by Amy Newmark
“Yes, it certainly is,” I replied.
Once, I was rushing past someone in the center’s main hallway because I was late for an appointment. All at once, I heard, “Hi, Cher!”
I stopped and asked, “How did you know it was me?”
“Everyone has a distinctive walk,” the woman replied. “I heard yours, so I knew it was you.”
My time volunteering at the center was truly life changing. Describing the visual world to these dear souls gave me a monumental appreciation for every single thing I could see. Hearing the joy in their voices over the ability to “watch” a play or to recognize someone by their footsteps was humbling. Describing someone’s hair to them while knowing they’d never seen it was overwhelming, to say the least.
During the time I volunteered at the center, I became a U.S. citizen. Little did I know that my book group had organized a party for me. Walking into the meeting room, I was greeted by clapping and, “Yay, Cher!”
A cake, coffee, and an envelope with my name on it were placed in front of me. As I slowly opened the envelope, I could feel a lump in my throat. Inside, I found a beautiful card and a note written by a volunteer on behalf of the group.
The note congratulated me for becoming a U.S. citizen. There was also an additional note referring to a gift that was given to me. The group had donated their own money to a reforestation project and purchased a tree to be planted in my honor.
I tried to hold back the tears, but everyone could hear my shaky voice. Without thinking, I said, “I’m crying with happiness,” to which several members replied, “We know.”
Never again will I take my many blessings for granted. I hadn’t realized how many I had until meeting the wonderful people at the blind and low-vision center.
They significantly impacted my life for the better. Now I embrace the positive and look at things in my life from a brand-new perspective.
“Seeing” the world from a different perspective changed me. It has made me incredibly grateful and happy for the little things in life — the smell of fresh pastries coming from a bakery, the sound of children playing, tasting new foods, puppies wagging their fuzzy tails, and smiling babies.
I could never give to them what they have given to me. I will never forget how they changed my life for the better.
— Cher P. Garman —
More Important than Fear
When we share our stories, what it does is, it opens up our hearts for other people to share their stories. And it gives us the sense that we are not alone on this journey.
~Janine Shepherd
“Your body listens to everything you say, so be careful what you tell it!” my oncologist, Dr. Gordon, warned during my last visit to his office. “Life’s a celebration, so start living it,” he added with a sparkle in his eyes.
It was the end of my breast cancer treatment. I should have been jubilant, but Dr. Gordon’s words struck me as a “warning” to change my way of thinking. I took him at his word and made a conscious effort to live and think positively from that day forward — just in case my body was listening. I posted his words on the bathroom mirror so I’d see them when I got ready for work. I pasted them on my computer screen at the office and over the kitchen sink where I’d see them while doing dishes. It became my mantra: “Life’s a celebration!” And behind that exclamation mark were the sobering words: “Your body listens to everything you say.”
Before breast cancer at age forty, I was more of a glass-half-empty type. But after the completion of treatment, I became a glass-half-full woman. It was the fall of 1996, and I loved my job in health information management. But I knew if life was going to be a true celebration, I needed to change career paths. More than anything, I wanted to make a difference — not just go through the motions of bringing home a paycheck.
As I researched the possibilities, I decided that I wanted to share with others how to overcome the challenges brought about by cancer. I contacted my public library, and they agreed to allow me to present on the topic: “What to Say and How to Help When Someone Has Cancer.” The only thing I forgot was that I had a paralyzing fear of public speaking — so much so that I gave up graduating from college because I never took Speech 101.
I had one month before the evening’s presentation at the MilanofSchock Library in Mount Joy, Pennsylvania. Every time I passed the library on the way home from work, I felt more fear creep in. How was I going to present a two-hour seminar without my voice quivering, my hands shaking, and my palms sweating? Maybe they could dim the lights through the entire presentation, and no one would have to see me. Or maybe, like in The Wizard of Oz, I could hide behind the screen as I narrated the PowerPoint.
“It’s not about you; it’s about the people you’re trying to help!”
