DREAM DAYS

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

— ALBERT EINSTEIN

How did you get this way?" an old friend recently asked me over lunch.

"What way?" I answered.

"You know, the way you are ..."

"You mean a forensic pathologist with a book? No, I know what you mean," I answered with a grin. "I'm just being Janis."

"Just Janis" has been a joke in our family ever since I was very young, five or six, I think, and was learning how to answer the phone. A family friend called to speak with my mother. Apparently surprised that I had answered, she asked, "Who is this?"

"Oh, just Janis," I replied, startled, and I abruptly dropped the phone and ran for my mother.

But I think if I answer my friend's question, and explain how "just Janis" got this way, that might make this collection of stories and experiences more meaningful for the reader.

When I was a little girl, my mother always said I had a vivid imagination; but then again, I had an extraordinary family. When I was young, I had not one but two imaginary friends who used to play with me for hours around the house. Their names were Rara and Gerry, and they were always there whenever I wanted to play. With them, I made up new games, fairy castles, and magic places. And then there were my animals, especially Morgi, my well-worn, soft stuffed dog with blue button eyes, a big black nose, and the red tongue that my "Gammy" (my mother's mother) sewed back on at least a dozen times.

During the Korean War, my father served in the Naval Medical Corps, which supplied the physicians for the Marine Corps. My dad was stationed at a Marine base in Japan, treating the sick and wounded. I don't remember seeing him leave, except I noticed that my Gammy came to stay with Mother and me. I was thrilled to have such a wonderful companion who would take me for walks, read to me always, and play for hours in the sandbox. Those were very good days. Later, my younger brother, Barry, and sister, Patty, were added to the family — as well as the dachshunds Fritzie and Piccolo.

I grew up watching my mother and father work very hard. From them I learned to set goals and set them high. My mother would say you could accomplish anything if you set your mind to it. So I did. I graduated at the top of my high school class, won a young artists piano competition and performed at Northrop Auditorium at the University of Minnesota, became a ski instructor and a water safety instructor, and graduated from medical school and residency training with all the associated examinations. I really can work — I really have worked — very hard!

But there is another part to me, as well, a part that doesn't really believe in working quite so hard, even though work seems to be a habit I learned very well. That part of me loves to just play and dance and read; that is the largely unexplored part of my adult self, one I still at times have to give myself permission to be.

So, how did I get what my friend called "this way"? I have begun to pay more attention to the part of me that doesn't need to work hard, and I have remembered that the "extraordinary" seems to be there whenever I take time to be "just Janis" — to stop, to listen to a patient or a family member, to laugh or joke with them, or for myself to just sleep, play, or reflect.

This awareness seems to have everything to do with what I am not doing. Now, when I pause, I see threads of magical awareness woven into the fabric of my life from the beginning. Most of the time as they were happening, I only caught a glimpse. As I have begun to realize they are there, I have become gently aware of the extraordinary love that surrounds me. Always.

I vividly remember the day Dad finally came home from Korea. I was almost three years old, and he looked so happy and so handsome that Mother tells me I had a sudden attack of shyness and hid behind the counter. But Dad must have anticipated my reticence — tucked under his arm was a big, white, fluffy dog with a pink ribbon around her neck, and as soon as I noticed the dog, my shyness disappeared.

I was delighted as he gently put the dog, already named Fee-Fee, in my arms. I listened with wide eyes as he told me how Fee-Fee helped drive the airplane that brought him home from the hospital in Japan. The flight had been rough, and Fee-Fee had braved storms and winds and all sorts of hardships to make sure everyone was safe. Dad said she even wore goggles and a helmet but he had had to leave those behind for the other pilots. I knew that doggie was a hero like my Dad and treated her accordingly.

Fee-Fee became my best friend and constant companion; she even slept under the covers with me every night and guarded the edge of the bed. She gradually lost her bow, her fur, and her stuffing. One day, many years later, she mysteriously disappeared. I still wonder what happened.

I know my mother was right about my imagination. But I also know that my father had one too, and he tantalized us with his incredible stories, dreams, and wild tales of adventure. When Mother would nod in agreement, I just knew the stories had to be true! Now I reflect back on long ago and have to laugh at myself, since my imaginary friends, as well as Fee-Fee and Morgi, seem as real to me today as they did then.

However, as an adult and author, occasionally I, too, wonder about my "vivid imagination" in relationship to all the extraordinary synchronicities and experiences I have recorded. Not long ago, a physician colleague laughingly asked me, "Do you think you have been making it all up?" His comment caught me up short when he said it, and I vigorously denied any suggestion of the sort. But later, when I was alone, I painfully pondered his suggestion.

Then I remembered something forgotten, one of my earliest memories — an experience marked by a feeling of what I can only describe as ecstasy. I realize now, as I write these words, the memory is still marked by that bliss. Let me set the stage.

My...