Synopsis:  George Bailey has spent his entire life giving up his big dreams for the good of his town, Bedford Falls. But, on Christmas Eve, he is broken and suicidal over the misplacing of $8000 and the machinations of the evil millionaire Mr. Potter. His guardian angel, Clarence, falls to Earth, literally, and shows him how his town, family, and friends would have turned out if he had never been born.

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

We are in our final week of shows for this production. I find myself growing more grateful and thankful every performance. Greenville Little Theatre stands as a testament of what good people can accomplish when you combine passion, art and love for others: a reminder that we are all more alike than not.

This afternoon I was asked what impacted me during Saturday evenings performance last week. Since I’ve mentioned that I learn something every night, it is a fair question. Here is what hit me, encouraged me and has caused me to look more closely at people I see along my day: how George handled the loss of hearing in his ear.

George lost his hearing from complications to an illness he acquired while saving the life of his little brother. It hit me that the majority of the times we hear George mention his “bum ear” is when he’s receiving good news and he is in a bit of disbelief. He never mentions it when he receives bad or discouraging news.

That’s what hit me. I certainly don’t relish bad news but it has certainly been the main type I’ve received since diagnosis. So it became easier to handle. That sounds odd, I’m sure. But my new normal was just that – varying shades of not-so-great news. The few times I’ve heard exciting news became a bit difficult to comprehend. My mind had adapted to the bad.

I’ve looked back at my experience to try and understand this change. There are moments that stick out and I’ll share two. Early on in the experimental treatments every piece of good news was followed up with a big “but.” 😂 (A good play on words is healthy for a long-lasting sense of humor.) Then there was the first Oncoligist I encountered after we moved to another state – she read my medical records and informed me that should I relapse she would not start treatment again. Her words ring loud and clear in my mind, “your quality of life is not something I can condone. I will make you comfortable but that is it.” 🥺😳😢 My Rock said a few choice words and then whisked me right out of there. Every night when I hear Mr. Potter tell George Bailey that he’s worth more dead than alive, I hear that oncologist. Thankfully every time I hear Clariece tell George that no one is worth more dead than alive I hear the voices of my Core Four.

George Bailey gave so much to so many. His physical pain/loss did not stop him. His dreams changed and evolved without him being totally aware. He lamented the changes until he hit rock bottom and truly saw what mattered most in his life. People. Helping others. As his family, friends and townspeople come in to save the day George has no trouble hearing them. He had accepted that his life truly was wonderful even though it was different than he ever planned.

Each night I am reminded to listen to the voices of those I love, especially when it counteracts the voices in my mind, to have faith and to be thankful. Dreams do come true if not always the way we imagined.

It’s Saturday, our two show day, and we’ve just finished our first performance. The audience laughed, gasped, cried and cheered for our brilliant actors. Well, except for Mr. Potter who received a collective Boo! during curtain call. 🤗

Every time I see this production it moves me. George Bailey had so much to live for but he lost sight of it all. He had big dreams. He could see them, had them planned since he was a boy. They were great dreams. Important. They would help others as well as himself. Nothing selfish in those dreams. He had God-given talents and desires.

George Bailey also had a close and supportive family, good friends, and respect of each one. At a young age George learned the importance of hard work and integrity.

His life was practically perfect and would be perfect as soon as he escaped the shabby little office of the Building and Loan in Bedford Falls.

Then life happened.

This so mirrors my life before diagnosis. Well, except for the wanting to escape my town. I love Michigan!

I see in George Bailey so much of what I went through in the days leading up to my diagnosis. When life started to get bumpy I slapped on genuine determination and enthusiastically embraced what I had to do to beat this wretched disease. When I see George Bailey fight for his friends I’m reminded of fighting for My Core Four. The day I was laying on a surgery table watching my oncologist and surgeon argue about getting my port placed… surgeon emphatically insisting that attempting surgery was certain death while my oncologist emphatically insisting to NOT place the port was certain death. No experimental chemo = 0% survival. But, like George, you do battle for the ones you love.

