by Kim Goldman
I run downstairs, two flights, to where my father was sitting watching TV.
I yell, “Daddy, there is something wrong with me!”
“Sweetie, what’s the problem?” he replies as he sits up in his seat and puts down the paper.
“Um, well, just now when I was going to the bathroom, I, uh, well, there was blood. And that’s not supposed to be there when you pee, is it?”
The look on my father’s face is permanently etched in my memory.
Tears well up in his eyes as he said, “Aw, my baby just became a woman.”
“Uh, what just happened?”
My dad gets up from “his spot” on the couch, throws his arms around me, and says, “You got your period, honey. That’s what that was.”
My dad shares that moment with me, not my mother.
My dad tucks me in every night and makes sure there are no monsters in my room, not my mother.
My dad is the one I turn to with a broken heart, not my mother.
My dad is the one I share my secrets with, not my mother.
And it’s my dad who makes me feel like the most beautiful, special, unique, and loved human in the world.
My dad fills the role of my mother, not my mother.
When a two-parent home becomes a one-parent household, there is a shift of power, attention, focus, affection, and control. It moves in different directions, and everyone has to adjust their place in the family.
When my father became my sole parent, I elevated him to a place in my world that is almost unrealistic. Without any of us knowing, I attached a tremendous amount of pressure for him to be my “everything.” Luckily, he did not disappoint.
With that same intensity of healthy emotion comes an unhealthy level of panic. I am consumed with thoughts of something bad happening to my dad. My bloodline is very short, with the loss of my brother, I know firsthand the fragility of life. So I hold the people close to me in this glass container inside my heart, and I am so worried about it shattering.
The day my dad told me about his cancer, it startled me into a morbid reality of what life would be like if one of my family members died.
* * *
It’s 1988, and we’ve been in California for less than a year. This is a rare occasion for us to be out and about, just us—like old times.
My dad, Ron, and I—the Three Musketeers—get in the car one afternoon and make our way to Malibu. The mood is light and easy. I sit in the front seat, because I get really car sick, especially on the winding canyon roads down to the beach.
My brother sits behind me, driving me nuts, flicking my ears, pulling my hair, tickling my neck—basic annoying sibling stuff. I loved it. I am so happy to be with them that I would have endured Chinese torture if it meant one more hour of alone time with them.
Along the road, there is a turnout and my father makes a last-minute decision to pull in. We get out of the car to witness the pure beauty. We are midway down the canyon, nestled between lush green mountains, a blue sky above, and a peek at the ocean at the base of the road.
As we stand on the side of the road, gazing out, my dad abruptly interrupts the silence.
“Kids, I have something to tell you, and it’s not easy for me to say it.”
My brother and I immediately shift our focus onto him. “Dad, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me,” Ron says, with slight trepidation in his voice.
“No, no, it’s nothing bad. I just need to tell you something that happened years ago. I think you both are old enough now to hear it.”
I huddle close to my brother. The air got chilly.
“I had cancer when you kids were little. I had something called plasmacytoma. It was a tumor in my nose, in my sinuses. And I endured numerous radiation treatments, but I am fine now. I get checked every year and I am clear of all cancer.”
Ron and I are speechless. I am so distracted by the word “cancer,” I am not sure it resonated with me that he said he was okay now.
I reach for him, yearning for the safety of his hug. I cry tears of relief; but very soon after, my feelings are replaced with fear.
My father, the pillar of strength in my eyes, suddenly appears human as he stands on the side of the road. He has been my savior, my protector, but now he’s the one in need of saving. It makes me feel sad, but it also leaves me with such a deep sense of respect for him and what he had lived through.
“Dad, what was radiation like?” I ask.
“Well, I was the youngest one in the cancer ward, where they did the treatments. I was in my early thirties. It was fairly painless, but I lost some hair and my mustache.”
The mustache!
A memory came back to me.
I was barely three years old. I pushed a man away when he went to give me a kiss hello. He wasn’t familiar to me and it frightened me. I looked up at this man, who acted like he knew me and was hurt when I rejected his affection.
This man had my dad’s hair, my dad’s smile, my dad’s scent—but he was missing my dad’s mustache!
Now, thirteen years later, I realize that man was my dad—my dad undergoing radiation therapy.
“It was you that day. I remember, you tried to kiss me, and you didn’t have a mustache, and I pushed you away. I am so sorry.”
My father pulls me close to his chest and reassures me. “Kimmy, it’s okay. I looked different, for sure. I appreciated that you wouldn’t just kiss any old crazy man. You saved your love for your daddy.”
My brother hugs him and we stand in silence, letting the quiet calm our nerves. The chilliness lifted, and the sun exposed its warmth. We quietly get back in the car, and agree to head back home.
It’s funny, because since my brother died, the world knows my dad as the man with the mustache. People recognize him for his famous hairy lip. People have even suggested he shave it, if he ever wanted to have his privacy again, because that is his most defining feature.
But to me, that hairy lip means he is cancer free. His mustache is my security blanket. I have only seen my father without his famous mustache once in my life, and it evoked fear in me.
