"Like I Had Wings"
In memory of Lori Maliszewski
I often don't know all the reasons why a student shows up in one of my memoir workshops. At a first meeting, I ask writers to introduce themselves and tell us what brings them to the class. They share a little piece of the truth. That's all there's time for.
When Lori Maliszewski appeared in my workshop at The Attic five years ago, she said she wanted to write about some recent changes in her life. And then she proceeded to do all of the assignments. It wasn't until the last week of class that I got an email explaining one of those recent changes: "I have terminal cancer," Lori wrote.
Lori wanted to write about her cancer, but she didn't want to upset the other writers in the group. And she she didn't want a pity party.
I promised her that we would have no pity party.
And so Lori began to write the story she'd come to The Attic to write.
"My mouth was dry that day when I read the piece in class," Lori later wrote, "but as I finished up, no lightening bolts appeared to strike me down, and nobody died or even fainted. The silence was a bit longer than normal after I finished reading it but... to my great relief, most of the conversation focused on the writing. I did not feel singled out as a sick person--not one bit. I felt light, like I had wings, as if I couldn't be grounded by cancer."
Lori signed up for the next term of the memoir workshop and the next. She formed a group with other students and they met on their own. Lori had "the good kind of cancer," she said. Her life would be "measured in years, not months." And so she spent those years writing, and bringing her stories and essays to the morning memoir group.
Late last summer, I got the invitation to Lori's book release party. Cancer: A Love Story was out from Lulu Press. I had a baby due five days before the party, but the baby could wait.
"I'll be there," I promised.
I hadn't seen Lori in a few months. She was stick-thin and sick from the chemo, but she glowed joyous. She'd done it. A real book! She signed my copy Thanks for everything, xxxooo. And then I went into labor.
In Chapter Thirteen, Lori wrote:
Life has a way of reassembling atoms and molecules into something new and out of my death came a new me. I look at old pictures of myself and remember that person with both longing and compassion. I went through life for 45 years without even considering that death hid around the corner. What freedom that afforded me. Freedom to dream of a future with the belief that it would happen. Freedom to say, "I'll do that some other day." Freedom to never rest, knowing that I had time for that later. Freedom to procrastinate pursuing my dreams. What an innocent, lucky fool I was, completely ignorant to the possibility of a perfectly tragic ending.
Lori died on Tuesday morning--not tragically, but surrounded by her family, having had these last years to pursue her dreams.
We will miss her.
Lori's memoir is available from Lulu Press: Cancer: A Love Story
I often don't know all the reasons why a student shows up in one of my memoir workshops. At a first meeting, I ask writers to introduce themselves and tell us what brings them to the class. They share a little piece of the truth. That's all there's time for.
When Lori Maliszewski appeared in my workshop at The Attic five years ago, she said she wanted to write about some recent changes in her life. And then she proceeded to do all of the assignments. It wasn't until the last week of class that I got an email explaining one of those recent changes: "I have terminal cancer," Lori wrote.
Lori wanted to write about her cancer, but she didn't want to upset the other writers in the group. And she she didn't want a pity party.
I promised her that we would have no pity party.
And so Lori began to write the story she'd come to The Attic to write.
"My mouth was dry that day when I read the piece in class," Lori later wrote, "but as I finished up, no lightening bolts appeared to strike me down, and nobody died or even fainted. The silence was a bit longer than normal after I finished reading it but... to my great relief, most of the conversation focused on the writing. I did not feel singled out as a sick person--not one bit. I felt light, like I had wings, as if I couldn't be grounded by cancer."
Lori signed up for the next term of the memoir workshop and the next. She formed a group with other students and they met on their own. Lori had "the good kind of cancer," she said. Her life would be "measured in years, not months." And so she spent those years writing, and bringing her stories and essays to the morning memoir group.
Late last summer, I got the invitation to Lori's book release party. Cancer: A Love Story was out from Lulu Press. I had a baby due five days before the party, but the baby could wait.
"I'll be there," I promised.
I hadn't seen Lori in a few months. She was stick-thin and sick from the chemo, but she glowed joyous. She'd done it. A real book! She signed my copy Thanks for everything, xxxooo. And then I went into labor.
In Chapter Thirteen, Lori wrote:
Life has a way of reassembling atoms and molecules into something new and out of my death came a new me. I look at old pictures of myself and remember that person with both longing and compassion. I went through life for 45 years without even considering that death hid around the corner. What freedom that afforded me. Freedom to dream of a future with the belief that it would happen. Freedom to say, "I'll do that some other day." Freedom to never rest, knowing that I had time for that later. Freedom to procrastinate pursuing my dreams. What an innocent, lucky fool I was, completely ignorant to the possibility of a perfectly tragic ending.
Lori died on Tuesday morning--not tragically, but surrounded by her family, having had these last years to pursue her dreams.
We will miss her.
Lori's memoir is available from Lulu Press: Cancer: A Love Story
posted by Contact at 9:54 AM
6 Comments:
Thank you for writing this. I met Lori when I was a copywriter working for Xerox. When I'd nearly had my fill of printer "speeds and feeds", she prodded me forward with haikus about pages per minute and dots per inch. She introduced me to "Bird by Bird". She never said "no" to those ideas that really were "out of the box". She was a good person. She was silly and serious, and she touched many of us without knowing she had. She gave us wings. I will miss her, too.
Thank you for sharing this story. I am glad she was able to get to those workshops.
Ariel, thank you so much for writing this lovely remembrance of Lori. You've captured her perfectly...her grace, her heart, her humor. I already miss her so much.
Wow! Thanks for sharing this story. What a beautiful remembrance.
As an oncology nurse, I was fortunate to have met and worked with Lori during the past several months. Each night I felt blessed and inspired by the courage, strength, and grace she embodied and shared with those around her. Lori was serious, focused, and determined, yet she never failed to put a smile on my face or warm my heart. When I heard of Lori's passing, I stomach sank... I never had the chance to say goodbye. On a whim, I typed Lori's name into my computer and "Cancer, A Love Story" came up. Thank you for sharing this remembrance of Lori. I have ordered her memoir, and I am very eager to read her story.
Thanks for writing about Lori and her creative journey. I'm glad she was able to explore her writing spirits. She was a wonderful person overflowing with enthusiasm.
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