Before diagnosis, starting when I was a girl, I had dreams. Dreams and God-given talents. Those dreams started when my parents took me to see A Christmas Carol at the Pabst Theatre in Milwaukee. We went every year to see this play and every year the production always had small differences and I would pay rapt attention to find them. Sometimes a ghost would be introduced differently, or the costumes would have changed, or gender roles swapped … I loved every moment in that theatre. I dreamed of directing or being part of the production team that helped pull of that theatre magic.

And, while I wasn’t in a community theatre my dreams had come true by teaching high school theatre and putting on productions. It was magical for me. The year I was in arsenic treatments we did Mousetrap and it was so much fun! I loved those students. They practiced late at night after baseball games. They were a blessing.

Life redirected me several times. My dreams never died but they evolved, like George Bailey. I learned that we can get through anything as long as we stick together… that no man is worth more dead than alive, so fight for the life you have… that when things look dark to stop and look at all of the wonderful people in your life.

Faith. Faith in God and faith in my family and true friends. That’s the way to have a wonderful life.

And so my friends, this is one small reason why I love theatre. It echoes so much for so many people. It delivers thought-provoking messages, laughter, tears, and when done well, hope.

Thanks for the wings, Clariece!

Script Synopsis: “The Angel of Death visits a mental hospital to collect someone on his list, he accidentally reveals himself to the wrong person. After struggling to convince the patients of his identity, Death attempts to correct his potentially fatal mistake and demands to know which one of them is actually the one he came for. But the patients refuse to give up their friend’s true identity, even after Death insists that if he doesn’t perform the touch of death within the allotted time, the consequences could be disastrous. Death must resort to drastic measures and even joins the group sessions in order to win this deadly battle of wits.” – Cheating Death by Kamron Klitgaard

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Trying to cheat death did have its fun moments. The 7th floor was a community. We laughed, cried, celebrated and made plans together. We were family. There may have been one angel of death lurking about, but I had an army of angels surrounding me with faith, light and laughter. I have found that every day is a good day, or as Winnie the Pooh would say, every day is my favorite day. Learning to be present is a tremendous thing! Letting go of past hurts and disappointments and also letting go of worries for the future. Today is what counts.

My children learned that coming to the 7th floor wasn’t quite so scary once there was a routine. My nurses took the time to show my children around and even go on their own adventures. They gave them the code to the special nurses kitchen that housed the treats. Victoria and Matthew could go in there any time and get a Popsicle for themselves or for me. They loved doing this!

Victoria would go on a big adventure every time she visited. One of my nurses would ask Victoria to accompany her to the blood bank to pick up the blood I needed that day. This was a big job and one Victoria looked forward to doing.

The nurses gave my children the gift of service. I see the fruits of that to this day.

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My neighbor on the 7th floor was Chris. He was also in protective isolation. We were neighbors for 6 weeks. He was in the first room right off of the elevator and I was in the second. We only saw each other a couple of times but we communicated several times a week. The nurses had given him a putting green for his room and if I heard him up practicing 🏌️ I would knock on the wall and we would talk through there. We laughed and cried. Sometimes we were just there with no words.

Chris gave me the gift of empathy and compassion regardless of circumstances.

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Chris and I shared the same birthday week. Our nurses surprised us with a party. They filled the waiting room with family, cake and gifts. After they said “surprise” we looked around and saw that everyone had their sterile gab on. We were able to be in a different room without a mask! It was the first time I had been out of my room with no mask on. It was beyond wonderful. We all laughed, ate cake and spent 30 minutes of true joy together.

The nurses gave me the gift of celebration.

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My Rock started an online blog to keep our family and friends updated. He would sit beside me and write. We would laugh over how to phrase things because I had developed a rather warped sense of humor. Ok, I already had that but it got warpier. 😂 I mean, how does one say that their nickname with the Infectious Disease Department is “Bread-maker” because yeast was running amuck throughout my body. We found it hysterical.

Dennis gave me the gift of laughter at a time when I needed it most.

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I love music. Music has always played a significant part in my life: piano, flute, piccolo and voice. Music speaks to me. But I lost a lot of that in the hospital. Enter my Priest, aka my brother. He drove 3 hours every Wednesday to watch American Idol with me. We laughed. We cheered on our favorites. We escaped life.

