Norma Exferd walked into St. John’s Lutheran Church in Townsend, Wisconsin, holding her Bible. St. John’s was the church of which her husband had been treasurer, and where some of her six children were married, baptized, or eulogized. Many smiling faces greeted her. Everyone in town knew her or was related to someone who knew her. She was my grandma.
She took her usual place in the first pew on the right side and set down her rarely-used tan handbag, a handbag which usually held nothing more than a once shiny gold compact, some folded Kleenex and a pen from the Suring State Bank. Her long gray hair looked like cotton candy pulled up into a bun, and it was held in place with two tortoise shell combs that framed her deeply creased face. She wore her Sunday best—a light-green, knee-length dress with white polka dots and a matching jacket that had three-quarter sleeves. Grandma’s only jewelry was her thin gold wedding band, a Timex watch, and a rhinestone brooch. Support stockings and tan orthopedic shoes from a mail-order catalogue completed her outfit. Townsend was unincorporated then and didn’t offer much for shopping.
Quiet chatter surrounded her, and she felt at peace. She had lived a hard life. Growing up poor on a farm and raising a family of six on a farm, Grandma always made do. She was full of grace. She admired the beautiful wood carving of the Last Supper displayed below the pulpit—the one she had donated several years earlier in memory of her beloved husband, Hank. She never complained of the pain from a hump on her upper back—especially painful when sitting in a wooden pew.
Looking down at her wrinkled and age-spotted hands folded in prayer atop her matching well-worn King James Bible with dog-eared pages, Grandma drifted back in time.
Her clear, blue eyes welled up with tears as she reminisced about all those who had left her. She always accepted God’s plan. Then she smiled with pride, counting in her still-sharp mind five surviving children, seventeen grandchildren, thirty-four great grandchildren, and seven great great grandchildren. She marveled at the technological changes she had witnessed over the past ninety-six years, from the classic Model A and Model T cars that used to be stored in a shabby wooden shed to the light blue Ford pick-up truck that only Grandpa drove.
Rich organ music resonated throughout the simple church–“I Know That My Redeemer Lives” brought Grandma back to the present. She picked up a hymnal, turned to page two hundred and sixty-four and began to sing. Her heart sang too, and she praised God for another Sunday morning.

It all started about twenty-one years ago, at an army base in sleepy Imperial Beach, California. There was a small, serious man named Carrol (yes, Carrol) James Kloster who helped build fighter planes, but always dreamed of being a baker. He went by the name of Jim for obvious reasons. He grew up on a farm in Minnesota and was raised by a hard-working German couple who barely spoke a word of English. He met a young woman named Janice Marie King, a loud, outspoken woman with two young boys name Ronnie and Kevin. She joined the army at the age of 18 to get away from her strict southern mother, who believed the only proper career for a woman was that of a full-time wife and mother. Her second husband, Ronnie Harrell, was horribly abusive. She was on the run, and Jim Kloster was happy to be her knight in shining armor. He had just gone through a nasty and bitter divorce and had full custody of his teenage children, one girl and one boy, Julie and Andrew. Jim and Janice fell in love. When Janice got pregnant, they tried to make it work, but Jim didn’t want to raise another baby at the age of 55. Janice moved to Milwaukee to care for her dying brother, confident that she could raise her three children—Kevin, Ronnie, and Tyana on her own. This is the story I heard all of my life.

Growing up I always wanted to meet my father. I fantasized about him swooping in and taking care of me, about living in California and about living a care-free, privileged life. I fantasized about not worrying about money or dealing with my mother’s crazy mood swings and outbursts. I fantasized that, if only he were given the chance to know me, he would be enamored, that I would be his golden girl, and that we would be a father-daughter team the likes of which the world has never known. I fantasized that some day he would come to his senses and rescue his long lost daughter from the horror he had left her in. I waited a long time for that day—until I became a teenager. After 13 years of waiting, I was pisssed off at everyone, really, but especially at my father—that low down snake in the grass who abandoned me, and who I imagined was living it up somewhere in California. He used to send me a birthday card every year, and every year it had a crisp 20 dollar bill in it. My mom would take me to Toys ‘R’ Us and I could get whatever I wanted. But eventually the cards stopped coming. I wondered if he had forgotten about me, if he had a new family that he was showering with love and crisp 20 dollar bills. I imagined a young girl my age who had my ideal life and my father on the other side of the country. I blamed him for everything that was wrong with my life.

When we arrived in San Diego International Airport, I felt sick to my stomach. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember all the things I’d rehearsed in my head to say to him. My tongue felt glued to the bottom of my mouth. I thought that upon seeing him, I would explode with emotions. I thought something might be triggered, informing me that, yes, this is your father. He is connected to you. I thought I would at the very least recognize him. I thought I would feel something. But, after stepping off the plane and seeing this short, stern man with leathery skin, all my built-up emotions vanished. In its place was curiosity. Was this the mythical man I had seen in my dreams? This was him? Looking back on it now, I can’t help but chuckle a little.

