The Promise

It started with a hospital room promise.


My dad and I were sitting in his hospital room, a day after a surgeon managed to squeeze a few stents into some very narrow arteries. The nurse was on her way with discharge papers, and I was taking my dad home. He was two months away from turning 66. This was his fifth heart procedure.

To pass the time, we turned on the television. It was the first day of televised baseball during spring training, and the St. Louis Cardinals were playing. My dad started talking about how he looked forward to the season, and he couldn’t wait because he thought the Cardinals had a chance to do something.

“If the Cardinals go to the World Series, I’ll take you to a game.” I blurted it out without thinking. My dad looked at me and said, “OK.”

I opened a savings account later that day, called it “World Series” and set up weekly automatic deposits. Now I just needed the Cardinals to win. Easy, right?

Nothing about the 2011 St. Louis Cardinals was easy. The team would win, and then they would lose. They would sweep tough teams before getting swept themselves by mediocre teams. Sometimes they were difficult to watch, but I didn’t give up.

I attended as many games as I could, sometimes going as often as once a week. I traveled to San Francisco and Chicago to watch them play. Somehow, I felt like they had a chance if I were there.

I checked the standings daily. The Cardinals would claim first place in the National League Central, and then lose it to another team. They fell further and further behind, while the Milwaukee Brewers surged. It seemed no one could beat the Brewers.

I first checked the wild card standings in mid-July. The Cardinals were a few games behind the Atlanta Braves at that time. If I were going to take my dad to the World Series, I suspected the wild card would be the ticket.

But the team couldn’t seem to pull together a decent string of wins. Eventually, they were 10 and a half games out of the wild card. It seemed impossible, but I didn’t give up. That’s because I knew baseball history.

When I was a little girl, my dad would tell me bedtime stories about the 1964 St. Louis Cardinals. That team was 11 games behind the Philadelphia Phillies in August, went on a winning steak while the Phillies collapsed and eventually won the World Series. When skeptical friends announced the 2011 Cardinals were finished, I would remind them of the 1964 version. It can happen, I’d said. As long as the math worked, I had hope.

I was leaving Busch Stadium after a Cardinals game when I learned the Brewers won the National League Central. It was wild card or nothing now.

I started going to even more games, and when I wasn’t there, I was watching or listening. I prayed. One night, in desperation, I made my dog Henry Aaron wear his Cardinals jersey. The team came back and won. Henry continued to wear his jersey.

I rooted for whatever teams played the Braves, even when it required rooting for the Cubs. It was a sacrifice worth making.

Slowly, the Cardinals inched their way toward the wild card while the Braves collapsed. People told me I was crazy. “They’re done,” they would say. I would shake my head and think about my dad’s stories. It can happen.

When they finally clinched the wild card, I called my dad. He never mentioned my promise, and neither did I. But we were close, and I wasn’t giving up, even though the Cardinals drew the Phillies, a team everyone was convinced would win it all, in the National League Division Series. It would be tough, but it could be done.

They did it in dramatic fashion, using all five games and knocking the Phillies off in a 1-0 heart pounding victory. The Cardinals were on the way to the National League Championship Series.

When the team sent me an email the next day announcing I was selected to purchase World Series tickets, it felt like fate.

That Monday, I called my dad and asked the question I’d been waiting to ask for six months: “Would you like to go to the World Series?” I broke down in tears before I could finish the question. When he told me this might be his last chance to go to a World Series game, I cried even harder.

The dreaded Milwaukee Brewers stood in our way as the Cardinals moved to the NLCS. But I had faith and a dog in a Cardinals jersey. The good guys won in six games.

My dad and I walked into Busch Stadium for Game 2 of the 2011 World Series, seven months and one week after my promise. As we sat down, my dad looked around the field and said, “I can’t believe I’m at the World Series.” I didn’t cry this time. He did.