I knew from past research that public speaking was the number-one fear of most people. In fact, it was greater than the fear of death. I took some comfort in that, but I was still afraid. Every time I thought about standing in front of a crowd, my palms started to sweat, and my throat became dry.
Two weeks before the seminar, I called my best friend, Kim, who planned to be in attendance that evening. As a high-school Spanish teacher, she was accustomed to getting up in front of students and teachers.
I blurted out, “I don’t think I can do the seminar!”
“What are you talking about?” Kim questioned. “You’ll do fine. Your passion will override every fear. Remember, it’s not about you; it’s about the people you’re trying to help!”
That’s all I needed to hear. How selfish of me to be concentrating on myself when the message was to help others.
“Thanks, Kim. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
The evening of the seminar, as people poured in and filled the room, more chairs had to be brought in to accommodate the crowd. One of the first to arrive was the head of the medical practice where I worked, followed by my friend Kim. More friends and guests came to offer support.
After the introductions were made, I walked numbly toward the podium with my syllabus and PowerPoint, ready to share my heartfelt message. As I began telling my story, I saw people in the audience dab-bing at tears. Others nodded in affirmation, and Kim smiled warmly. I realized that the shaky voice was absent, and my hands weren’t sweating. My focus was on the crowd — not me!
As I delivered my last PowerPoint slide with the words “Life’s a Celebration,” there was silence followed by a standing ovation. I was both relieved and excited that I had not only overcome cancer, but also my lifelong fear of public speaking!
It’s been fifteen years since I gave my first speech, but it wasn’t my last. Since that time, I’ve been traveling across the country giving my hallmark speech, “Living the Passionate Life.” On November 2, 2007, I was scheduled to deliver a keynote at the Fox Chase Cancer Center in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for The Eileen Stein Jacoby Fund for breast-cancer research. As I stepped up to the podium, an entourage followed me with a beautifully framed plaque in hand, a corsage of pink and white roses, and wearing smiles of appreciation.
As it turned out, I wasn’t going to be giving a speech at all, but receiving the “Celebration of Life Award” from the Fox Chase Cancer Center. Tears sprang to my eyes as I accepted the award on behalf of all breast-cancer survivors who have discovered that life is worth celebrating — even on the darkest days.
Through my tragedy, pain and loss, I discovered my passion for public speaking and celebrating life — one precious day at a time!
— Connie K. Pombo —
Oh, I’ve Always Wanted to Do That
Life is short, and it is up to you to make it sweet.
~Sarah Louise Delany
When I was a junior in high school, my girlfriends and I bemoaned the fact that we were bored and there was nothing to do. I decided that my senior year was going to be the best ever, and I began looking for clubs to join. I had always wanted to be a cheerleader, so I tried out for and was elected to the position of school m
ascot. I applied for and received the position of editor-in-chief of the school yearbook. I auditioned for and made the school dance team. I was even voted Class Most Spirited. My senior year was the best ever!
Attending university became a different matter. I only had time for school and work. Then I got married and had a baby right away. For eighteen years, I stayed home and raised my sons. I volunteered at my church, but that was the only outside commitment that my then-husband felt I had time for.
I had always wanted to join other organizations like Meals on Wheels or to sign up for dance classes. I pored over the community catalog that offered crafting and cooking classes, daylong excursions to museums, and lessons in tennis and golf. There were so many things that I had always wanted to do, but my husband wouldn’t allow me to do them. It was only every once in a great while, after much cajoling, that my husband would give me the okay to sign up for a class.
At year seventeen, my marriage began to crumble. Divorce was imminent. As my life fell apart, I cried, ranted, and complained to anyone and everyone. But soon I got tired of hearing myself whine. I knew I needed to get outside myself and focus on something bigger. What could that “something” be? I had always wanted to be a mentor within the Big Brothers Big Sisters organization, so I gave them a call. Turns out they didn’t need sisters; they only needed brothers! What else to do? Well, I knew a physical outlet to relieve the tension from my failing household would be good, so I signed up with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. They provided marathon training in exchange for raising funds to support their organization. I had always wanted to participate in a marathon. By the day of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon, I had accomplished several things that I had always wanted to do — purchase a home by myself, get a tattoo, and sign up for a 26.2-mile marathon.