I don’t ever want to experience that feeling again.
But a few short years after that car ride and my father’s revelation, Ron was violently killed.
My father and I have always been close, but with the loss of my brother, our bond became undeniable. The thought of ever losing him leaves me heartsick.
* * *
I used to watch the popular show Friends, and I was always so envious of Ross and Monica’s relationship, because they reminded me of my brother and me.
It was Ron who walked me to the bus stop or to school every day. Ron was the one I played Barbies with for hours on end, when nobody else would. Ron was the one who was home with me after school every day, doing our homework together. Ron was my co-chef; so that when our dad came home from work, he wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. Ron was the one who told me the honest truth about sex (but, of course, I wasn’t allowed to do “it”).
When Ron died, we were just becoming independent adults, and strengthening our relationship as friends and confidants. We were maturing together, and finally seeing some light at the end of the tunnel after having such turmoil while growing up. We were each settling into our lives and anxious to start the next phase. Even though we fought, and had our issues as siblings, he was the closest person to me, besides my dad. So it was natural for me to assume that we would grow old together, with our families along for the ride.
To live with the harsh realization now that my child will never meet his Uncle Ron still instantly brings me to tears. I feel cheated. I always will.
Like my dad, my brother epitomized the definition, and embodied the spirit of what a hero truly is. It’s not a sports professional who can run hundreds of yards, and win a Heisman Trophy or an NFL championship; a hero is a human who sacrifices himself for the greater good. My brother proved that in the last seconds of his life.
Ron proved what a courageous
, honorable, selfless human he was. I have always said that I wished my brother would have been more selfish on June 12, 1994, but that wouldn’t have been his nature. As sad as it makes me, I am more proud of him than I can ever express.
My brother spent his entire life protecting me, so I’m not surprised that he stayed in that role until he drew his last breath.
* * *
Sam is a champion in his own right, and following in both my brother’s and father’s footsteps. He is brave and honorable. This little person already has such guts and gallantry. I am in awe of how old his spirit is, yet how young his heart is. I see traits of me, blending “old spirit” and “raw vulnerability.”
He is shy, but has such tremendous confidence.
He is kind, generous, sensitive, and protective of me, and already a loyal friend.
He is a gentleman to the core, and I am so excited to see him blossom into a beautiful human. Watching him develop reminds me of my dear friend Jill Zimmerman, who called me during her pregnancy to share that she was having a boy. Jill had confided at one point that she was secretly wishing for a daughter, because she was “better with girls.” But when it occurred to her that she was shaping a little man into someone’s future husband, that realization calmed her. Sam was just a few months old at that time, and her insight comforted me.
From that point on, this knowledge has lingered in the back of my brain during all of our interactions. Everything he gets to be and see in me will be taken with him into his bright future. I get to raise a wonderful husband for a lucky young lady. That is a powerful realization.
The most incredible parts of him are also the same ones that send me into a tailspin when he blurts out carefully constructed questions. He’s amazingly methodical, thoughtful, and logical about how things work. His curiosity is infectious, and thought-provoking. He never lets anything get past him. He will ask you as many questions as it takes until he is satisfied. I love that about him.
Sam has an innate ability to pick up on body language, tone of voice, and eye contact. He goes right for it, never letting me miss a beat. There’s not a chance in hell that I can ever lie to him or pacify him with some made-up answer.
I know the “not knowing” will create more fear in him unless I am honest and straightforward. I just wish that he would ask me more questions about “the birds and the bees,” as opposed to death and loss.
When I look at him, gazing into his deep brown eyes, there is such love and a willingness to trust. Seems the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
Sam encourages me to be better every day, and to raise the bar as high as I can, for both of us to reach and to strive for. It is so exciting to share my life with him.
I am so proud to be his mother, and grateful that he is my son.
I find such pride and strength and confirmation of what I’m doing right when a stranger stops me in a store and says, “I just have to say, I was listening to the way you talk to your son, and I was impressed that you treated him with such dignity and respect. It shows in how he responds back to you.”
And it’s found in the love notes that Sam leaves for me all over the house, telling me that I am his favorite mom and that he wouldn’t trade me.
And it’s in the moments, at the cemetery, when Sam sits with me and holds my hand as I cry over the loss of my brother.
Such actions tell me that I am doing something profound.
When I look at my son, I am once again reminded of how I am so grateful to my father—for what he has taught me, provided me with, and inspired me to become.
My dad gave me strength, courage, and a willingness to trust.
Now I get to pass that on to my little man.
* * *
Sometimes my notoriety can be a bit surreal. I am in my mid-thirties when I learn about waxing from my friend Lisa.
I came into my femininity late in my life—remember, it was my dad who took me bra shopping and explained menstruation to me—so I am thankful that I have such girly girlfriends like Michele and Lisa to teach me about applying makeup, plucking your eyebrows, emphasizing your assets, and a plethora of other gems of womanhood.
