Candy O’Terry

Stories are Gifts

I wish my mother had lived longer. I wish I knew more of her story. 

Marjorie died of breast cancer when I was a teenager, and that loss defined me for a long time. She had big brown eyes and chestnut hair. A real New York City girl, she had been a buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue and Bonwit Teller. Her fingers were long and her hands were soft when she turned her palm to check my forehead for a fever. My mother was different from all the other moms on my street because she worked full time and she didn’t apologize for it. I remember her saying: “Stand on your own two feet, Candace. It’s wonderful to fall in love and get married, but never lose yourself to someone else.” I wonder if Marjorie was also psychic because I was married at 21, had two small children by 25, and was a single mom, singing in smoky bars on weekends, with no heat in the house by the time I was 32. Clearly, I had not listened to my mother. 

But during that dark time in my life, I learned a valuable lesson: you can sit in the corner and feel sorry for yourself, or you can just put one foot in front of the other. Before you know it, you’ll be in a whole new place, (say it with me) standing on your own two feet!

Many people in Boston and throughout New England know me as Candy O on Magic 106.7 (WMJX) or as the center judge on the legendary TV show, “Community Auditions, Star of the Day”. I spent 25 years on the air at Magic 106.7, but my rise through the ranks required equal parts of energy and courage. As a lifelong singer with a degree in English from Boston College, I strategized that getting a job at a radio station would be the perfect use of my skills, so I applied for a job that got my foot in the door and was hired as the secretary to the program director. There was little hope of ever getting on the air, but I decided to soak up everything I could about the business of radio and waited for my moment to shine.  

About a year into the job, one of our overnight disc jockeys started falling asleep on the radio. My boss told me to call him and say, “If you fall asleep one more time, we’re going to have to let you go.” The next night, the poor guy fell asleep again and got fired. With no one to fill the shift, my boss said three words that changed my life, “You’re on tonight.”

Believe me when I tell you, I sucked. I was horrible. My voice was high-pitched; I pressed all the wrong buttons and stepped on all the songs, but I was brave; my heart was in it and I was determined. In the early days of my radio career, I learned that the only time we grow is when we step out on that ledge and jump. I did the overnight shift for a year while my children slept in sleeping bags on the newsroom floor. Little by little, I improved. Listeners started to like me because I talked to them, sharing stories of my life as a single mom. I laughed at my own mistakes on the air, and listeners started rooting for me to succeed.  

When you lose your mother at an early age, you spend the rest of your life searching for role models. One day, I had an epiphany: what if I create a public affairs program featuring women doing great things with their lives and ask them how they got to where they are today? I pitched the idea for a weekly show called “Exceptional Women” to my program director and he loved it. Having no idea how to conduct an interview, I asked our news director, Gay Vernon, to be the co-host and she agreed to teach me the art of the interview. “Exceptional Women” would go on to become a national success story. Awards filled our shelves, but the greatest gift was the wisdom these women shared. Their stories filled the holes in my heart, the ones my mother didn’t get the chance to fill herself. And a little miracle happened. Buoyed by my love and their stories, my daughter Colleen had tons of powerful role models and grew up to become a strong, confident and generous woman. 

When I decided to leave Magic 106.7 after decades on the air, I knew I had to find a way to continue to interview women with inspiring stories to tell, so I migrated to podcasting and launched a weekly show called “The Story Behind Her Success” and then created the Candy O Radio Network to monetize my content on Boston radio. Thirty years into my role as an interviewer, I’ve featured 800 women (and counting). There is no shortage of women doing great things with their lives. They are your mother, your sister, your colleague, your best friend. A couple of years ago, I sat down to recall the lessons these brilliant women have shared. 

At the very core of storytelling is wisdom–the priceless lessons we learn from one another. When we share our stories, we provide a road map for someone else to follow.  Our mindset changes to if she can do it, I can do it.  Storytelling can heal your heart and expand your mind. It is one of life’s greatest gifts. 

Marjorie was right. I am standing on my own two feet, but in this chapter of my life, my arms are open wide to receive your stories. 

So, what’s your story? I can’t wait to hear it! 

Laura Bosse

IN RECENT YEARS WEARING A MASK HAS BECOME COMMONPLACE THROUGHOUT OUR SOCIETY. MANY OF US, HOWEVER, HAVE BEEN WEARING MASKS FOR YEARS.

