Finding Sarah

by Sarah Ferguson

  Now Sierra Leone is one nation again. Gone are the brutal attacks on innocent people. It will take a long time before trust is restored, which makes the children of Sierra Leone so important. Many have been spared the emotional trauma suffered by children who lived through the worst violence. The country’s best chance at getting back on its feet is the young children of today, who see themselves as belonging to Sierra Leone, as well as belonging to their tribe, village, community, school, and family. Indeed, the greatest “gross national product” for any nation is its youth, and as adults I feel we are responsible for giving children a future.

  While on my journey to find Sarah, I was asked to find funds to help save a baby’s life—seven-month-old baby Daniel from Colombia. He suffered from a rare liver disease called biliary atresia, a blockage in the tubes (ducts) that carry bile from the liver to the gallbladder. The condition is congenital, which means it is present from birth. The only two treatments for this disease are the Kasai procedure, which baby Daniel had gone through already, and a liver transplant, which baby Daniel needed, or else he would die. The estimated cost of the transplant was $350,000 to $400,000.

  Baby Daniel’s parents had raised nearly $90,000 on their own. I contacted various charities in my children’s charity network, and they responded. Intense media attention raised awareness, and donations came in from everywhere. Baby Daniel had his liver transplant and it was very successful. It breaks my heart to see children who are suffering; I can’t stand by and watch it. I have to get involved, always.

  This type of work is not for everyone, but it is for me, despite the heartbreaking stories I have faced—like the boy who lay on his back in an Eastern European orphanage but often crawled to the window to feel a patch of sunlight on his face. Or the small boy Max who was kept in a large box in another orphanage.

  Sometimes I have flashbacks of a brutal, soul-draining trip I made in 2008 to Romania. I went there with my daughters to visit orphanages rumored to be living hellholes of abuse and neglect.

  Beatrice accompanied me to an orphanage in Bucharest. Many children there were tied to benches like dogs. Beatrice angrily asked the head nurse why the children were tied up. Muttering unhappily, the nurse started to untie them; she clearly knew it was wrong.

  I then demanded that an emaciated teenage girl be untied. The nurse bowed to the pressure but before she had a chance to act, I impatiently jumped in and began releasing the girl myself. It’s just the way I am. Could be the Celtic redheaded Irish in me, I don’t know, but all I do know is if I was lying in that bed and I knew there was a big old battle-ax like me out there shouting for me, I’d be pretty pleased.

  People might criticize my spontaneity. Honestly, do you think an orphan in there minds if I’m spontaneous? All that child wants is somebody to be their champion.

  Perhaps most disturbing of all was the repetitive behavior displayed by so many of the children, the all-too-common sign of complete neglect. Every corner we turned, we found children endlessly rocking back and forth. Some of them rocked backward and forward, some of them rubbed their hands and studied their fingers, some of them simply scratched until they bled. No one did anything for them. Some had sores on their skin where wounds had become infected for want of basic hygiene.

  I went there as a mum, and I went because those children are silent whispers. I had to be their voice and bring attention to the deplorable conditions. Still, thousands and thousands of children around the world are in desperate need. Imagining the need can be paralyzing, but just to know that I may have helped in some way makes me realize how much good can come from the work of just a few people.

  Perhaps there are some who think I am just some ex-Royal dipping her toes in charity work, but when I see something that needs help then I act, especially when it involves children. I do it because I want to, not because I feel I should. I don’t want to do magazine shoots of me holding abandoned babies. This isn’t about me—it’s about what I can do. I have always wanted to make a difference.

  But I have to confess that in the aftermath of the Fake Sheikh scandal, I knew that I had lost track of important things in my life. I felt empty. In that emptiness, it didn’t seem to matter what I did. Between doing nothing and doing something, it seemed better to do something. I needed to refocus my attention and my energies.

  I knew I had to come out of the corner, be who I was meant to be, and continue to stand up with courage for what I know is right. I needed a kick in the backside to get back on the public stage and be true to myself.

  Which is why I sought the help of Stedman Graham.

  Stedman is a speaker who teaches identity leadership development, education, and is a bestselling author. He exudes so much passion and confidence.

  “Do you have a personal identity?” he asked me.

  I shuddered a bit. That’s because I equate identities with a group of management types sitting down in a room and sweating bullets until they can come up with a company mission statement that is so long, complicated, and overly far-reaching that it will please the boss and the consultant hired to shepherd the mission-writing process.

  Stedman explained that having an identity has nothing to do with becoming the predominant anything, or climbing the ladder of success or of society. It describes, simply, in a few well-chosen words, your purpose in life.

  “An identity is a foundation on which to build your future aspirations and an internal guide for everyday living. If you get lost, distracted, or pulled toward another direction, your personal identity serves as your internal compass to keep you centered and focused on your objective.”

  As Stedman talked, I thought about this for a while and realized that I do indeed have my own identity. It can be negative or positive—I’ve just never thought of it in those terms.

