Sarah

My Daughter’s Choices: A Mother’s Perspective

By Deanne Burch

It is the beginning of August, 1983 and I am sitting on the dock watching my fifteen year old daughter swimming. Sarah has always been my water baby, learning to swim at the age of two, and starting to compete at the age of six. She was always last off the block but seemed to catch up and win each race that she went in. Today, as I watch her, I realize that her days of competition have come to an end and tears come to my eyes as I know what lies ahead of her.

Earlier this year she was diagnosed with a severe curvature of the spine. She had the choice of wearing a brace for four years and at the end of this time she may or may not need an operation. In addition to this, the doctors told us that she would probably need counseling because she would probably hate her body during this time. The brace would be uncomfortable and she would be limited in her activities. The other alternative was to have an operation to straighten the curve. It would involve putting a rod in her spine to straighten it.

She was only fourteen and yet my husband and I let her decide what she wanted to do. She chose the operation knowing the side effects that could possibly happen.

As I watch Sarah, she is doing duck dives and ballet legs and I wonder “will she ever be able to do these things again.” I know there is a possibility that she might die during surgery. I nearly lost her once. I know I could not bear to lose her because of the choice she made. Will she end up as a paraplegic? That might happen as well. Now the tears are running down my cheeks and I wonder if this decision is right for her.

August 17^th, she is taken into surgery; it is the longest day that Tiger and I have ever spent, waiting to find out if she will be okay and if the operation has been a success. Neither of us has talked at all to each other, too afraid of what might lie ahead. We sit silently until the doctor comes . Seeing him smiling, we know the operation was a success. Sarah will have many days of pain ahead of her and she will have to be in a brace for several months; all that seems insignificant now, because her future looks brighter than before.

****

It is now late August, 1988. I am sitting at the Harrisburg airport with Sarah and my mother- in- law. Sarah is going to London to spend a semester with the Syracuse University program abroad. I am excited for her. Tiger and I are planning on going to see her sometime this fall and she promises that she’ll be home after Christmas, before the start of second semester. She’ll have so many stories to tell us then and I can’t imagine Christmas without her. Going home, I feel the silence in the house. David is God knows where and Karen is in Boston. Tiger is traveling. All I have are the dogs. Christmas is only three months away and the house will be filled with laughter and joy. Three months is not a long time to wait to have most of the family together again.

Sarah has been gone now for a month and I get a letter saying how much she loves it there. With our permission, she has decided to stay for another semester. I am not happy with this turn of events but we gave her roots to grow and wings to fly. She is surely going to fly when she is in London.

Now it is December 21, the longest night of the year. Karen will be home tonight and Tiger and I are sipping a glass of wine when the phone rings. It’s my friend, Anne telling me there has been a plane crash over Lockerbie Scotland and there are no survivors. I wonder for a minute why she is telling me this when she suddenly says “Many of the passengers on board were from the Syracuse program abroad.”

Sarah is safe. I know she is….or is she? I start to worry. What if she decided not to travel and to come home to surprise us? I can’t get this thought out of my mind. By the time we pick up Karen from the airport, I am consumed with fear. The first words out of my mouth are “Was Sarah on that plane.?“ I knew Sarah would tell Karen if she was going to surprise us.

Karen didn’t know the answer. Suddenly I can’t believe that I didn’t greet her with a hug and kiss. After all she is my daughter too and I am overjoyed to see her.

We spend the night hoping, praying that Sarah is safe and not knowing. I toss and turn all night. It is the morning of December 22. The phone rings and I’m afraid to pick it up. Sarah is on the phone, calling from a distant phone booth someplace in Europe. We both start to cry knowing that had she not decided to travel over the holidays, she would have been on the plane that exploded. That was the flight that carried the students she had traveled with on her way to London. I thanked God that she was safe because of the choice she had made.

Sometimes I wonder if Sarah had a guardian angel watching over her. The choices she made changed her life forever and I am so grateful that the decisions she made were the right ones for her.

My Choice

“Mom, how did you improve your posture?”, my eldest daughter asked me last week. I looked at her and smiled, questioning, “Did I improve my posture?”. She said, “I don’t know, but I know you have tried over the years; improving my posture is my New year’s resolution.” “Oh,” I said, slightly chuckling to myself. For over 38 years I have been trying to improve my rounded shoulders, a bad habit, that I may have started because of a choice I made.

When I was eleven, my pediatrician discovered I had scoliosis; this is a medical condition in which a person’s spine curves sideways. Often people with scoliosis are put in a back brace. My parents took me to an orthopedic surgeon who did not feel that the curve in my spine was significant enough for me to wear a brace. Over the next three years I went to a few different doctors about my scoliosis. By February of 1983, when I was 3 months shy of my 15th birthday, I was told I would definitely have to wear a back brace and possibly have an operation.

