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January 31, 2006

My holiday is nearing the end here in South Africa. It has been so wonderful to catch up with people I have not spoken to in years and years. Connecting with old friends brings to mind a call I mentioned in these pages some time ago.Today I phoned the mother of a child who passed away from cancer a number of years ago. I wanted to speak to her about including a story about her son Sean in a book I am writing called “If You’re Going Through Hell Don’t Stop”. The book is about the inspiration and motivation I received from terminally ill children during my time as a Doctor of Mischief.

I was rather nervous about the call. I didn’t want to upset Sean’s mother by bringing up the death of her son. I believe there is nothing worse than losing a child and I didn’t want to add to her grief, even though he died six years ago.

Saying goodbye to Sean was especially difficult for me because he reminded me of my nephew Rhett. The last time I saw Sean was at a Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation family meeting. Sean’s mother told us the doctors said for her to call hospice because there was nothing more they could do for Sean. He already had two bone marrow transplants and his body could not take any more chemotherapy. They gave him six months to live.

Sean’s family decided to move out of town to live with Sean’s grandparents for support during the last weeks of his life.

It was really tough saying goodbye to Sean that night because I knew I probably wouldn’t see him again. I cried all the way home in my car. I remember “The Long And Winding Road” by the Beatles was playing on my car radio.

That was almost six years ago.

I located Sean’s mother’s telephone number on the internet. I finally plucked up enough courage to call her this afternoon:

“Trevor, oh my God. How are you?” she said, warmly.

“I’m fine,” I replied. “More importantly how are you?”

“I have been meaning to call you…”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”

“Actually. I need to speak to you.”

"You do?” I replied.

“Yeah. Sean’s doing a project on South Africa and he wanted to ask you some questions...”

“Sean?”

“Yeah, it one of those geography assignments.”

Silence.

“Trevor?”

“Yeah, hello. Sorry, it’s my cell phone,” I said, making an excuse for my inability to process what she was telling me.

“I love the book you and Nancy did for kids with cancer.” She said.

“Chemo, Craziness and Comfort,” I said.

“You guys did a great job.”

“How is Sean? I asked.

“Aw, he’s wonderful. What a great kid. He’s our little miracle boy. Did you know they gave him only live six months?”

“He proved them wrong huh.” I chuckled.

“Yeah. He never gave up. Not for a second.”

Everything is okay in the end. And if it's not okay, then it's not the end

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January 27, 2006

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January 26, 2006

I am spending a wonderful time with my young nieces and nephews here in South Africa. Seeing how they have blossomed in my absence reminds me of a young girl I wrote about a number of months ago:

I had a wonderful experience at a school the other day. I was speaking to a class of second graders about making a difference in other people’s lives. I dared the kids in the class to stand up for those who are being put down and include those who are being left out.

“Have any of you been left out or put down?” I asked.

A little girl named Rachel slowly put up her hand. Rachel was sitting on the side of the class and was all but hidden in her sweater, except for her nose and eyes.

“How did it feel?” I asked.

“It was bad,” she replied.

“Thank you for having the guts to say that,” I said. “You are a real brave person for speaking up. For that I need to give you a hug.”

I went over and hugged her. I could not believe how tiny she was.

“You don’t deserve to be treated like that,” I said. “You are one cool kid.”

I went back to the front of the class and continued speaking. As I spoke and asked the class questions, I noticed Rachel emerging from her sweater like a flower growing out of the ground. She began to sit up and later, she even raised her hand when I asked questions. It was heartwarming to see her pale little face fill with color as she blossomed right in front of me.

After the class was over the teacher told me that Rachel hardly ever asks questions and mostly hides in her sweater.

Today I received an e-mail from Rachel. It made me cry:

Dear Mr. Trevor. Thank you for making me famous. When you visited our school last week you gave me a hug and everyone wanted to be my friend. I felt really happy when they all said I was cool. It was very nice of you to care about me.