So when Lisa recommends this “amazing” spa that does waxing, located near my old offices in West L.A., I decide to go.
Lisa has very high standards and only recommends the best, so when we hang up, I eagerly make an appointment. A few days later, I walk into the spa. Hopefully it’s under construction, I think, because the place is a disaster.
I am really hesitant, but Lisa swears by it. I trust her.
I sit on the cushy leather benches in the lobby, reading a three-month-old US Weekly, waiting to be called. The women are chatting behind the counter, having a very fast-paced Russian conversation, and laughing every few minutes. And then it slows down, and one of the women looks over at me. I smile. She stares back. Chat some more, stare some more. Laugh, stare, chat, stare.
I am losing my patience. I have forty-five minutes and don’t want to waste it sitting in the lobby of a run-down waxing salon. I get up and ask how much longer it would be.
The staring woman says, “Oh, I can take you now.”
Really? Now is good for you, after I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes…Okay, deep breaths. Don’t get snippy. She’s about to arm herself with hot wax on my bare skin.
I smile politely and follow her back to the room.
She keeps staring at me. I am growing more uncomfortable. She motions for me to take off my clothes and hop up on the table.
There is really nothing more humbling than getting a pap smear or a bikini wax. They are neck and neck for discomfort, so I am typically very quiet and just stare at the ceiling, not wanting to make eye contact.
My waxer, however, is relentless about inspecting me. She was “preparing the area” in a manner I’ve never experienced before. I am getting nervous, and quietly cursing Lisa in my head.
“Lady, you move your leg this way and that one this way.” And she taps my thighs in accordance with her instructions, to the point that I was, let’s just say—extremely vulnerable.
As I position myself, she blurts out, “Now I recognize you!”
Oh, come on!
If she hadn’t just swiped my lower region with strips of hot wax, I probably would have curled up in the corner in the fetal position.
“I couldn’t figure it out. You look so pretty, with the long hair. I remember you from the TV.”
Really, she’s going to talk about my hair at a time like this?
I purse my lips together and nod in acknowledgment that I was, in fact, the long-haired lady from the TV. I tap my fingers on the table, hoping it would distract her so she could finish.
Despite the awkward “sighting,” she did a great job. And Lisa got a good chuckle out of the story.
Now, I kid you not, but the exact same thing happened no less than six months later at a different spa in Sherman Oaks, which Michele recommended for me.
I swear, as I endured this second “I knew I knew you” sighting, and in the most intimate area, I was convinced Ashton Kutcher was waiting somewhere in the wings, with the Punk’d theme song blaring, ready to go live again. Sometimes I think I am a series regular!
* * *
The grind of driving a hundred miles a day to work at Best Buddies (nonprofit organization working with people with intellectual disabilities), leaving my six-month-old child at day care every day, and pumping in the car so I could keep up with my desire to breastfeed, was taking its toll on me. I was afraid to make the leap from the position I held as state director, but I knew that I was in need of a change of pace to be a more effective, present, and balanced mom. About a year into my stint, I stumbled onto an amazing opportunity.
The ad for a position at the Santa Clarita Valley Youth Project on Monster.com jumped out at me immediately. Every detail of the job resonated with me. It was in my community, and literally five minutes from my house. The job also paid more money than I was makin
g, but more importantly, I would work with the population I had spent all of my childhood dreaming about: youth. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I could be successful in this environment. Their mission was inspiring: impact the lives of kids where they spend the most time, at school. They were smart enough to know that the way to connect with kids is to go where they are—their school campus.
I submitted my resume and waited. There was no phone number to call and follow up, and no deadline listed when decisions would be made, so I needed to hang tight and keep my options open. I was at the airport after a Best Buddies conference when my phone rang.
The recruiter from the Youth Project wanted a few minutes of my time. I was asked a few preliminary questions about my current position and, of course, the worst question ever asked an applicant: “Why are you looking to leave your current place of employment?” Truth is, I was done at Best Buddies and not interested in investing any more time for a myriad of reasons I didn’t want to share with a potential employer. So I did the smart and safe thing. “My background is working with youth, I have veered too far away from where my passions lie, and I need to get myself back to where my focus has always been. Plus, my life is in Santa Clarita, and I have always aspired to work and live in the same community.” KA-CHING! That was the sealant on the grout. “Great, we would love to bring you in for an interview. When are you available?”
My first interview was nerve-racking. I walked into a tall building in Valencia, into a glass conference room where five board members were sitting around the table, staring me down. We exchanged pleasantries, and got right to the meat of the matter. We went through my resume and experience in depth. Then we talked about what my vision for the organization was, if given an opportunity to be on their team, and my ideas for marketing, branding, and expansion. We talked about board development, fund-raising, budgets, and, of course, youth. Nothing about my very public life was ever even whispered. I was so relieved to be able to speak about my accomplishments without having them attached to my last name. It was by far the easiest, most comfortable, and gratifying interview I can recall having. I left feeling confident that even if I didn’t get the job, I was more than capable of running a business—any business—regardless of its tax status. I finally got back my mojo.