A True Story

As a child, I dreamed of going to Africa some day on safari.  Late at night I would drift to sleep hearing the imagined trumpeting of a bull elephant, and seeing visions of elegant giraffes moving like tall masted ships through the grasslands of the Serengeti behind my closed eyes.  I read voraciously—first children’s books about the animals, and later the autobiographies of brave colonial women—Beryl Markham’s West With the Night, and Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa.  But I never went there until two years ago, when I received a flyer in the mail about a trip to Tanzania during the great wildebeest migration sponsored by my college alumni association.  I was fifty eight years old and had not been out of the country in ten years.  It was time, and throwing fiscal caution to the wind, I exercised my credit cards and signed up.

My guide on that trip was Martin Matei, who at that point had been employed as a safari guide for twenty five years.  Martin had an uncanny ability to see things the rest of us could not see, and hear things the rest of us could not hear, and upon doing so, would put his foot on the gas pedal of the old canopied Land Cruiser to get us right in the thick of whatever was happening.  As a result, I managed to get some extraordinary shots of elephants mating (“Happy Babar”) and an exhausted lioness rolling on her back after a similar session (“She’s Having a Cigarette”).  It didn’t take long for the six of us in Martin’s car to notice that wherever Martin went, the rest of the guides fell in behind. It was indeed the trip of a lifetime.

Martin and I have kept in touch over the last two years, and a few months ago, I received an email from a man named Beatus Mushi who identified himself as Martin’s nephew.  Beatus, who lives in Colorado Springs, had a list of Martin’s email contacts and had taken it upon himself to organize Martin’s first trip to the United States, hoping that some of his former clients in the US would help out to show him the country.  We were delighted.  Martin left San Diego for Las Vegas today after three days packed full of activities, including a Hollywood bus tour and trip to the World Famous San Diego Zoo.  More about Martin’s American safari later, but first a quick story.

In 2003 Martin was guiding a safari party that included Dr. James Doti, the president of Chapman University in Orange, California.  Dr. Doti had a wonderful time on safari, and wanted to do something to show his gratitude to Martin, so he asked if Martin had any children.  Martin had three, but at the time they were quite young.  Martin asked why, and was told that as president of the university, it was Dr. Doti’s right to bestow three full Presidential Scholarships to deserving students.  Martin said, “I have a nephew who is very deserving—smart, and a very hard worker.” Martin arranged for Beatus to meet Dr. Doti. Interviews and tests ensued, and a few months later, Beatus received a first class ticket from Arusha to Los Angeles.  A few years later, Beatus was in possession of a first class education from an American university.  And what did Beatus do?  He became a US citizen and joined the United States Army.  And in the process he supported his widowed mother and his six brothers and sisters so that they too, could rise out of poverty and get an education.

I think that from now on when I read the newspaper and feel despair over war, global warming and worldwide poverty, I’ll think of what Dr. Doti did by extending a hand to one, thus changing several lives.  Serendipitous meetings and small gestures can make a huge difference:  one does what one can.

For Dr. Doti’s account of running the Boston Marathon with the young man he came to call his African son, go here:  http://marathonandbeyond.com/choices/Doti.pdf

Ring Out The Old

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam

 

 

As an aficionado off all things Scottish, it is ever so tempting to quote Robert Burns’ “Auld Lang Syne” tonight, especially when I remember that poignant scene from “Out of Africa” where Baroness Blixen, aka Isak Dinesen, realizes on a fateful New Year’s Eve that she is no longer in love with her husband, but with the handsome and unattainable Denys Finch Hatton.  But as always, I tend to wander from the main theme of tonight, which is a theme of thankfulness.

To all of my friends and family who kept me somewhat sane during this difficult past year, much of which I have shared with you on this blog, I say “Thank you.”  To all of the readers whom I’ve never met but who put up with my quirky musings on cancer, family, dogs, cats, horses and life in general, I am ever so grateful for your encouragement.  Next year I hope to continue to inform you, to make you laugh and cry and above all, to make you wish that you, like Baroness Blixen, had a Scottish Deerhound, or two, or perhaps even three.

As a radiation oncologist, it’s been a very long time since I took call on New Year’s Eve. I am at home tonight, with a nice glass of wine in hand, getting ready to cook dinner and watch the last few episodes of “Breaking Bad” on Netflix—a little sadly because I don’t think everything is going to turn out all right in the end, and I for one thrive on happy endings.  But before I sign off on 2013, I want to thank the good people who are out there “in the field” tonight, taking care of the rest of us across the country and abroad—the ER doctors and trauma surgeons, the nurses in the emergency rooms and in the ICUs, the firefighters and paramedics and police officers who are all vigilant and on high alert tonight, and of course, our armed forces at home and far away.  I wish you all a Happy, Healthy New Year.  Live long and prosper, and stay safe out there!  With gratitude, Miranda.

Happy Place

“Think of a place that’s really perfect.

Your own happy place.

Go there, and all your anger will just disappear.

Then putt.”        Happy Gilmore, 1996

I don’t know if I have ever heard my radiation therapists say this to a patient, anxious on the treatment table, “Go to your happy place.”  I think I may have imagined that they say this, because I remember thinking it might help, and also remember thinking to myself, at various times in the past, “I don’t have a happy place.”  And I didn’t, until a year ago when I finally took the trip to Africa that I had wanted to take my whole life.

