Mourning Has Broken Page 2

  Except Lauren wasn’t going to arrive that night. In fact, at about 11 p.m., the nurses had given me a pill to help me sleep and advised Rob to go home. I strongly objected. It was March, sketchy winter driving conditions could return at any time, and Rob faced a forty-five-minute trip each way. There was not a chance I was going to spend that night alone or risk giving birth solo. So, on a slab of foam we had brought along for just such an eventuality, Rob snored quietly on the floor while I went through what I can only describe as light labour all night. At 4 a.m. the real effort began, and three hours later, there she was—all six pounds and twelve ounces of her, delivered by the ob-gyn who had shepherded me through the pregnancy. How lucky we were that he happened to be the doctor on duty in the overnight and early morning hours of that Palm Sunday, March 24.

  Oh, and remember that video camera? Watching the tape later, we discovered that as Lauren emerged, there appeared on tape a burst of static that seemed to stun the camera for a few moments. We’ve always wondered if it was a sign of the great energy of this powerful being’s arrival.

  I told you she was special.

  The very next day—and every day that week—I was on the phone doing live on-air segments with my radio partner, who was in the studio only a few blocks away. Our producer played especially fitting songs like Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and the Eagles’ “New Kid in Town.” An ad was placed in the Toronto Star the next day, welcoming CHFI’s newest listener (a photographer had come to the hospital to take a picture of our new baby—who, of course, seemed to wear a sweet little smile for the occasion). The ad also reminded our audience that I would be broadcasting from home the following Easter Monday.

  And I was. Rob had devised a plan for me to do my part of the radio show from our home, through telephone company lines into the house. As a producer, he’d experienced success with this practice—not done over the phone exactly, but through phone-line technology that made a news commentator broadcasting from his apartment sound as if he was in the radio station’s studios. It’s not such a big deal these days, when seemingly everyone with a microphone and some egg carton–like acoustic foam has a podcast, but in the early 1990s it was still pretty recent technology.

  To this day I have no idea how it worked; I only know that in these pre-WiFi days, they had to dig into our front lawn to make it happen and that Lauren arriving three weeks early meant that the phone folks hadn’t even been summoned to our address yet. We had come up with this show-by-remote solution the moment we got a positive result on our pregnancy test; having just started to gel in the past two years with my radio partner, and with climbing ratings to show for our chemistry, despite the many differences between us, I was reluctant to step away from the show for any prolonged period of time. After all, this was “show business,” and at this station, with this partner, I was achieving heights of which I had dared not dream. Top ratings on the top station in the country’s largest market? Pinch me.

  Doing the show from home would be the perfect compromise: I could sleep in a little later than our usual 6 a.m. start, I would not have to take maternity leave (or the lesser salary that would accompany it) and the show would remain intact, for the most part. I set up cushions as a backdrop to our office desk to absorb sound and eliminate the echo that hard surfaces can cause; my weather forecasts and music sheets would come into our home via fax machine. A talkback line was installed between the radio station studio and our house, whereby I could communicate with our producer and get a “coming up” cue from him as a warning to get ready to go on the air. And we came up with a “code” so that my partner and I knew that a bit or conversation was ending—we’d tell the time. It worked out seamlessly and helped to link our family further to the families (especially other young mothers) who were out there listening. I held Lauren in my arms as I did the show, wearing my often milk-stained terrycloth bathrobe, and occasionally I would answer her mews and cries by feeding her. Imagine how surprised the radio-listening audience would have been at that! On second thought, it might not have been a surprise to every listener; I was told years later by a fellow mom that when Lauren would cry on the radio, she would begin to lactate. That is one powerful medium, Mama!

  For a radio station that was perceived to be aiming at an older audience—even if we were going after the same twenty-five- to fifty-four-year-old demographic as everyone else—this new arrangement was also a win from a corporate standpoint. Because they’d agreed to the idea and were allowing a new mom to broadcast from home, CHFI was seen as a forward-thinking radio station. This unusual but successful arrangement hadn’t disrupted our morning show too much, and everybody was happy—except for the few listeners who called the station to say how terrible it was that they’d made me come back to work so soon after giving birth. These listeners, unaware of our new set-up, thought that I had been forced to return to the studios just a week after having our baby. My goodness. I’m sure there were plenty of media outlets that rushed their on-air talent back to work, but this was simply not the case. I got back on the air as soon as I could because I wanted to. I welcomed this arrangement.

  Throughout her life, Lauren was reminded by listeners of just how memorable her arrival had been: at almost every station event (and sometimes just in the grocery store checkout line), people who met Lauren would tell her, “I remember when you were born!” That connection with our little family, felt by so many people, continued throughout her life: from the milestones of marriage and her own motherhood to the day her death was announced on that same behemoth radio station’s airwaves. She didn’t choose to be born into the spotlight, but she came to understand what it meant to our family—this gift of being cared about by perfect strangers. Her own son has had, and continues to have, this same kindness extended to him.

