The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: The Gatherings

Episode Date: September 17, 2024

Gather 'round for an episode of The Moth Radio Hour with stories of coming together - in sadness, in celebration, in faith and in the nude. This episode is hosted by Moth Senior Director Kate Tellers. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media.Storytellers:Bonnie Levison takes a risk and stands tall … and nude.Adam Bottner makes an immaculate connection in an unlikely place.Sister Laurena discovers a new relationship with her faith by changing a habit.Oleeta Fogden's much anticipated party for her first period does not go as planned.After receiving a devastating diagnosis, Mary Shaughnessy learns to lean on her community. Podcast # 887

When 60 Minutes premiered in September 1968, there was nothing like it. This is 60 Minutes. It's a kind of a magazine for television. Very few have been given access to the treasures in our archives. Rolling. But that's all about to change. Like none of this stuff gets looked at.

That's what's incredible. I'm Seth Doan of CBS News. Listen to 60 Minutes, A Second Look, wherever you get your podcasts. ["The Moth Radio Hour Theme"] ["The Moth Radio Hour Theme"] From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Kate Tellers.

A few years ago, my uncle said this about me. Oh, that Kate, she wouldn't miss the opening of an envelope. It's true. I love a party or any place that people are gathering. We come together to celebrate our joyful milestones and hold space for the sad ones. To mark time and say, this person, this anniversary, this totally niche set of shared interests matter. What's more, a gathering is often a perfect reason to blow it out with a cheese board. Win-win.

In this hour, we'll hear five stories about coming together in good times and bad. Our first story comes from Bonnie Levison, who told this live when we gathered in Portland, Maine and partnered with the State Theater. Live from the Moth, here's Bonnie. I'm tall and I grew to my full height of almost six feet at the age of 12. I was in seventh grade. It was a terrible year. I had a lot of nicknames. I think Giant was probably the most popular, but the boys loved to call me Amazon. Yeah. I don't really blame them because

they hadn't grown yet and I towered over them, which made school dances a lot of fun. I think the tallest boy came up to my shoulders. God forbid there was a slow dance. I looked like I was breastfeeding. It was awful. Oh, and then there were the questions. You know, how's the weather up there? And what do you eat to get so big? And of course, the most popular, you're so tall, you must play basketball. And as luck would have it, I was terrible at basketball.

But I was forced to be on my seventh grade team, and because I was so bad I didn't play in many of the games, but I did have one very important job, and that was a couple of minutes before every game my coach would cue me, and I would have to stand up and walk slowly around the gym to, I quote, frighten the other team. I hated feeling so big. I just wanted to be smaller and I did whatever I could. Gosh, I dieted, I hunched, I wore flats. Nothing helped. The only thing that helped was time. Eventually the boys got taller, they started making clothes an extra long, and I got on with my life. I went to college, I got a job, I married, I had a family, and the decades flew by.

But I never quite got over feeling so big and just uncomfortable in my own skin. So now I'm in my late 50s. I'm on Nantucket Island. And Nantucket is a really special place for me. It's where my grandparents had a house and I would spend every summer there. And I had all my firsts there. I learned to ride a bike and swim. I had my first job. I had my first kiss. It was a place where I feel safe. And now I'm there and I'm working at a conference.

And they have all these amazing speakers. They have celebrities and actors and writers. But the people who are inspiring me are the people you've never heard of. They're people who have faced incredible tragedy and loss and they're there speaking about it and I am feeling so inspired by them and all I can think is, oh my gosh these people have been through so much and they're getting on with their lives and I still can't get over

how I felt like when I was 12. And then they introduced the next speaker. Please welcome to the stage Spencer Tunick. And I'm really excited. Spencer Tunick is a photographer whose work I had admired for years. And he takes these incredible enormous photos out In nature or in public spaces and these photographs they just draw you in and as you get closer to them You realize they're filled with people who are all naked Which is why I refer to him as Spencer no tunic which is why I refer to him as Spencer No Tunic. But I look at these photographs and I see these people who are naked and I think to myself,

