Dragonwriter

by Dragonwriter- A Tribute to Anne McCaffrey

  It was official. I was in love. Change the silver hair to auburn, and every bit of that statement resonated true for me. I was so captivated by the discovery of someone who seemed like such a kindred spirit that, despite the awful orange color, I decided to read a chapter or two. Later that night, as I put the finished copy of Moreta: Dragonlady of pern on my nightstand, I couldn’t wait to read the other titles that were listed in the front of the book. I had been so very wrong; dragons were totally my thing. Over the next few years, I devoured every Pern novel I could get my hands on. Once I caught up with the Dragonrider books then in print, I found some of her romances, a short story collection, and The Rowan. My bookshelf was showing signs of a definite personality shift.

  As I was working my way through the Anne McCaffrey titles I found, I had two more children. Our family moved to a different city, and I soon found myself pregnant for the fourth time. With the stress of another pregnancy, my oldest son facing surgery, and settling the kids into a new environment, I found Anne’s books a tremendous comfort. I would reread them multiple times; they felt like visiting with an old friend. The isolation and loneliness of a recent move during such emotionally trying circumstances only increased my attachment to the author whose personality was stamped so indelibly on her work.

  Baby number four finally arrived. The crash team entering the delivery room was the first sign of my life completely changing course. My unanswered question of “is something wrong with my baby?” quickly switched to “what is wrong with my baby?” That question did not have a simple answer. For the first twenty-four hours after she was born, every time the doctors entered my room it was to inform me of yet another defect or complication. It was evident the doctors held little hope of her surviving the day. When I asked them if there was anything that could be donated to save another child if she died, they got very quiet. Finally one doctor spoke up and said, “She has a good liver.” At barely twelve hours old, the only organ in my tiny baby girl that was functioning properly was her liver.

  But she was a fighter, and she surprised us. Against all odds, she made it through the first day. I would stand in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, sing softly, and stroke the only part of her body I was allowed to touch: the very top of her head. When she was two days old, I was informed she needed emergency heart surgery. We were transferred to the Intensive Care Unit of the Children’s Hospital, where we would remain for three months and five more surgeries. Eventually, they would figure out a diagnosis for her mysterious condition. Michelle was born with CHARGE association. While it is now classified as an actual syndrome, at the time the specialists had very little information for us beyond the basic definition and her individual manifestations of each aspect of the condition. The name was an acronym used to describe a group of defects that had begun to appear as a cluster in rare instances. The C stood for coloboma malformation of the eye, H for heart defects, A for atresia of the choanae, R for renal abnormalities, G for growth and developmental delays, and E for ear abnormalities. The specialists began to use terms such as “quality of life” to describe all the things she was likely to be without.

  My husband, Michael, realized it was going to be nearly impossible to pry me away from her bedside. He asked what he could bring me from home: a change of clothes, sweater, food, or something to read? I asked him to bring me anything by Anne McCaffrey. There were several of her books on my shelf, and any one of them would have been a comforting favorite. Trying to be thoughtful, instead of bringing me a book I’d read a dozen times, he went to the bookstore and bought a couple he hadn’t seen at home. I thanked him but was only slightly interested in them. My mind was on the five pounds of little girl with all the wires running in different directions and the breathing tube protruding from her mouth. I didn’t have the energy needed to delve into unknown territory. However, the night after she survived the first heart surgery, which had been very touch-and-go, I reached for the books as the ICU settled down into the hush of the night shift.

  The title The Ship Who Sang jumped out at me. Since Anne’s vocal studies had been one of the things that drew me to her as an author, I liked the thought of her writing about singing. I didn’t even read the blurbs on the back and had no idea what was waiting for me between the covers of that book. I turned on the nightlight, trying to avoid disturbing either of the children recovering from surgery in the neighboring glass-walled rooms. Surrounded by the beeps and hums of the machines keeping my daughter alive, I began to read.

  And then I began to cry. For days, I had been trying to hold it together. I was afraid that if I let go, I would shatter and be useless. All I wanted was to be able to hold my baby girl and sing to her, but it felt as if she were being held hostage by the very tubes that were her salvation. Every day since Michelle had been born, I was constantly glancing at monitors, searching for proof she was still alive. Rather than seeing her smile or hearing her cry, I would look for changes in her oxygen saturation numbers to tell me when she was happy or upset. The isolation and despair created by this medical barrier was quietly breaking my heart. I believed no one understood how I felt.

  Then I met Helva.

  I was constantly visited by specialists who wanted to study or discuss Michelle’s mysterious collection of birth defects. The list of possible worst-case scenarios kept growing with each discovery. With all these fears and worries bouncing around in my head, in a darkened ICU in the middle of the night, I read these words: “There was always the possibility that though the limbs were twisted, the mind was not, that though the ears would hear only dimly, the eyes see vaguely, the mind behind them was receptive and alert.” The power of that statement was overwhelming.