The first day consisted mostly of small talk. No one wanted break the thin ice that existed between me and father. My father was nearly 70 years old, and his mental sharpness was wavering. His wife, who was a bubbly, six-foot tall Dutch woman, explained he’d had a stroke years back and his brain never quite recovered. Often when you spoke to him you had to say things twice. He thrived on routine. Every morning, he ate a breakfast of potato bread toast, two poached eggs and a seemingly bottomless mug of black coffee. As he ate his sensible breakfast on their outdoor deck, he’d work on the daily crossword until he was satisfied it was complete and correct. Then he would hop on his bicycle and ride for two hours, stopping only once to visit a coffee shop where the staff knew his name and his order by heart. It was hard for me to believe that this incredibly ordinary man was the same man I had demonized for so long.

One day, my father told me about his parents. He told me that up until they passed a year ago, he used to visit them every summer in his RV. This seemingly charming piece of information made me explode. I wondered why he’d never stopped to visit me. I couldn’t believe that we were in the same state at the same time on so many occasions. Suddenly the distance was no longer regional. He just plain didn’t think about me too much, except on Christmas and my birthday when Sharon reminded him to mail his yearly cards. I told him how his absence had hurt me, how volatile my mother had been while off her medication we could no longer afford, how my step-father only spoke to me to yell at me. I said some things I didn’t even mean. My tongue was no longer glued to my mouth. Once I started I couldn’t stop. He stared at me with a concerned look on his face.

Finally, he said, “I had no idea your life was so difficult. I thought your mother had it under control. I thought she had married a good man. I didn’t want to interfere.” Somehow, this answer was enough for me. He was simply following his routine. He was not the type of person to reach out to a child thousands of miles away if he thought everything was okay. He was not the warm, loving father I’d always imagined when I was a child; he was not the cold, distant millionaire I’d created as a teenager. He was just a man. An old, simple man who liked predictability and routine. He liked to follow a plan. I was never part of his plan, so I never became part of his routine.

Staring out the window of my father’s tan Chevy pick-up truck, I felt a sense of calm and relief. I was returning to Milwaukee. For the first time in my life, I knew who I was. I no longer fantasized about this glorious life I could’ve have with my father if my parents had only stayed together. I was no longer split in half-one black, one white. I was not my mother’s daughter or my father’s daughter. Finally, I was a whole person. Although my father could never give me the relationship I’d always wanted, meeting him brought new meaning to my life.

            The trek out to Suicide Slope is a grueling one.  We have made the journey a dozen times knowing full well what awaited us.  This time as we hiked, we talked.  Sometimes about the past; sometimes about the future.  I never was very good at dwelling on the present, instead looking towards the next adventure, almost forgetting the current one.  You see, even the walk to our destination is filled with ups and downs; the journey to our adventure taking just as much out of us as the end result would.

            About ten years ago, my friend feared for his life.  A battle with a serious illness could have left him a corpse.  It would seem that this gave impetus to his future self.  This condition is what pushed him forward when none of us could.  This man, a mere child at the time, never wept about the uncertainty of his life; never feared; never worried.  The day to day struggles seemed to pale in comparison with what he was fighting but because he never focused on the ailment, never gave it power, it freed him as only a pure lack of fear can.

            We walk along, the wind burning our faces, the ice particles in the air stinging and scratching their signatures into our exposed flesh.  Towing the sleds behind us, we march resolutely down the third steepest hill that we will deal with this day.  Slipping and occasionally falling into the knee-deep snow gives us time for laughter, time to reflect.  We pause and catch our icy, wind-driven breath before we go on.  In the distance, through the blizzard, we can make out the raging, cragged peak we will assault.  The trees moan in the crisp, howling air, branches cracking and snapping to our left and our right.

            In high school, he wasn’t a great student or even an attentive one.  We spent many days playing hooky and going hiking and fishing instead of preparing for a future that we hadn’t signed up for.  It was about this time that this person in question met his foil . . . in the form of a girlfriend.  L. was insightful, and she could see the brains in this underweight, fragile little kid.  She glowed about his good qualities, but was never slow to criticize his failings.  In her, he caught a glimpse of redemption in his future.  She nagged him incessantly, feeling that he was throwing away the many wonderful chances he was being given to become more than he was.  He resented her for those same expectations; he didn’t know how long he would live.

            As time wore on, the fights grew worse.  It was never one-sided; she punched, and kicked, and slapped him and he gave it right back.  There was no animosity at the end, not evening a true parting of ways.  Rather, there was the tacit though unspoken acknowledgment that each had affected the other in their own manner and neither would be the same.