Dave gave me the gift of music.

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So many more stories. Life may have looked bleak but there were so many moments of light, love, laughter and faith. Looking back it’s easy to pick out different days and give them a name: good day, bad day, etc. But in the moment each day was what it was: a day.

This journey taught me that the day I’m in is my favorite day because it is as precious, if not more, than the past or the future. Right now is a gift even if I have to look for the good.

Today is my favorite day.

Script Synopsis: “The Angel of Death visits a mental hospital to collect someone on his list, he accidentally reveals himself to the wrong person. After struggling to convince the patients of his identity, Death attempts to correct his potentially fatal mistake and demands to know which one of them is actually the one he came for. But the patients refuse to give up their friend’s true identity, even after Death insists that if he doesn’t perform the touch of death within the allotted time, the consequences could be disastrous. Death must resort to drastic measures and even joins the group sessions in order to win this deadly battle of wits.” – Cheating Death by Kamron Klitgaard

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The Angel of Death was constantly lurking… My, that sounds overly dramatic. Ok, so she wasn’t lurking and typically would just burst into my hospital room with a smile and a “Hey, Aimee’!” – that was the relationship I had with my very own, specially assigned, physical Angel of Death. The other less obvious angel, he lurked. He excelled at lurking. If lurking were an Olympic sport he would have had dozens and dozens of gold medals.

He lurked in the obvious places: the times I went into cardiac arrest from the chemo, the staff infection, the fevers over 105 that wouldn’t break, the reactions to blood transfusions, the lack of successful platelet transfusion, etc. He had far too many obvious places to lurk.

He lurked in subtle places, too and it surprised me where he was found. He lurked in  places that were so mundane that I never expected to see him. How mundane? Brushing ones teeth, does it get any more mundane than that? I brushed my teeth 3x each day for 36 years and did not give it much thought, then WHOMP,  leukemia comes along and I simply could not just brush my teeth. Bleeding became a big issue, like I could bleed out and die from brushing my teeth too hard. My Rock had to order special toothbrushes for me to use, and there were days that I was not allowed to brush my teeth even with the special toothbrushes. Then there was my habit of biting my lip when I was stressed or thinking. Yep, that habit could have killed me. My oncologist saw me biting my lip one day and said, “Stop that! You have no ability to clot or fight any type of infection. Chewing your lip could kill you.” WHOMP! To this day I give pause when I brush my teeth or start to bite my lip…

I wish I could say that those were the main places he lurked. Sadly, he also appeared to my Core Four, sometimes so subtly that I didn’t always catch him in the moment.

Let me try and set the scene for you…

My room on the DNR floor was considered protective isolation. However, this was before the new, fantastic and I’m-so-excited-they-now-exist rooms for protective isolation. The rooms now have reverse air-flow which means that the patient is protected, as much as possible, by the environment. In 2004, where I was on the DNR floor, protective isolation meant that anyone who came into my room had to wash up and put on a sterile gown, gloves and face mask before entering. The same procedure applied to me if I were to leave my room. The angel of death lurked behind every person who entered my room, and in all of the people I saw when I left my room. Those were obvious places for me.

I wish I had been more aware and proactive about the subtle places that he lurked. Days when my children would get excited to go on a walk with me (a walk was me trying to walk a lap around the 7th floor to help keep my strength up). They would be able to take off their sterile garb and I would put mine on, and then hand-in-hand we would open the door to begin our adventure. But, some days…. too many days… we would have to pause and quietly wait as a body was being wheeled passed us on the way to the morgue. Watching my children watch that… Only later did I realize that they caught a glimpse of death waiting for me in those moments. This shaped them and reprogrammed how they view life. I wish I had thought to put my arm around them and say something comforting and reassuring. I didn’t. I’m not sure I could have. But I still wish I had.

The angel also lurked by the elevators. I grew to dread the elevators on the 7th floor. They greeted me every Thursday when I was wheeled down for my weekly bone marrow biopsy. Several Thursday’s I had a very high fever and felt just horrible, but those doors always opened and swept me away to the surgical unit. But those days did not compare to the days the angel would quietly be there as I walked my Core 4 to the elevator to say goodnight. These times started off as precious! I was so thankful that I had the energy to walk that path, even though it would completely wipe me out. It was a victory lap for me, mentally. Every time we made it to those elevator doors my son would turn and say, “Goodnight, mommy, will you still be alive if I can come see you tomorrow?”