At the start of the marathon, I began with my team that I had trained with for months. At some point along the course, I was separated from them. I ended up crossing the finish line by myself. Deliberately, I focused on watching my feet cross the finish line, to be in the moment and feel that sense of accomplishment. I had accomplished something that I had always wanted to do!
A few weeks later, the professional photographer for the race sent me a photo of me smiling at the camera. I looked so proud and happy in that photograph. As I studied that photo, I realized that the words, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that,” had become my mantra and guiding life philosophy. I was back to living my true, authentic life. If the words, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to do that,” come out of my mouth, then I have to do it!
I keep that framed photograph on my bathroom vanity so I see it every day. It’s a visual reminder that I can do whatever I put my mind to.
Since then, other accomplishments that I’ve achieved because of my new life philosophy include: Walking the Great Wall of China, becoming scuba-certified, skydiving twice, managing a funk band, becoming a published writer and paid speaker, taking my mom to Paris, swimming with dolphins, and going snowmobiling.
What’s next? Recently, I received an e-mail from an associate who is a racecar driver. He invited me to ride along with him as he drives his Porsche 911 GT3 at the Auto Club Speedway. I didn’t realize that was something I’d always wanted to do, but I accepted the invitation! Some people may call it a “Bucket List.” For me, it’s not a list — it’s a lifestyle. With a life philosophy of jumping out of my comfort zone and into whatever “I’ve always wanted to do,” the possibilities are endless!
— “Sunny” Esther Valenzuela —
Mommy, Molly and Magic
I am not the same, having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world.
~Mary Anne Radmacher
It’s 1984, and several mommy friends and family members have told me that I’m crazy. I’m audacious and foolhardy for taking off alone with my toddler daughter to explore the South Pacific islands of Fiji, New Caledonia and Vanuatu. They said I was reckless and irresponsible.
“Traveling with a toddler is so hard and dangerous, especially because you’re alone.”
“She’s in the terrible twos. Are you sure you can handle this by yourself?”
As we stand in the crowded, chaotic International Terminal at LAX, waiting to board our thirteen-hour flight to Fiji, I have to admit they might have a point.
But I have a point to make, too. I want to share my own confident, free spirit and the words that I live by: “Be a leader, not a follower. Be daring and bold.” This blond, curly-haired little person, this trusting, radiant being, looks to me wide-eyed for guidance and reassurance. I do my best to provide that. Our bond is unmatched and joyful. We’re an inseparable duo, just Molly and me.
Besides, we’re protected by magic. She’s wearing her brand-new OshKosh B’gosh pink-striped overalls and Rainbow Brite T-shirt. She clutches her favorite doll, a baby girl, who she has named Edward. Her other tiny hand holds mine firmly. The oversized Strawberry Shortcake backpack she proudly wears dwarfs her two-and-a-half-year-old frame. It’s filled with Cheez-Its, Cheerios and apple slices, a Care Bear puzzle, Elmo coloring book and a small stable of My Little Ponies.
Magical!
Finally on board and settling into our seats, she jabbers excitedly. “Mommy, when are we going to be there? How fast does the airplane go? Do they have cookies?”
An hour into the flight, she yawns and asks, “Mommy, are we there yet?”
Not yet, baby girl, but soon.
We stop over in Honolulu and visit the gift shop. My intrepid traveler, on her first airplane flight and clearly feeling the spirit of Aloha, suggests that Edward needs a hula skirt and lei. Of course, she does!
Back onboard for the longest leg of our Qantas flight, Rick Warneke, our handsome, friendly flight-service director, leans into me. With his endearing Australian accent, he whispers in my ear, “I’ll bet you and your little girl would be more comfortable in first class. Come with me.” Obediently, and not needing any arm-twisting, we follow.