            We see a field mouse scamper through the snow in the field just ahead and below us.  To the west, a solitary ray of sun creeps from beneath a veneer of thick, gunmetal-gray clouds.  Like a groundhog seeing its shadow, this beacon of spring days soon to come appears but then quickly takes leave, sneaking back into its lair.  We reflect for a moment on how all of this has come about.  How we know to come here for the thrill of sliding head first down a dangerously steep slope; a journey which will end in glorious triumph or painful tragedy.  How do we know that this thing we do will, in fact, make the best memories regardless of the outcome of this day?

            After his breakup, my friend spent a lot of his time with temp agencies.  A hard worker, he had many jobs he enjoyed but few that would last for more than a week.  After two and a half years of bouncing around the workforce, he landed a gig with a standards and testing facility.  If you have a lock on your front door, there’s a good chance that the original has passed through his hands.  Picked, smashed, frozen, destroyed.  Sent back, re-imagined, re-engineered, re-sent, re-tested.  Taken apart, put back together, and given a seal of approval.  A stirring metaphor for his life.

            After hiking a quarter mile up the dreaded Suicide Slope, we gaze at creation from its peak.  Our lives exist in a kind of quantum flux, precariously perched on the aether with nothing on all sides and empty space both forward and backward from this moment.  I sigh, a sign that my body is content with our journey.  Our adrenal glands have yet to be emptied so we sight down the runway leading to the ravine that will provide a sweet though temporary release once the bottom is reached.

            My friend currently lives in a nice place in a nice city.  His dreams now evolve with the rest of his life.  This may seem like a game of catch-up to some, but he views it differently.  When pressed, he sighs and says, “I like where I’m at.  You can’t get to where you’re going if you don’t like where you’re at.”  This is another example of his day to day philosophy.  You need to focus on being content in the now before you can worry about where you’re going and if you’re ever going to get there.

            We pause at the top of the Slope, neither of us saying a word.  The blizzard has long since relaxed its frozen grip, and the quiet stillness of the world is now reborn.  A deep breath, another sigh, and it’s time to ride hell-bent for snow.  We take turns, and I consider it an honor to watch him go first.  Down the slope, over the ice jump we recently installed at the halfway point, and now to the tricky part–the turn.  Although the Slope looks steep, it is not this that threatens our bodies nor chills our souls.  At the bottom there is a hairpin turn which none of us have made yet.  Instead, for those doomed to failure, there lies a twisted, gnarly patch of thorny brambles at the base of the hill.

            Generally opting for survival and maintaining all of our limbs intact, we’ve made it a practice to jump clear of the sled just before reaching the menacing patch of spikes and pain.  But this day, something is different.  I see him glide down, loft over the small jump and land with an explosion of snow.  He is still sliding at breakneck speed when I lose sight of him at the bottom.  Steeling my nerves against this haphazard attempt on my life, I sit Indian-style on my sled and push off.

            I veer to the left and just miss the jump; by doing so, my speed increases exponentially.  Racing down the Slope, the wind deafening me, I see the end in sight.  A sharp, ice-coated curve veers up in front of me.  I slide and then push all my weight to the back left of the hideous hell-wrought contraption beneath me.  The icy snow makes a grating, crunching sound as I pass over it, and in one instant I clear the curve.  I find that the trail here makes a 90 degree bend and leads straight up another, steeper Slope. 

            But I am not a lone explorer. I see my friend sitting there, gazing up at the next challenge.  Our eyes meet and in the same instant we smile.  Neither of us has ever made it this far.  No one has seen what we now behold.  By waiting to conquer the curve before we go on, we have realized a new sense of exploration and wonder at what lies ahead, and for the second time this day the sun rises in the east.

It was a beautiful day in Charleston, SC.  The sun-drenched sky was gleaming across a cloudless blue canvass; a perfect day on vacation for our traditional trip downtown.

We embraced the sultry heat of August to take on the bustling market.  Five blocks of endless tables each with a different vendor selling something more colorful and intriguing than the next.  After purchasing my treasures, we headed to our next stop–Wet Willies–for a fruity frozen beverage and a blast of refreshingly icy air conditioning.

Our day continued as we walked down the cobblestone street, passing pastel historical homes along Rainbow Row.  I stopped to admire the glistening water lapping the shoreline along the Battery, only to find my boyfriend trying to get my attention with a light tug of my arm.

There he was, down on one knee, squinting into the bright sun.  I couldn’t speak; I was so surprised, nervous and excited all at once; my stomach turned from the feel of 100 butterflies fluttering.  I pulled him from the ground and ignored the sweat we were both drenched in, hugging and kissing, tasting the salt from our skin.  This was the most exhilarating moment of my life.  So much anticipation leading up to that very moment, and it was perfect.

The princess-cut diamond surrounded by 36 dazzling diamonds now displayed on my left hand sparkled in the summer sun.  I stared at it in disbelief as we walked to our next destination, which was unknown to me.  I was so distracted and preoccupied with my newfound bling, I hadn’t realized that I was standing in the luxurious lobby of the Market Pavilion Hotel.

