A Daughter's Grace Under Fire

     I have a little story to tell from childhood that revolves around three things:  A dog that wanted to be human, my brief brush with celebrity status and embarrassing the hell out of my daughter; which as a parent is my right and privilege.
     Between the ages of eight and twelve I was on television thirty-nine times.  Yup.  Sounds like I was destined for stardom, right?  Except for two things:  It was a local California station, and I was being upstaged by my poodle, Frou-Frou.  I would tinkle the ivories with pieces written by Bach, Debussy, Chopin, etc. while my poodle, dressed to the hilt in designer baby clothes, reclined blissfully in her stroller placed beside my bench.  Having been around dogs all my life, I can now really appreciate just how strange Frou-Frou was.  A normal dog in every other sense, the minute the first article of clothing went on she'd go limp as a noodle (a poodle noodle) and grow so relaxed that most times she fell asleep.  Several of my performances where she hogged the spotlight the most were when she was sitting up in the stroller while fast asleep. 

                                                    
     Apparently during the televising of one of my performances, an aide of President Nixon's was in California on business and tuned in to watch.  Next thing you know Mom is presenting me with an official invitation to perform in concert at the White House.  And because no dogs were allowed I got to perform solo!  Ahh, I was breaking out into a solo career!  Mom and I about 'busted our buttons' trying to keep the surprise from my piano teacher, Ms. Beal, until the exact moment Mom decided to whip out the invite . . . Ms. Beal almost fainted.  I'd never actually seen someone babble before . . . it made for quite a show.  Mom and Ms. Beal began preparations immediately for what pieces I would play (I never had any say-so in this), how Ms. Beal was going to travel to Washington D.C. with us; oh, it was all very exciting . . .
     Three weeks later my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  He only had a few months to live; three months was the estimate the Dr.'s made.  That really pulled the rug right from under all of us.  Mom sat me down and leveled with me, gently breaking the news first about Dad, then the fact that all our time, money and energy over the next months had to be spent doing everything we could to chase down a cure.  No White House.  We couldn't spare the money or time to go there.  And I was A-ok with that.  Dad was my best friend in the whole world, and if Mom thought we had a chance to do something to save him, well then, there was just nothing else to do but do it.  So instead of playing a concert at the Nation's Capitol, we headed straight for another nation; with Mom driving, me in the passenger seat and Dad's six-foot-two frame stretched across the back seat we drove for hours every day, crossing over the border from San Diego into Mexico for over two months for experimental treatments using ground apricot pits.  Mexico was claiming great success with the treatments and they hadn't been approved by the FDA in the U.S.  Mom knew Dad wouldn't be alive to wait around for FDA approval.
     Tragically, two months later the doctor there in Ensenada told Mom she should just keep Dad home and comfortable; there was nothing more they could do.
     Jump ahead thirty years and my firstborn Jonelle was going on her eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C.  I went along as a chaperone.  I'd always wanted to see the Nation's Capitol and it was breathtaking:  from the Smithsonian Museums, the Vietnam Memorial, the Capitol Building and finally . . . the White House.  Your typical tourist--that was me--oohing and aahing through each room of the biggest house I'd ever seen.  Now, here I digress a moment.  I didn't know people could completely repress bad memories . . . bury them so deep as to be forgotten.  I thought that was Hollywood hype, but I got a lesson in just how protective the mind could be, when necessary.  We were slowly making our way through the White House, so far so good-- I hadn't mortified my daughter too much up to this point on the trip-- we arrived at the very last room:  a stunning ballroom.  Placed in the center of the massive hall was a gorgeous one-of-a-kind Steinway piano.  It had an eagle with its wings spread to fly carved out of each leg of the piano and it was huge!  Seeing a security guard standing watch close by, I engaged him in a question/answer session over the piano.
     "My gosh, who gets to play this?" I asked.  The guard smiled patiently, informing me that whenever an event that included music happened at the White House, this was the room of choice and the piano would be used by the group performing the music.  The light-bulb still hadn't lit above my head.  Then he said; "And if someone receives an invitation to perform in concert at the White House, this is the piano they use . . . Mam, are you all right?  Mam, do you need to sit down or something?"  This is the part where embarrassing my daughter comes in:  Apparently I went white as a sheet just before I sagged and broke down in an impressive crying jag in front of my daughter's entire eighth grade class.  To the guard I blubbered; "I was supposed to be here! I forgot!  Dad died, and I forgot I'd been invited to play here!"
     The guard looked at me as if he wanted to call for the funny jacket, then craned his neck around trying to spot a relief guard to stand watch while he made the phone call.  I blew my nose and flapped my hand in dismissal:  No, I'd be all right, just give me a minute.  I wasn't a terrorist . . . I wasn't creating a diversion so some sinister plot could be perpetrated behind his back; I was just a forty-something newly disowned mom who'd just had an epiphany.  I never made it to that piano bench; but it was the why behind why I didn't that was turning me inside out.   Dad . . . a deep heartache I hadn't felt in years, so overwhelming it actually pounded a buzzing roar through my ears.  I rushed outside, bent and propped my hands on my knees while I gulped down fresh springtime air, listening to my daughter making polite apologies for my unbalanced behavior to the crowd.

     Back on the bus I started to feel a little better, except for the fact that no one wanted to talk to me or acknowledge my presence; like the way a room full of people treat a guy who's standing in their midst with his fly down.  Seeing no one would sit with me, my daughter eased down beside me and patted my hand, the look on her face saying she understood that going off the deep-end was just something moms do every once-in-awhile.  Poor thing; she has no idea!