We wear the figurative mask of a smile that, if you look closely enough, you will see does not quite reach our eyes. We wear these masks to conceal the realities of addiction, failing relationships, illness. We wear this mask to cover our pain, our fear, our disappointment, our anger. We wear these masks to protect ourselves from perceived judgment, to protect our children from the turmoil surrounding their environment. We wear these masks from the moment we wake up until the moment we settle our children into bed, if we are lucky. Sometimes these masks slip down ever so slightly, but we are well-practiced at pulling them right back up. Sometimes our eyes deceive our mask and let loose tears that we fight all day to withhold.

I have personally worn a mask for several years, concealing many circumstances of pain, frustration, and fear. I have become very successful at masking the turmoil in my life. Over the last several months, I used that practice to deal with a very unexpected health crisis. I turned 40 as the world entered a global pandemic and, as a result, did not get around to scheduling my first post-40 mammogram until March 2021, a few months into my 41st year. I have been told for years that my breast tissue is dense so, when at the mammogram, the technician told me I was sure to get called back due to dense breast tissue, it was neither alarming nor surprising. And the call came, as expected, telling me a second look was required. The fact that I was being sent to the Dana-Farber Cancer Center in Weymouth didn’t even raise much alarm. With so many things happening outside of my own health and outside of my control at the same time, this was truly the least of my concerns. I was grateful for the literal mask I wore to the appointment for the second mammogram because it concealed the fact that I was not able to muster my figurative smile mask at that time, due to concerns for a loved one, my former husband specifically. And still I was not worried about cancer. Not even when I was told at that same appointment that I needed to have three areas biopsied did I start to worry. Let’s get it on the schedule; let’s get it over with so I can check the box. I have no family history of breast cancer, I had no suspicious lump. This was all just routine.

As I lay on my side, feeling the tugging pressure and hearing the whirring sound of the little drill vacuum pulling cells from my body, I could feel the mask falling away. I found myself reciting the serenity prayer over and over and over again: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. I forced myself to take deep breaths, to just get through it. I wanted nothing more than to be off of that table and out of that room. It had finally all become too much. The nurses were so kind, assuring me that only 15% of these turned out to be anything to worry about. And so, when I received a call on May 19th from the nurse practitioner with the results of my biopsy, I was somehow caught completely off guard.

“I was pulling in to pick up my son when I was told, over the phone, that I had breast cancer. I was again grateful for the literal mask because there was no way that I could conceal the shock and horror and uncertainty that fell over me at that moment. My first thought was of my daughter, who would now have a history of breast cancer. My second, as a single mother, was who would take my children if the worst were to happen?”

As I started to catch my breath, the process began to unfold. The next step was an MRI to confirm that everything had been found. I went into the MRI on the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. As I was pulled out of the tunnel, a third nurse had joined the two who had put me in and was complaining profusely about her allergies. I felt like screaming, “But do you have cancer?”

The results of the MRI posted in MyChart on Friday, but with the holiday weekend, I heard from no one. I googled, texted friends familiar with MRI results, but my mind began to spiral. Then, over the span of the holiday weekend, a family in our town suffered an unimaginable loss. A young mother passed away unexpectedly after giving birth to her third child. I was heartbroken for her family, for her children, for her community. And in that moment I realized how incredibly lucky I was. I was so grateful to be alive to have the opportunity to have breast cancer. And to have the opportunity to be alive to fight it

I called the doctor Tuesday. I learned from my point of contact’s voicemail that she doesn’t work Tuesdays. I couldn’t wait any longer so I called the general line and left a rambling message about cancer images, next steps, a plea for information. The woman who called me back turned out to be my oncology surgeon’s nurse practitioner and she told me all the right things. She scheduled me to see the oncology surgeon later that week and apologized profusely for the delay in response. When I assured her that it was OK, because that’s what we do when we wear a figurative mask for years, she restated that no, it was not OK. She said, “We want everyone to feel tucked in.” I realized, in that moment, that that was exactly what I needed to feel, tucked in, like a child wrapped tightly in a familiar blanket being sung a lullaby; I needed to feel protected.

