I AM WAITING in the jetway in New Orleans with a young passenger and her mother.  A motorized wheelchair will be brought up from the cargo hold for this young girl.  She has very closely cropped hair, great big glasses that dominate her face, and a huge smile.  I chat with the mother about her daughter, who obviously has challenges I can only imagine. The mother tells me her daughter has cancer and muscular dystrophy, yet she is a motivational speaker for school-aged children, showing them that no matter what happens, you can overcome.  I murmur and sigh, she’s  such a sweet girl, so young, so strong.  So cheerful.  The young girl smiles broadly at me, joins the conversation, happily agreeing with her mother, yes, she wants to inspire others.

The wheelchair arrives, a tote bag embroidered with her name, Gypsy Rose, hanging on the back handles. This is my last flight of the day so I walk with them to baggage claim, chatting with the mother and Gypsy Rose, amazed at the resiliency of the human spirit.  They are both extraordinary and I hug them as we part ways, say goodbye.

Fast forward many years.  I see a commercial on television featuring the trailer for a new film, a true crime story, Mommy Dead and Dearest.  I do a double take.  Oh.  My.  God.  It’s them!  My passengers!  The actresses portraying mother and daughter look just like them and who could forget that stripper name, Gypsy Rose?  I am stunned.  

I had gotten caught up in Dee Dee Blanchard’s selfless devotion to her terminally ill daughter, the lies, the cruel fabrications, just like everyone else in young Gypsy Rose’s miserable life.  I sincerely believed what I saw and heard that night in New Orleans, but now Dee Dee is dead, Gypsy Rose a convicted murderer.  

I watch every film, read every report, learn everything I can about this bizarre case.