The last doctor we went to, Dr. Harrison, recommended two methods for straightening my spine. The method he felt would be most effective was a spinal fusion; a stainless steel rod would be placed along my spine and fuse my spine in a straighter position. If I chose the spinal fusion with the Harrington rod, I would be in the hospital for ten days, wear a back brace for three months, and be out of all sports for six to ten months.

The second method Dr. Harrison recommended was a Milwaukee Brace. This brace would extend from my hips to my chest, with a neck brace that would extend up the back brace (think of the girl that Joan Cusak played in Sixteen Candles). There was one catch to the second method : I would have to wear the brace for four years. At the end of the four years of wearing the Milwaukee brace, there was a good possibility I might still need an operation.

My parents allowed me to make the choice between the two methods. In 9th grade, this was the hardest decision I had ever made. Giving me the ability to make my own decision was a very empowering gift. I chose the surgery.

On August 17, 1983 I had the surgery to correct my spine. I am told I was in a lot of pain. I remember none it, except when the nurses stood me up for the first time, and also when I was sick on the morphine I was given for pain. After eight days in the hospital, my back brace was put on. I went home the next day.

I wore the back brace for three months. I think this was the hardest part of the whole process. Having always been a stomach sleeper, I had a hard time sleeping for the first few weeks. The brace, made of leather and steel made my body immobile from under my arms to my hips. the only part of my torso I could relax were my shoulders, thus creating a very bad habit that I am still trying to break.

“My Cage”
This is the back brace I wore for three months

Unfortunately, the brace was screwed on. I, who was used to taking one to two showers daily, was limited to one shower a week. Every weekend, my father would unscrew the brace, and I was allowed out of it for one hour. I was very fortunate because many people (at the time) who had my type of surgery were not able to have their back braces off for showers. Some people had to wear their brace for six months.

Having been a competitive swimmer from age six to age fourteen, I was not used to being inactive. After the surgery, I was not able to do any physical activity, except walking, until February 1984. At that point Dr. Harrison said I would be able to ride a bike and swim, but “I was not to get too tired”. By June, a month after my 16th birthday, I was given the go ahead participate in everything I enjoyed.

I will never regret the decision I made. Having been given permission to make my own choice helped me grow into the person I have become.

We all have scars, some visible, some internal. All our scars become a part of our story. A physical scar is like a road map to the past; the picture, is the scar that that tells part of the story I just shared.

The Matriarchs At The Top Of The Rocks

Written and submitted by Deanne Burch

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. At our cottage on Lake Muskoka, I have a photograph that is similar to the one pictured here. However, in my other photograph, there is a larger group of young women performing in the water ballet. At first, when I looked at the photograph, I thought I was part of the group. When I looked more closely, I saw my father sitting on the rocks and I was beside him. I found my mother with her permed hair. I think I even found my younger brother with blonde hair. My future mother in law was in the photo as well. All of us were sitting half way down the rocks with our backs to the camera enjoying the production that was taking place before us. Further up on flat land , just behind the rocks, were chairs set out for the matriarchs of the club; these were for them to sit on and be comfortable.

As a young woman I remember the ease with which I could scamper up and down those rocks; I promised myself that I would always be able to do that.

The tradition of the Regatta at this club, has continued all my life; the water ballet has metamorphosed into a production with more deck work, than swimming. Going through old photos today, I found photos of the Regatta through the generations.

When my daughters took part in the water ballet, they still wore the dreaded white bathing suits; some of those girls had taken synchronized swimming in the winter.

I was the proud mother sitting at the bottom of the rocks, but ready to scramble further up the rocks if I couldn’t see properly. By now the matriarchs who were sitting on the chairs had changed slightly. There were grandmothers of friends of mine, sitting in the chairs that were reserved for them. It was about 1976 then, my mother and mother in law had not yet graduated to that position.

Eventually I had grandchildren of my own. I, was a now a happy grandmother, perched halfway up the rocks to watch the water ballet or the races that my grandchildren participated in. I still felt nimble, able to clamber up and down the rocks; yet, the odd time, an arm of a young man or woman would reach out to help me, if needed. How dare they? I was in control of myself — not yet old enough to need help.

The water ballet had changed. Now there was deck work instead of the precision of the water ballet.

The girls had more fun doing this and always were smiling. No more white bathing suits, just a conglomeration of different suits and styles. My grandson took part in the races as well and for a couple of years was first place in every race he went in. Then he grew tired of it— said that he would use his cups for a pencil holder.

Life was changing fast. Looking up to the top of the rocks, I saw a few of my “older” friends sitting in the chairs reserved for the older women. “Really”, I thought, “they can’t be old enough to sit there!”. Maybe my friends were arthritic and not able to move as well as I could.