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” -Leo Buscaglia

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January 23, 2006

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January 20, 2006

I am here in South Africa visiting my wonderful mum. I was looking at the incredible quilts she makes and thought about an earlier entry I shared about her work:

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January 18, 2006

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January 16, 2006

Yours, Mine and Ours

I am in South Africa at the moment and one of the first things I am going to do is visit my dad's grave while I am here. This reminds me of a piece I wrote about my dad last year:

I miss my dad today.

He was a wonderful artist. He was always inspired by a beautiful spring day like today.

Today he would have been busily painting the new green leaves against the azure sky.

Today he would have smiled at his work, leaned back, taken a sip of Earl Gray tea and called me over.

“We should have a show together?” he’d say, putting his arm around my waist. “Now wouldn’t that be great? A father and son exhibition.”

I think he said that every time he completed a painting.

I was young and way too interested in chasing girls to get enough material together for a show.

My dad gave away every painting he did, so he never had enough material for a show.

My father reached many of his dreams, except for his biggest. To show his work. He was a wonderful artist. Way better than I will ever be. But Jac Romain was exceptionally humble. And never wanted people to think he was bragging or blowing his own horn, so he never felt comfortable asking a gallery to host an exhibition of his art.

My dad died way too young. After some months my mother asked me to clean out his studio because she couldn’t face doing it. During my search I found a number of drawings my dad had not yet painted.

I brought them back to America with me.

Some time later while cleaning out my own studio, I came across my dad’s unfinished paintings. Without hesitation, I pulled out my watercolors and turned his pencil drawings into paintings. I signed them Jac and Trevor Romain. It was a wonderful way to be with my dad, even though he was gone.

Six months later I had a show at a gallery in Austin and I included my own paintings, some of my dad’s completed paintings and the pieces we did together. Finally, we both had our first exhibition…together. I called the show ‘Yours, Mine and Ours’.

I am so glad I was able to make my dad’s dream come true. Doing it really filled my soul with warmth and my heart with pride.

I miss my dad today.

Posted by trevor at 10:32 AM | Comments (8)

January 15, 2006

Later

I’m on my bicycle and I’m outta here! You can't see it, but there's a big grin on my face. (Actually it's huge.) I’m off to visit my family in South Africa until the end of the month but I WILL be posting blogs while I’m away. Unfortunately I won’t be able to post comments or reply to e-mails, but please go ahead and leave one and I will post and reply when I return after a well-needed battery recharge.

Posted by trevor at 07:35 AM | Comments (3)

January 12, 2006

The Question

Towards the end of last year I went to a small town in Ohio to say farewell to a boy named Tylor Lauck who was dying of cancer.

Tylor was fading fast and spent most of the time sleeping on the couch.

On my last evening up there, family and friends sat around a huge bonfire outside Tylor’s house.

I was mesmerized by the flames. Sparks floated above the fire and drifted ever upward becoming indistinguishable from the stars in the clear night sky.

None of us said very much. We just stared at the flames and prayed silently for Tylor as he lay inside the house preparing for his final journey.

Suddenly someone looked over at me and said. “Can I ask you an honest question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I hope you don’t take this wrong, but why have you chosen to do spend time with dying children? What’s in it for you? What do you get out of it? I mean, forgive me, but it seems rather strange. These kids are not kin to you. Why subject yourself to all of this pain and sadness if you don’t have to?

I thought about the question for a long time.

“That’s a good question,” I replied. “And I’ve asked myself that same question a thousands times.”

I stared at the fire again. The crackle of the flames added a comforting soundtrack to the night insects’ symphony playing in the background.

“I guess kids with cancer have made me realize how great life is,” I said. “They’ve shown me how lucky I am to be part of an incredibly vibrant and wonderful existence. This might sound totally absurd, but I really feel great, almost elated, when I can make a sick kid laugh or when I’m able to comfort a hurting child, sometimes when nobody else can. It sounds crazy, but I have found very few things in the world that make me feel so worthwhile and fulfilled. I’ll be honest with you. I get back way more that I ever give.”

