ichooselove

I’ve been struggling with feelings of fear, anger, and helplessness. The cynicism of the elections, only to be outdone by the cynicism of cabinet appointments, is hard for me to tolerate. The reactive, fear filled reasoning behind choices and decisions leaves me feeling that I can neither breathe, nor protect myself and my loved ones. Something happened today that brought me to another place. That something is insignificant. The significance is where it took me. It took me to a place more than 40 years in my past. The place that would seem to be so sad and filled with pain was, and is, a symbol of hope. That place was the years I spent in and around the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. From 1975 to 1977 I spent untold hours there surrounded by the most precious and spectacular people I’ve ever known. These children, fighting for their lives were all so much smarter and evolved than I could ever be. I learned countless lessons, laughed, cried, and… lived.

In 1975, only three years removed from the loss of my beloved grandfather, my mom came into my room to tell me she’d met the new neighbor across the street. She said the woman had a boy my age, who was sick, and she thought it would be nice if I dropped by to spend some time and introduce myself. I can’t remember now if she told me he had leukemia or not. I can’t remember much about that day except for the time I spent in their house. I knocked on the kitchen door and was met immediately by this lovely woman who was cooking something that smelled like heaven. I had no idea what it was, nor did I care. It was heaven. She was so happy I had stopped by and called out to her son, “Mijo! The neighbor boy is here to see you!!” She walked through the house as I stood in the kitchen frozen in place by the heavenly smell. She called back to me and I followed, opening the door. “Van, this is my son, Michael. Mijo, this is Van.” He sat on one of the two twin beds in his room, wearing a sweathshirt, light colored jeans, and white socks. He was thin, almost frail, but not really. His long, dark hair framed his face, which was a mixture of strength, fear, and vulnerability. He clarified his name was Mike, not Michael, and I clarified mine was too easy to worry about, or confuse. Then he reached up and removed his visor and hair. The wig covered the wisps of hair still on his head. He simply stated he had no hair because of the leukemia, and wondered if that was a problem for me. I couldn’t think of a reason it would be, unless it was going to cause mine to fall out. I will always remember his face in that moment. A mixture of relief, humor, and curiosity about this boy from across the street who now stood in his room. In that moment, as he sat on his bed, wig at his side, emotionally exposed, we became best of friends.

We were virtually inseparable for the next 2 years. Our adventures were endless. You see, even though his parents couldn’t discuss it, he knew he was dying. He knew the end game. We spoke of it in those first few minutes, and over and over again. On the countless sleepovers when his coughing would become so painful and I would get up, bring his tissues and sit next to him, we’d talk for half the night. We rode his Yamaha mini enduro up and down the ivy hillside, wearing a path, then looked confused and quizzical as his father wondered which neighbor kids had killed the ivy. We stole some of his older brother’s pot and got stoned in the greenhouse, giggling hysterically as we ate every tortilla chip in the house. His father, fearing Mike would never make it to 16, taught us to drive in his giant 4 wheel drive pickup truck. On a camping trip to Pismo beach we tore all four tires off of the truck doing donuts in the sand. We stood and watch the tide coming in as we waited for the mechanic to come and fix the truck, again giggling. We played with his homemade nunchucks, almost knocking me out. When his pain was too much to tolerate, we’d sit together and cry. I was with him when he had a spinal tap, and sat with him through countless tests and procedures. It was those days and nights at the hospital that I learned more about life than I have in the 40 years since.

I found his hospital friends to be wonderful. They were curious and wise. They didn’t react to things the way others did, and I loved it. Magic was a hobby of mine, and I did magic shows for them. We raced through the halls of the hospital in wheelchairs, squealing in delight. Mike had a girlfriend there who was also sick. I distracted the nurses, with the help of our friend Ron, so they could “do it”. An older friend snuck in beer and pizza and we sat in Ron’s room having a party for him when he was going home. When Ron was back two weeks later, with another horrible case of pneumonia, we sat in his room by his side for hours just talking about girls and football. I remember sitting there that evening, dreading going home, thinking how lucky I was to have Mike and Ron in my life.

One month later, Mike was gone. I’d held his hand and talked to him the night he died. He told me to keep an eye on his girl, take care of Ron, and look out for his mom. A month later, his girlfriend was gone. Another month, and so was Ron. The day I heard Ron was gone I realized that of the four of us I was now left alone. I was confused, not understanding why. I certainly didn’t do anything to deserve to survive. They were all so special, so full of love and joy, and they were all gone. My dad sat with me as I cried. He just sat there and held me, saying nothing, until I fell asleep. In the morning he came in and looked out my window and commenting about how beautiful the day was. I walked out into the yard, sitting on our lawn, and lay back on the hill looking at the blue sky and white clouds above. It was a truly beautiful day. That day, hurting so much from the loss of my friends, feeling so alone, I realized the beauty and joy my friends had given me. The joy and love they gave me would always be with me. That joy and love is what I choose to hold on to now. It’s almost 40 years since that day on the lawn, and more than 40 years since I walked into Mike’s house. I can still hear his voice. I can smell the ocean as we stood next to that giant ford truck with all four tires off of the rims, giggling. That love is what I will hold to every day. That love is what I will share with each and every person I come across. I don’t choose fear. I choose love. I love you!!!

#ichooselove