I’d love to hear about the grandparents in your life—whether they were your biological grandparents or other grandparent figures who played a meaningful role. What did you call them? What were they like?

My mother’s mother and my father’s father both died when I was very young. My father’s father, whom everyone called “the Doctor,” (which is a little humorous, seeing as he was a dentist) had a stroke which left him paralyzed on half of his body. There are a couple of pictures, black and white, of course, of him holding tiny baby me with his good arm, sitting in his overstuffed chair. I think he died shortly after those were taken. My memories of my mother’s mother are of her sitting in a recliner outside of her and Granddaddy’s bedroom. She had an illness, “in her stomach” and we were not to get in her lap, as that would hurt her. My sister, just younger than me, was perhaps one or two, so I was 3 or 4. They lived in Virginia, where my mother was from. I don’t remember attending her funeral. I just remember that one year, when we went back to visit, she was no longer in the recliner outside of the bedroom. It was many years later, when I was an adult and needing to know my family’s health history that I learned that the illness in her stomach had actually been uterine cancer and that was what she had died from.

My father grew up in Northwest Missouri (the story of how my parents met is fascinating, but not for this piece!) His mother came from a line of morticians and funeral home directors. And she married, as I said previously, a dentist. So, he came from privilege. His mother, whom we called Grandmother, was quite proper. As far as I know, she never worked outside of the home. She was a rather large woman, and a wonderful cook. My mother would often say, “I don’t cook like Matie Owen, but I don’t look like Matie Owen.” The only thing that I truly remember that she cooked was this magical applesauce. When I close my eyes, I can still taste it. To this day, I can’t eat store-bought applesauce. She also was quite the world traveler, which I think was a pretty big deal in the early 70s. She bought dolls in every country that she visited and sent them back to my sisters and me. I had those dolls displayed on a shelf in my bedroom my entire childhood. She passed away the spring of my 4th grade year. I remember when my father told us that she had passed. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.

My mother grew up in Virginia in a somewhat coastal town. Her father worked at the Naval shipyard as did pretty much everyone in that town. All of my cousins worked there and retired from there as well. So, my mother did not come from privilege. Once Granddaddy retired, he moved to a small farm just outside of Portsmouth, and that was the house that we visited my entire childhood. I don’t remember there being much land on this farm. But, he did raise sheep. I remember watching the sheep-shearing process with horror and fascination. They would go into the chute fat, cute and fluffy. And come out skinny and ridiculous looking. I was very young and did not understand the process. We would visit Granddaddy every summer, and one summer, when I was still very young, he gave me my own lamb. My own lamb! I named her April. He taught me how to hold her while I sat on a little bench in his carport and fed her a bottle. I would feed her every day. I was devastated that I could not take her in the car back to Kansas City with us when our visit was over. I cried and cried, insisting that I knew how to feed her, she could stay in my room, all the things. But I did not win (I rarely did), and we left her there. Granddaddy promised that I could see her again next summer. We did return the following summer and I could barely contain my excitement as I leapt out of the car to go see my lamb, MY April!! Granddaddy led me back to the fence that surrounded the sheep and he looked around for a moment. He then pointed to one of the sheep in the pen and told me that that sheep was April. Now, Granddaddy did have quite the sense of humor and was known to tease. So, I said, “No, Granddaddy! Not a sheep! Where’s my lamb? Where’s April?” He explained what my probably 5-year-old self could not have known. That April had grown up and was now a big girl sheep. She couldn’t sit on my lap and drink a bottle anymore. I was inconsolable for the rest of that day, and maybe part of the next. I don’t recall if I reacquainted myself with grown-up April. I like to think that I did. 

Granddaddy’s name was Walter, and everyone who knew him called him Grandaddy Walter. He lived to a ripe old age of I don’t know what. I know that I was in my 30’s when he left us. 

What is a memory from childhood that always makes you smile? Maybe it’s a favorite game, book, or TV show. It could be a birthday party, a moment you were proud of, or anything else that brings back a happy feeling. I’d love to hear what stands out to you.

