by Goldie Hawn
It is unusually chilly in Lima. I arrived last night from Los Angeles, at the request of an organization called Operation Smile, which travels the world helping children who need reconstructive facial surgery. I’ve always wanted to give in some way to this special charity that flies volunteer doctors to third world countries to help deformed children whose cultures sometimes believe they have been touched by the devil.
“Yes,” I finally said to the call, “I can go.” The charity gave me the option of traveling to Vietnam, Africa or Peru. The Lima dates were the only ones that fit my schedule, and, happily, Kurt, Oliver and Boston were able to join me.
The plan is to go on to some of the ancient Incan sights I’ve always wanted to see. But what we found first in Lima was greater than any anthropological site. We found a human spirit, so alive, so joyful, and yet also so damaged and so scared.
We are on our way to meet the doctor from Operation Smile who will perform the surgery. One by one, we peel out of the elevator of our hotel, jet-lagged and bleary-eyed. He is waiting for us, sitting in the lobby in his overcoat, sipping coffee.
“I hope we’re not late,” I say apologetically.
“No, not at all,” he says, rising to shake our hands. “But we should get going. There are two hundred kids waiting for us at the hospital.”
“Two hundred? Are you going to operate on all of them?”
“No.” He smiles sadly as he opens the door to the van and we all shuffle in and sit down. “The children you’re about to see are all suffering from some sort of facial deformity. Some are far worse than others, and some we simply can’t help. But the majority, we hope to do something about, eventually.”
It’s misting and gray outside as our van weaves its way through the wet streets of Lima until we reach the old hospital. It is run-down and cavernous, and reminds me of the old hotel in Livorno, Italy, where I first met my loving friend Aldo. Inside the grubby hallway, with its green paint peeling off the walls, the acrid smell of antiseptic cuts the air. It feels as cold and unwelcoming as the Peruvian winter.
Walking down a long corridor, we glance into the many empty rooms. Simple cots are cramped together and lined up against the cold wall, just waiting to bed the sick. I am so grateful that at least part of our family is together for this experience. It is unlike anything we have ever done together before. The vacations we took before were always to places with beautiful white sandy beaches, or we rode bikes through France, or we went to England, making fun excursions to the Tower of London atop a red double-decker bus. It is good to be here, very good.
We can hear the children before we can see them. Trailing toward a wide, open hallway, the noise of laughing, screaming and excited chattering greets us.
“Prepare yourselves,” the doctor warns.
Rounding the corner, we are met with a wall of faces and sound. The children let out a huge cheer, squealing and clapping and pressing forward to meet us. A camera crew turns on their lights, the paparazzi start snapping away, and everyone jockeys for position in the melee.
I spot a young boy’s face behind all the others in the crowd. A dark, middle-aged woman, perhaps an Operation Smile volunteer, is lifting him up. He’s waving his hands wildly at us, or so it seems. His mouth is extremely deformed, but he has the widest, most compelling smile I have ever seen. Beams of light burst out of his mouth. His eyes dance with happiness. Shy and self-conscious he isn’t. His electricity, his aura, his joy is so blinding that, for a moment, I can see nothing else.
Spotting us from across the room, he extends his arms with great zest toward Kurt and me. As if pulled by a magnet, we are drawn to him, sharing in his joy. What power this little Incan child possesses! The boys follow us as we cut through the crowd to be practically attacked by his hugs and kisses. His mouth is unable to close because of the severity of his condition. His sloppy kisses lift my heart. He has Kurt and I in a tight headlock, both his arms clamped around our necks, laughing and kissing one and then the other. We look at each other and smile. We are clearly falling in love with this very tenacious spirit.
I can tell from the guttural noises the boy is making in his throat that he cannot speak. “What’s his name?” I ask the woman who was holding him.
“Juan Carlos,” she says. “He’s quite something, isn’t he?”
“Are you his mother?” Kurt asks.