The Most Generous City

I traveled to Spokane, Washington last fall for a seminar at Gonzaga University. I am a graduate student through Gonzaga’s online communications program, and I looked forward to finally meeting many of my classmates in person.


At the opening session, we did the usual “go around the room and tell us about yourselves.” I mentioned I live in St. Louis in my opening sentence. It didn’t take long before the comments started.

“They have a lot of crime in St. Louis. It’s worse than Detroit.”

“Isn’t St. Louis one of the most dangerous cities? I thought I read that somewhere.”

“Wow, St. Louis, huh? I don’t think I could live there because of the crime.”

I spent most of my time during that three day seminar conducting damage control for my city. Yes, there is crime in St. Louis, but there is crime in any city. We have a lot to offer: culture, sports, great restaurants, a world class zoo, and of course, the Arch. I was exhausted at the end of the three day seminar, yet hopeful that I had changed one or two people’s viewpoints about St. Louis.

St. Louis was in the national spotlight again last weekend when tornadoes slammed into the area on Good Friday evening. While the damage and destruction was breathtaking, no one was killed or even seriously injured.

I turned on my television the morning after the storms and couldn’t believe the images of homes that now resembled matchsticks. Our airport was in shambles. The destruction was heartbreaking. Again, I was amazed no one was killed.

But I was amazed by something else as well: generosity. Donations were pouring into the local American Red Cross and United Way chapters. Neighbors were helping neighbors clean up from this nightmare. Strangers were calling charities, volunteering to help clean up, too. Offers were made for places to stay to those who could no longer stay in their own homes.

I was, and still am, proud of St. Louis for coming together to help their own in this time of crisis. The outpouring of generosity is inspiring.

The St. Louis storms made national news. I hope my Gonzaga classmates saw the tornado coverage, and I hope they give St. Louis a new nickname: The Most Generous City.

Fearless

It’s snowing this morning. I sit at my desk, looking out the window and thinking. I don’t care for snow, even though it’s beautiful. I’m lucky enough that I don’t have to be anywhere today. I have the luxury of simply sitting and watching the snowflakes fall.


I find myself thinking about my mother. She recently had her hip replaced at age 63. It was a long, tough surgery. My suspicions that she had osteoporosis were confirmed. Her bones were thinner and more brittle than realized, but the surgeon was able to successfully complete the procedure.

I cried the first time I saw her post surgery. She didn’t look like my mother, but rather a haggard, diseased stranger. She was exhausted and in tremendous pain, but when I asked if she planned to walk soon, she nodded her head furiously.

She took her first steps the next morning, and when I saw her again two days post surgery, she looked like herself. She walked slowly down the hall, clutching her walker and grimacing. It hurt, but she was determined to walk. The quicker and farther she walked, the faster she could go home.

Her doctor was shocked by her progress. I wasn’t.

My mother was diagnosed with liver disease almost 10 years ago. One day she was fine and the next day she wasn’t. She was admitted to the hospital, and the doctors didn’t seem to have much hope. We were told to “prepare ourselves.”

My father was in denial, so my brothers and I stepped in. We made funeral arrangements. I bought a black dress and wrote her eulogy. We waited.

Then she did the one thing no one expected her to do. She started getting better. She fought back, determined to get out of the hospital by early May. My younger brother was graduating college then, and she wasn’t going to miss it.

When early May arrived, she asked her doctors about being discharged so she could attend graduation. They told her no, so she came up with “Plan B.” That involved me putting her in a wheelchair under the guise of going for a walk. We just failed to mention that the walk involved going out to the parking garage to my car, and then driving over to the university for the graduation ceremony. We were back at the hospital by early afternoon. No one even realized we were gone.

It was during this time when I realized just how strong and tough my mother is in times of crisis. She ended up being discharged from the hospital three months after she was admitted. The doctors who were so sure she would die ended up writing a medical paper on her case. She taught us an important lesson: never underestimate her.

My mother is home now, and she continues to walk a little more each day. She inspires me with each step she takes. She is fearless. I want to be, too.