When I was in maybe 6th grade (timelines are a bit fuzzy anymore), a friend of my father’s from his Navy days was killed in a small airplane crash. His three youngest children were in the plane with him and they survived the crash. The son, who was a couple years older than me, was injured pretty badly and was wheelchair-bound for quite a while. One of the daughters was my age, and the other was my sister’s age.  They sustained somewhat minor injuries in the crash. The family moved into their farmhouse up in Northwest Missouri so that the son could heal from his multiple injuries. I think their home was in Tennessee. Their mom decided to open a library in memory of the father. So, we were always buying books at garage sales and taking them up to the farmhouse to donate to the library. Our moms became quite good friends. And I remember becoming pretty good friends with the daughter who was my age. We had quite a few adventures on that farm (though we were too young to talk about anything serious like how she was feeling since the crash, since losing her father, etc.)

I remember one time when we were staying at that farm. The daughter who was my age, M., got me up in what felt like the middle of the night. She had dug all of these dress-up dresses out of the attic from some period that was not the 1970s. She insisted that I put one on. Dress-up was never my jam, but these were sort of magical dresses. So, I complied. Then, we went outside and she drove the beat-up farm truck up on top of a, well, in my mind, it looks like a kind of flat hill. I didn’t have a name for it then. I guess farm kids at 12—13 years old can drive the vehicles. But I was amazed by this! And, it was a full moon, or pretty close. We got out of the truck, and in our magical dress-up dresses, we just danced in the moonlight. Not romantic dancing.  We were children for heck’s sake! We just flitted around. Think fairies in the moonlight. I don’t remember how long we stayed up on that plateau. And I don’t think the moms knew we were out there. But eventually, she drove the truck back down to the house, and we put the dresses away, and we went back to bed. I’ve always hoped that that magic moonlight dancing had been healing for her. It was always a magical memory for me.

This next question is a bit deeper, and you’re welcome to answer it whatever way feels right—there’s no right or wrong. Have you ever felt unheard, unseen, or judged—when people made assumptions about you before really knowing you? Maybe it changed how you saw yourself or how you moved through the world. Is there a story you’d like to share?

There was an alcove outside the art room on the third floor of my high school. The same school that I had attended since the last month of the 4th grade (which, for perhaps a different story, means I only attended one semester and one month of the fourth grade, thanks to the Kansas City, Missouri, School District teachers’ strike. I am living proof that one does not need an entire year of fourth grade to make it all the way through higher education. Just don’t ask me what the state capitals are.) That school was a private, all girls-school. And before you ask, not Catholic.

That alcove outside the art room was where I learned, and perfected, my Super Power: Invisibility. I learned to be invisible way before Harry Potter needed a cloak to help him do the same. For it was in that alcove that I ate lunch, alone, every day for three years (until I was a senior and old enough to leave the school for lunch). In that alcove I could hide from the Mean Girls, who truly put Lindsey Lohan to shame, probably a decade before she was born. 

Girls don’t bully in the same way that boys do. Girls use words as weapons, and become masters of manipulation at quite an early age. It was endless (or so I thought), and painful. And so, I became invisible. It made sense, at the time. (Though now it’s just called “risk avoidance.” But, wrong place for psycho-babble!) I do not know, nor do I wish to take the time to find out, but my guess is that it was a female who invented cyberbullying! I’m so glad THAT didn’t exist in the 80s!

Because I don’t like a sad ending, I must add this. I recently saw a former theatre teacher’s obituary (wait, it gets better… ) and I had to take a gratitude pause. She came to the school I think my junior year and took over the failing theatre department. I had gotten somewhat involved in theatre my sophomore year when the 10th grade English teacher offered extra credit to anyone who would help with the play that year. So, by my junior year, I was completely bitten by the bug. This new theatre teacher would often pull me out of class to help her with the lighting system in the theatre. It was new and we learned how to run it together.  She also taught me how to be a stage manager, and I worked on all of the shows that she directed. The invisibility cloak kept me backstage. But this teacher taught me that being a “techie” was very important. Theatre has stayed in my life to this day. When I saw that she had passed, I raised an invisible glass. 

Let’s shift gears a bit to something more upbeat. Can you share a time when you felt truly seen—when someone did or said something that made you feel happier and made you think, ‘Wow, they really get me’?