  I began to ask myself some key questions: Am I doing the work that I will be proud of when I am lying on my deathbed looking back at my life? Am I using my experience and my gifts in the most meaningful way possible? How am I affecting the lives of people around me? Am I being true to my beliefs, my values, and my personal integrity? Am I truly happy doing the work I am doing? What else could I be doing?

  In some quiet, contemplative moments, I looked at where I had experienced the most joy. I have always believed that I best experience happiness in my work with children. I asked myself to focus on the occasions when I was most passionate about my work, and I recognized that it was when I was mindfully listening to and helping forgotten children. It was when I looked into their eyes and knew that I could walk that journey with them so they need not be alone. It was when I could provide a quiet presence to help them find some peace and comfort.

  As a result of that soul-probing work, my personal mission statement boiled down to this: Educate and support mothers to keep them from abandoning their children.

  During my many years of working with children, I’ve become convinced that the mother is the CEO of the family, its heart, and its cornerstone. Mothers run their homes and family in the same way a chief executive runs a business empire. Yet mothering is one of those “professions” in which the majority of those entering it have not had years or months in a school—or even basic boot camp—to develop their skills. Shortly after the first child arrives, a mom finds she has a job much more complex than she could possibly have imagined. Because mothers are the first educators of children, an uneducated and unskilled mother will pass on the same to her child. Mothers are on the front lines when it comes to raising a child on a day-to-day basis. They need support and education.

  Over the last three years, I’ve been developing a program called the Mothers’ Army. Internet based, it would be a social network, connecting mothers all over the world with resources, educational materials, support, and encouragement. Mothers would be empowered to make choices that are best for them and their children. A mother in Pakistan, for instance, could connect with a mother in France for help with parenting and child-rearing. I see the Mothers’ Army as a natu
ral extension of the work I’ve done with children up to now. The Mothers’ Army would mark the fulfillment of my mission.

  I believe we can all benefit from having a personal mission. Set aside some quiet time to consider what’s important to you and then let those answers guide you as you answer the following questions: What would you like others to remember about you? What do you want others to experience when they come in contact with you? How will you contribute to the betterment of your community or society at large?

  “You have to know who you are, and then you have to organize all the things that you want to achieve in your life, all the things that you are passionate about,” Stedman said.

  Take time to find out what you really want to do with your life. Creating a personal mission statement defines your purpose on this earth. And it has a powerful effect on how you run your life.

  NUGGETS:

  • You are on this planet for a reason. Develop a clear vision, lock into your purpose and passion, and set goals with deadlines.

  • Answer central questions of your life, and you’ll find your mission: What would a meaningful life look like? Where is the pain I can ease? What am I called to do? What tools do I have to accomplish these goals?

  • Look inside. We cannot find our mission until we know ourselves. What we think about ourselves is reflected in what we say and do—in our work, our surroundings, our family life, and our service to others. Therefore, it’s important to take the time to get a clearer picture of who we really are.

  • Stand up for what you believe. Nothing drains energy more than suppressing action, passion, and commitment.

  • Don’t be afraid to make changes in your life. If your heart tells you it’s right for you, then it’s probably the detour you were meant to take. For me, my own truth is to speak out for those who don't have a voice.

  From: Lisa

  To: Sarah

  Dear Sarah,

  Thank you for everything that you are doing to help baby Daniel. Thank you again for being there for this sick infant, especially at a difficult time for you,

  If ever I can do anything to help in any way—

  Love and best wishes,

  Lisa

  From: Martin

  To: Sarah

  Your heart has two sides: The smile of a child and the needs of a nation. You are driven to make a difference. You have the energy, passion, and power to make a huge difference in this world, and have done so for more than 25 years.

  23 Rejuvenation

  We have the power to choose where we fly, and how high.

  THERE I WAS, seated at a long, sleek conference table among a phalanx of sharply dressed legal eagles in the law offices of my attorney, in Beverly Hills. In walked a nurse, Sonya, carrying a little nurse’s bag that reminded me of the one I had as child. Except this time, Sonya, a real nurse, was dressed in the nurse’s outfit, not me, and ready to take my blood.

  I offered up my left arm. Sonya donned protective gloves, put a tourniquet around my arm, and swabbed my inner elbow with an antiseptic solution. With a few words of comfort—“Relax, take a big, deep breath, honey”—she inserted a sterile needle into my vein. A few people in the room almost fainted at the sight of the needle. I was fine, but I wasn’t sure that this particular law firm had seen these sorts of shenanigans.

  Within moments, deep red blood filled vial after vial. She labeled them and fitted them into a special basket where they stood at attention like good little military officers. Mine, I’m guessing, were among hundreds of similar vials that were taken that day and would be tested for myriad possible maladies.

  Sonya said I was a good patient, so she covered my small wound with a sticker that said “Well done!”

  I then turned my attention back to the business at hand. Everyone’s faces were drained of blood, except mine.