Our room was rich and lavish–by far the fanciest hotel I had ever set foot in.  We found mouth-watering strawberries dressed in chocolate tuxedos accompanied by bubbling champagne, bottles we immediately popped to celebrate.

 That night, as I enjoyed the steeple filled skyline view from our balcony, sipping velvety merlot, I saw my fiancé across from me; I had never felt so adored, so loved.  This was the most romantic, blissful day I’d ever had.

Los Angeles, California, January 7, 2003. We arrived as newborn babies out of a womb of isolation and despair to a world of freedom and stimulation with new people staring at us from every direction. To fully understand this moment, I must take you back exactly six days prior to our arrival in L.A., back to my parents’ basement in Milwaukee, WI.

On December 31, I was in my room, a half-finished basement room that contained my bed, a large sectional couch, an old 1990’s version flat screen television, and a six foot pool table in the middle of the room. I don’t recall all the people there that day, but the two people whom I definitely remember being there were Jon, whom we called only by his last name, “Bunch,” and the local pro skateboarder Greg Lutzka. In that basement we passed vast amounts of free time, especially in the long, frigid, winter months here in the Midwest.

New Year’s Day is often a time to make resolutions, but Jon, Greg, and I had no idea what big changes would be soon taking place in our lives. We were in the middle of a game of pool when I shouted, “After New Years there won’t be anything to look forward to for at least another four months.”  So, depressed and anxious for some kind of substantial change in our lives and environment, we brainstormed different ideas about possible solutions to our dilemma. Should we all move in together? Get a place downtown or somewhere? Travel for a couple months? Our brains were looking for positive reinforcement, screaming “Why? What the hell are we doing here?” Then just as all great movements begin, we had the idea. California, yeah, that would be paradise, but did we actually have it in us?

I remember looking at places on the Internet and being astonished at the price of a one bedroom that was offered for $1,100 a month. Nice place, it seemed, but five hundred and fifty square feet for that price! We quickly cancelled the first California plan and went back to the drawing board. Again dead ends–nothing seemed as close to perfect for us as California. The only way we could do it, though, was if all three of us shared a one room apartment. We figured out a few more of the minor details and decided we would sleep on it and talk some more about it the following day.

Wow, was I excited! My mind was going a million miles an hour, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about it all night. Later that next afternoon, we started discussing the idea again, and to my dismay it seemed as if Jon and Greg were completely against it now.  I said, “What are you guys thinking? We had all these great ideas going last night, and now you are both over it? Come on! Don’t you want to rid yourselves of comforts and security and live in the now? Let’s do this! We only have the now!” 

Seemingly, they were shocked and moved by my enthusiasm; maybe I was getting through to them. The energy in the room ignited like a wild burning forest fire. At that point the idea was much too electrifying to diminish or contain. We seemed to have solutions to every weary question and answers to the entire unknown.

Now, we were ready to leave immediately, but first things first; we needed to find a place to live. We cautiously looked for a few hours but kept coming back to the place we had found the previous evening. “Regency Palms” was advertised as a large apartment complex in Huntington Beach. It had pools, hot tubs and was just few blocks from the Pacific Ocean and only about twenty miles south of L.A. For no more than fifteen minutes, we pondered booking it. We fully understood that by renting the place we would be completely liable, and there would be no turning back. I called and the phone rang twice and a feminine voice answered, “Hello, Regency Palms.” I was at a complete loss for words, but after taking a second to gather myself, I was able to give the necessary information. Now the place was booked, and the security deposit was paid for occupancy starting that day!

First, we had to tell our parents we’d be out of their houses in two days because we were moving to California. Our parents must have thought we were crazy, and their reactions showed how much confidence they had in us. We were then quizzed about when, why, how, and just about every doubt a parent should and could possibly have. They had no trust in us whatsoever. I immediately started to alleviate some of their concerns with the “We Are Big Boys Now speech,” being quite positive that Jon and Greg at that very moment were having the exact same conversation with their parents. The movement was developing.

The next day, plans went into high gear! Jon and I started to gather the necessary supplies. Renting the U-haul was our first mission; I say mission because that is what it turned into. The biggest issue was that none of the U-haul places would rent us a trailer because it is a roll over, flip hazard or some kind of serious safety flaw between Jon’s older S.U.V. and the large trailer. So after going to five or six different rental places and not having any luck convincing them we were using it for a truck that we “had down the street,” we resorted to lying to his parents about what we needed their car for, but we ended up getting his parents truck and quickly drove and made our purchase. Using the larger, safer vehicle was not our plan though or even an option; we had to get Jon’s S.U.V. there, my scooter, and all our stuff. We promptly hooked up the trailer and began packing it with anything and everything our parents didn’t want: old furniture, pots and pans, lamps and just about any of the junk they were just waiting to give to Goodwill.