oh my God, I can't believe these people do this. And so he speaks about his process, it's really interesting, and then he says, I'm going to take one of my photographs tomorrow morning, and if somebody would like to be in it we're meeting at 530 in the morning and I don't know what comes over me but I'm in my safe place I'm feeling inspired but I'm doing this so I go back and I set my alarm for 5 a.m. I stagger out of bed. I throw on a bathrobe, some flip-flops, not much else,

and I make my way to the meeting place. It is pitch blackout. And there's like, I don't know, 50, 60 people awkwardly hovering around a coffee machine, and there's this low dim of conversation and weird laughter. And they're all dressed in bathrobes and slippers, and there's this low dim of conversation and weird laughter. And they're all dressed in bathrobes and slippers, just like me. And honestly, it looked like they were either waiting

for a spa treatment or an orgy, and I was very uncomfortable and I just wanted to run. But then Spencer's assistant comes up and says, "'Okay, everybody, we want you to walk down about a block to the end of the road and there is the beach overlooking the harbor and we'll meet Spencer there. And just like Lemmings, everybody turns and starts walking and so do I.

And with every step I begin to hear those nicknames and I start feeling like that 12-year-old girl, but I keep walking. We arrive at the beach and there's Spencer up on this huge stepladder. He's got all this photography equipment with him and he starts to describe what he wants us to do. So he wants us all to go down to the beach and stand in rows looking out to the water and then he'll take the picture from behind us. And then very unceremoniously he says, now take off all your clothes. I expected a little more small talk, a get to know ya, something like that, but everyone just turns and they go off and they find their own little dune and they start taking off their clothes. So so do I.

I find my dune and as I'm taking off my robe I'm thinking Bonnie what are you doing? Nobody wants to see your oversized too old body with, forgive me, what's left of your pubic hair. Nobody wants to see it. What are you doing? But I keep going. As I take off my robe and I'm standing there in this morning air and I feel the cool breeze blowing over my body, and suddenly I'm walking

with this crowd of totally naked people. I keep my eyes up, but my peripheral vision is working very well. And I notice that it's all ages, it's all sizes, it's all hues, and we're pretty beautiful. As I get to the beach, I decide I don't want to be in the back row and I don't want to be in the front row. So I kind of put myself in the middle on the end, and he has us all in these rows, and then he says, I'd like you all to pick up some seaweed and hold it up in your right hand,

just like the Statue of Liberty. And so we're holding this seaweed and we're standing there and the sun is rising over the harbor and the sky is filled with pinks and blues and purples and it's beautiful and quiet. And suddenly the silence is broken. There's this sound off to the right. Honk, honk.

Oh my god, it's the morning fairy. And it's making its way around the bend. By the time they're in front of us, everybody on the ferry is out on the deck looking at us. And we're looking at them, and I don't know who is more shocked, but all I hear is from behind us, Spencer says, don't move, click, click, click, click, click, click, and we are laughing hysterically, and I am laughing so hard I totally forget I'm naked. I walked off the beach that day and I felt a lightness I had never felt before. Three months later, it's December, it's cold and gray

and I pick up my mail and I have this there's this big manila envelope and it says Spencer Tunick photography. It's my print of the picture. I'm so excited. I ripped the manila envelope open. I pull out the picture and I'm holding it and it's beautiful. It's really beautiful but I have to look for myself of course and I remember I was standing in the middle row off to the right and I'm looking and I'm looking and oh my God he cropped the photo and I'm not in it. I went through all that and I wasn't in that photo. I couldn't believe it. And then I thought about it. I didn't need to be in the photo. I was there.

I did it, and I loved it. That day, I stood tall, and I would do it again. Thank you. That was Bonnie Levison. Bonnie is still tall, and in addition to telling stories on our stages, she enjoys taking stories to new heights as a long-time Moth workshop instructor. True to her word, Bonnie did pose for a Spencer Tunick photo again, and this time she made

it in. To see the photo from that fateful day on Nantucket, check out themoth.org. In a moment, a once-in-a-lifetime encounter at a funeral and a Dominican sister reconsider a habit, when The Moth Radio Hour continues. So The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX. As the executive producer of The Moth, I travel many times a year to direct Moth mainstage shows and meet new storytellers. From the markets of Nairobi to the beaches of Australia and the historic streets of London, I love meeting locals and finding new stories to share on Moth mainstages. While I'm away, hosting my apartment on Airbnb would be a great way to make some extra income and share my home with travelers who will love it as much as I do during date