Every time.

It was a legitimate question.

Those moments still haunt me.

This was my Uninvited Guest:  the Angel of Death

I was blessed with a fantastic group of supporters who did their best to help me cheat him. I’ll share some happy times where we actively worked to cheat death. Some hilarious and heart-warming moments. They still make me smile.

That’s the beauty of life, the mixture of all of the moments: sad, happy, haunting, dancing, angry, stubborn, peaceful… So many moments all mixed together to make up life. The greatest moments are filled with love. That doesn’t mean that the moment is all wrapped up with a beautiful bow, but it does mean that we are blessed.

Time is a funny thing. It is constant, but it can seem fluid. Time became something that was tangible. I could hear it. I could see it. It was like living in a gigantic clock. Most times were actually spent in silence. I was waiting. I was learning. The nurse educator spent a lot of time in my room wanting to answer any questions that I had, but I had no idea what questions to ask.

The day after my DuoPort was finally put in we started the main chemo. How do I describe receiving that first dose? I remember signing countless forms. I remember the two nurses walking into my room wearing lead vests, gloves and protective head gear. I remember them hanging the bag of chemo, it was bright orange. I remember them telling me how I could start to feel. I remember them saying that they would stay with me for the first 30 minutes and then check on me every 15 minutes throughout the treatment. I remember them starting the pump. I remember watching that orange liquid slowly snaking it’s way through the IV tube. I remember watching that orange liquid go into my chest through the DuoPort. I remember feeling numb and scared at the same time.

That day was a long day. It was spent, for the most part, in silence. It felt surreal. It felt tragic. It felt hopeful. It felt right. It was a starting point for me. I was now fighting this horrible monster.

One of my favorite movies is “Princess Bride”, and I watched this many, many times in the hospital. Those who know me know I have a… wicked sense of humor. Humor got me through some pretty dark times. During those early days of treatment I was truly “mostly dead” – the blood of life was given to me by strangers, friends and family. Mostly dead. Yup, that was me. Oh, and I also had to deal with ROUS’s, Rodents Of Unusual Size. Still do. There are ROUS’s everywhere today: current health issues, figuring out a constant new normal, listening to all of the noise of life and trying to sort through what truly matters, etc.

We truly have such little time in this life. Let’s make it count. No matter how many ROUS’s may be around, let’s love a little more, judge a little less, speak truth, have faith, and remember that the One who gave us life in the first place will ALWAYS be here to guide us along if we just listen.

If you haven’t read the play, “I Remember Mama,” I highly recommend it.

Mama.

I had a seemingly ordinary childhood. Four older siblings. Two loving parents who worked hard to provide for us. A roof over my head. Food on the table. Picnics. Cookouts. Hiking. Siblings. (My two favorite memories of them are the time when I “accidentally” taped the cats mouth shut and my brother – my Priest – had to help get it off of the poor thing [in my defense I was 5 years old], and when my middle sister, Lisa, made me so mad I ran away from home, with an empty suitcase, which earned me a fried chicken dinner from my mom, as she knew that would always bring me home, even at the age of 7.)

My earliest memories are from the farm in Illinois. It was a wonderful place to grown up. Lots of room to run and play. Gardening. Exploring. Ice Skating in the winter on the frozen pond…  I love that we always had family dinner together, at the table. Mama cooked. Wow, could Mama cook. She was amazing. I miss her pies and her rhubarb torte, which was my request for my birthday once I reached high school. When I was young my mom made amazing cakes. One year she made me a huge alligator cake. This was before TV Food Network, Cake Blogs or specialty shops. She figured it out and created those cakes from love. I continued this tradition with my own children, because of Mama.

I grew up and left for college. Met a boy, fell in love and Mama helped plan my wedding. Then my babies came. Mama helped then, too. When Victoria was just a newborn she was very sick and Mama flew to Michigan to help me out. (My Rock arranged that, by the way, without my knowledge. I still remember my absolute RELIEF when I saw Mama walking through my front door.)

