Last weekend I was a cast member in the inaugural Kansas City production of Listen To Your Mother. Last weekend I did something I’ve never done. I walked up to a lectern, which is like a podium but without the body-hiding security of wood panels, and told a story about my daughter. How I knew something was terribly wrong with her after she was born but no one would listen to me. How I shouted and shrieked and pointed to her little face where veins were beginning to sprout like a road map and the darkness under her eyes was becoming so noticeable, someone actually accused me of child abuse. How she almost wasn’t diagnosed in time. How we found help and encouragement from angels among us. How we sought treatment in New York, and the best part, how Katie beat insurmountable odds to be here with us today.
A few weeks ago I wrote about my audition for LTYM (Listen To Your Mother) but there were so many things going on that week including the passing of my uncle and a possessed dishwasher that decided to spew forth water with the voracity of that poor child from the Exorcist that I didn’t give the story the attention it deserved.
Since that time, I’ve learned that I did, in fact, make it in to the big show. Yay! My reaction? Joy, tears and gratitude followed by flop sweat, nerves, the desire to lose 20 pounds and I may have even peed just a teeny tiny bit. ‘Cause this thing, folks, is a big deal.
What is Listen To Your Mother? From the official website: “Celebrating Mother’s Day with a national series of original live-readings shared on local stages and via social media.” Each show is individually produced and all the shows are performed in May. This year, 24 cities will be participating. Through generous sponsors and ticket sales, a portion of the proceeds from each show will go to a local charity. On Saturday, May 11th, I’ll be speaking at the show in Kansas City at Unity Temple on the Plaza. For more information or to buy tickets, click HERE.
Speaking. I’ll be. . . speaking. *gulp*
Some weeks it seems my life is nothing but a seven-day stretch of making PB&J sandwiches, policing homework, letting cats in, folding laundry, hustling for freelance work, letting cats out, and then the cycle begins again. The doldrums take hold and I’m this close to reaching for a Harlequin Romance novel for a little escapism. Then, well, then there’s last week.
On Thursday, February 28th I went to dinner with a group of friends and had a long overdue chat. Some of my very favorite ladies were in attendance and after having rescheduled the dinner four previous times, I welcomed the laughter and conversation. Every time we get together a new inside joke is created. “Did she say, whore up? No, honey, I think she said order up. Okay then.” Ohhhh, you had to be there. I was still smiling when I got home that night, changed in to my comfy snowflake pajama pants and started scrolling through Facebook updates. Then I received a private message from my cousin, and my smile disappeared.
Although I knew my Uncle Lewis had not been well for some time, I was unprepared for the message I received. “Lewis was taken to the hospital. . . nothing more doctors can do. . . Hospice coming tonight. . . doctors do not expect him to live through the weekend.” I stared at the blinking cursor but had no immediate reply. Uncle Lew, the handsome rugged man pictured to your left, has been a fixture in my life for 42 years. The strong man with the broad chest and tattoos, whose life-uniform consisted of a light blue button-down and generous amount of Brylcreem, always had a smile for me and doted on me like I was one of his own. I understood he was sick but could not grasp the finality of my cousin’s words.