ranges that work with my schedule. Have you thought about hosting with Airbnb? Your home might be worth more than you think. Find out how much at airbnb.ca slash host. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Kate Tellers. For many, the most somber gathering that they will ever attend is a funeral. Fortunately, scientifically, we can only have a maximum of one funeral of our own. But what happens when you go to a funeral and you have an encounter that's once in a lifetime too. That's just what happened to Adam Bottner, who told this story at a slam in Chicago where

we partnered with WBEZ. Here's Adam live at the Mock. So in 1972, I am 10 years old and I just fall in love with football. I love playing it with my friends every weekend in the park and I love watching the NFL on Sundays every week. And I'm not very good at playing in the park so I start focusing more on the watching of it on Sundays and I just fall in love with everything about football. Now my family had moved from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania a couple years before so in in the early 70s, the Steelers became a great team.

In 1972 was really the first year that they had been great in all the, in like 40 years. So that was the year I started liking football. So I decided I was going to be a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. And I fell in love with one particular player named Franco Harris. He was Rookie of the Year in 1972. He was a great running back from Penn State. And he was my guy. And the Steelers were great that year and they went to the playoffs for the

first time in 40 years and I was so excited I stayed home to watch the playoff game. They played the Oakland Raiders in the first round of the playoffs and the Steelers were losing 7-6 as time was running out. They had about 20 seconds left in the game. Terry Bradshaw, the quarterback for the Steelers, fades back. Probably the last play of the game was fourth down. It wasn't going to happen. He throws it down field. Ball gets batted down. Game should be over.

But out of nowhere, Franco Harris appears magically and grabs the ball just as it's about to hit the ground. He shouldn't even have been in the area, supposedly. He picks it up. Nobody even tries to tackle because nobody can figure out what just happened. He runs 50 yards for a touchdown. The Steelers win.

I'm out of my mind. I'm so excited. Franco Harris is my hero for life at this point. The Steelers are my favorite team, it's ridiculous how much I love the Steelers. And the crazy thing was, we had a friend in Pittsburgh who became friends with Franco Harris somehow, and he knew how much I loved the Steelers and Franco,

so he would send me stuff in the mail, I'd get an autographed picture, I'd get Franco's Italian army t-shirt, which Franco was part Italian and the Italian community in Pittsburgh embraced him. So I was just so in love with Franco. It was ridiculous, obviously, but you're a 10-year-old kid and these things happen.

You just get so focused on these things. And I grow up though, and I continue to be, you know, he continues to be my hero. It's just sort of ingrained in your brain. You can't help it. I loved Franco Harris so much that in 1975, I invited him to my bar mitzvah. I just, I loved him.

And he was so cool that he actually sent me a telegram and said, I can't make it. I'm actually playing that Saturday night. I'm gonna do the arts for you. It was unbelievable. I'm just more etched in my mind how much I love Franco Harris. And so, this friend of ours, this Max Gomburg from Pittsburgh, he actually took me to two Super Bowls in the 70s

and that became my identity. I was the guy from Pittsburgh, you know, I lived in Chicago, but I was the guy from Pittsburgh. I had the only Pittsburgh Steelers jacket in the neighborhood and I just loved the Steelers. So now flash forward, 40 years later, unfortunately, as happens to everybody, Max passes away, and he had a great life.

And my family really didn't keep up with Max as much as I did. And so I flew out to Pittsburgh to go to his funeral, because he was just kind of my hero. And so I go to Pittsburgh, and in the back of my mind, I am kind of hoping that Franco And so I go to Pittsburgh and in the back of my mind, I am kind of hoping that Franco Harris might be at the funeral. You know, I can't say that was my motivation, but I'm thinking that would be pretty cool

if he was actually there. So I go to the funeral home, I say hi to Max's family, and I'm looking around and there's no Franco. And I'm like, you know what, grow up. You're 50 some odd years old. This isn't why you were supposed to be here. This wasn't supposed to happen necessarily. Just be a man.