“No, I run the orphanage where he lives in Trujillo. I told him he was too old for this surgery, when he saw it on television. He saw the pictures of the other children who’d been helped. He became most insistent. I had to borrow a truck and drive all the way here. It is very far. But Juan knows how to get what he wants.”
I am shocked that Juan is an orphan; he seems so happy. I wonder if he is like this all the time. “Are his parents dead?”
“No, he ran away from home when he was four years old because he was so badly beaten. His family were very ignorant and thought he was possessed by the devil. He lived on the streets for at least two years, we think. He only came to us when the police picked him up.”
The more I hear, the more attached I become to this child. I look at his tattered clothes. I see that he has no shoes. Suddenly, I want to do everything I can to help him. I wave the doctor over, who is talking to some volunteers, and introduce him to Juan.
Juan takes his arm and puts it around his neck and kisses him. “Wow, what a grip!” the doctor laughs.
“Listen,” I tell the doctor. “I know you’ve chosen a little girl. But if we choose another child, will you operate on her anyway?”
“Yes.” He nods.
“Then I’d love Juan to be our child too.”
The doctor speaks quickly in Spanish to the woman who brought Juan to the hospital, and the smile falls from his face. He leads us away to another part of the room. Although Juan has also melted his heart, it seems he is too old for the charity’s work. “Juan is seven, and we only operate on those under seven,” he explains. “That age was chosen because it makes the recovery easier, and because we have to stop somewhere.”
“Please?” I plead. “He isn’t much older than seven, and they may not know his true age anyway.”
“We’ll see.”
We are whisked off to another part of the hospital to meet the other children who are going to be operated on today. It is excruciating, meeting these kids who have been rejected from birth, and who, feeling like freaks of nature, have been so badly damaged psychologically that they may never integrate fully into society. All the while, though, I can’t stop thinking about Juan.
Coming back to the children, Juan is still waiting there, still beaming that smile of his. I turn to the doctor and press my hand on his arm. “So, what’s the answer?” I ask.
He pauses, looks from Juan to me, and back again, and then sighs. “How can I possibly say no?”
When all the necessary paperwork has been completed and the doctors are ready, we escort Juan to the operating room for his surgery. He is such a brave little soldier, seemingly completely unafraid. We all have to dress in green scrubs, which are not my outfit of choice. The worst part is that I have to wear a horrible green hat and tuck my bangs up under it. Looking in the mirror, I now know the reason I never got the part of a Copa girl when I was dancing in New York: my forehead is so high when you pull the hair back from my face. Throwing caution to the wind, and looking pretty much like my father, I come out, take one look at Kurt in his hat and laugh. He doesn’t look so hot either.
The cameras of a documentary crew rolling, the four of us looking like goodness knows what, we don masks and gloves and help get Juan ready. He is so happy and excited that he can hardly contain himself. Kurt lifts him into his arms and carries him in.
The doctor tells me, “Goldie, would you please sit here? And, Kurt, can you put Juan in Goldie’s arms?”
Juan is so happy to be plopped into my lap. He throws his arms around my neck, kisses my face, bounces up and down in my lap and can’t wait to get started. We’r
e all standing around looking at him and laughing, bubbling over with happiness and expectation. It couldn’t have been more different than my childhood experience of having my tonsils out at seven and being terrified of the sterile, seemingly hostile environment of the operating room.
My nose wrinkles at the horrible smell in the room, which only reminds me of that bad memory. I can see from Boston’s and Oliver’s faces that they can smell it too. “Is something leaking?” I ask the anesthesiologist.
“No.” He laughs. “It’s just the gas. Here, try to get Juan to put this mask on his face, but go gently—kids are often very frightened by this part.”
Someone tells Juan in Spanish what’s about to happen.
The anesthesiologist needn’t have worried. Even though the mixture smells bad, Juan grabs that mask and sucks in with everything he’s got. There isn’t an ounce of fear in this tough little street kid. He looks up at me with an expression that says, Aren’t I doing good? The more he breathes in, the heavier he becomes in my arms, all the light and life and energy dripping away from him. When I can feel the full weight of Juan’s body, as he gives in to the gas, Kurt helps the doctor lift him off me and lays him, deadweight, on the operating table.
