down, and cuts into his flattened nose. With delicacy I can hardly believe, he creates a brand-new mouth, a new nose, a completely different appearance. I wonder if Juan will ever be able to smile as big again.

As he’s stitching Juan up, the surgeon says, “This will make him look better, but, unfortunately, he’ll need more surgery, and he still won’t be able to speak clearly. But at least he won’t be so persecuted.”

When it’s all over, Kurt picks Juan up, and, as we all follow, carries him down the hallway to the recovery room and lays him in his bed. The surgery complete, it is time for us to say good-bye. Although I knew this moment would come, it suddenly feels terribly hard. I am already so attached to this child. Oh, Goldie, I scold myself, you’re being a hopeless romantic. Straighten up and fly right. You’ve done your bit; you’ve all done a good thing. Now walk away.

But I hear myself telling the doctor, “Please, I want to know what happens to Juan. I want to pay for his second operation. Can you contact me and let me know what happens to him?”

He readily agrees.

Each of us kisses Juan’s head as he is rousing, restlessly, and say good-bye. Taking our leave, we back up, watching him being tended by the nurses, and prepare ourselves to say farewell to all these wonderful volunteers who make the work of this charity possible.

But I still can’t get Juan out of my mind. When we’ve said good-bye to everyone, and, just before we are due to leave, I run back to his room to see him one last time. He is groggy now, and in considerable pain. His eyes are deeply unhappy. His mood is aggressive and uncooperative and full of anger. I am as affected by his pain as I was by his joy. For the first time, I see a different side to this tormented child, the part he hid from us behind his seductive smile.

O
ur journey continues, and we travel to all the places we have wanted to see. Machu Picchu, the Valley of the Gods, and thirteen thousand feet up to Cusco, where we meet the oldest living Incan, a shaman, who gives us blessings in a holy cave. Everywhere I go, I see Juan’s face. He is so of this land and of the spirit of Peru. I have sensed his incredible spirit and exuberance from the beginning, but the more I see of this extraordinary country, the more I understand who he is.

The people of this mountainous land worship the sun. Juan has reminded me of the sun from the moment I saw him. He has such a deep connection to this ancient form of worship, and I suddenly want him to see all this with me one day, to know what his roots are, who his tribe is and what he belongs to. I want him to reconnect to his spiritual life, having had so little spiritual life in his formative years. And I want to be with him when he does.

Over the next six months, I am in constant contact with Operation Smile. They tell me of Juan’s progress, and let me know when he’s ready for his second operation, which will enable him to speak. I ask them what I can do to help. “Could you host a fund-raising dinner at your home?” they ask. I agree immediately.

In my backyard, I create a vibrant celebration of life. I invite musicians from around the world and from all different cultures, and the theme is laughter and joy. It is a great turnout, the music is fabulous, and everyone is dancing and having fun. The event is covered by
In Style
magazine, and we raise a lot of money for this charity.