A thirty-four hour drive is what Map Quest told us it was. Greg was to follow in his car with his father as passenger, so they left the same time we did, but within an hour, they were so far ahead of us that Jon and I didn’t see them again until we arrived at our new place. Jon and I understood that it was going to take much longer if we were to make it there alive with the trailer and car still intact. Until we started driving on the freeway, we hadn’t realized how much of a hazard the big trailer was. We hadn’t even gotten out of the state before we had some close calls, and quickly we learned that if we went over fifty-five mph, the trailer and car would shake so horribly that both were impossible to control.  

We slowly made it through Illinois, Missouri, and Oklahoma. As we approached the next state, the sun revealed the top of its head over the horizon behind us. Re-energized by the radiant rays, we pushed on to the deserts of New Mexico. The geography was nothing like we had ever known; farms, grassy hills, and lakes were replaced by barren, red rock mountains, and dry deserts. When we arrived in Arizona, we needed some sleep, so we pulled over to the nearest rest stop and dozed in our seats for a good five hours. When we awoke, we felt as though we had slept on a pile of bricks, and then had them dropped on our heads. Then as the sun set over the hills in front of us, we exited Arizona and entered California.

The mountains and hills of southeastern California were the last leg of our trip. By the time we were thirty miles away from our destination, we experienced beautiful ocean breeze, a slight drop in temperature, and a sudden stop in traffic. We were in grid lock, something we never fully experienced till we saw this mess, sixteen lanes of traffic all stopped dead for no apparent reason. Two hours later, we finally turned off the 405 freeway onto our exit and proceeded down a couple of streets to our new place.

 Getting to that apartment was one of the best feelings I had up to that moment. Finally we were free to do whatever, whenever, and with a long list of explorations. We lived the sweet life for a good six months in sunny Southern Cal, living every day as if it were our last. Then, one day, just as fast as we had decided to come, Jon packed his car and drove back home to be with his now ex-girlfriend. Greg and I managed to keep the place for another few months but eventually went our separate ways. The occasional party and other social events were all that we saw of each other after a while. I stayed out there for another five years working in construction and other odd jobs. I had a lot of amazing experiences living on my own; I’ve met movie stars, seen astonishing concerts, skateboarded some of the best spots in the world, and made some everlasting friendships.

My overall view of California is that it is great to go to on vacation, but I can’t live on vacation. I lost all sense of time and reality. In contrast, I think if anyone has a chance to move there, they should. If I ever had the opportunity to go to any university out of state, I would. At least once in my life I got out of all my cozy little comfort zones and broke the mold. I took a chance, saved a couple thousand dollars and moved far away from everything I knew. It was an essential and fundamental way of finding myself, really, some of the best “soul food” I’ve had.

I grew up on a horse farm in southern Wisconsin. I had this special place, where I could escape to, a safe place, and it seemed a place only I knew about.

This place was a part of the pasture that sided a railroad viaduct. Here I had every thing a kid could want. Our junk yard littered with old rusting farm equipment stood at the ready to become anything I wanted. These pieces of equipment would take shape and become a WW II tank, a spaceship, anything I needed them to be.

There was a large cottonwood tree on a slight hill overlooking the dump. I can still remember how beautiful it looked when there was a stiff breeze, and the leaves would flicker green to silver. In the late spring when the flowers would fall off, it looked like a snow storm. The best, however, was the gentle sound that would be made by the leaves in the wind. I could climb this tree rather well, and I had a great place to sit on the first branch, about fifteen feet high. From this vantage point I could either reign supreme over the pasture, or sit in silence and nobody would know I was there.

A small, cool stream was at hand for that cooling summertime dip or for a commando assault on the beach so G.I. Joe could win the battle.

The “Crown Jewel,” was the viaduct stretching over the railroad tracks. Sitting up under the roadway was the best. I could watch and count the cars of a lumbering freight train going by to deliver its goods. The passenger trains would hurtle on their way to the station where the commuters would board or leave to go home, depending on the time of day. I would flatten coins on the tracks, and the rail bed would have the best stones to throw. When you sat up under the road and a car would go by it made the neatest “click-it-tee-clack” sound

I would spend many afternoons in my place and a few nights camping under the big old cottonwood, safe from harm. Finally as the years went by we sold the farm and moved.  My special place was gone.

A few years ago, I was just driving by the old place on my way home from Harvard, IL. The idea came to mind to pull in and see who lived there now. I explained who I was and asked if I could take a walk in the pasture? The owner was the man we sold it to, and he said sure, so off I went.

The hay fields still smelled the same, the remaining trees were larger, and the trail was worn deeper into the ground. With every step I could feel my anticipation building, almost to a fever pitch. I went down the draw and up the hill to get to “My place.” I topped the hill, waiting to find the secret place of my youth. I stood there dumbstruck to see the viaduct was gone, replaced with a railroad crossing and signal lights. The old junk yard was also gone, and a maze of stake lines took its place. I was crushed, and almost started to tear-up, when I noticed up on the hill, the big old cottonwood was still standing strong. As I walked up to it cautiously, I could hear the leaves rustling gently and watched the leaves flicker in the wind from green to silver just as I remembered. A smile started to replace the swelling of my eyes, and I sat down at the bottom by the trunk and started to revisit those old memories. I was in my place again, wishing I had never left.