The surgery begins. My family gathers round while the anesthesiologist sits at Juan’s head monitoring vital signs. I look at my children and Kurt, our eyes meeting above our masks, with looks of amazement that we are really here, sharing this moment. This is a most unusual Monday morning.
Now that Juan’s face is in repose, we are able to see for the first time just how disfigured he is. We want him to be helped even more. We all participate in our own way. The doctor calls for a scalpel, and Oliver hands it to him. I give him the scissors he asks for. We watch in awe as he takes the scalpel and begins to cut into Juan’s face, sculpting a new mouth.
Over the next two hours, we watch in fascination as the doctor moves what there is of Juan’s palate, bringing his massive top lip down, and cuts into his flattened nose. With delicacy I can hardly believe, he creates a brand-new mouth, a new nose, a completely different appearance. I wonder if Juan will ever be able to smile as big again.
As he’s stitching Juan up, the surgeon says, “This will make him look better, but, unfortunately, he’ll need more surgery, and he still won’t be able to speak clearly. But at least he won’t be so persecuted.”
When it’s all over, Kurt picks Juan up, and, as we all follow, carries him down the hallway to the recovery room and lays him in his bed. The surgery complete, it is time for us to say good-bye. Although I knew this moment would come, it suddenly feels terribly hard. I am already so attached to this child. Oh, Goldie, I scold myself, you’re being a hopeless romantic. Straighten up and fly right. You’ve done your bit; you’ve all done a good thing. Now walk away.
But I hear myself telling the doctor, “Please, I want to know what happens to Juan. I want to pay for his second operation. Can you contact me and let me know what happens to him?”
He readily agrees.
Each of us kisses Juan’s head as he is rousing, restlessly, and say good-bye. Taking our leave, we back up, watching him being tended by the nurses, and prepare ourselves to say farewell to all these wonderful volunteers who make the work of this charity possible.
But I still can’t get Juan out of my mind. When we’ve said good-bye to everyone, and, just before we are due to leave, I run back to his room to see him one last time. He is groggy now, and in considerable pain. His eyes are deeply unhappy. His mood is aggressive and uncooperative and full of anger. I am as affected by his pain as I was by his joy. For the first time, I see a different side to this tormented child, the part he hid from us behind his seductive smile.
Our journey continues, and we travel to all the places we have wanted to see. Machu Picchu, the Valley of the Gods, and thirteen thousand feet up to Cusco, where we meet the oldest living Incan, a shaman, who gives us blessings in a holy cave. Everywhere I go, I see Juan’s face. He is so of this land and of the spirit of Peru. I have sensed his incredible spirit and exuberance from the beginning, but the more I see of this extraordinary country, the more I understand who he is.
The people of this mountainous land worship the sun. Juan has reminded me of the sun from the moment I saw him. He has such a deep connection to this ancient form of worship, and I suddenly want him to see all this with me one day, to know what his roots are, who his tribe is and what he belongs to. I want him to reconnect to his spiritual life, having had so little spiritual life in his formative years. And I want to be with him when he does.
Over the next six months, I am in constant contact with Operation Smile. They tell me of Juan’s progress, and let me know when he’s ready for his second operation, which will enable him to speak. I ask them what I can do to help. “Could you host a fund-raising dinner at your home?” they ask. I agree immediately.
In my backyard, I create a vibrant celebration of life. I invite musicians from around the world and from all different cultures, and the theme is laughter and joy. It is a great turnout, the music is fabulous, and everyone is dancing and having fun. The event is covered by In Style magazine, and we raise a lot of money for this charity.
But then something even more extraordinary happens. At the end of the evening, I have to stand on a stage and speak to the invited guests about my special relationship with Juan. I am then supposed to introduce a slide show of the charity’s good work.