So now I'm like, OK, I get it. And so I start walking out of the funeral home. And all of a sudden, Franco Harris, the Franco Harris, walks in. And I was about to go to my car to go to the funeral procession to the cemetery. And the Franco Harris walks in, and my jaw jaw drops like a 10-year-old kid. I'm catapulted backwards in time.

And I was like, hey. And I, you know, I could tell you, and fortunately, fortunately I didn't say anything. Because if I would have, it would have been really ridiculous. I would have been like making an absolute fool of myself at a funeral of all places, right? Just don't do that. So it was amazing that I had this wave of common sense that came over me and allowed me to not do this really stupid thing that I was contemplating. And so I go and I get in my car and I'm about to start driving and all of a sudden I look

and a Silver Honda Pilot right in front of me, Franco Harris is getting into his car. So he's getting in the funeral procession. So I get in my car and I try to get like, I get wedged in between so I can now be directly behind Frank O'Harris. Why it mattered that I was right behind Frank O'Harris' car in a funeral procession, I don't know why it was so important to me,

but I was willing to like bang into other cars and stuff so I could be in the line right behind them. So obviously once you're in the funeral procession, you're locked into that position. Nobody is gonna be in back of Frank O'Harris besides me. And so I'm so excited. I'm calling my friends. I'm like, his license plate is X175.

I'm so into the idea that I'm in the funeral possession behind Frank O'Harris. It's ridiculous. And I'm 50-something years old. So stupid. But I can't help it, because it's like I'm a 10-year-old again. And so we get to the cemetery.

He parks. I park right behind him. He walks right there to the grave site service. And I'm like, oh, so I stand right next to him. And at this point, it's weird, right? I mean, it's just so ridiculous that I'm following this man around. So I'm standing next to Franco Harris and finally I'm like, okay, grow up.

You know, say something, you wanna say something, say it. So I look at him, I go, Frank, go. I have to tell you. And I start telling him how I know him. I said, you know, Max was a very good friend of ours and you have no idea how much you affected my life. You changed my life. That was my identity.

I said, Max was my hero, but you were also my hero and you have no idea how much you affected my life. It was, you were like my hero. And he goes, come here. And he hugs me with this big bear hug. And he's a big man, he's got this big bear hand. And he hugs me and I'm like, this is unbelievable. Like I'm like catapulted to when I was 10 years old.

This, I literally, I'm sure I had a dream. Not at the funeral, but I'm sure I had a dream about hanging out with Franco Harris. And you know, over the past few years, I've been reading a book called The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle, and it teaches you, be in the moment, don't go in the past, don't go in the future, stay right here in the moment.

And it's great, and it's changed my life. But I will tell you something, sometimes going backwards feels really, really good. So. Yeah! Woo! Woo! Woo!

Woo! Woo! Adam Botner lives in Buffalo Grove, Illinois, and is a director of legal solutions for a tech company. While his favorite pastime these days is telling stories, he has also written several screenplays. Like Adam, I'm also from Pittsburgh and grew up obsessed with Franco Harris. When Adam and I were emailing about this episode, we realized that both of us stop for a photo

with the Franco Harris statue in the Pittsburgh airport when we fly home. And both of us laugh about how right next to it and at the same scale is a statue of George Washington, famously known as the father of our country, who is 100% not from Pittsburgh. Because to us Yinzers, their impact on our world is the same. To see these photos as well as Adam with the man himself, check out our website at themoth.org. ["The Moth"] Our next story comes from Sister Lorena Alflin.

She told this at an event we produced with the Dominican Sisters of Grand Rapids, featuring stories from their community. As someone who grew up being shushed the few times I went to church, I thought this gathering would be a muted affair. But as you'll hear, the crowd was rowdy, stomping their feet and joining in with the tellers on stage. It was an absolute ball. Here's Sister Lorena Alph, live at the Mild. When I was in the second grade, I began making preparation for First Holy Communion. Jesus was not my focus. It was about what I would wear. So my mother borrowed a white dress and