When my son, Noah, was born, it was the best day of my life. I was lucky

enough to be able to spend the first year at home with him. He was very good-natured,

and the time flew by. That is until one day after his bath I noticed that one of his testicles

was much bigger than the other. I thought it was strange, so I called his pediatrician,

and she had me bring him in. She didn’t know what it was, so she had me take him to

get an ultrasound done. Even after the ultrasound, they still did not know what it was, so

they did a CAT scan on him. They had to put an IV in him, and they put him in a little

baby gown. He cried a lot, and I thought to myself, this must be what it feels like for all

those parents who have kids with cancer. Little did I know that cancer was what Noah

had                  

After the CAT scan, they sent us to Children’s Hospital. We still did not

know what was wrong with Noah or what the lump was. At the hospital they put a gown

on him, and I fed him some supper while we anxiously waited for the doctor. The nurse

came in and told us we would be spending the night; we still had no idea what was

wrong. Finally the doctor came in. Noah was in the hospital crib, and I was standing by

the crib side, and we were playing with his toys. Adam, Noah’s dad and my fiancé, was

sitting on the couch in the room and was upset that nobody had told us why we were

still there. The doctor told us that Noah had a cancerous tumor. At that moment my stomach

twisted, my legs turned to Jell-O, and the tears began to pour out. The same thing must

have happened to Adam because when I finally looked up, he was crying, too. We both

couldn’t get a word out. Noah sat there as good as could be, only 6 and a half months

old.  He smiled at me, and as hard as I tried not to all I could do was cry.

The next day, the doctor discussed with us that one of his testicles would need to

be removed, but Noah would still be able to have kids. Since we did not have surgery

scheduled, we had to wait for an opening. Noah could not eat before the

surgery, and since they did not know when the surgery would be, he ended up not

eating or drinking all day. Noah made that day the easiest it could have been for us. He

did not cry once, but rather just played with his toys in the crib, oblivious to the fact that

anything was wrong. We couldn’t take him far because he had an IV in his ankle.

Noah’s two grandmas and grandpa came as did his Uncle Jake and a bunch of cousins.

Our pastor came also and prayed for him and encouraged us. Word spread like wildfire,

and everyone we knew and many people that we didn’t know prayed fervently for him.

With all the support and family we had there, it made us feel a lot more comforted. I

didn’t cry that entire day. I tried to be very positive about the situation, and I told myself

everything would turn out fine. Everyone bought Noah balloons, which he loves, and

stuffed animals. Finally the doctor and nurse came up to our room and it was time for

surgery.                                                                                                                       

Before the surgery all the nurses and doctors that would be working on Noah

talked to us and explained the procedure. They had decided not to put a tube in his

chest. Originally they had thought that he would need chemotherapy, but now they

thought he might not. We all gave Noah a kiss and a hug. That was when the tears

started for me, and it really hit me that my son, my favorite little guy, my baby, had

cancer.

After the surgery, they said things went very well, and that Noah had peed on

them while he was under. Noah got an award for being so brave. He woke up, and you

wouldn’t have ever guessed he just had surgery. He smiled at everyone, talked his baby

talk, and was the happiest little guy you’ve ever seen.  I was so proud of him, and very

relived that the surgery was finally over.

We left the hospital the next day, and the next week we returned to take

his blood and see if any of the cancer was still in him, and whether or not he would need

chemo. The doctor came in and gave us the best news ever! Noah would not need

chemo. The cancer was totally gone, and they said it would most likely never come

back. He did not have the cancer that spreads or comes back; he had the kind that you

simply take out, and it is gone.

Now Noah is 13 months old. He is a very smart, happy little boy, and every

day I am so thankful that I have him and that he is healthy. Our experience as parents

with a child who had cancer has made us closer as a family, especially for Adam and

Noah. It made me realize that people can be gone just like that. Our experience with

Noah really made me realize how many people love Noah, and care about our family. I

am not glad that Noah got cancer, but I did learn a lot from those few days. I learned

what it felt like to almost lose the person you love the most, your own child, and what it  

felt like to be totally helpless. I learned about all the people who supported us and

helped us make it through. The most important thing I learned was to never

take anybody for granted.  To enjoy every day, every minute, and every second that I

get to spend with Noah, because that time was so close to being over.

They say that in all sets of twins there is a dominant twin and a passive twin.   The dominant twin tends to overpower the so-called passive twin, and I did. Being the dominant twin of the pair, I was also more aggressive and outgoing and made friends easily. Ashley, on the other hand, was the introvert.  She was shy and quiet, and always seemed to have her head in the clouds.  She was a dreamer, always deep in her own world, distant from everyone else’s.