A gentle murmur and some slow, smiling nods affirmed my sentiment.

Again we all stared at the fire without a word.

There was nothing more to say.

Except to listen to the hiss and crackle of the fire and the internal whispering of our own prayers echoing deep within our souls.

I got up and went inside to where Tylor’s mom and dad were sitting alongside him as he lay on the couch.

He had been lying there, unconscious, most of the day.

“Hey T. Your buddy Trevor’s here,” said his mom, leaning over him and rubbing his head affectionately.

Tylor’s eyes fluttered open. Closed. Then opened again.

With a trembling palm he reached out and patted my hand. Then he mumbled something I couldn’t quite understand.

I put my ear to his mouth.

“Love yhh,” he said and closed his eyes again.

My heart felt like it wanted to burst with compassion for this great kid whose life was dangling on a flimsy thread.

I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I love you too you one-legged maniac.”

“That’s me,” he said. “And don’t you forget it.”

He mumbled something else then drifted off to sleep.

Tylor passed away two days later.

Often when I close my eyes I see Tylor, in slow motion, patting my hand and I see his lips mouthing the words, “Love yhh.”

I feel both comfort and joy from having chosen to share many a laugh and a tear with Tylor Lauck.

Posted by trevor at 07:00 AM | Comments (7)

January 09, 2006

Note

I opened the first page of my new journal today and I picked up my trusty old Parker fountain pen and …and…and put the pen down again.

The crispy, clean, fresh white pages just sat there.

I tried again. Nothing.

I contacted my muse:

“I have a brand-spanking-new journal,” I said.

“What was wrong with the last one?” came the reply.

“I filled it.”

“With what?”

“With YOUR crazy ideas,” I said. “It’s full. Kaput. Finished. Done.”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh?”

“It’s an expression of mild surprise.”

“Oh really. I never knew that.”

“So, what’s the problem with the new journal?”

“There is no problem.”

“Well…?”

“Actually, I don’t know how to start. You know. Like what to put on the first page.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I just don’t want to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Then try using your hand.”

“Very funny.”

“Okay. Stare at the paper and tell me what comes to mind.”

“What comes to mind is sitting in the art class at school and the art teacher telling me I wasn’t talented enough to draw.”

“Was he?

“Was he what?”

“Was HE talented.”

“I don’t know. I never saw his work.”

“Exactly! So relax and enjoy your problem.”

“Okay.”

“And start with the cover…”

And I did.

And I enjoyed every second of it

And I recommend it highly.

And if you yourself don’t keep a journal or a scrapbook or a diary or some secret notes or a list of things to do before you expire, please give it a go. You’ll be mildly surprised at how expressing yourself with words or sketches or stamps or collage will bring a little more sunshine into your life. Even in winter.

Posted by trevor at 08:56 PM | Comments (3)

Love

My friend’s five year-old daughter got jilted by her little boyfriend last week. She was rather taken aback that he had the audacity to end their four-day courtship.

This is her third break up in as many weeks.

“Mom, that’s it. I’m done. I don’t want any boyfriends until I’m married,” she announced yesterday.

Love can be so elusive sometimes.

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January 05, 2006

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January 02, 2006

The Bright Side

Photograph © 2006 Jed Share Images

When I was in Washington DC a few weeks ago I spent time with an amazing little chap named Alex. (Mostly on the floor as you can see.)

Even though he has cancer, Alex has figured out how to put the “Ha!” in happy.

We were photographing Alex for a book we are compiling about kids with cancer.

His attitude, his enthusiasm, his smile, his mischievousness, his chuckle and his love of life enveloped me like a six-person group hug.

“Why are you so happy, Alex?” I asked.

“Because it feels good!” he said.

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