  Whether it was a case of nature or nurture, Lauren was verbal very early—a gift for expression that extended to a singing ability well beyond a toddler’s usual scope. At just over two years of age, Lauren was singing—not perfectly, but almost in their entirety—the Canadian and American national anthems (and, yes, there’s video proof). I was often fortunate to be invited to perform the anthems at various sporting events, including those of Major League Baseball’s Toronto Blue Jays, the Toronto Argonauts of the Canadian Football League and the Toronto Maple Leafs of the National Hockey League. In some cases, the anthems are pre-recorded and lip-synched at game time, so as to preclude any visits by the eff-up fairy. Lip-synching can be tricky, and the last thing I wanted was to be caught “faking it” on the giant stadium screen, so I would practise while driving. Little did I know that, strapped into her seat behind me, my preschool prodigy was learning the lyrics and melodies too. That early work paid off; Lauren and I were thrilled and honoured to sing the anthems together twice at Mother’s Day Toronto Blue Jays games before she was even in her teens. Both times, there was a very real risk of me bursting with pride right there near the pitcher’s mound. There should have been a tarp ready, just in case.

  A child who picks things up so easily can also be a source of concern, although, at the time, we didn’t know we should be worried. We ought to have been more careful; by way of warning, my mother often reminded us of the old saying “little pitchers have big ears.” Once again, Mom was right. By the time she was safely into her teens, Lauren laughed as she confessed to us over dinner one night that she had frequently been paid off in little erasers and even coins for swearing “on command” for her kindergarten and first-grade schoolmates.

  All right. If confession is good for the soul, I might as well lay bare my own now: our little girl learned the most unexpectedly interesting words from her mother, a one-time squeaky clean Catholic school girl who easily leaned into the power of the colourful metaphor in order to fit in with her older colleagues in a smoke- and testosterone-filled radio newsroom. My high-school uniform kilt had barely lost its pleats when, in 1982, at nineteen years old, I found myself surrounded by hot-tempered men who elevated sweari
ng to an art form with cleverly crafted adjectives into which filthy syllables were seamlessly spliced. I often thought it was part of a daring game not to get caught using these words on the air—words that, at the time, had the potential to end a career. Now, of course, you’ll hear many of them squiggling from a fellow traveller’s earbuds. But then? A kid could earn extra cash or even the precious toy contents of a chocolate Kinder Surprise egg by tutoring peers in the casual placement of a swear word. Did this make Lauren an early paid professional communicator? I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that one of her Montessori teachers had never been overly warm toward Rob and me, and we finally were able to figure out why. To any parents of children born around 1991 who came home with vocabulary skills that extended beyond school curriculum: I’m sorry. Or you’re %&*#-ing welcome. Whatever’s in order. Ahem. Lauren also had a razor-sharp sense of humour. One example that still makes us laugh, because she did it so often: she’d gaze in my direction and say, “I love you!” I’d respond with a gushing thank you. And then she’d say, “I was talking to Daddy.” How they laughed about that, those two. I’d just shake my head, glad to be in on a joke that underlined their closeness while also having a laugh at my own expense. We helped hone that humour, so I didn’t mind being the brunt of it so many times. I deserved it!

  Her sharpest and often funniest barbs came through a character she created called the Coughing Critic. In a raspy voice, as though she were trying to clear her throat, she’d say things like, “You suck!” at the exact moment she thought the voice in my head might be telling me the same thing—like, say, if I burned something in the kitchen, which is not an infrequent occurrence since High is the only setting I seem to know. The Coughing Critic would chime in with, “You’re an awful cook. . . . Why don’t you give up?” Honestly, it was hilarious. Lauren would never say these things to me in real life, but when the Coughing Critic was around, it was like having our own Don Rickles heckling from the kitchen table or the backseat of the car, telling us to “turn here” at a doughnut shop on our way to the cottage, or just siding with her dad in a discussion that was about to turn very funny. Since Lauren left us, Rob and I have kept the character alive: not only does it give us a chance to razz each other through an imaginary third party, but it reminds us of Lauren’s sharp wit, enabling her to give as good as she got in the teasing department.

  Her ability to pick and choose just the right words at the proper moment (even if they were not quite family friendly) made it seem almost preordained that she should follow in my footsteps and choose a career in radio. I’m sure the strands of Lauren’s DNA ladder resemble a pair of tangled earbuds. Over the years, Rob and I half-heartedly tried to talk her out of entering a business that often pays its newcomers (and sometimes those who’ve toiled much longer) wages that are less than she made as a teenager working at Starbucks. With the exception of one notable firing (my own), we did a lousy job of presenting a realistic example of how “tough” a life in the business of radio can be. And while she knew that the days of six- and seven-figure salaries had largely gone the way of the CD players in our studios, she was a born communicator. To quote one of her favourite TV hosts, Dr. Phil, “a racehorse has to run.”

  Along with that sharp wit, she was fast on her feet and almost preternaturally mature. For two years, I hosted a nightly cable TV show on a community station available in hundreds of thousands of households. In the days before the nine-hundred-channel universe was swallowed up by the internet and the many options it offers, we liked to joke that you had to flip past us on channel 10 to get to something better.

