I have been teaching a series of wool felting classes to senior citizens at a local library.
Yesterday, as we worked on our projects, a conversation was started about the difference between small-town life and city life. The lady sitting across from me said, “I’ve always lived in a small town. Even Okinawa was a small town.”
I asked, “When did you live in Okinawa?”
With that question I displayed my interest, and invited her to tell me her story.
As she spoke, her memories caused a visceral response in her. She had tears on her face, and occasionally wiped them off with her hand.
She was a newlywed in 1974. She left the safety of the town where she had always lived, and travelled to a different world with her new husband. He was in the army, and was stationed at Kadena Air Base on Okinawa island.
Living in a foreign land was both an amazing adventure and a shock to a young farm girl.
On the first day that she arrived, she cleaned their tiny apartment, washed all of their clothes, showered, and cooked dinner for her husband. The following day, she turned the handle to the faucet, and no water came out. That was when she learned about war-time water rationing. Unbeknownst to her, she had used her allotment for the week on her first day in Japan. Her apartment had a small water tank that was to be filled every seven days. Because of the restrictions on water, the soldiers and their wives drank local milk, as well as soda and kool-aid, which was flown in from The United States. She developed a kidney disease during her year in Japan.
Growing up in the Midwest, she was accustomed to threats from nature, coming in the form of storms and tornadoes. Her home on the airbase was only steps from the ocean, and, for the first time in her life, she was faced with earthquakes and tsunamis.
The first earthquake she experienced hit at Christmas time. Her mother had mailed her some small wooden ornaments and a set of paints. Her small apartment didn’t have enough room for a table, so she sat at the kitchen counter to decorate her baubles. Suddenly, the counter started to vibrate and the glasses in the cabinet began clinking together. Her eyes widened with fear when she realized what was happening. The army had instructed the wives to stand in a doorway during an earthquake, in hopes that the doorframe would survive, if the rest of the building were to collapse. She ran to the doorway that separated her living space from her bedroom. She crouched on the ground and prayed.
Whenever there was a tsunami warning, all of the planes on the base were relocated to The Philippines. The military personnel were evacuated, but the wives, children and Okinawans were left behind. So, she sat with the other wives during these storms, hoping that the worst of the weather would not come their way.
She said that living on the air base was the scariest time in her life, but also the most amazing.
She talked about the beauty of the land and of the people. From her apartment, she could see the bright blue ocean. She watched the sun rise over the waves, and in the afternoon, she and the other wives walked barefoot on the beach, and looked for treasures that had washed up onto the shore.
Every morning, from her balcony, she saw small children leave their tiny huts and walk, carrying sticks, to the local school. She shopped for food and clothing in the village, where she learned to communicate with merchants with whom she did not share a common language.
As I drove home from the library, I thought, “every person is a story.” We have each lived a life filled with people, events and experience. We have each come to be who we are today, because of what we have learned along the way.
Death is all around us lately. Many stories are coming to an end. Spirits are leaving this place, with hope that their existence has had a positive impact on what we perceive to be life on earth.
We are here for a brief moment, and then we are gone.
If we are loved, we are remembered through our stories - for a generation or two.
If we are alone, we are soon forgotten.
If you appreciate my words, please share them with the world:
To know the whole story, start at the beginning:
I am not a doctor, a scientist or an investigative journalist.
I am a daughter, a mom, an artist and a storyteller.
I have a story to tell about turbo cancer.
I have a story about our failed medical system
I will tell it to anyone who will listen.
On June 12, 2022, after four Pfizer injections, my very healthy mom was suddenly diagnosed with stage-IV pancreatic cancer in her left inguinal groin lymph node, B-cell lymphoma, and melanoma. Her immune system had failed completely. The fast-growing tumors spread to her bones, breaking them from the inside. She lived, suffering, until December 13.
I was her full-time caregiver.
Beginning June 11, 2023, day by day, using memories, photos, text conversations, medical records, my journal, and my mom’s journal, I chronicled the story of her disease on Facebook. I told about the progression of her illness, the failed medical response, her unimaginable pain, her experience, my experience, and how her spirit refused to be broken.
My mom represents millions of people who were deceived, intimidated or forced into receiving an injection. Her story is all of our story.
On This Day, Last Year - Six Months of Turbo Cancer
Turbo Cancer: The Beginning - June 11, 2022
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Feb 3
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Thank you.
That was amazing, thank you.