It Ain't Over (34 page)

“One of the challenges in creating the ceremony is to make sure nobody feels dishonest about who they are or what they believe,” says Lois. After one wedding ceremony, in which Lois incorporated several Catholic symbols, like the sharing of the sign of peace and the Holy Eucharist, the bride’s mother came up to her and said, “In the beginning, I was disappointed that she wasn’t getting married in the church, but this was wonderful.”

Whether or not her ceremonies reference prayer or religious rituals, Lois always takes care to delve into a couple’s story. “I want the guests to feel the journey the couple took to get to this point. It’s a great compliment when people say afterward, ‘How did you know all that? You must be a friend of the couple’s.’ ”

With time, Lois’s business grew to include not just weddings, but also ceremonies to mark other life events. “With some couples, I’ve married them, performed welcoming ceremonies for their babies, buried their parents,” says Lois. “That is the role of clergy, but if you don’t have a minister, priest, or rabbi, you want to have someone you trust and feel comfortable with during these life-changing events.”

In 2012, Lois held a funeral for a woman she had married in the same spot only one year earlier. “Her husband called me and asked to have the funeral there, too. He said, ‘This place meant so much to us.’

“Even though I don’t consider myself religious, it’s during times like these that I feel my work is a calling. Not every ceremony is joyful and uplifting—sometimes it’s hard and emotional—but it’s always meaningful.”

Romely Levezow, 40

Mission Viejo, California

R
omely Levezow was
absolutely, positively
going to start an exercise routine. Tomorrow. Or maybe next week.

And she was
determined
to eat healthier! If only her law firm’s free cafeteria didn’t serve those fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts daily. . . .

And she was going to
stop
falling asleep on the couch at night in front of the TV.

But as much as Romely wanted to get her act together, her work life kept getting in the way.

“I was constantly multitasking to meet deadlines,” she recalls of her job as a legal assistant at one of the country’s biggest law firms, with all-star clients like Google and eBay. “Late nights were common, and all-nighters and weekends were fair game, too.”

And whenever she felt burned out, Romely would dream of her fantasy careers.
Interior designer. Wedding planner. Event coordinator.

“Martha Stewart was my idol,” says Romely. “I’d watch her show and just be inspired. I loved to make jewelry out of wooden beads and wreaths out of dried flowers and give them as gifts to friends.” But whenever Romely thought about having a creative career, she’d hear her mother’s voice in her head: “
You need a financially stable job
.”

Romely’s mom had died of cancer a few years earlier, but the work ethic she’d instilled in her daughter remained potent. “Mom brought me here from the Philippines when I was very young,” Romely explains, “and she worked hard as a single mother, as a chemist, and a high school teacher. That left a lasting impression.”

Still, Romely nurtured her creativity wherever she could. In her cubicle, she hung pictures of Hawaii, where she visited her family—it helped her feel connected to her mom. “There’s a warmth in that culture that’s all about giving,” she says, “and the spirit of aloha called out to me. Aloha means hello and good-bye, respect, and unconditional love.”

Romely even tried to bring some of that aloha spirit to her office, coordinating events like AIDS walks and the American Cancer Society’s Daffodil Day. And she sought aloha after-hours, too, with hula dancing classes once a week, something she’d done as a kid.

“The minute I set foot in the dance studio, I felt like I was home,” she says. And to bring a feeling of warmth into the house she shared with her husband, Josh, Romely filled the rooms with flickering candles. “The ritual of lighting a candle every evening brought me peace, serenity.”

Then in January 2008, Romely received a phone call that put her positive spirit to the test. Three weeks earlier she had gone in for a checkup, and one of the test results revealed that her blood platelet counts were elevated. It could be nothing, said her doctor, but she advised Romely to get retested and referred her to an oncologist.

At the word “oncologist,” Romely began to panic.
Cancer. Just like Mom
.

The doctor, however, urged her not to worry: This was just a routine follow-up.

A few days later, Romely sat in the oncologist’s waiting room, trying to remain calm.

“I remembered my doctor saying, ‘It will be okay.’ ” But after running a blood test, the oncologist asked Romely to step into his office. The news wasn’t good: Romely had a blood disorder called essential thrombocythemia. Among other complications, he said, it put Romely at an increased risk for leukemia.

Romely was stunned, and she wished Josh were there with her. Dizzy with fear, she tried to pay attention as the oncologist detailed a preventative plan of action: For the next month, she would undergo mild chemotherapy in the form of a daily prescription pill. Her doctor hoped the chemo would lower her platelet levels, which he said would help keep the cancer at bay.

Tears streamed down Romely’s cheeks as she left the doctor’s office. All she could think about was her mom. Eight years earlier, her mother had gone to the doctor with what she thought was the flu, but blood tests revealed high levels of disease-fighting white blood cells. Her mom’s doctor couldn’t figure out what was behind it, so he admitted her to the hospital for more testing. Two weeks later, Romely’s mom fell into a coma. She never woke up.

“When I got there in the morning, she was gone,” Romely says. “Losing her felt like a bad dream, and I was just waiting to wake up.” A few days after her mother’s death, an autopsy finally revealed the cause of her symptoms: stomach cancer.

“I sat in the parking lot of the oncologist’s office, clutching my prescription. I was paralyzed. My mom didn’t get a chance to fight. Part of me thought,
I’ve got to do this for her
.”

Driving home, Romely sped straight past the pharmacy—she couldn’t
bring herself to fill the prescription. “I put it on the refrigerator with a magnet. I didn’t even want to touch it.”