Even as young children, I clearly remember worrying about my sister constantly, to an almost ridiculous extent.  I always felt that she couldn’t take care of herself, and so I made her my responsibility.  When she hopped on her hot pink bicycle with the white and pink basket in front, I followed right behind her on my matching one.  She might go with a stranger if I wasn’t there to protect her.

My mother and I strolled beside the park to Clement Avenue Elementary School as we had every weekday of that summer. The massive maples shaded us from the scorching summer sun as I skipped barefoot along the cool sidewalk.  I was 8 years old.  Each afternoon my mother and I met my sister when she got off the school bus from Humboldt Elementary, where she was attending summer school.  School came easily to me; I excelled in all that I tried and had no need for summer school.  Ashley, on the other hand, always struggled academically and needed extra help. 

As we neared the school, Ashley’s bus pulled up alongside us.  The sounds of children’s laughter and high-pitched screams poured out of every window as the bus screeched to a stop.  “Ashley’s not on the bus!” the children yelled out to my mother and me.  What they were saying didn’t register immediately.  Of course she was on the bus. Where else would she be? One by one the kids straggled off the school bus, skipping down the steps in the carefree way that kids do.  And then the bus pulled away from the curb. Ashley never got off.

My brain was a haze of worry and confusion. I couldn’t put together a complete thought, just random flashes. Would I ever see her again? My palms immediately moistened at the thought, and I could see my heart beating through my faded blue tank top.  The overwhelming feeling of absolute panic began to strangle me with its crushing grip. The air became thick like a humid blanket, and my lungs couldn’t seem to draw in enough breath to fill them.  My throat tightened, and it was difficult to swallow.  It felt as if a hot coal was smoldering in the pit of my stomach.

I didn’t exactly know what strangers did, but from what my mom said, once they took you, you never came back.

The next hour consisted of numerous frantic phone calls made by my mother as I sat in the kitchen listening.  My hands felt numb and my legs were trembling helplessly under the table.  After what seemed like a lifetime, but in reality was less than an hour, my sister was found.  She had mistakenly got on the wrong bus and was dropped off at a different school. Probably she was daydreaming as she cheerfully boarded the wrong bus.  I exhaled a deep sigh of relief and a feeling of calm swept over my quivering body. She wasn’t crying when we picked her up.  She was her normal lighthearted self.  It was then that I realized being the dominant twin did not make me stronger, it made me weaker.

      Hauling up the winding mountainside, I felt the Dodge shift into 4 wheel drive.  Several minutes passed since I’d seen anything but pine trees.  Within them pranced all the Bambi’s and Thumpers of the Big Mountain terrain.  After an elevation of about 4,000 feet, condos began to take space.  Extravagantly modeled log cabins and villas abandoned mid-construction for the winter season, all the workers gone home, all the skiers come to play.

      Our lodge, the Kandahar, sat beside a trail leading straight to the chairlift.  “Ski Out, Ski In” is truly the only accommodation needed for a fool-proof, no vacancy.  After checking in we chartered back down, down, down and around the mountain and into the valley of Whitefish, MT.  It was the holiday season, and it was as if the streets were in competition to be the model for a Christmas card.  Endless streams of garland bore gigantic bells and candy canes.  Illuminated storefronts welcomed back annual tourists, and the falling snow glistened under street lamps like fireflies.

      All through the first night the mountain called out to me.  Fortunately, jet lag won out over my insomnia before the morning.  The classic continental breakfast served itself at 7 a.m., so I suited up and headed downstairs.  First chair pulled out at 9 a.m.  I sat in the lobby, imagining my feet dangling as the ground pulled further from my ski tips.  Anxiety fed my appetite, and orange juice quenched my thirst.

      Clicking into my ski bindings, I raced from the lodge to the ticket window.  There was already a line at the lift, but even among these numbers everyone could pick a basin to carve all their own.  The noise of the small crowd became a soft droning as I gawked up to the mountain’s face, anticipating some sort of reply, any acknowledgement of my presence to its entity.  Waiting, I danced in my skis, kicking up last night’s fresh powder, stabbing my poles around wildly.  The lift engine roared and the chairs took motion.

      Gliding up to the “Please Wait Here” strip, I squatted down for the chair to come around the bend and scoop me up.  The lift operator steadied it and nodded a polite, “Have a good run.”  Tracks were not visible anywhere, not a single cross over the freshly groomed trails.  Even the riders before me would not reach the bottom for at least another 15 minutes.  Further the lift pulled, skimming the tops of snow ghosts and the pine trees they held captive.  Another five minutes passed before the first bowl came into sight.  Empty and vast, it cut into the mountain like an enormous ice cream scoop.  You could see the neighboring mountains, too, now.  Intimidating, they stood untouched and uncut, yet they shook with existence.