Now well fed, cozy and warm, snuggled in our thick, first-class blankets, we stretch out in our cushy seats and drift off to sleep. A bit later, I jolt awake, and Molly is nowhere to be seen. I know she hasn’t gone far, but I am still panicked. I bound out of my seat and run down the aisle looking for her.
She’s in the back of the plane playing with the flight attendants and several passengers. Happy as a lark, she’s laughing, chatting, and eating a cookie. Clearly, she’s not missing me or worried in the slightest.
That’s my fearless, adventurous girl… born to travel. Wanderlust is imprinted in her DNA.
Crossing time zones and losing an entire day, we land bleary-eyed in Fiji. Looking up at me with her big, blue eyes, Molly asks again, “Mommy, are we there yet?”
Almost.
I’ve reserved a cabin at Castaway Island resort. It’s only accessible by boat or seaplane, so we hop onto a little ferry for the ninety-minute ride to our first tropical paradise.
The staff meets us at the water’s edge and forms a ragtag band in the sand. Music fills the air, and Molly’s giddy as she’s hoisted off the boat onto a crewmember’s broad shoulders. Our bure, Fijian for a wood-and-thatch hut, awaits. The scent of frangipani, jasmine and gardenia fills the air. Ripples of warm, aquamarine waves gently kiss the shore. Trade winds blow tranquilly as we settle in and unpack.
But we’re not alone. Little green geckos are everywhere. Initially alarming, they’re actually pretty adorable. We learn that geckos do all sorts of noble and noteworthy things, such as eating bad bugs. Watching them scurry about endlessly makes Molly squeal with delight.
We see fishermen catching our dinner at dusk right outside our door. I use a scarf to make a tiny sarong for baby doll Edward, and then the three of us, dressed in almost matching sarongs, stroll barefoot through the sand to dinner. We dine by candlelight under balmy, starry skies while a funky little band serenades the guests. The island kids join in to sing, dance and pound on drums. I delight in watching my little girl joyously jump around on
the makeshift stage with the other kids while we parents enjoy a delicious dinner of freshly caught fish, taro and tropical fruits.
One thing becomes clear almost instantly: Fiji is one of the happiest countries in the world. It’s no wonder since they are a tight-knit, village-based society where kids are cared for by everyone and are free to roam around and play. Elders are revered, and children are supported by aunties, uncles and cousins. They have a nearly perfect climate year-round. The national drink is kava (known to be mildly hallucinogenic). Music, fresh food and blazing colors are everywhere. The laidback culture is steeped in ceremony and tradition.
They have a rich, storytelling folklore filled with mythological gods. One myth describes how the islands are protected by Dakuwaqa, the shape-shifting shark-god. The islanders live in harmony with, and have great respect for, the many sharks in their waters.
I find myself identifying with this mighty ocean guardian and hope that he or she doesn’t mind me borrowing a bit of fearlessness. But then I realize that I’ve come here for a reason that I didn’t quite understand before — to find my own strength and power. And the Fijians are sharing and showing me how I can seek my own shark-god.
And here’s the point I’m trying to make: Had I listened to the fear-inducing, unsolicited advice that others gave me, we might never have had this magical experience.
I know there are plenty of things in life to be fearful of. Some are reasonable: Don’t hitchhike alone at night when the Zodiac Killer is on the loose. Never walk between a mother moose and her calves on a lonely mountain road in Montana. (Hmmm, did I do that?) Other fears are unreasonable and designed to do nothing more than make me fret and worry. Like raising a child — especially on my own.
Other moms told me that if I made it over the hurdle of morning sickness and the agonizing pain of childbirth, I could look forward to postpartum depression, aching breasts, sleep deprivation, and loss of any type of self-care. Life would be an endless loop of dirty diapers, snotty noses, throw-up, and laundry — and that is if I had a “good” baby. If my baby were colicky or fussy, I was warned, my life would be a veritable nightmare.