I would wear my sister Madeline's Holy Communion veil. That morning when we woke up it was raining and mom was putting my communion clothes in a bag because we were going to walk to church. And she saw me licking up the crumbs from the cookies she had made the night before. She grabbed me and shook me over the sink saying, spit it out, Spit it out! I didn't know why she was doing that. And she said, I don't think you can go to communion. You broke your fast. I cried all the way to church. And the pastor, Father Bertram, shooed everyone out of the classroom and he

said to me, did you swallow the crumbs? And I says, I don't know. He said, you can go to communion. I wore my white dress and my veil and I made my first communion. The sisters I had at St. Mary Magdalene wore that beautiful white habit. I love them and I love that white habit. In fact, I told my mom when we needed new kitchen curtains, maybe we could make them out of the same material that the sisters' habits are made out of. She looked at me strangely and said, I don't think so. Two very changing experiences happened to me in the seventh grade.

My classmates were struck by a car on their bicycles and they were terribly maimed. And later on, a second boy was killed in the same type of accident. Sister Marietta, our teacher, tried to console us and said, I think God has something special in mind for this class. And we began praying the prayer for vocations. I liked Sister Marietta, and I could help her after school, put up her bulletin boards and write the sentences on the blackboard, long ones for diagramming. I think that's the moment after school when I thought, I would like to be like her.

I'd like to wear a habit and be a sister. Well, there were other, a few other girls who were thinking the same thing. So when we finished the eighth grade, four of us came to Marywood as aspirants. We were not recognized as Academy girls because we wore a different uniform. We had a black jumper and a

black blouse and a plastic collar and cuffs and brown cotton stockings and black Oxfords. It didn't bother me. The sisters gave us a fine education and I went on to study piano and choir. When I graduated from Marywood in 1950 I entered the postulancy. One of the very first things we had to do as postulants was to begin sowing our habits and making them. Sister Conrad was holding her breath with some of us. Then she announced that the reception ceremony called for us to walk in as brides of Christ. She didn't know that that year wedding dresses came with big hoop skirts, petticoats underneath them. So when we prostrated towards the altar, the priest in the front row had a good show. Before you knew it, it was time to go and teach. I was holy, I wore the habit.

I was all knowledgeable. And I could teach classroom music and piano and choirs because I had one year of college. I even taught religion the next year because anyone in a life-giving experience to me that I had longed for, for a long time. These were life-changing times. We were urged and invited to dismantle this veil and this habit and to wear something that the people we were serving were wearing. This didn't happen overnight. We brought the skirt up and we made the sleeves smaller and we made a little veil that our hair was showing. And that was called an experiment.

In those years of experimenting with the habit, I was teaching at St. Stephen's School and I had large music classes and they gave me a practice teacher to help. I put her in a classroom with some fifth graders and when it was time to go, I opened the door and I saw her playing away on her guitar and the kids had their arms around her shoulders, and they were singing.

I thought to myself, they never touched me like that. This habit put me on a pedestal. That wasn't right. I wanted them to know I loved them, and I wanted them to love me. I was more than just a classroom music teacher. I didn't need a habit to do that. Another thing happened at that same parish. They had an amateur show.

Well, the Smolenski family singers won first place. singers won first place. And I came in second. A sister in my modified habit singing, I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I was so nervous. What did I look like? How could I sing a song that was so vain? But I had an Eliza Dew little moment. I was a woman, not someone dressed in an androgynous men's underwear shirt and heavy black shoes. I wanted to sing with Helen Reddy. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong.

I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong.

I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. I am woman, I am strong. Little did I know how much strength it would take. There were times when we studied the documents from the Vatican that I felt this was an answer to something that I had longed for all my life. And so I knew as a Dominican, I needed to do my duty. I studied the documents, I read, I made retreats, I chose a spiritual director, and I meditated. Meditation and the study of scriptures brought me to a knowledge of the love of God and God's Son's love for me and my neighbor.

I began to see that this was a transformation that was happening in me. My interior life became my exterior life. interior life became my exterior life. I could serve the hungry and the homeless in a simple dress because what was in my heart was what God had made holy. It had become my habit. Thank you.