                                                      The Litterbox Ladies

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I’m a Support Group kind of gal. I’ve run groups for work before, and it pretty much feels like going to work in a litter box. You know… scratching, clawing, whining, and so much buried shit!”

My friend said, “Well, maybe you’re a Support Group kind of gal… Now.”

“I don’t know… sitting around with a group of women, talking about our boobs. How helpful can that be?”

But I agreed to go. Once…

There were probably 8 women there. One I had met previously as we had done our Intake Meeting together. They all seemed to know each other and they chatted comfortably. I listened, quietly.

They talked about a variety of things, and laughed… a lot! One woman spoke of her children, both grown, neither of whom lived locally. She said that not only had they not been involved in her journey, diagnosis, surgery, treatment, etc. But they haven’t called, visited, and they won’t speak of it at all. I said, “Wow! They sound like my sisters. All my one sister said when I told her I had breast cancer was that she thought cancer was a housefly.” That elicited the usual response of “What the fuck does THAT even mean?” And my usual, “I have no idea. And she’s a doctor.”  The woman with the two self-centered millennial offspring stated, “At least I’m not the only one with an asshole family!” And she turned to the Social Worker who, in theory, was leading the group, and said, “Will there be a class on Dealing With Asshole Families?” I said, “I will be the first to sign up!” The Social Worker gave one of those “duly noted” looks.

Millennial Mom proceeded to say that she was paying for one of her kid’s cars but she was about to quit doing so and drive to the state in which he lived to pick it up, and did anyone want to take a road trip. Road trip? I LOVE road trips! I said that I hadn’t been on one since I had gone to Colorado prior to my surgery. All ears perked up when I said Colorado. They all wanted to know if and what I learned about marijuana while in Colorado. Cancer, marijuana… made sense. And when you go to Colorado and announce you have cancer, you get schooled in marijuana for sure! I also may have mentioned the gummies in my freezer. One woman promptly responded, “Well, I guess we know who’s bringing the snacks next time!” Quite a bit of laughter…

I came back the next time. They asked where the snacks were. We laughed. I got that they got it. I also understood that there was going to be some whining, and a fair share of buried shit. But perhaps I was a Support Group kind of gal after all.

What’s the most important thing we haven’t touched on yet? Is there a piece of wisdom passed down from a family member or something you’d like to share that could make our readers’ lives kinder, more compassionate, and loving? Anything come to mind?

There have been two pieces of wisdom that guided me through two quite different, yet equally difficult times in my life. Coming out is very difficult. Coming out in the 80s was, as one therapist once told me, a trauma in itself. When I first came out, I had a spiritual crisis. I saw a Peer Counselor at an LGBTQ Community Center in Denver as this was a free service that they offered and I was young and broke. I was still in the “coming out to myself” stage and was quite conflicted. I didn’t want to give up my Christian beliefs, but organized religion has not been historically kind to the LGBTQ community. All of that organized religion judgment was weighing heavy on me, as I was trying to navigate who I truly was. I spoke to the Peer Counselor about all of this, and she asked me if my personal spiritual beliefs had been affected, if I had been able to pray through all of those questioning thoughts. I told her that my personal beliefs were fine and that I had been doing quite a bit of prayer. She asked if I thought God had been there for me, and I said yes. And then she suggested that a guiding principle to keep in mind is “It’s not who we love, it’s THAT we love.” Because, Jesus’ two commandments are completely focused on love. That got me through my spiritual crisis, and I’ve never forgotten it. I’ve often wished that I could remember that Peer Counselor’s name so that I could thank her. But, alas, I do not…

The other piece of guiding wisdom came to me at one of my early visits to Gilda’s Club. Everyone who comes to Gilda’s Club comes there to talk about their cancer journey. It is very helpful, but verrry overwhelming at first. There’s an entire library there, full of resources solely about cancer. Every group, every class… cancer. And every person you meet has been touched by cancer in some way. As I was absorbing all of this at first, one of the social workers there said to me “Everyone’s journey is different, and it’s not a competition.” That quote has kept me in my place to this day. Stage 1, Stage 4… we’re all on our own journey, and we’re all allowed to talk about it. We don’t compare; we don’t compete. They call us out if we do. Compete, I mean. Support is allowed. Toxic positivity is not. Everyone’s journey is different. But we’re all on the same road.