The "Wu Word" Blog
November 2018
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Miss Mary: Posted on Wednesday, November 28, 2018 8:54 PM
Approximately a year
ago on I am sure what was a cold and frigid day as today or these days, I was
shocked to receive a letter and card from one of my long-lost penpal from Europe. I had not heard from her in at least a year
or more. Since she became a mother
herself and since I became officially biologically motherless from a medically
necessary hysterectomy back in 2015, I could only imagine that our friendship
would fade and fall away. Through neither
of our faults, but through life happening and having to lead and live life as
it keeps on going. This dear penpal of
mine came into my life over ten years ago.
We fervently wrote long and lengthy letters on cute stationary heavily
decked out in stickers and in scented strawberry pens. We kept postal services alive and postal
workers employed. We even met
face-to-face on freezing night in midtown Manhattan, chatting endlessly to
match our lengthy letters. Somehow, we always connected in the cold in the
warmth of our friendship. We kept our friendship going even when it was clear
how vastly different we were when it came to our differences on romantic
relationships, marriage, children, and, above all else, religion and faith.
She was not religious
out of choice, but out of upbringing. Her
mother was a seemingly devout Christian who believed in prayer, baptism, and
church services and worship. As for me
and certainly due to my upbringing of a scientific father and overly religious
biological mother, out of all the places in the world that I felt the most uncomfortable
in, it was in any place of worship.
Growing up, the majority of my friends were Catholics. They always welcomed me to Church services
and particularly around Christmas time. I
felt immensely uncomfortable and like some traitor and sinner when I sat in the
pews in Church. I was told that I was a
sinner if I did not go to Church and if I did not have Church friends, and
there I was in the pews not knowing any of the prayers, scriptures, songs,
psalms, and sermons. I was a stranger in
a strange land. For the longest time
when people asked me what my religion was, I said I was ‘Agnostic,’ not even
truly knowing what that meant. Then, I
would switch it up and say: “Well, I’m spiritual and not religious.” I was not an Atheist. I always believe in God, religion, faith,
miracles, and, above all else, hope.
There is always hope.
Faith changed for me
in 2015 when I was at one of lowest points and beckoned to go to Church to play
music on an abandoned piano. It was my
time and my way of healing and helping myself.
Over time, my discomfort at going to Church slowly changed into a seeker
and searcher to learn about all religions, faiths, and beliefs. I began to go to all different types of
Churches and read philosophical and spiritual works. I even went on a couple spiritual and
relaxation retreats. I wanted to
understand myself and others and what we all believed in or did not believe in
and why or why not.
In the letter from my
long-lost penpal, it was clear that she was struggling with faith and hope because
one of her children was born with a severe and rare genetic illness. Due to the illness, her daughter could not
eat on her own and her speech and physical capabilities were either
non-existent or extremely delayed. In my
friend’s letter, she wrote: “I can tell you all of this because you know what
it is like to struggle and fight for life, and that health is the greatest gift
there is. Some days are so hard and I am
exhausted, but then I see that she has this light in her eyes. She is so happy.”
Without expecting a response
back because of the immense stress she was experiencing, I wrote her back. I told her that there is always hope and do
not give up. I told her that I would pray
for her daughter.
A few months later, I
received a letter response from her again.
She wrote to me: “I am surprised when you wrote that you would go to
Church and pray for my daughter. I was even
more surprised that you now go to Church and these other places of worship to
pray. I do not even know if I believe in
God anymore. If there was a God then why
would he let my daughter suffer? How can
God let a little baby suffer?”
Reading her words
brought me back to many painful and even life and death moments in my life when I was in my absolute
lowest moments in my life and had questioned aloud and in writing: “Why me? Why
do bad things happen to good people? Did
I do something in my past life to deserve this?
Why would you do this God?” I
never came up with a concrete answers. I
did not have the answer to give to my dear friend, but I told her this, “Life
is full of pain and suffering to learn about gratitude, compassion, kindness,
love, strength, hope, and so much beauty that comes out from ugly. Our faith is
tested during these very dark times that we are all go through at some point in
our lives that teach us about being grateful rather than resentful and to be
better rather than bitter. All I can say
is to try to keep the faith, for if there is not hope and faith, then what is there?”
When I sent out my
letter to her, I found myself dumbfounded at how far my faith and spiritual
journey had come and is still coming along.
The me who was uncomfortable and even fearful of being at Church has now
become the me who is the very first one to go to places of worship of all
different faiths and say to others: “I go to anywhere and at anytime where
there is any faith.” Spirituality is a
vital part of who we are, just as our mental, emotional, and physical parts are
to make the whole of entire well-being.
What is your faith? Why is this your faith? Is it because of your upbringing? Is it because of life experiences or some
life-altering experience? Do you think
your upbringing influenced your faith? What is the difference between faith,
religion, and spiritual? What is spiritual? Are you a seeker and searcher and what is it
that you are seeking or searching for?
Keep the faith, my
friends.
Keep smilin’ until we meet
again,
Mary ;-) |
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Miss Mary: Posted on Thursday, November 8, 2018 4:00 PM
And, just like that,
it is November.