That was Sister Lorena Alfvord. When I asked her which of the three vows of religious life, obedience, poverty, or celibacy, has been the most challenging for her, she said, I think it is obedience because they always tell me that it is. I question things. To see photos of Sister Lorena, including one of her on her way to that first communion,

check out themoth.org. In a moment, a young girl throws a party and is surprised to learn that not everyone wants I'm The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the public radio exchange prx.org. You're listening to the Moth Radio Exchange, prx.org. You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Kate Tellers. There are all types of gatherings to celebrate beginnings. A housewarming, a baby shower, the retirement party with the gold Rolex. But there are some beginnings that not everyone wants to talk about. Up next is Olita Fogden, who told this story at a slam in Sydney Australia where we partner with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation ABCRN. Here's Olita live at the mock. In Indian culture periods are celebrated with a grand party. You literally get gold as a present for crossing the threshold

into womanhood. And for me, a child who never had extravagant birthday parties but enjoy – I'm saying that present tense – being the centre of attention at any cost, couldn't help but feel getting my period would mark the most important day of my life, much like your first passion-unraged party or getting your L's. So in my house, periods were never shrouded in secrecy, nor did we ever shy away from conversations about sex, drugs or alcohol. And this is not to say our openness was anything new, but our ease around the subject of periods, in particular, was something I would soon find out was definitely not dinner material or shared by my friends. So finally the day came and I squealed excitedly from the bathroom to the surprise and amusement

to my dad in the other room, and soon after the preparations began. And I was told I could invite whoever I wanted to my party. Bear in mind, I'm 12 years old, year seven, it's April so I've known these people for two months. But at the same time I didn't think that my period party was anything different to a Butn Mitzvah or your average birthday at McDonald's like everyone used to have. And for the most part, the invitations were well received, particularly from the boys, who I think were more excited about the Indian feast than they were about the reason itself.

And in all honesty, and to the credit of every teenage romance film ever made, I thought it was really smart to invite boys to my period party because it could be a way I could even woo my crush. Okay, but when it came to the girls I was actually met with a lot of hostility and awkwardness. One girl, we're gonna call her Michelle, bit of a bitch, told me that she wouldn't actually be coming to my party because it was weird and disgusting.

So I went home to my parents feeling humiliated. So Michelle's words and my humiliation seemed to override all those notions of beauty that I was always taught to associate with being a woman, and I became really nervous that sharing my Indian culture would result in losing all of these new friendships that I'd made. And then I'd be this lonely menstruating Indian chick who everyone knows when she has her period.

Great. So finally the day came and I distinctly remember my mum waking up at like 4am cooking curry and picores and the smell wafted through the house and as I woke up there was a bath laden with rose petals and lavender oil. It was very lush and excessive and the old me would have loved this because I just loved the attention but I just couldn't get Michelle's words out of my head. The night progressed.

People started arriving. I was showered in gifts in gold, which is pretty amazing, gold and money and flowers. I was pleasantly surprised when the boys dressed as if they were attending a wedding. I don't think they knew the vibe. Throughout the night I had three outfit changes and I was watched attentively by everyone in attendance as my mom poked and prodded and twisted a sari around me multiple times. At these moments I felt really exposed but that slowly started to fade as the night went on and I was surrounded

by these wonderful people who supported me and loved me. I found solace in the stories of the women around me who record awkward times that they had their period and the fact that we as women share this experience even if it is uncomfortable and often unspoken. But most importantly, I felt proud that I'm part of a culture that celebrates its part in a woman's life. And funnily enough, Michelle, she's actually now a journalist and often posts things on Facebook, and I stalk it.

Like, there's no tomorrow. And she often posts Facebook articles about the tampon tax and the censoring of female bodies and the injustice of it all. And I particularly liked her post last Wednesday, where she talked about how women should never feel disgust, weird or humiliated about their periods. If only she had come to this realization 14 years earlier, she'd have a nice side of curry on the side of that epiphany. I wish her well. Thank you. Applause Olida Fogden is a high school English teacher who lives in Sydney, Australia.

She has worked in girls' education for almost a decade. To see photos of Olida and her family in traditional dress, similar to what she wore on that day, check out themoth.org. Mary Shaughnessy told our last story at a Grand Slam we produced at the Castro Theatre in San Francisco, where we partner with public radio station KALW. Here's Mary. It's November 2020. COVID. I'm sitting in a freezing cold doctor's office, hearing all the words you do not want to hear. Thyroid cancer, very aggressive, stage four.