I was a child obsessed with animals—all animals, but especially elephants and lions. I learned in school that elephants were like us–they lived long, they loved, and they mourned their dead.  By the time I was ten I had seen the movie HATARI! (Swahili for “DANGER!”) five times, and the only song I ever learned on the piano that I can still play, besides the ubiquitous Fur Elise stamped in the far recesses of my brain, is the Baby Elephant Walk. Born Free came a few years later, and I wept with joy over the story of Elsa. By the time I got to college, I had read Beryl Markham’s biography, West With The Wind, George Schaller’s The Serengeti Lion and after that came Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa, and all of Hemingway.  In 1984 I was swept off my feet by the Robert Redford/Meryl Streep movie version of Dinesen’s book, and in 1993, imagining myself to be a latter day Beryl Markham, I gave myself a flying lesson for my fortieth birthday.  Unfortunately I chose to do this in gusty winds in Aspen Colorado in the middle of the winter—needless to say it was my first and last attempt at becoming an aviatrix.

We all have our romantic notions of where and who and what we want to be when we grow up, but life gets in the way.  In my case, “life” was three kids and a highly specialized career which did not lend itself to the African bush. But just over a year ago, fortune smiled on me and the constellation of circumstances necessary to make a trip to Tanzania suddenly came together—the time off work, the housesitter (my daughter) for my dogs, cat and horses, and the delusion that I could sell my Corvette, purchased by me for my own fiftieth birthday nine years prior, in the middle of a recession to make the trip affordable.  Armed with binoculars, a new camera, sun proof clothing, DEET 30% and malaria pills, off we went.

I think that it is a rare thing in life when one’s expectations are not only met, but exceeded.  This was my experience in Tanzania, from New Year’s Eve spent looking out over the Great Rift Valley, to seeing the famous “tree lions” in Lake Manyara National Park, to the early morning game drives as the sun rose over the Serengeti plain, to the old bull elephant, long tusks still intact and unharmed for over sixty years, lumbering across the floor of the Ngorongoro Crater.  We had a full moon rising over Mt. Kilimanjaro on our last night in Arusha, temporarily blotting out the light from the Southern Cross.  The air was clear and smelled of hibiscus and I knew, unequivocally, that this was my happy place.

I am pretty certain that with my family history, one day I will find myself lying on the treatment table awaiting my radiation, nervous despite my years of experience on the giving and not the receiving end of this specialty.  If my therapist smiles and says, “Relax, go to your happy place—this will be over in just a few minutes”, I will know exactly where to spend the next 15 minutes, among the zebra and the wildebeest kneeling beside the crater lake, the song of a thousand flamingos softly taking wing ringing in my ear. And if that fails me, there is still a shiny red Corvette to drive home.  Happy places, indeed.

My Funny Valentine

I was watching Saturday Night Live tonight and Paul McCartney was singing.  For several years I have had to suppress a cringe when he comes on stage and sings live—there is something a little bit unseemly about a 70 year old man who’s had a face lift or two singing “Hey Jude.”  But there he was, singing “My Valentine”, a song most undoubtedly to his lost love Linda.  It goes “What if it rained?  We didn’t care.  She said that someday soon, the sun was gonna shine, and she was right, This love of mine, My Valentine.”  This song is beautiful.  It took me right back thirty years.

In 1980, I read Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen, who used the pen name Isak Dinesen.  The opening line was “I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills.”  For me, it was the equivalent of “You had me at hello!” I was transported.  Karen Blixen, known affectionately as “Tania”, was a Danish woman who moved to Africa in 1913, married her second cousin Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke, and started a coffee farm in the British colony of Kenya.  In her book, Dinesen details a story in which her deerhound Dusk plays a major role.  Coming home one night, Dusk stops his mistress with furious barking at a tree.  Thinking that there is a leopard lying in wait, Dinesen takes aim with her rifle. Just as she is about to kill the animal in the tree, she realizes with a start that it is her own house cat.  The cat is safely retrieved, but every evening walk after that is punctuated by Dusk stopping at the same tree, barking and then looking back at Dinesen while baring his teeth in what can only be described as a big deerhound grin. Dinesen commented that if ever there was a dog with a keen sense of humor, it was this deerhound.  I was enchanted.

Over thirty years later, I am still besotted by deerhound humor.  The females are the funniest—they are sly; they are bad girls, and they love to make fun of human beings.  Valentine, aka Ch. Gayleward’s Valentine, was one of the best.  Her particular joke was to lie on her bed, beseeching us, or our guests, to pet her.  Ear rubs were the greatest—she would moan and groan in the most embarrassing and yet self-reinforcing way.  But woe to the person who would pet her, and then stop.  Val’s head would pop up and she would give a hearty deep throated and very frightening bark, while “smiling”, with teeth bared and lips curled back.  To the uninitiated, it was terrifying.  The late, great Vicki Hearne wrote an essay about a deerhound called “A Distinct Impression of Diamonds.”  With Valentine, it was more of a distinct impression of a whoopee cushion.

Valentine passed away peacefully at nearly twelve years old in 2006.  Our current comedienne is Queen, otherwise known as Grand Champion Jaraluv Queen, or sometimes QueeQuee or Quigley.  Quee has  a peculiar way of showing her affection—she pokes her head between your legs, then comes out the other side.  I will never forget the first time I handed her off to a professional handler at a dog show.  She performed like the trooper that she is.  When the handler brought her back to me, Queen surprised us both.  Slipping her lead entirely, she dove between my legs, wheeled around and approached with another nose dive from behind. And then back again, from the front.  And again from the back, then coming up for air and placing her nose across from mine, she laughed and  clearly stated, “Am I not the funniest girl ever?”  We call this “going through.”  She now does it on command.

One day I will go to Kenya.   I will visit Karen, Dinesen’s house which has been preserved for posterity.  And I will thank Tania, forever young and hopeful and beautiful, for the inspiration which led to our own funny Valentine.