Message from and Her Son, Sam

[Guest guest]

Bakken <

comirror21@...> wrote:

Dear Ilena, Congratulations on your win! That was really wonderful news. I also wanted to advise you that my son Sam, who is now a sophomore film student (and already an award winner there) at the NYU Tisch School of the Arts, will be writing you an email to share with the group. His email address is: jsb395@.... He is looking for women suffering from the ill effects of silicone implants in the New York area for his upcoming documentary class project

He is determined to expand this project into a film about this subject. I think it could be so powerful in telling our stories from the unique perspective of a young man whose entire life has been so directly affected by this tragedy. He was horrified to hear that silicone implants were recently approved. To remind you

and to inform any new members since, if you care to share it with the group again, I have included his college essay which he wrote a couple of years ago, which gives a glimpse into our lives which were so adversely affected by my silicone implants. I received many positive emails back about it.

Take care and, thanks for all you do! Also, thanks in advance for posting my son's soon to be sent request. Happy New Year! Sincerely, Bakken

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Personal Statement from Her Son (College Essay from a couple of Years Ago) I am home earlier than usual; play rehearsal has been canceled. I ascend the unpainted wooden steps of my modest home on the outskirts of the otherwise privileged Clayton School District, open the door, and enter. I step into the closet-like study on the right and turn on the computer.

I log onto my mom's screen name. " Any

other parent would hit the roof, " I think to myself.

In her inbox, I find 18 unread e-mails from her online support group for women poisoned by ruptured breast implants. She must be really sick today.

I walk into the living room, pausing longer than usual to look at the framed pictures displayed on the grand piano. There is an old picture of my mother and me laughing and playing together at a family barbecue and another of my mom playing piano at a concert hall. They remind me of the energetic person she was before her health declined to its current state, beyond repair. In another picture, my father, who has been absent for much of my life, smiles at me from the bleachers of one of my half-brother's basketball games.

I make my way across the kitchen to my mom's room, tiptoeing in case she's asleep. I stick my head into her door to find her lying in bed, awake, looking miserable. She doesn't see me. I've caught her off guard; she usually makes it a

point to be up cooking or tending to something important when I get home from school, but even something small like talking to a friend on the phone can exhaust her. " You've got mail! " I mechanically bellow, stepping into the room. " Oh -- hi, honey, " she says, giggling despite her pain. " You sound just like the AOL guy. " " Thank you!, " I say in the same cartoonish voice. I hesitate to ask how her day was (I already know the answer) but I do anyway. " Not so good, " she sighs, almost apologetically. " I'm sorry, " I say, giving her a hug. " Wait just a minute, Mom. " I walk out through the kitchen and into my room, where I open my discman and pop in a copy of Joni 's Blue. I return to my mom's room and hand her the CD player. " Here, Mom. This will help. " As always, it does.

As I walk back through the untidy kitchen, I reflect about my mom's struggle with silicone poisoning. For years it's been a black cloud hanging over me, a secret I've kept from all

but my closest friends. Virtually no one knows about my turbulent, inconsistent homelife. For as long as I can remember, my mom has been in and out of hospitals with mysterious health problems, always leaving doctors puzzled. They did not realize, until it was too late, that ruptured silicone breast implants were responsible for these maladies. " If people knew the real truth, what would they think? " I would always ask myself. " Would they think badly about me or my mother? Would everything change? " However, on this day I finally understand the absurdity of my self-doubt. Perhaps it's seeing my mom consumed by pain one time too many, or perhaps it's seeing all of my mom's unread e-mails, knowing that behind each one is a woman suffering just like her. Whichever it may be, on this day, I finally am able to fathom that the circumstances here are not going to improve. And on this day, I realize that I have an opportunity to bring positive change to the world. How will I change

the world for the better? I will start by making my mother's story known. I hurry toward the study room; I have a newspaper article to write.

As Arts Editor for my school newspaper, I am generally concerned with writing next month's album review. With this personal column, however, I am taking a risk, exposing a particularly painful part of my life. In fact, I can safely say that this is the first true risk I have taken in my life. For the first time, I feel like I'm truly doing something important, something that may prevent other chemical tragedies from occurring in the future. I start to type. It feels good typing the article which, in three weeks, will cause an unexpected sensation among students and faculty, make many people eager to learn more, and move one girl to tears. Indeed, it is my first great risk, and I can confidently say it won't be the last.

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