  With the tears in my eyes making it nearly impossible to focus, I kept reading those words over and over while I cried out all my fears. I had never known anyone who had the sort of severe handicaps my daughter had been born with. I had trouble wrapping my brain around the concept of who she was as a person. As a parent, I had never been of the attitude that we mold and create the adults our children grow into. I’ve always believed they are born as little individuals and it is our job as parents to love and support them and help them grow into these special selves. My creator daughter, tender-souled son, and genius son—those I knew how to interact with and encourage. But I felt lost when I looked for the baby hidden among the wires and tubes. I was terrified I wouldn’t know how to be her mother, especially with specialists telling me she would never be able to fully interact with me or her environment.

  But the concept of a mind that was “receptive and alert” possibly being hidden by the body that wasn’t functioning had been planted. The tears dried, and I continued reading. I fell in love with Helva as I experienced her transformation from a malformed “thing” at birth to the brain of a sleek and powerful spaceship. The unique perspective her challenges had given her made it possible for her to find solutions to both physically and emotionally dangerous situations. Her intellect, tender heart, and love of music keep her the most human of the characters I have ever encountered, regardless of the machine that acted as her body. Over the years I have had the privilege of hearing many people tell me what The Ship Who Sang meant to them. Many talk about the adventure, the romance, or how vibrant the characters are. But for me, the lesson that was driven into my heart is how unimportant the container we live in is. Bodies, wheelchairs, titanium encasings—the external is nothing compared to the spirit within.

  Because of the frequent need to put the book down and attend to Michelle’s needs, it took a week or so to finish. Along with the words, I absorbed the environment in which I read them. All around me, each day the struggle for hope in the face of despair imprinted on my spirit. By the time I reached the words on the final page, “to let night with its darkness for sorrowing and sleep complete its course and bring . . . a new day,” I possessed new definitions for beauty and possibilities. The image of Helva sitting on the tarmac as the notes of requiem drifted over the darkening service
base was very real in my mind. I could feel the emotions as she comes to terms with all she has lost and finally manages to appreciate what she has gained in the wake of so much tragedy. In a very real way, Helva helped me connect with my daughter. The wires, tubes, and machines stopped being a barrier. I was determined to push the boundaries and defy the norm. I found nurses who would help me maneuver all the equipment so that I could hold my daughter once a day. I sat in a rocking chair, and they would carefully transition her from the warmer to my arms and drape all the wires and tubes around both of us, taping many of them to the chair to minimize the risk of removing a connection that was keeping her alive. Holding her broke all the rules. But I would sing, we could finally bond, and Michelle continued to beat the odds and mystify the doctors.

  Of course, Michelle was no Helva, but she was a miracle in her own right. When we were allowed to bring her home, life became a dizzying whirlwind of therapists and doctors. I learned how to tune out and deflect statements that contained the words won’t or can’t. I searched for people who said things like “I don’t know if this will work, but we can give it a try.” By the time Michelle reached her miraculous first birthday, the doctors stopped giving me estimates of how long until we could expect her to die. Instead, they began to say things like “I don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is, keep doing it.”

  I was thrilled she was doing so well, but the year had been draining for me. I began to feel as if I had lost touch with myself. Because Michelle was still so medically fragile and dependent on the machines that now decorated half of our living room, I rarely left the house. My only friends were the home health nurses who came every day to attend to Michelle’s needs while I got some sleep or spent time with my other children. I looked forward to the nurses arriving every day. Adult conversation was such a treasure. It was then that my husband brought home our first computer. I wasn’t very sure about the new addition; my computer skills were limited to data entry and Lotus spreadsheets. I had never encountered the internet, but he suggested it might help with the cabin fever that had begun to set in after a year of isolation.

  I was curious and liked the shiny, bright, newness of it, but doubted it could actually help me feel less lonely and isolated. It was just a box sitting in the den. Then he showed me how to get to the interests section of AOL and said something like “You like to read; you can search for authors in here.” We clicked on the “authors” button, and a list of names appeared for us to scroll through. I was so clueless the first time I clicked on Anne’s name and entered a strange new world. I had no idea how popular Anne was or that there was such a thing as fandom.

  I wandered from one click to the next. There were new marvels to be found with every refreshing of the screen: tons of scrolling text discussing books and series written by Anne that I didn’t even know existed. But it was the personal stories that were scattered across the message boards that really caught my attention. For the first time, I realized my experience with Anne’s writing was not unique. I read dozens of stories that day, all of them describing the various ways her writing had helped someone through troubled times. All of this would have been merely a day’s distraction if an instant message hadn’t suddenly appeared on my screen wanting to know if I was going to be joining everyone in the dragonrider room.

  I admit to being more than a tad bit alarmed when this message appeared from out of nowhere. I didn’t know what a dragonrider room was, and I certainly didn’t know who “everyone” was. I politely typed back that I hadn’t been planning on joining them and didn’t know how to get there. I closed the window and went back to reading. Another window popped up with explicit directions on how to navigate to the room. It was soon followed by several messages wanting to know if I was coming. With a sigh, I realized that whoever this was, they were going to interrupt my exploration of the Anne McCaffrey message boards until I joined them.