At the meeting with the oncology surgeon, I met that angel nurse, Meg, and felt the same sense of peace that I had received from her over the phone. The surgeon walked me through my diagnosis. What I had was called ductal carcinoma in situ or DCIS, stage zero cancer. The relief of hearing that we had caught it so early was soon shattered as I was given my treatment plan options. Despite the early stage, I was given two options: I could opt for a lumpectomy, which would be followed with daily radiation for four weeks, yearly mammograms and MRIs for the rest of my life, and estrogen blockers until I entered menopause. Or, bilateral mastectomy which would mean the entire ordeal was concluded. My initial reaction was that a bilateral mastectomy was incredibly aggressive and extreme for a stage zero diagnosis. I joked with the surgeon about going bigger because I was quite sure that I wasn’t going to go that route. The MRI had determined that there was another area of concern in my left breast, so we scheduled another biopsy to help me with my final decision. The surgeon took us into a radiology room to view the MRI of my breasts pointing out the three areas that were known to be cancer. She talked about how hard it is for patients to think about why they had cancer. She started to reassure me that I hadn’t done anything wrong to cause the cancer, but my past experiences have taught me that asking why does nothing but bring more pain. I have learned from past experiences not to ask, “Why me?” Or even, “Why has this happened? I have learned the beautiful gift of acceptance. Acceptingthings that I cannot control and looking, instead, at things that I can. I knew I couldn’t change my diagnosis, all I could control was my choice of what came next. Genetic counseling was also suggested to determine if I had a predisposition for breast cancer.

“As the days crawled toward the second biopsy appointment, I thought about what my life would look like for the next 10 to 15 years with either choice. I didn’t want to have the fear every six months that the cancer had come back; I didn’t want to spend the next 15 years in forced menopause with the hormone blockers; I didn’t want to spend the next four weeks in radiation. I decided to move forward with the bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction. And be done.”

Once a decision had been made, the next step was to meet with the plastic surgeon. Initially, I went into it expecting a hard sell for large breasts, my own preconceived notions about plastic surgeons, but what I encountered was the complete opposite. Dr. Helm was incredibly supportive and encouraging. He urged me to consider the trauma of a bilateral mastectomy, reassuring me that I didn’t have to go that route if I didn’t want to. He wanted me to understand that it wasn’t a breast augmentation. He said, “You will always have scars because you will have survived breast cancer.” These words were incredibly empowering, I would be a survivor. 

I dealt with the choice lightheartedly, again putting that figurative mask on and joking about the free boob job and perky breasts at 80. But as the surgery date approached, I started to mourn the loss of part of my body, the part of my body that bonded me with, and nurtured and nourished my children for the first year of their lives. I wondered what I would look like when I woke up in the recovery room. I wondered how I would feel physically and emotionally.

I was lucky to have contact with several women who had undergone the procedure before me, so I had an idea of what the recovery would entail. I prepared for the worst and hoped for the best. I knew from their experiences that the drains would be the worst. I was lucky to have the support of my parents who came and whisked my children off to their home in Maine while I spent the first week recovering at home with my partner. I was so lucky to have a partner who didn’t let me lift a finger so that my body could focus on recovery. He washed my hair in the sink and installed a removable shower head when I couldn’t stand not showering for another second so that I could take a shower without compromising my wounds. I was lucky to have an army of friends who organized to surround me and make sure that I would have what I needed in my recovery.

I’ve spent the last 4 months with tissue expanders implanted, preparing my body to accept and hold the implants that will be placed during my final step in this cancer journey, reconstruction. 5 months to the day after my life-saving bilateral mastectomy, I will once again enter the operating room, putting all of my trust in Dr. Helm to complete this journey. My fears about how I would look and feel have subsided. My scars are minimal and only below the breast. Because of the stage and positioning of my cancer, I was able to have a nipple-sparing procedure. I am lucky. So many women are not so lucky. Many have to go through the trauma of major surgery in addition to radiation and chemotherapy, along with all of the torturous side affects that accompany them.

I am grateful. I am grateful for early detection, for skilled surgeons, for the legions of people who have circled around me and held me up with their support. I am grateful to be alive to have this experience. To fight this cancer. To have the perspective and experience to know it can always be worse. This is not a pessimistic stance, I assure you. I have learned that, unfortunately, there are no limits to the hardships and tragedies we may each have to endure, but I allow that knowledge to carry me through each new challenge with gratitude that I am here to face the challenge. And I allow that attitude, slowly, to replace my figurative mask with the confidence that it will be ok, and I will survive.