For several years, I watched the Regatta from whatever vantage point was best for me. I still sat on the rocks to watch, although I was finding the rocks less and less comfortable. The grandchildren were growing quickly and sometimes were not even participating in the Regatta. There was no need for me to be present at all, except that I could visit with friends that I had not seen all winter, and watch their grandchildren participate.

In 2019, I fell in the bathroom. I don’t know how I fell, but I broke four ribs so badly that I needed to have rods to stabilize them. I was no longer the agile person I thought I was. Time had, I guess, taken its toll on me. I arrived at the lake in time for the Regatta. I was anxious to see old friends and the Regatta was a way to do so. For a while, I talked to people on the dock. Then I chatted with friends on the steps of the club. I really wanted to watch the age old tradition of the water ballet. Where was I going to sit? My ribs were still sore. I didn’t want to sit on the rocks and take the chance of falling again. I saw on empty spot on one of the chairs at the top of the rocks. I plunked myself down beside one of my friends and wondered how many of the young people there would look at us and say “I am never going to sit in one of those chairs. I will always be able to get around the way I do today.”

I am now one of the matriarchs who sit at the top of the rocks, grateful to be alive and able to enjoy all that life has in store for me.

Reflections on Dark and Light

In the northern hemisphere the darkest day of the year is December 21st. Although the days start to get longer after this day, many people struggle with the continued darkness. Does the darkness affect you?

When I was younger, the end of January to beginning of February were darkest for me. Now the lack of light does not seem to affect me as much. In fact there is something quite magical about seeing lights twinkling in the dark.

Why do the long days of December no longer bother me? Could this be because when I have felt like my world has crumbled, and all I see is darkness , I manage to pull back to the light? Or, perhaps this because I have learned that brighter days are ahead? There have been times that the cold fingers of the dark, muddled with what life has handed me, start to seep in. I do my best to keep them from grabbing on..

Last week, the week before Christmas, I had two unexpected periods of reflection one dark and one surprisingly light…

Dark:

On Monday of last week, I saw a friend who had been planning a nice weekend trip with his family. I asked him how his weekend was and he just shook his head. Later, when we both had time to talk, he told me his wife wanted a divorce…

Memories of December 1999 came flooding back: I had been married for a year and a half; it was evident that my marriage was troubled. I thought we were trying to work through it, when my then husband decided to take some time away to “think’ about our marriage. At the time, I was newly pregnant with my first child. This was early December.

When the father of my child arrived back from his trip, he told me he wanted a separation. I was not “allowed” to tell my family about our separation because we were to spend the holiday together. All through the holiday season, I had to pretend with that we were happily married, planning a future together.

….My friend, at a different place in his life now than I was 22 years ago, also had to “act’ as if everything were normal. For me the black bitterness of hiding the truth came back to me. The dark of what I felt from my past, made me have understanding of what he was and still is experiencing.

Light

My Father-In-Law passed away early in November of this year. A few days before Christmas, my husband asked me if I remembered my first Christmas without my father. Strangely I do…

In September of 2010 my father took his life. My family or origin was in shock, grieving, and trying to pick up the pieces, while raising our own young children. The night my father died, my mother left the house they had lived in for three decades and went back only once. After living with a friend for a month, my mother found somewhere new to live,

When the time came for Christmas, my mother went to California to be with my sister, my brother went to be with his wife’s family and my family went to the new house where my mother now lived. We wanted to be with my grandmother, who had just turned 95, so she would not be alone for Christmas.

What could have been a truly sad Christmas, was actually quite beautiful. My husband drove up from Maryland to Central Pennsylvania, with all the presents. I followed, with our three children, a few hours later. We had simple meals. The space was warm and inviting, my mother had put a tree in her house for us. We rose above our sadness for each other. What I remember most is driving my grandmother over to my mother’s house on Christmas Eve. The sun had set and snow was lightly falling. The street into the my mother’s neighborhood was lined with tea lights in paper bags. I felt at peace for the first time since my father died. The heavy darkness lifted from my soul.

Desmond Tutu once said “Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” If you suffer during the dark months, I hope you find some light.

I Remember

In memory of the victims of PAN AM Flight 103 (this was written 3 years ago on the 30th anniversary of this tradgedy).

I Remember

The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London. I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small.

I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid I would be homesick. I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during Winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.

I loved my time in London. I cannot put into words what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there. We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams.

30 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched. For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.

Pictures flow through my mind…

Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre

Leaving London

Traveling to Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels

Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:

She to a family she knew in Belgium,

I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.

Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”

Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”

Being told, “Everyone is dead.”

Darkness fell,

Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…

Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”

Slowly finding out who I had known:

Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…

Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.

The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan;the Cocker twins…

Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.

Lighting candles all over Europe, In remembrance for those that had died.

Moving through the dark. Finding light. Letting go of the guilt.