My babies grew. Life was pretty close to perfect. Then March 2006 happened. Cancer happened. Mama and Daddy came. They moved in and took care of my family for months. Mama made breakfast for Victoria and Matthew. She did the laundry, cooking, cleaning… she ran my home when I could not. Every afternoon she would drive to the hospital to spend time with me. (Daddy came every day before morning rounds and stayed all day until Dennis could come up.)

One day when Mama was ironing clothes she accidentally dropped the iron and it burned a perfect iron shape into the rug. When I came home from the hospital she was so apologetic. I didn’t see a burn. I saw love.

I miss that iron shape in the carpet.

A few years later we moved to Colorado. Mama loved it there. She spent her 80th birthday there. She loved the Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. She loved Pike’s Peak. She loved the Garden of the Gods. I love all of those places, too. Our greatest shared love of Colorado was for Georgetown. We visited there often. High Tea in the Tea Room. Sour Cream Ice Cream from the candy shop. Riding the Georgetown Railway. Eating amazing burgers and sweet potato fries at Ed’s.

May I say that Mama went to Pike’s Peak via the Cog Railroad and via my driving up to the peak. Hands down that drive was the scariest thing I have ever done. Truth.

We moved to South Carolina the year Mama died. She never saw my home. We never explored this city together.

My Mama had survived being hit by a car – not while she was in a car, but when she was a pedestrian. The car was going about 40 mph. My Mama lived with blindness and hearing loss. If you had met her you would never know any of this unless she shared it. She was joyful. She warmly opened her home to anyone. She loved going to church. She loved playing cards. She loved watching TV Food Network. She loved her grandchildren. She loved her children. Most of all she loved her husband.

I had the extraordinary honor of visiting Mama twice in the 6 weeks that she was ill. Once in the ICU and once in the Hospice facility. The cancer had eaten away at her bones. Her breathing was difficult. When I would spend the night with her she would always ask about her husband and children. It didn’t matter it if was 2 am or 2 pm. She checked on her loved ones first. Now, after that she would talk my ear off. Once I had to ask if she would mind if we took a 30 minute nap. Mama’s memory was always strong.

Daddy celebrated his birthday when Mama was in hospice. She determined to make it a good day for him. She asked me to buy him a gift. She prayed for a good day that day. It was an amazing day. She was alert for most of the day. She was surrounded by her children. She had her husband, as always, right by her side. We laughed. We talked. We took lots of pictures.

Saying goodbye to Mama in hospice was overwhelmingly painful. Sorrowful. We knew it was the last time we would see each other. My next trip home would be for her funeral. Anguish. Anguish is the word that fits best. Sitting at the airport gate I happened across this, and it was perfect:

I miss Mama. I miss mom. I miss the amazing lady of Dorothy Sanders.

The year after Mama died I went back to Colorado on a solo trip. I visited Georgetown looking forward to the places Mama and I loved. Ed’s was no longer in existence. The candy shop didn’t have any sour cream ice cream. The Tea Room wasn’t serving high tea that day. So, I did what any adult would do, I sat outside of the candy shop and cried. I was alone. I missed Mama terribly. My heart felt like it was breaking all over again.

We never get over loss. It doesn’t get better or easier. Personally, I think we absorb it as part of the ever-changing “new normal.” Some days the loss seems fresh, like it just happened. In those times, it IS like it just happened. Some days the loss hovers like the Uninvited Guest.

This story, found on The Little Things website, explains it best:

“I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to ‘not matter.’ I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.

Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph.
Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out.

But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself.

And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”

My seemingly ordinary childhood was extraordinary. Mama ensured that somewhere along the way. I will always remember Mama.

Total Disclosure: Address Unknown, by Agatha Christie, is not a stage play. It should be.

Have you ever gone on an unplanned trip? A last minute, don’t know where you’re going or what you’re going to do, kind of trip. How does one pack for that? I am neither Thelma or Louise. I like a good plan. Or, should I say I liked a good plan.

One day I’ll write more about our three days – all of the things we did – the talks we had – the phone calls made – the goodbyes… I’m still not ready.