Korri Piper

From the column

Props

(culture, propaganda)

CONTRIBUTOR KORRI PIPER REVIEWS THE POPULAR AMAZON ORIGINAL SERIES THE WILDS

I was raised in a tiny foothill of the Berkshire Mountains in Western Massachusetts. I spent countless hours catapulting myself through those woods. I ran like a white-tailed deer hurdling hunter’s traps, predators, gullies, and poisonous plants. Overcoming that many obstacles daily was exhausting, but it never occurred to me that by age nine, I would suddenly lose my powers.

Every woman will experience the silencing of her voice, fear for her physical person, the shameful objectification of the male gaze.  A woman who tells you she’s never experienced such things is either lying or the cerebral dogma is so thick that she cannot see it.

So again, we must consider our influences: enter theatre. At the age of 10 I was introduced to two pieces that changed my life. The first was Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” It was performed at Edith Wharton’s home, The Mount. The faeries literally came out of the woods. I was gobsmacked by the magic of it all and entirely entranced. The second piece was one of the most revelatory moments I’ve experienced in life: Stephen Sondheim’s “Into the Woods.” Someone was brave enough to write ugly music with sharps and flats that truly mirrored life and then ask “What happens after happily ever after?”

There were oodles of books, television, film, theatre, and ads that excited me, made me angry, allowed me to laugh, cry, and provided great catharses. You know this drill because you’ve likely experienced it. Loads of us were required to read “Jane Eyre”, but have you read “Wide Sargasso Sea”? What a perspective flip! How many times and in how many ways can you cage a “bird”?

Fast forward to now. During the onset of the pandemic, two of my daughter’s best guy friends said, “You have to watch ‘The Wilds’ with your mom.” (Sidebar: I heart these two boys dearly. Even more so for understanding us wholly and accurately.)

We watched. I cried. We were impressed. How many topics can one show cover? LGBTQIA+ struggles, athletics and being female, body type, indigenous women in America being “othered”, the horrific loss of a sole parent, sibling rivalry, depression, anxiety, abandonment, parental rejection and absenteeism, addiction, obsession, resource scarcity, suicide, sex, relationships — nearly anything that the modern teen experiences, this show portrays it.

Let’s review the plot. (If you’re not into spoilers, stop reading now). A gaggle of teenage girls are headed for a young women’s retreat in Hawaii. Along the journey their plane crashes in the ocean. They are rendered unconscious and wake on or near an undeveloped island. They work to survive. Interlopers amongst the young women are presumed. The rest of the series plays out like a “Lord of the Flies” whodunit. Eventually, the young women are rescued and placed at a holding center where two FBI agents question them while awaiting their parents’ arrival. This is where they learn that the  entirety of the characters’ experiences had been orchestrated through a well-funded social experiment masterminded by an ousted, jaded academic.

Each episode tells the origin story of each character. The timelines jump with the accuracy of a precise mathematical formula. The architect of the “retreat”, Gretchen Klein, poses a theory: “Let’s talk about transitions of power. In patriarchal societies these are typically marked by violence. Resources are lost, blood is shed, often on a grand scale. In contrast we expect our subjects to discover a peaceful female-driven model of governance. The mantle of leadership will be passed as needed and entirely without conflict.”

Her basic theoretical construct (via her own, lived experience) is that men are not ultimately capable of carrying us through impending disaster. If we’re going to hit our mark of escaping the inevitable climate crisis so that society can survive, we cannot do it without women at the helm. Women have the better — nay, the only — capability to see humans through to continued existence.

Okay, questions: 1) Can women lead politically? 2) Is the outcome of female-dominated leadership in commerce feasible? 3) Is Gretchen’s construct more than propaganda itself?  

Your answers will likely depend on if you believe women are capable of overcoming trauma. Or, as Leah — arguably our protagonist — states, “There is no crazy, there is only trauma. So, if we’re talking about what happened out there? Then yeah, there was trauma. But being a teenage girl in normal-ass America? That was the real living hell.”

Can women in America navigate and conquer the minefields they traverse daily to become actualized adults capable of a pragmatic leadership style? Of course. If you require evidence, look to the increasing numbers of women leaders in our politics: The Center for American Progress reports that women held 127 seats in Congress in 2019 and surpassed that record with 142 women serving in 2021. For more context, check the world stats from “The Independent”: in the 1980s, 11 women were elected head of state, in the 1990s, that figure grew to 22. Since 2010, 56 women have been elected to lead their nations. So, check ‘yes’ for question #1.  