The next day at the real estate investment firm where she now worked as a paralegal, Romely tried to keep a lid on her emotions. “Things were just as busy as always, and all I could think about was that prescription on my fridge,” she says.
I’m working so hard in a job that I don’t even like, and for what?
Overwhelmed, she broke down in tears at her desk. “I felt like I was in a tailspin.” After work, Romely called a friend who worked at the hospital:
Should she start the chemo?
The friend said Romely needed a second opinion and offered to arrange an appointment with another oncologist.

This time, Romely had Josh in tow for moral support. A new blood test revealed that her platelets were still high, but lower than the previous tests had shown.
Chemotherapy isn’t what you need,
this oncologist told her. Still, he explained that essential thrombocythemia can also cause blood clotting, which increases the risk of heart attack and stroke. He prescribed aspirin to help prevent clots and advised her to maintain a healthy immune system by eating well, exercising, and reducing stress. The doctor also told Romely that he would need to continue to monitor her platelet count. Filled with relief, Romely made an appointment for another blood draw the following month.

That night, Romely lit a few candles to try to relax. Determined to get a handle on the healthier lifestyle her doctor had recommended, she began googling. But online, Romely was inundated by sober warnings: chemicals in cleaning and beauty products, processed foods, pesticides, a sedentary lifestyle—it seemed like everything was linked to cancer. “Now that the initial shock had worn off, I realized I had to be my own advocate.” It was time to make some serious changes: no more Krispy Kremes, no more falling asleep in front of the TV, no more excuses.

Together with her husband, Romely began exercising daily. She replaced
her household cleaners, soaps, and shampoos with chemical-free products. She excavated her kitchen and threw out the TV dinners, sugary cereals, and snack foods. “I was like a madwoman,” she says. For the first time in her life, she filled her grocery cart with organic produce and green, leafy vegetables.

Romely also continued to research ways to reduce her cancer risk. One night she stumbled upon a report about a parrot owner who always lit a candle near the bird’s cage. After the parrot died, an autopsy found traces of chemicals emitted by the burning candle. Jarred, Romely immediately gathered up every last candle in her home and tossed them in a garbage bag. Afterward, though, she missed the ambience and serenity of the twinkling lights. So she began looking into safer alternatives.

“I knew the candles weren’t going to kill me, so I may have been going a little overboard,” says Romely, “but I was a woman on a mission, and nothing could stop me.”

So she ordered a kit to make nontoxic candles herself. Soon she was spending weekends experimenting with waxes, wicks, and fragrances. After a lot of trial and error, Romely began crafting tea lights to share with family and friends. To help raise money for a charity benefit, she made 50 vanilla-scented soy candles in simple tins—each adorned with the word “
makana,
” a Hawaiian term meaning “giving a gift.”

And then something amazing happened: Even before the event was over, every candle had sold and Romely had requests for more. So she did what any entrepreneurial businesswoman would do when the demand suddenly surged: She ramped up her production. She made candle after candle, incorporating new and delicious scents inspired by the fresh leis she wore while performing hula.

At first, she and Josh sold the candles at local craft fairs; then in January 2009, she took the plunge and started an Etsy account, using the name Makana Studios. Within a few months, Romely was inundated with orders.
Suddenly, what had once been a small kitchen operation—melting wax, curing candles, packing shipments—had spread over the entire house. By May, she and Josh decided to rent a small manufacturing space near their home. Soon after, Romely attended two big trade shows in Los Angeles and San Francisco, and sales reps began contacting her about distributing her products nationally.

Today, Makana Studios’ candles are sold in 500 boutiques, luxury resorts, and organic markets throughout the United States, Canada, and the Caribbean. The business grew so fast that at the end of 2011, Romely’s husband left his job as a university professor to devote himself to Makana Studios full-time. And after much deliberation about letting go of that predictable salary, Romely has decided to quit the legal field, too.

“Ironically, it is my mom who is giving me the strength to leave,” she says. “Looking back, I realized how brave she was to come to this country, alone, as a single mother. I took her courage with me.”

Romely also makes regular visits to her doctor to monitor her platelet levels. Although her counts continue to fluctuate, they’ve never become excessively high. Romely still gets a little anxious before each blood draw, but she mostly feels empowered.

“At first, the diagnosis immobilized me,” she says. “But now I just think,
I’ve got this
. I’ve not only taken control of my health, I’ve found my way out of a stressful job and into one that’s fulfilling. Now I see that the diagnosis was a gift that completely changed my life. A
makana
.”

Jennifer Otter Bickerdike, 42

London, England

I
t took a funeral for Jennifer Otter Bickerdike to start living.

In truth, she thought she already was. Having risen from an internship to become the West Coast marketing director for Interscope Geffen A&M—the biggest record label in the world—“I got to do things I had only dreamed about, like going to birthday parties at Gwen Stefani’s house with Sting and Bono and driving in limos with Eminem,” she says.

She had access—to artists, to concerts, to parties, and to awards ceremonies. “I was constantly being told how lucky I was to have my position, how glamorous it was, how anyone would kill for it,” she says.

The job was all consuming, but Jennifer didn’t mind. Almost every night of the week, she was out entertaining—at VIP parties with band members listening to new records, at concerts with clients. She was a bona fide insider, and she liked it. It was a stark contrast to her childhood years in the small California beach town of Santa Cruz. “The job said to me that I had made it,” she says.

Then, as Jennifer was approaching her ten-year anniversary in the music industry, her best friend from high school called with horrifying news. A former classmate named Hunter had been mugged and fatally shot while walking home with his girlfriend in San Francisco, just five minutes from where Jennifer now lived. Jennifer hadn’t seen Hunter in years, but his name brought back warm memories of her high school years, playing water polo and being “just Jen.” She decided to go back home to attend his memorial service.