“Okay, everyone,” I say when the film is over, “now’s the time to dig deep. Someone will be coming round to your tables with special envelopes, and Juan and I and all the other little children would be very grateful if you could find it in your hearts to make a donation.”
There is a general hubbub, and people nod at me and smile.
“Can someone bring in the envelopes, please?” I call into the microphone.
Suddenly, in the doorway to the house, I see a face. It is Juan, carrying a tray full of envelopes, working his way toward me down the aisle.
“Oh my God!” I cry, my hands to my face. “I can’t believe this!”
Juan abandons his tray, runs forward, jumps up on the stage and hugs me as tightly as he did the first time we met. I hug him back just as fiercely. Trying to get the words out, I say, “This is Juan, everybody! This is my little Juan!”
He rests his head on my shoulder and looks up at me. I can’t stop kissing his face, his beautiful new face.
The Brazilian band begins to play, and everyone jumps up to dance, including Juan and I. Kurt comes up onto the stage and lifts Juan onto his shoulders. The Mardi Gras troupe escorts our happy little procession into our home, drumming, dancing and jumping gaily all around us. When we reach the open doors of our house, the drummers circle around Juan with fire in their eyes and start drumming just for him. Juan, in his little pair of corduroy pants and a little dress shirt, loves all the attention. Jumping down from Kurt’s shoulders, he twirls and spins, jumps and twists for them; he beats his hands on their drums and he laughs and laughs and laughs.
Dr. Magee, one of the mainstays of the charity, comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder.
“You tricked me!” I tell him, laughing.
“He’s been in your son Wyatt’s room playing on the computer for the last four hours.”
“He has? Oh my God! Well, anyway, this is the best trick that’s ever been played on me.” Kissing him, I add, “Thank you.”
Juan’s journey after that night is a bit of a bumpy one. Dr. Magee, the head of Operation Smile, decides to take him to his home in Virginia and operate on him himself, starting the complicated repair of the hole in the roof of his mouth.
Juan flourishes there at first. He is under the foster care of a wonderful couple, and he learns to fish and skate. With the help of speech therapists, he learns English and attends a regular school. His adoptive parents are deeply religious, and he learns to read Bible books. They have their own little girl, but they are happy to keep Juan in their
home—for a while. We e-mail back and forth, and I keep abreast of his progress. They send me photographs of him as he turns into the all-American boy. It is a good time, and all of us are filled with hope.
I go to another Operation Smile fund-raiser in Washington, D.C., and the family arranges for Juan to come up and meet me. I can’t wait to see him. It is a very grand affair, with ball gowns and tuxedos, terribly formal, and held in a beautiful gallery. I see this little boy dressed in his first tuxedo walking toward me, looking more handsome than I could possibly imagine, and I smile as big as he used to. The little frog has turned into a prince—my prince. So self-possessed, he takes my hand and escorts me to my table as my date. He is articulate, speaking English, and looking fabulous. Staring at him, almost unable to believe it, I am so proud. I know I have done something good here.
A comedian comes on the stage and does an opening act. He is very funny, but Juan and I seem to be the only people laughing. Juan gets every joke, laughing in all the right places. He becomes so overjoyed, so delighted that this man is making us laugh, that he jumps up, runs onto the stage and gives him the biggest hug, right in the middle of his routine. Sitting watching him, like a proud mother, I am overjoyed. This child has so much potential for love, and, at last, he is able to express it.
But, sadly, Juan’s problems are more than skin-deep. His years of rejection, abuse and fear have taken a heavy toll on his young psyche. He soon begins to test his new foster parents with an uncontrollable temper and violent tantrums. Their e-mails become increasingly desperate.
I am in our summer cottage in Canada when I hear the news that Juan has been flown back to Peru. He has been returned to the orphanage in Trujillo. His American belongings—his clothes and his toys—have been packed away so that the other children can’t steal them.
The news devastates me.
“Juan was brought here because of us,” I tell Kurt inconsolably. “He was the center of all our hoopla. He became the poster boy for Operation Smile. I feel responsible. I won’t give up on him. I have to go see him.”