The leaves blanket
the grounds in their rich crimson and golden hues. The air is cool and crisp. It is my favorite time of the year—not only
because of the beauty and glory all around us in Mother Nature’s pristine power,
but because November is the month of gratitude.
For me, and I know you have read
it and heard it time and time again from me, everyday is a day to learn and be
thankful for because as bad as it can be, it can be even worse and the best is
always yet to come.
Many know this little
factoid about me receiving two kidney transplants, which taught me an abundance
of lessons and gave me the greatest of gifts at a young age with #1 being that
Life is a Gift. Every single day, I have
the privilege of opening up this gift by learning something new, getting to
know the familiar, going into the unfamiliar, adventuring, and enjoying my simple
routines that I savor and love the most.
Deep within this gift of life is a privilege of meeting with many organ
donor families and living donors. It is
probably the best part of the gift. I am
like a star struck fan, all speechless or blubbering fool when I am around
organ donor families and living donors.
I never know what to say. I never
know what to do. I hedge on asking about
their deceased loved one and take cues from them as to whether or not he or she
will tell me their stories.
I have had the honor
to meet many organ donor families. Some
have adopted me. Some sport photos of
their loved ones that died and share their stories and memories with tears
rolling down their faces. I cried with
them. I hugged them as hard as I
could. When they share with me, I am humbled and put
in a place of delicate vulnerability of thinking about my anonymous organ donor
families even more. Whenever I am
blessed to meet a living organ donor or organ donor family, I feel full
throttle deep within me that 1) I would not be alive if it were not for my two organ
donors and their families and 2) Grief never ends and it goes in these
waves—some waves crash and knock you over until you are just trying to keep
your head above water and other waves are calm waters that gently wash up to
tickle your toes on the shoreline.
Out of all the organ
donor families I have been extremely blessed to meet, there is one organ donor
mother who I still think about. I do not
remember her name. I remember her. I met her in Houston, Texas at the 2014 Transplant
Games of America. She was of short stature
and had dark cropped hair. Her warm
smile quivered at the edges that turned downward when she shared with me: “My
daughter killed herself.”
I did not know what
to say. I did not say anything. I think my face said it all and more than
words can possibly express.
She continued, “She
was 15-years-old. She had bipolar nearly
her whole life. She heard voices. She finally could not take the voices, so she
killed herself.”
I still was
speechless and wordless and could only muster: “I’m so sorry. That’s horrible. Can I give you a hug?”
I wrapped her in the
tightest hug that my body could manage. She
continued, “When people hear that she committed suicide, they look at me with sadness
and shame. They do not know what to say.
Most people do not know what to say when someone dies, but when someone commits
suicide, it is on a whole other level. People
have no idea how your mind can play tricks on you and betray you. You hear about cancer and, don’t get me
wrong, cancer sucks and all illnesses suck, but there is still a stigmatism
with mental illnesses that will never, ever really go away. They have no idea that my daughter was
suffering just like someone with cancer, but if she had cancer then she
would’ve gained more sympathy than with what she suffered with. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing can bring my daughter back, but my
daughter saved lives, and this is what matters.”
In a feeble voice
that sounded probably even more pathetic, I said: “Well, your daughter is a
hero.”
She tipped her head
slightly and said softly, “I meet many transplant recipients. They want to live forever. They will fight for life. My daughter could not because of her
illness. She wanted to die. Maybe there is another mother now who has
their daughter alive from my daughter.
To me, it is not about heroism.
It is about doing the right thing.”
Recently, a donor son
and donor sister both said the same thing to me that he never gave their
kidneys to their mother and brother, respectively, to be recognized or to be a
hero, but, as they said: “I did not
think twice. I knew it would be me. If
someone you loved needed help and you could help then you would do it. No recognition or heroism. It’s not rocket science. It’s the right thing to do.”
I have been thinking
a lot about this organ donor mom and what she said to me. I have been thinking about these other organ
donor families and living donors I have met and about heroism and what really
makes a hero. We can know the right
thing to do, but to do it can be immensely difficult and takes a courage that
maybe we never knew we had within us. I
have been thinking about how the place people are in, the frame of mind, the
situations, the emotions, and even more and beyond would push people to be the
perpetrator and the victim all in one.
This organ donor mother is right—I could not ever imagine and cannot
ever fully grasp not wanting to live and wanting to end it all because, to me
and because of my organ donors and their families, life is such a gift and from
this gift is hope and a fight and deep passion to live.
This is my tribute to
all the organ donor families and living donors I have had the absolute
privilege and honor or meeting. This is my mere attempt at gratitude in November
but in every single day. Meeting them
and thinking of my organ donor families daily makes me want to be the best of
me and makes me realize just how powerful love, kindness, and giving really
are. Meeting them also brings me to
place of vulnerability of the struggles that each of us deal with day in and
day out and to the point that a person may not want to live anymore. As for ‘Hero,’ what does this actually
mean? How far will you go for the person
you love the most? Or for someone you do
not even know? A complete stranger? Who do you identify as a hero? Have you known the right thing to do but
could or could not do it?
Keep smilin’ until we meet
again,
Mary ;-) |
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