  With surprisingly strong ratings for a community television show and good viewer feedback giving us the push we needed, the whole show was a labour of love and a real family collaboration: Rob worked behind the scenes and Lauren would hang out in the green room either doing homework or visiting with staff and guests, all the while absorbing as much of this part of the broadcasting industry as she could. At the age of nine, she even did an entire show, live-to-tape, with every child’s idol at the time: Santa Claus. She was already exhibiting skills she would put to use a decade later in her own career.

  On the radio, she was a ninth-grade guest on our show during “Take Our Kids to Work Day,” and she made increasingly larger appearances on the “Christmas Eve at Erin’s” show, a family tradition we felt blessed to have the opportunity to do, sharing in listeners’ holiday traditions year after year.

  After starting in Montessori, Lauren transferred to the public school system and flourished in an alternative elementary school. We were delighted when she was accepted into an arts high school. Rather than standing out as “different” in a non-specialized school, she was able to join the many kids who sang and danced in the hallways of Rosedale School of the Arts and performed regularly on stage. It was there that she met and became romantically involved with a boy her age who possessed the big voice of Bobby Darin and crooned Sinatra and Nat “King” Cole standards as easily as he belted out show tunes. For a time, it was a match made in musical heaven, especially for Rob and me: many were the hours we’d hear them duetting at the piano or from Lauren’s room as they practised for the next big show or simply sang for the love of it. We knew full well how lucky we were to have a teen who was making happy noises almost from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning. We were always thankful.

  Later on, we came to cherish even more the many recordings that were made of Lauren singing, some done in professional studios thanks to high-school outings. From Rosemary Clooney and the Mamas & the Papas to Leonard Cohen and Broadway hits, her range of interest was as wide as her talent was deep. She accompanied herself on piano and guitar and took cello lessons as well. But her deepest love was for singing, just as it was for me, although I can easily say that Lauren surpassed my vocal abilities long before she left her teenage years.

  We can only hope that she would have found a way to experience the deep joy I felt in my broadcasting career too. She certainly was on a fast track to that end. Lauren had enrolled in a community college to begin (or, since she grew up surrounded by it, perhaps continue) her education in broadcasting. We’d offered her several choices in terms of what she might do when she completed high school: I suggested travel for a year, or perhaps an education on foreign soil. But she was as determined as she was talented, and radio was her career choice.

  Did Rob and I try to encourage her to get a university education instead? The answer to that is no, and for two reasons. Rob completed a three-year program in university and ended up becoming a successful radio producer before leaving the industry to become a stay-at-home father; I was a product of a two-year program in the community college system and managed to reach the top of my industry. For that reason, I am a full supporter of the style of teaching and learning offered by the community college system and have donated twenty thousand dollars to my alma mater, Loyalist College in Belleville, Ontario, so that other promising young female broadcasters might have the help of an annual bursary to help meet their bills in a notoriously low-paying field. The hands-on and relatively fast-tracked education I received through community college served me extremely well. Why wouldn’t we encourage our daughter to follow a similar path in terms of education, if she was determined to get into broadcasting too?

  We worried that perhaps my career had set a poor example of the reality that Lauren could expect in the twenty-first-century world of radio. With the exception of one brief but particularly rocky period, what she saw in our home was a life of fulfillment that was rewarding in almost every possible way. Taking trips to luxurious resorts with listeners? Bucket list experiences like meeting one’s idols? Why wouldn’t someone want to try her hand at a life like this?

  But our concerns were for her emotional and financial well-being. The radio industry she was about to enter was far different from the one in which I had admittedly been so very fortunate. When I began in radio, there were few women in the business, but the notion of male/female
morning show teams was just coming to the fore. After all, why not emulate in the studio the same dynamic that was probably happening in the family car or over the breakfast table? If you were smart (or, in some cases, just willing to laugh at everything the witty “morning man” said), you could find yourself with an opportunity to prove what you were made of.

  Was there discrimination? What do you think? It was the 1980s, and radio was a male-dominated industry; it still is, to a lesser degree, but there are more female executives now, and older women on the scene to whom newcomers can turn for advice and mentoring. But when I began, I felt like the real-life equivalent of silver screen dance legend Ginger Rogers: doing everything Fred Astaire did, as the old saying goes, except backwards and in high heels! I had to work harder even to be perceived as anything near equal to my older, male colleagues, but I also earned every step I took up that ladder. Early in my career, one manager called me the “c” word because I refused to take a lesser role than I’d been promised in our highly touted first male/female morning show in the Detroit radio market; another—after my first show on his station—threatened to break my toes if I ever referred to the station’s music as “easy listening” again. (I didn’t, and my toes are fine, thanks.) While I’d love to say that those moments from three decades ago aren’t likely to be repeated in the era of #MeToo and more attentive human resources departments, the pressures have shifted. These days, there is a climate of constant uncertainty that comes with downsizing and restructuring, as radio stations rely on fewer people to do more work (in many companies), and the mental stress is mounting with every passing year. Of course, this is anecdotal; I only know it from friends and acquaintances who are in the radio business and experience the pressures daily.