Tuesday morning, April 6, 2004. My Core Four became divided. Victoria and Matthew went off to school and Dennis and I, along with my parents, headed to the Cancer Center about 30 minutes away. I had a suitcase and Baxter. I had a blood draw and was taken to an exam room. My Rock and parents were taken to the purple room.

Time is a funny thing. It can both stand still and run full speed ahead at the same time. At least that’s what it did for me from the time I went into that exam room until… Hmmmm? 🤔 I’ll have to think about that…

Short version: I heard the words Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia for the first time. Dr. K said he had a call in to MD Anderson’s Leukemia Research Team to find out what they were trying. He knew it would involve a couple of experimental chemo therapies. He asked if I was ok with that. The alternative was that I would be dead by the end of the week. Dr. K and I agreed to fight together. I told my Daddy that I was a “tough old bird and would fight.”

My Rock and I walked over to the hospital and I was admitted to the 7th Floor. The DNR floor. Do Not Resuscitate. I met several kind nurses. I signed the DNR order. I made a living will. I received a nice package with pamphlets about cancer, protective isolation, blood transfusions, duo port care… honestly, the only things that hurt my heart were the two coloring books for Victoria and Matthew called, “My Mommy Has Cancer.” That tore at my heart. IV’s were started. Talk of an upcoming surgery (to place my Duo Port) took place. Dr. K came by to say we were on board with MD Anderson and I would start the experimental oral chemo today. The first round of IV chemo had to wait until my port was in but he would be by to check on me later. More nurses. More paperwork. My blood test results came in. All of my counts were so low they said I would have been in the ER for sure if I hadn’t gone to the doctor last week.

Last week? That was just last week?

Where was I? I’d like to go home now. My kids should be done with school and it was time to start homework, make dinner and hang out at home.

But, reality was I had IV’s. Had signed the DNR. Was in protective isolation. Was trying to figure out port surgery. Was getting ready for my first blood transfusion. Was encouraging those I loved. Was desperately looking into the eyes of my Rock pleading for strength. Was taking my first dose of chemo pills. Was clutching Baxter. Was feeling pretty ill. My body was literally killing me and I could feel it.

Address Unknown. I had arrived.

Hello! My name is Baxter Quattlebaum and I was born on April 5, 2004. I have an amazing family and have been on some pretty terrific adventures.

My birth was something pretty special. It was a Monday morning. The mall where my family came to get me was very quiet because most other families were at work or school. My family came into Build-A-Bear and choose me! My mama cherishes me so much, for I hold some very special memories and mementos.

Here is my story…

My family was spending the day together – just the four of them. Mama was pretty sick and couldn’t be around many people, so they were thankful that the mall was pretty empty. They had decided to come to Build-A-Bear because some dear friends of theirs had gone to Build-A-Bear when they were facing a dramatic change in their family. When Mama was told that she might not be around much longer she knew that she wanted Victoria and Matthew to remember the sound of her voice. Victoria and Matthew were pretty young at the time, so my family came to Build-A-Bear to help give Mama the opportunity she was looking for. When Victoria and Matthew picked out the perfect pet for themselves, Mama recorded some special messages for them and the recordings were put inside of each of their pets. That way as Victoria and Matthew grew up, even if Mama was no longer with them, they could always hear her voice and be reminded of how much she loved them.

When Mama picked me out for her pet, Victoria and Matthew recorded their voices saying, “I love you, mom!” – that recording was put in my right paw. Mama and I moved into the hospital the next day and I went everywhere with her. Seriously, she loved me so much she wouldn’t go anywhere without me. I went with her to every bone marrow biopsy (which was every Thursday), every blood and platelet transfusion (which were dozens and dozens), every room change… well, you get the point. And, I met so many nice people! The doctor’s and nurses were amazing. The staff. The custodial crew. Everyone wanted to meet me.

Best part was every night when Mama was alone she would hug me and listen to Victoria and Matthew saying how much they love her.

I am loved so much my Mama says that I look like the Velveteen Rabbit. I’ve never met this rabbit, but Mama says he is from one of her very favorite stories about unconditional love. Life doesn’t get much better than that!