  My day was so full that the only time the blood could be drawn was during that meeting. The blood test was performed at the urging of my dear friend, Robin McGraw, the beautiful, vivacious wife of Dr. Phil. Robin is goodness, gentleness, and compassion all wrapped up in one very special human being. Robin is a great advocate for women’s health and a living testament of healthy living, so when she suggested that I have a complete physical workup, I agreed. But I was busy with meetings, so Robin arranged for the nurse to draw my blood at my attorney’s office.

  Up until now, I’ve led a disgustingly healthy existence—so healthy that I used to think a blood test meant tracking a wounded animal in the woods at night. I’m closing in on fifty-two, and I haven’t spent a night in a hospital since Eugenie was born in 1990.

  Over the years, I’ve had a few close calls, though, including a breast cancer scare. It was December 1997, right before Christmas. I was showering on a Sunday evening when I felt a marble-size lump under my right arm. I knew something was wrong. I came out of the bathroom, sat on the bed, and stared out the window. My life screeched to a halt. I broke down in sobs. Was I meant to die? Would this be the last Christmas with my girls?

  I made an appointment with my doctor to have a needle biopsy. It would be three days before I’d get the results. Those were the longest three days of my life—three days when the orchestra in my mind blared out of control, the strings and brass in clashing time. Three days of lurking terror.

  Then came the call from my doctor. I took a deep breath, fully expecting the worst. Then my doctor told me the news. What had begun as a scary possibility was swiftly understood as something quite minor: a benign cyst.

  I cried for joy. My first real understanding of mortality slowly began to move my spirit. I educated myself on breast health, became an advocate for regular screening, and now support a number of breast cancer organizations to raise awareness whenever I can.

  Since hitting my fifties, I felt that my body was shifting, and just maybe I was approaching menopause. I am a thousand shades of embarrassment even mentioning the word because I never wanted to admit that I could be. But I know I’m changing, sometimes as fast as day to day. As I get older, there are many things I must adjust to, and yes, simply admit. I am no longer the nubile nymph of my youth. I know what you’re probably saying, we’re not getting older, we’re getting better. Sure, right! I’m much better at walking slow and boy, can I sit through a sunset! But I’m proud to say that at least I can still dance till dawn.

  The thought of heading into menopause didn’t seem to penetrate my psyche until I started to see and feel some of the signs: dry skin, low energy, and a depression that could not be attributed to life getting in my way. Other strange things had been happening to my body that I couldn’t understand. I would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and feeling anxious. During the day, I’d get a restless feeling in my gut, which would seem to turn into an intense heat. I’d start sweating profusely and it felt as if my whole body were going to explode. I felt as if I had been stranded in the Sahara Desert every night.

  The hot flashes led to less sleep and less rest—both of which affected my fatigue levels. Some days I could barely get out of bed in the morning. That’s just not me; usually I bound out of bed with enormous strength and energy. But lately I had been feeling as dead as a body on an embalmer’s table.

  So then I started thinking, “Oh, no, here comes menopause.”

  I went to see Robin’s doctor, Prudence Hall, MD, at the Hall Center in Santa Monica, California, a Zen-like place with fountains and calming music. It looks more like a spa than a doctor’s office. Dr. Hall is a lovely, striking woman. When you meet her, you can’t help but keep looking at her. At age sixty, she looks many, many years younger, and that alone made me an instant believer in whatever she had to offer.

  Robin was with me when Dr. Hall reviewed the results of my blood tests. Their eyes widened and their jaws dropped. I suppose the only thing worse would have been if I was asked to write my will on the spot.

  Dr. Hall proceeded to tell me that the test showed that my hormone levels were far lower than those of n
ormal mortals, and certain hormones were in a race to see which could deplete first. So far, my thyroid hormone was in the lead. It was practically nonexistent.

  Optimistically, Dr. Hall informed me, “You’re in charge of your health and you’re in charge of your care. You’ve got to be a partner with me and we’ll figure out what’s best for you.”

  With my multiple hormone deficiencies, Dr. Hall suggested a regimen of bioidentical progesterone, estrogen, and testosterone; thyroid replacement; and DHEA pills. Like every woman worldwide, I’ve been bombarded with news stories on HRT (hormone replacement therapy). Foolishly I thought my decision was a simple one: Do I take hormones or not?

  Hormone replacement, I knew, was controversial. So naturally my mind, which always tends to ruminate about what might happen, what could happen, or when it will happen, began to assault me. I started having dark thoughts about weight gain, bloating, and blood clots.

  Can it all be trusted to be safe and effective? Do I take testosterone even though I might develop facial hair? How might I attract a man once he sees me with a mustache? How many supplements do I take, and in which order, and will my body know what to do with them?

  But Dr. Hall explained to me that bioidentical hormones are safer than synthetic estrogens and progesterones because they’re made from plants. (Synthetic hormones are made from horse urine.) This form of medicine is like “inner plastic surgery” because it kind of works from the inside out. I was always one to buy creams that promised to reduce my wrinkles or make my hair resemble what it was like when I was twenty. After all, hope springs eternal. I could make a rhinoceros’s hide look as smooth as silk with all the youth serums I’ve bought. Anyway, Dr. Hall’s approach all made sense and I agreed to go on the regimen.