I make a total rookie mistake, and I ask, what's the prognosis? And the doctor said, four to six months. I don't want to keep you good people in suspense. Laughter. Cheers. Spoiler alert. I don't die at the end of this story. But I didn't see that plot twist coming back then. Back then, I just felt terror. I thought of my two sons, Seamus and Milo, and how they would grow up without a mother.

And I thought of my dear husband, Matt, and how he would be left behind to grieve. At least he better be grieving. I fell into a dark, dark place. I tried to numb myself with gin and tonics and banana bread. I know, right? It was COVID and we were like, I'll wash with banana bread back then. Matt and I clung to each other every night and sobbed. But after about a week, I knew something had to shift. I didn't recognize myself.

So I searched my soul to think what could possibly give me comfort in the middle of this nightmare? The answer actually came to me pretty quickly. What I needed was connection. I needed my people. So, I made this video, sent it to everyone I know, and in it I told everybody what was I need you to send me radical healing love. I need you to love me. What happened next was magic. I got emails and texts and cards. I couldn't walk out my front door without tripping over bouquets of sunflowers or jars of matzo ball soup. Spreadsheets appeared, dinners appeared, a GoFundMe page appeared.

And because I needed an outdoor space in COVID to be with people, folks came to my house and they built me a backyard. And I don't mean they showed up with lawn chairs. I mean they showed up with an excavator. I'm serious. Right? Right? I was also in treatment, and the scans showed that the treatment was working. Yeah. The cancer was still there. It still is.

But it wasn't growing. And I started to feel hopeful. But then, in another crazy plot twist, I started to feel guilty. I said to my husband, hun, all these people are showing up because they think I'm gonna die in six months. But I don't think I am gonna die you this, sometimes. I feel like I'm taking advantage of that. My husband looked at me with a look that he has perfected in the 20 years of being married to me. And he said, Mary, do you think that all these people

who are showing up because they love you are going to be mad at you if you don't die? I know, I know, I know. It wasn't my sanest moment. After that, I fully surrendered. I let love lift me out of that dark place. Gratitude transformed me. Instead of mourning a life cut short, I began to celebrate a life so well lived.

A life so well lived that it brought to me all of these beautiful, amazing people and so much love. The phrase now or never usually refers to some big thing you need to do before time runs out. Those big things are important. But for me, someone for whom time may literally be running out, I've got to tell you, I am not focused on a bucket list. Because in the end, I don't think that life is measured by how many big adventures we squeeze in. I think it's measured by how much love we share.

I wish I could tell you that love cured my cancer. It hasn't. Not yet. I accept that. I accept all of it. But if the object of this crazy game we call life is to give and receive love,

I can tell you with 100% certainty I am winning That was Mary Shaughnessy. Mary won the Grand Slam that night. When I wrote to congratulate her, she responded, In October 2022, I had an emergency tracheotomy, which left me unable to speak, a condition I believed to be permanent. Then, after seven months of silence, I had the most wonderful surprise imaginable and got my voice back. The very first thing I thought, the very first thing, was, now I can do the moth. I had over 100 people come out to support me.

I got a standing ovation, and then the entire theater of 1400 people sang Happy Birthday to me. The whole night felt like a dream. Sadly, less than three months later, Mary passed away. She was a beloved member of our Moth community, and so many that knew her miss her deeply. Her bio from the night that she told this story ended with, she's turning 58 tomorrow and is determined to live the fuck out of this wild and precious life. By every account, she did. In a way, her story is an homage to gatherings. Her husband, Matt, told me she wanted it to be a love letter to all those people who showed up for her.

To see pictures of Mary on stage that night with her family and friends and in that love-filled backyard, visit themoth.org. Wherever you are, if there are others around you, I hope they lift you up, make you laugh, or at the very least inspire a very good story. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. Thanks for listening. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Kate Tellers, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The rest of The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin-Giness, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Marina Cluchet, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson and Aldi Casa. Most Stories Are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Anat Cohen, Corey Wong, Happy Louie and Yulcha, DLG, Dave Brubeck-Cortet, Felix Labonde and Brad Meldow.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching as your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.