  To say entering the chat room was a culture shock would be putting it mildly. A chorus of greetings and dragon noises sent by a barrage of Pernese-sounding screen names scrolled by faster than anyone could read. I sat stunned by the overwhelming visual noise and was about to quietly leave the room when I got a very calm message welcoming me to the gathering and explaining a few logistics. The meeting was called to order, and an actual discussion of the Pern series began. In all the years of reading the books, I’d had no one to talk to about them. Before long, simply “listening” to the discussion wasn’t enough. I stumbled my way through figuring out how to join the conversation. There was a language shorthand that took me a while to figure out, but I was having a blast. Then I recognized a name from a story I had read on a message board earlier, and all of these silly anonymous screen names scrolling past suddenly became people. I began to pick out what she was saying and hear it in the context of the personal tragedy she had shared on the boards. Her reactions took on deeper meaning, and I began to see past the irritating level of silly that kept cluttering my screen to the heart of what was really going on: there were genuine bonds of friendship and trust mixed in with the juvenile remarks. And for some reason, several of my new friends decided they weren’t going to let me slip away.

  I was bombarded with invitations to join various clubs and with questions about my writing ability. Not sure why this was relevant, I replied that I had written lots of stories when I was a kid and did quite well with creative writing classes in school. My mailbox was suddenly overflowing with guides, rules, and writing examples. For a week, every time I turned on the computer, someone would send me a message wanting to know how I was doing and if I’d read their guide. I began to look forward to the Monday night gatherings in the dragonrider chat room. No matter the odd hour of the day or night when I would find myself awake and alone with the beeping of Michelle’s monitors, there was always someone from the Pern community online to talk to. The loneliness began to fade, and I decided that if writing was the rite of passage to remain part of this community, then I would write a story.

  Courtesy of Anne McCaffrey fandom, I now have a new appreciation for the phrase “gateway drug.”

  I joined a weyr, created a character, and wrote a story. Then I wrote another story. I joined another club. When I wasn’t looking, I somehow became the leader of a club. Then I got invited to join many of my online friends at a gathering known as Dragon*Con in Atlanta.

  I hadn’t been away from Michelle for more than a couple of hours at a time in the first two and a half years of her life. The thought of leaving her for an entire weekend was terrifying, but my friends and family convinced me I would be better able to care for her if I remembered to also care for myself. I decided to go. Once again, having no clue what I was getting into, I entered the next level of McCaffrey fandom as a wide-eyed innocent.

  I wasn’t given much time to adjust. The same fandom forces that had maneuvered me into running my own club had also talked me into being on several panels. I somehow managed to survive the experience and never looked back. For the past sixteen years, I have been one of the movers and shakers of Weyrfest at Dragon*Con. I love interacting with people who truly love Anne and her work. Their personal stories inspire me as much as the friendships I have made sustain me.

  I spent several years enjoying my annual romp with fandom before the next wave of unexpected life change happened. In 1999, Anne decided to return to Dragon*Con. I had heard stories from fans about how wonderful it was to meet Anne. They would sit and talk for hours about every nuance of every moment spent with the Dragonlady. The level of adoration was a bit daunting at times, but given how deeply she had impacted my own life, I understood why many of them could be moved to tears at the very sight of her. As one of the worker bees, I had more of an opportunity to interact with Anne than most of the convention attendees. I was thrilled to shake her hand and see for myself the sparkle of mischief that was always lurking in her eyes. The sheer number of people trying to get close to her, and the impressive number of people trying to keep her safe, inti
midated me. So I kept to the edge of things and did my best to bring a tiny bit of order to the chaos that was Weyrfest that year. I ended up having some amazing conversations with a member of her entourage. He was intelligent, funny, and encouraging when the topic of writing came up. It was later when my new friend was on a panel that I realized Todd Johnson was Anne’s son.

  I would be far more embarrassed for my cluelessness, except that I am grateful I didn’t know who he was when we began talking. First impressions are important, and I have always seen Todd as my friend first and Anne’s son second. It was his encouragement that eventually led me to attending writer’s workshops and braving the terror of sending my first manuscripts into the great unknown.

  By the time Anne returned to Dragon*Con, I had become one of the directors of Weyrfest. Anne had been through a lot since the first time I’d met her, and as a result, her health was no longer as robust as it had once been. As we made preparations for her arrival, I was worried. I remembered how chaotic the press of people had been the last time she had been a guest at the convention. At the opening of Weyrfest, we tried to explain how important it was for everyone to show their love for Anne by being gentle with her. We recruited a reliable Anne Guard who would accompany her everywhere, but this wasn’t to keep Anne away from her fans—it was to make it safe for her to be near them. I had underestimated the majority of the people who had gathered to see her. Once again, I was impressed by how many people genuinely loved her and took great pains to keep her safe.