An Interview With Me on Serious Reading

http://seriousreading.com/author-interviews/26365-interview-with-author-janice-lane-palko.html

Where Was I . . . Show Me the Way to Go Home

I grew up reading the late humor writer Erma Bombeck, and she authored a book in 1991 called When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It’s Time to Go Home. I wish she were alive to today to ask her: Where do you go when you look worse than your passport photo?

Last month my husband, two grown sons and I headed for what some have called “a trip of a lifetime,” but I refuse to call it that because it implies it was a one-and-done, and I want to go back. Anyway, we headed to Rome for three days and then a Mediterranean cruise. I prepped for months, and on departure day, I thought I looked Rome-ready. Italians embrace a concept known as bella figura, meaning “beautiful figure” or presenting your best image to the world. 

So, I did my best to live up their sartorial standards. I had applied my fake tan, had gotten my hair cut, had a pedicure, applied some press-on nails because gel nails often weaken my own nails, and on departure day, I donned my chic cheetah-print palazzo pants, black sweater and glitzy gold jewelry. My oldest son said I looked like Karen Hill from Goodfellas, which I wasn’t sure was good or bad. But what I do know is that it was all down hill from there. 

Our arrival in Rome. My sons and I in St. Peter's Square wearing my fashionable cheetah palazzo pants.  I'm sparing you the return photo.  Let's just say Khalid Sheikh Mohammed coming out of his spider hole would have had company😉

 My press-on nails didn’t make it through the security check at Pittsburgh International, so on the plane, I plucked off the six that remained. While shuttling my luggage, a bag shifted chipping my pedicure and hitting my instep. I didn’t think about that until logging 10 miles on our first full day in Rome, and my right foot swelled, giving it the appearance of an elephant foot. But the trip was incredible; besides Rome, we visited Florence, Nice, Monaco, Palma Majorca, Barcelona and Naples. I sweated off my fake tan in on the beach in Majorca, but other than being pale and gimpy, things looked pretty good—I had budgeted my wardrobe so that I had one clean outfit left to don to fly home.

We had to be off the ship by 7 a.m., so I was too lazy to put on makeup or curl my hair at such an early hour. What did I care? By that evening, we’d be back in Pittsburgh. To make room in my suitcase, I ditched my deodorant, which had crumbled, and pitched the squished tube of toothpaste, thinking what use could that little bit left in the tube do me? 

Don’t ever tempt the toothpaste gods!

Although our flight leaving Rome for Montreal was delayed, we had an empty plane allowing us to stretch out, and in my case, elevate my elephant limb and watch movies, but we missed our connecting flight to Toronto. The airline put us on a later flight that got us into Toronto with only minutes to spare before our flight left for Pittsburgh. We passed through Canadian customs and then a kind airport employee tried to help us get through U.S. customs quickly. He collected all our passports and had my oldest son process us through the automated kiosks while we stripped off shoes, belts, watches and Fitbits to pass through security.

Unfortunately, my husband’s shoe got trapped in the conveyor belt for a few moments, and after doing our best O.J. Simpson dash through the terminal sans shoes and accessories to the gate, they wouldn’t let us on the flight because our bags were still on the plane from Montreal, and the U.S. Border inspectors didn’t want to retrieve and clear them. This necessitated us going back through Canadian customs and being put up in a Toronto hotel overnight.

By the time we settled in, it was 12:30 a.m. eastern time, but by our Roman-adjusted body clock, it was 6:30 a.m., and we’d been up more than 24 hours. We had to get up three hours later for our flight to Pittsburgh.

The girl who had cultivated her bella figura, was flying home with teeth that felt like they had a velvet covering because I had no toothpaste, a swollen elephant foot and major bed head while wearing dirty clothes and smelling of Old Spice. Since I had no deodorant, I used my husband’s. (Manly, yes. But I like it too!)

By this time, I looked, smelled, and felt worse than my passport photo, and I don’t know what Erma would have prescribed, but I did the only thing that felt natural when I got home. I brushed my teeth, took a shower and headed for my bed!

This originally appeared in the October 2019 edition of Northern Connection magazine.

Where Was I . . Worth the Ride

Last month, I wrote about the little boy at Phipps mistaking me for a hero, but his month I’d like to tell you about some real heroes. 

Five years ago last August, my youngest son introduced us to a girl, who for the sake of privacy, I’ll call Chelsea. Over a period of about three weeks, he took her out a few times and brought her to our house. She was pretty, sweet, soft-spoken and funny, and my husband and I liked her immediately as did our dog, who climbed into her lap. She and I hit it off discussing Broadway musicals and Harry Potter books.  

Right before they were due to return to college, Chelsea had an examination and learned that the brain cancer that she had beaten seven years ago when she was twelve was back. I didn’t know her medical history, so we were all shocked and heartbroken for her and her family. Understandably, because of her precarious health, she eventually had to break off the relationship with my son to focus on getting well.  

Selfishly, I wondered why Chelsea had been brought into our lives? Had my son never taken her out those few times before school commenced, we’d have been spared this pain. What was the purpose of her coming into our lives for such a short time only for us to face the prospect of heartache, suffering and loss? I spent a lot of time thinking about her and crying. I hadn’t signed on for this and didn’t know if I could handle it.  

I was presented with a choice: I could back off—no one would have known the difference. We’d only seen Chelsea a few times—or I could go along for the ride and offer whatever measly support I could. I realized that both she and her family didn’t want this either. Ultimately, I chose Chelsea over my fear of pain. I had to; I already cared about her. So, I befriended her mom on Facebook, who provided updates of her daughter’s (and her family’s) battle with brain cancer.  

My family prayed, sent cards, gifts and offered support on Facebook posts—but it never seemed quite adequate. The day my first granddaughter was born was doubly joyous as Chelsea’s mom also posted then that Chelsea had gone into remission. But that didn’t last, and the cancer came back. There were so many highs and lows in their fight, that I can’t remember them all, but last year, Chelsea’s options for treatment narrowed, and she and her mom moved to Memphis to seek treatment at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. They lived away from home for months trying anything to save her life.  

Sadly, in late spring, all treatment failed, and Chelsea came home to the North Hills. Updates from her mom became fewer. When her mother posted in late July that Chelsea would soon be leaving us, requesting prayers that she pass quickly and peacefully, we knew what was dreaded was here. 

Chelsea passed away on July 20 at the age of 25 after a 13-year battle with cancer. 

My family and I waited for two hours in line at the funeral home to offer our support and express our sorrow to her parents. I had never met her mother in person before, but that didn’t matter. Our aching hearts bonded.  

I didn’t want to get on this ride; I didn’t want to see Chelsea suffer and die, but I’m so glad I hopped on board. Though we are heartbroken, I got to witness a beautiful young warrior fight, graduate from college, and live life like there was no tomorrow. I witnessed the terrible beauty of fierce, selfless, heroic parental love in action.  

No, I didn’t want it to end this way, and I still don’t know the purpose of this, but I do know one thing—knowing you, Chelsea, and witnessing you and your parents’ grace and undying love for each other has made all the pain worth it. You enriched and blessed our lives. Rest in peace, dear girl.

This article originally appeared in the September 2019 edition of Northern Connection magazine.

NOTE:  I've received a lot of feedback on this article, telling me how much Chelsea's story touched them.  If your are so inclined, her family is supporting St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital, and donations are certainly welcome.