As we’ve seen the temperature in polarized American politics rise, we come to understand it’s not women’s innate inabilities that create the stumbling block, it is actually the perceptions held by the public that manifests the obstacle.

Plenty of books reach through time to reflect on how propaganda bellowed the message that women in groups are powerful and dangerous. You can take those sentiments and recast them as a testament to how strong women are, but in reality, we really haven’t made it that far past witch trials. If you want to understand more historically, or figure out how to change it, read “Forget ‘Having it All’: How America Messed up Motherhood—and How To Fix It” or, “Text Me When You Get Home: The Evolution and Triumph of Modern Female Friendship.”

Why does America demonize women? Why can’t we shatter that highest glass ceiling? Largely because of the intersection of patriarchy and capitalism. If you think that capitalism isn’t dangerous or detrimental to women, kindly provide your argument for why it makes women stronger, better, or more advantaged. If you posit it’s about the opportunity to make money and provide whatever they’d like, then we should probably reconvene after more than 41 Fortune 500 companies have a female CEO. Maybe get to 175 female CEOs and resume the conversation. So, big ‘no’ for question #2.

Later in the series, we discover Gretchen’s son is in prison. She speaks with another visitor waiting to see her son and reflects on his crime:

“He is totally responsible. That’s why I made him plead guilty. But the prison sentence, I wasn’t expecting…You know when Devon was rushing that frat…he called me one night sobbing like a tiny baby after being locked in the trunk of a car. He was victimized by that dog-eat-dog, piss-on-the-weak culture they pedaled. But when it was his turn to dole it out apparently, he jumped to the chance. So, no…I’m not saying he isn’t to blame, but the patriarchy and its institutions sure aren’t innocent. Their allure is still so strong and not getting any less so—even a sweet-hearted kid can get caught up in the perpetual churn.”

We’ve seen this character before—the go-getter mom who is “too much” for her children (“Little Fires Everywhere”), her husband (“The Crown”), or her colleagues (“The Morning Show”). We rarely see that narrative outside of the white voice.

That is one of the elements of “The Wilds” that is so important: it strays from the tired trope of “are you a Carrie, a Samantha, a Charlotte, or a Miranda? You can only pick one, ladies!” “The Wilds” recognizes that not only are women far more nuanced composites of character traits — they are also not all white or cisgender. 

So, does “The Wilds” suggest a new way of thinking or being? Maybe it infers that the intrinsic hypocrisy of swapping gender dynamics will only lead us to ruin? (Sidebar: please read “The Power” if you want to think more about this topic. You won’t regret it.) And most importantly, can “The Wilds” resolve the answer to question #3: Is the Dawn of Eve the Twilight of Adam?

It’s a cliffhanger, and so are we. Gals across the country are swapping their heels for crocs at prom. International pop stars like Harry Styles are talking about respecting women and going out in lacy collars and pearls. Major networks are finally putting some production money behind voices that aren’t exclusively white or straight. Things are different — but not enough.

This is the part where money talks: I’ll continue running hard trying to fix these problems in my work life. During my consumer time, I’ll pay for content that begs the above questions to the masses. Bring it on Hulu, Netflix, HBO Max, Disney+, etc. If you’re going to nickel and dime me for subscriptions to content, you might as well pay women writers, directors, actors, and producers to change the face and narrative of the propaganda we all internalize.

Maybe consuming such content will shift us away from toxic masculinity. Maybe it will awaken the innate protective aspect in boys and men rather than the predatory one. Perhaps it will inspire girls and women to take the helm. When we take the powers we cultivated in our individual wilds and amalgamate them, we have the ability to fix the impossible.

For the past 20 years Korri has built a career in writing, marketing, and business operations development. She earned her BA from Florida Southern College in English with a concentration in the Dramatic Arts and her Graduate Certificate from the University of Massachusetts, Boston in the Program for Women in Politics and Public Policy. She also recently received a certificate in Project Management from Cornell because she likes to solve problems. Korri lives in San Francisco with her fantastic husband, stabby cat, forlorn dog, and the world’s most reasonable teenage daughter.