      To the south lay Whitefish Lake, just a puddle now between a crack of mountain and valley.  There was a clear line of sight across the valley into Kalispell, where the land began to jut toward the sky once again.  Sixty-five miles north lay the Canadian Rockies.  A clear sky brought their peaks into perfect focus, diminishing into the horizon.  To the west, Rocky Mountains.  East, Rockies.  For a moment it seemed an optical illusion, everything so familiar below blending into a mosaic landscape.  What I saw to be a snow covered peak now birthed chutes, cliffs, and pistes at every descent.  Leveling out onto the peak, the chair handed me to the mountain top.

Inspiration can come from the oddest places. On one seemingly average day in the spring of 2002, the course of my life was altered forever. 

At 19 years of age, I was a behemoth of a man, tipping the scales at a staggering 500 pounds. The buttons on all my pants would hang on for dear life every time I wore them because of my ever-expanding waistline. When I did laundry, my shirts resembled flags more than clothing. When I left the house it was usually to go out to eat at which time a simple restaurant booth became my arch-nemesis.

 It was a picture perfect day, and I was spending my time indoors as I did every other day.  Regardless of what the weather was like I never felt the need to be outside. I avoided physical activity like the plague, so following my normal schedule I plopped myself on the couch.  Not knowing that the next hour would be unlike every hour before it I unassumingly turned on MTV. There was a reality show airing called “True Life.” This particular episode was about real people getting plastic surgery. I had always thought that surgery was interesting, so I decided to watch. Over the course of the program I was introduced to three people: a man who wanted calf implants, a woman who wanted breast implants, and a woman who wanted something called a gastric bypass.

The woman who wanted gastric bypass surgery was in her late 20’s and weighed 360 pounds. She ended up getting the surgery and a few months later she had lost a substantial amount of weight. I was 19 and weighed 500 pounds and all of the sudden a light bulb went on in my head, and I said to myself, “What the hell, I’m bigger than she is!”

When the show was over I decided to do some research on gastric bypass surgery.

As it turns out, in gastric bypass surgery a surgeon removes 90% of your stomach and then reattaches your small intestine to the remaining 10% of your stomach. It is the last resort of doctors trying to save people who are morbidly obese and at risk of various medical maladies such as heart attack, stroke, or diabetes. It is also an incredibly dangerous surgery: one out of every 200 people die on the operating table or from a post operative infection.

Despite knowing how dangerous the surgery was, I decided to pursue it. At the time I was covered by my dad’s insurance, so I called the insurance company to find out how to get the process started. I felt that it was worth the risk of dying to make my life better.  It was either that or wait until my heart exploded. 

After I’d seen all kinds of doctors from gastroenterologists to psychologists, it was agreed

that I was a good candidate for the surgery. The insurance company spent months trying to block it because it was very expensive–about 75,000 dollars. I talked to customer service reps, and they would try to send me to another doctor or tell me that my paperwork got lost and it would have to be faxed again by my doctor.

”This is bullshit! My son needs this surgery and he’s gonna get it!” my father told his union leader after I had been given the runaround for months. Two days later I received a phone call telling me that I was approved for surgery.  I knew that I had no one to blame but myself for my size.                                                                 

After years of being unhappy from being so massive I expected that my premature death was a foregone conclusion. I would think about what would be said at my funeral. My eulogy consisting of someone saying, “Here lies Jake Brown. Fat and plump he lived like a chump until his fat heart couldn’t pump.” But after watching that show on M.T.V., I decided that I still had a chance.

I wanted to live!    

December 11^th, surgery day had come! I woke up extremely nervous because the enormity of what was about to happen hit me. That morning my mom would be accompanying me and during the 25 minute car ride to the hospital I was a wreck. I finally realized that this could be my last day. There was so much I hadn’t done, and so much I still wanted to do. To try to calm my nerves I played some music. The song was “Like A Rock” by Bob Seger. Time after time I replayed the song as music boomed out of the silver Dodge Caravan. It helped a little, but I still couldn’t shake my nervousness.

My grandma also came to show her support and shortly after we arrived at West Allis Memorial, I was prepped and all ready for surgery. As I was being wheeled away to surgery my mom said, “I love you” and I blurted out, “shut up.” I wasn’t trying to be mean but when she said that I immediately thought that those words could be the last words she ever said to me, and it made me even more nervous.

When the surgery was over I woke up in excruciating pain but happy to be alive. I spent the next 5 days in the intensive care unit recovering before I was allowed to go home.     For a month after the surgery, the only time I left my house was to go see my surgeon for post op care. As time passed, the incision healed and my life started to get back to something resembling a normal life. The more time that passed the more weight I lost and the happier I became.

It’s been about 7 years since the surgery now, and it’s still not easy. I am still down more than 100 pounds, but, like many people’s, my weight goes up and down but I am still much smaller than I was. My happiness and how much I appreciate just being alive is something that doesn’t fluctuate.  When you have a moment when you realize that life isn’t guaranteed, it changes your whole perspective. I now take pleasure in the simple things that many people take for granted—things like spending time with my family or enjoying a beautiful day.

Thank you, M.T.V., for changing my life!