A BRAIN A HEART A HOME THE NERVE

Everyone I’ve ever spoken to about the movie Wizard of Oz feels like they own it to some degree, like it is an artifact from only their own childhood.  For my own part, when I was a kid, the Wizard of Oz used to air on network TV once a year and it used to happen near my birthday, so it was a birthday tradition for me, my mom and her two best friends named Bill (Young Bill and Old Bill) to watch it together on TV as part of my birthday celebration.  This is a particularly poignant memory for me because I loved both Bills, and one I haven’t seen in years and am unable to track down on the internet, and the other one died of cancer in my mom’s house a few years ago, and also, of course my mom and I can't regain the closeness we used to have when I was young enough to get excited over the big deal a network station (I forget which one) made about showing Wizard of Oz.  So this memory of watching Wizard of Oz with them every year is one of those painful poignant stabbing memories.  Now that Gregory Maguire has written the series “The Wicked Years,” where the faaaaamous novel Wicked comes from, I feel like it’s in the collective unconscious to play with themes from the Wizard of Oz, with the collective acknowledgement that the movie is special to so many of us but that our youthful perception of the story is often very different from what occurs to us watching it as grown ups.  For instance not many adults could watch the film without feeling sorry for the wicked witch that nobody feels sorry for her for the brutal way she lost her sister; also, most adults feel that Glinda the Good Witch of the North is sort of a dick for saying stuff like “Only bad witches are ugly” (is she saying that ugly people are bad?  I sort of think so…) or letting Dorothy get in so much trouble before telling her she could’ve just clicked her heels to get home the whole time.  Why did we like this movie so much?  It was just beautiful and special and magical and captured the boredom, terror and wonder of youth really well.

Anyway, before Gregory Maguire’s Oz-for-Adults (erotic fantasy) Wicked Series came out, there were two other books I read, one in high school and one in college, that also used Wizard of Oz as the motif for a sad grown up story.  One was Was by Geoff Ryman, about an Oz-obsessed man dying of AIDS, and the other was called Judy Garland, Ginger Love by Nicole Cooley, about a woman who has an Oz-themed emotional breakdown after the painful experience of birthing a stillborn infant.  I really love both these novels and the way they use the Wizard of Oz.  When the film came out in theatres again in 1999, I was a college sophomore, and I went to see it with one of my best friends.  It was an emotional and spooky night.  I cried so much while watching the movie, it just painted such a perfectly articulated portrait of how beautiful and unfair the world can be.  Then when we left the theatre we realized it was fucking FREEZING, like ice storm cold, and we’d dressed up sort of dopey and cute for the movie, like our version of witches or something (I wish I had pictures), so we were freaked out waiting for the bus in the cold and dark in a part of town too far to walk home from, but we were also buzzed from the movie and nostalgia, just … what a night.  What a terrifying, goofy, young, fun night.  Inspired by seeing the movie again and by the books Was and Judy Garland, Ginger Love, I wrote this little zine here, “Twister.”  It’s not dated, but yeah, I think it was done in the winter of 1999, the day after seeing the movie in the theatre.  Enjoy! 

Theology

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Guest Post by Heather Von St. James: We Beat Cancer Together

Hi Sweethearts,
this blog usually straddles a line between 90's (riot grrrl in particular) nostalgia, diary-type (rants) entries, fiction and poetry, little gestures at visual art, punk ethos, and last but not least, motherhood.  I try not to write too much about motherhood so as not to alienate people who aren't mothers, but of course that's hard since it's quite preoccupying.  One thing that preoccupies me that I don't usually discuss is the way my son is affected by my Marfan's Syndrome.  Anyway, today I'm posting something by a guest writer, Heather Von St. James, about dealing with cancer and motherhood.  It's not quite this blog's usual fare, but it's an empowering and touching story of survival and bravery.
xoxox Robin

We Beat Cancer Together

Even at the young age of seven, my daughter has her response ready anytime someone asks her about cancer, “I saved mommy’s life!” This has become her natural response to the topic; same as if she wanted you to know she was hungry or feeling sick. It’s easy for most people to make light of such a claim from a little girl; however, her response is the god’s honest truth. Anytime she puts it out there, I am always ready to chime in and back her up. I never hesitate to tell people just how right she is- she really did save my life.

Cameron and I decided to wait until about seven years after we got married to really start considering having children. However, by the time we decided I was 35 and worried about my age leading to complications with the pregnancy. Surprisingly, it only took us about three months, and three pregnancy tests to confirm that I was pregnant! We were both extremely excited to hear that we would be having a baby soon. However, as an expecting mother, my own emotions ranged between nervousness, shock and of course, jubilation.  I’d just smile and rub my belly, knowing our bundle of joy would soon be on the way.

I thought about what type of mom I would be but above all else, I knew I wanted to be a great mom. Fortunately, my entire pregnancy went very smoothly. Unfortunately, things got more stressful towards the end; I had to have an emergency C-section at the last moment. But ever the positive person, I thought, “ At least her head will be round!” I was overwhelmed with joy when I finally got to hold her in my arms. As I held my new daughter and thought about our future together, the moment felt so surreal. I really had no idea just how much adversity we would soon be facing.

Less than four months after her birth, I was diagnosed with malignant pleural mesothelioma. My doctor said that without immediate treatment, I would have less than two years to live. Thankfully, while I was distraught with this news, Cameron was listening intently to the doctor and figuring out how we would overcome this obstacle together. We went to Boston and met one of the best mesothelioma physicians in the entire world. He removed my left lung, heart lining and diaphragm lining in a serious operation known as an extrapleural pnuemonectomy. The fatality rate for mesothelioma is around 95 percent; it’s staggering to say the least.

I recovered in the hospital for 18 days, and then for two weeks at an outpatient facility. For the next two months, I recovered at my parents before starting chemo and radiation treatment back home in Minnesota. Honestly, it was my daughter Lily, who gave me the courage and strength to endure this storm. I simply did what any parent would do for their child. I knew that my baby girl needed her mother; I survived every day for her. If not for Lily, I would not have been able to beat my cancer.

 

Blessings

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