Author Pam has blended her personal experience of being "different" with her dreams of how it could have been, and she has woven a tapestry of life that tells a story, poignant and charming. The reader will nod as personal experiences come to mind, and wonder, while viewing life through another's eyes and ears, whether there were times when observed actions were insensitive or unkind. From this novel's necessary character building chapters to its hints of what might develop, the reader senses that something magic is unfolding. Don't peek! As this page turner drives forward, pealing away its secrets, enjoy the travelogue, the insights, the history, and the lessons of life it offers the reader along its path. And tell your friends, including those who are, or know someone, "different" to get the paperback, hard cover or e-book so as to enjoy the story, and perhaps use the wonderful addendum resources that can contribute to greater happiness for those like Molly Freeman.
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Pam Schwartz
I was born on July 29, 1953 with Turner's syndrome. I grew up knowing in the back of my mind that I had this difference, some syndrome that explained my short, squat physicality. I never saw or met anyone like me. A Turner Syndrome Society did not exist until well into my adulthood. I researched and saw pictures. Now I can identify myself by the short, thick (webbed) neck, the moles on my face, very low hair line, thick man-like eyebrows and the closed left eye that had to be lifted up and an eyelid created by plastic surgery at age six. There was no adolescence, no blossoming. I had always been...just me; a flower that would never bloom. I also felt destined to be alone. To not be able to have my own children, and neither the money nor the husband to raise adopted children with, has been a chronic loss, a life-long grief. How to cope? I have had the unconditional love and companionship of my two cats, Jasmine and Jade. I truly treasure my nieces and nephews. I am deemed to be "ugly", and no one at any time as far back as I can remember has been shy about letting me know it. I was never the more charitable "plain" or homely", but always ugly, ugly, ugly; Ugh! That word is the bane of my existence, the first thing anyone says or thinks about me. I have made up, tweezed, scraped, blow dried and slathered lotions on like any other lady. But there seems to be little I can do to please, short of getting a whole new face and body. I've had my share of ridicule and rejection, of shouts and barking sounds from guys passing by in cars or kids saying, "Yecch!" as they pass me on the street. I've both been called and mistaken for being "retarded." But the most common reaction is laughing at me. Why me? Well, I'm certainly not exempt from pain or problems more than anyone else. Many people have worse crosses to bear, but for a long time it did not feel that way. Don't ever apologize or let people get you down for the way God made you. He does not make junk, and no one has ever been appointed Perfect Gene Control Dictator who has the right to judge otherwise. The same thing applies to everyone: The less selfish and focused on our own problems we are, the happier we will be. We have to come to a place of compassion and love for ourselves before we can give it to others. Being looked upon so unfavorably, I always knew I would have a hard time getting or keeping a job. Mom and Dad would not be around forever. I had taken a course and received a certificate in medical assisting, but was not getting hired for that. I foresaw a life behind the fast food counter or typewriter, or cleaning up in the back of a store. Perhaps it was simply getting older and wiser, but I began to have more positive visions. I was not into the corporate work-a-day thing at all. I sought something consistent with my values, which tended to run toward the humanitarian and socially conscious. Always shy and a loner, I had become a good listener and observer, and had empathy with those less fortunate. So I came up with Social Work. It dawned on me that education was the way. No one could deny me that just because I'm short and no beauty, could they? I was free as any other American to pursue my dream, now that I had one. I managed to pass the SAT, sought financial aid and entered St. Louis University, a fine Jesuit institution, at the age when I would normally have just been graduating. I moved away to campus in my Sophomore year. Receiving good grades as I was being intellectually stimulated, I was increasingly encouraged to stick with it. I was rewarded with a good social service job with the State of Missouri. Mom died the following year of cancer, but she had seen me safely on my way. I then returned SLU for a Master's degree (MSW), as it would make me even more marketable. Having a decent salary made it further possible to indulge the gypsy in my soul. In late 1975, with money saved from babysitting and homemaker or live-in caretaker jobs, I had gone to London on my own. I had my first taste of real culture. The environment was so different from the Midwest world I had known. Now I made a return trip. I had also gone to New York City in the summer of 1980 to see my first Broadway show, "Evita", seduced by a mesmerizing commercial and hearing and singing the whole show to the original Broadway cast album. This began a love affair with that city and the theater, and I returned over the years for long weekends to see shows and all the sights. The best thing my older sister Odell ever did for me was to pose the question of where I really wanted to be and do. The unhesitating answer was New York, with an even better job there.. So we got the "Times" and looked through the classifieds, finding jobs I was qualified for, mostly in the medical area. I arranged a week's vacation time to go there for interviews with the ones who responded. At one interview for a Brooklyn hospital Social Worker job, the Social Work Director and Supervisor spoke with me, then had me wait while they conferred. When they returned, they offered me the job. I couldn't believe it! I figured it must be a very cold day in hell, or else I might look out the window and see pigs flying in the sky. I went back with a job and having to plan a big move on my own to the Big Apple. I could certainly no longer say that I missed out on much in life, or that God had not been good to me. I had no relatives or friends there. People still didn't make it pleasant. I was sometimes stared down and laughed at, or worse, even when wearing a white lab coat on the hospital units. But New York was a good place to be alone and anonymous while being so free to do and see everything from the Broadway shows and plays with major great performers; to hours in great museums; to ballet and opera at Lincoln Center and concerts in the parks. The city also gave me the chance to fulfill my true potential. By day, I endeavored to help patients have the best possible outcome by facilitating home care, nursing home or rehab, transportation, benefits, medical equipment, drug rehab, mental health programs, housing, adoption, HIV programs and services, both inpatient and outpatient dialysis, or domestic violence and child abuse help. I was dealing almost daily with child welfare, the courts, the schools, the shelter system, HMOs and all manner of medical insurance, and often the Police. In doing it for "the least of these", I was also doing it for God. This job also came with good 1199 union medical coverage, and I was finally able to able to explore more and get help about this Turner's Syndrome. I had been feeling terribly run down, but I thought it was due to the job. A visiting geneticist at the hospital referred me to one of his colleagues at a major hospital in Manhattan, who agreed to see me even though her practice was mostly pediatric. I was thoroughly checked out and discovered to have hypothyroidism, and there was concern for diabetes in the future. (It would appear in coming years, along with congestive heart failure, meningioma on the brain removed by a craniotomy, hearing loss and erratic heartbeat, as the medical problems associated with the syndrome manifested themselves with age. They're all taken care of by medication and a pair of hearing aids so far, and I count them as relatively minor inconveniences compared to some problems and diseases I saw at work.) The Doctor said that, in her line of work, she could see me and know that I have Turner's Syndrome but most other people wouldn't, and offered information on the TS Society. She further related that TS girls of my generation mostly remained at home and dependent "because of societal attitudes." This was a surprise because, in my own estimation, I had simply done what I had to do. Perhaps it goes to show how much someone can accomplish when they don't know they're not supposed to do that. The flower had bloomed after all.
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