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Denver Post, CO
June 10 2007
Arsen's American life
If he were still in Armenia, most likely he'd be dead.
By Jenny Deam
Denver Post Staff Writer
Arsen Lazarian likes SpongeBob and chapter books, the Broncos and
the Black Eyed Peas. At age 9, he's a whiz at PlayStation, although
his 12-year-old brother claims to be better. "Dude, I don't think
so," he counters in disgust.
"I'm an American boy," Arsen insists.
In truth he is Armenian. But by summer's end, the fourth-grader will
have lived nearly half his life here, growing up at the Denver Ronald
McDonald House, playing tag in the stairwells and riding his bike in
the parking lot. He taught himself English watching cartoons.
He is believed to be the longest resident of any of the 270 Ronald
McDonald Houses in the world.
Arsen arrived in this country in July 2003, unable to speak or to
breathe on his own. His airway was blocked by tumors growing on his
larynx.
He came for surgery with his mother, Elmira Poghosyan, who at the
time also spoke no English. She, too, has taught herself, by watching
movies on Lifetime Television and chatting with people at the Ronald
McDonald House.
With a mother's stubborn fury, she had refused to believe the doctors
in her country who said nothing could save her son. She searched the
Internet until she stumbled on a doctor in Denver who could fix
Arsen's throat.
"Never could I imagine how long I be here," she says. Two years ago,
the Armenian government allowed her other son, Hrach, to join them.
In four years, Arsen has undergone 62 surgeries. More are expected
over the next few years to completely eradicate the tumors and repair
the boy's vocal chords.
His voice is a raspy whisper. Sometimes at night he asks God to let
him sound like other kids. He also asks to help his mother not worry
so much.
Presbyterian/St. Luke's Medical Center decided early to take Arsen as
a charity case. The Ronald McDonald House also will let them stay as
long as needed.
"I don't think it's ever fair to ask a
In their apartment, below, Arsen gets a lift from his older brother,
Hrach, 12. (Post / Glenn Asakawa)family to leave. They are going
through enough," says Pam Whitaker, executive director of the Ronald
McDonald House, which provides free or low-cost lodging for families
of children undergoing treatment.
Besides, she would miss them.
They have become fixtures, offering counsel to the newcomers. One
night in the second-floor cafeteria, Poghosyan catches the eye of
another mother. The woman's son has laid his head on the table during
dinner.
"Is he OK?" she mouths across the room.
The other woman shrugs and nods.
"He's just tired," Poghosyan (pronounced poh-goe-sian) reassures her.
At times she must gently remind Arsen that the Ronald McDonald House
is not really their home. With its hotel-room decor, its pantry of
donated DVDs, its food served on cafeteria trays, the three-story
brick building is clearly meant to be temporary.
But she understands why her son is confused. He's seen countless
others come and go. He stays.
His father waits patiently in Armenia for Arsen's return, caught in a
diplomatic standoff that won't let him join his family.
Last year when they went to Armenia for a visit, within days Arsen
asked when they were going home.
"No, no, no, Arsen," his father told him, "this is your home."
"No, Dad," the boy said. "My home is in Denver."
A prayer answered
In the spring of 2003, the phone rang in Dr. Nigel Pashley's Denver
office. An Armenian man living in Colorado knew of a little boy back
home who needed treatment. Would the doctor help?
"Of course," the pediatric ear, head and neck specialist replied.
With those words, prayers a world away were answered.
Arsen was born Aug. 10, 1997, in the capital city of Yerevan, eight
years after the country declared its independence from the former
Soviet Union.
Those early days of freedom were hard. The staples of the West -
heat, gasoline, electricity, even working telephones - were scarce.
Elmira Poghosyan had wed Artur Lazarian in an arranged marriage in
1985. She has a university degree in journalism, and he is a police
officer turned baker.
Arsen was 2 years old when doctors first found the tumors, called
papillomas, growing in his throat. Doctors patched him up and said he
would probably die soon.
About the same time, Pashley and a handful of other doctors around
the world had discovered the condition could be treated with laser
surgery and by injecting large doses of a routine childhood
immunization against measles, mumps and rubella.
When Poghosyan found the research on the Internet, she found hope.
But the surgery would cost $10,000. Her husband made $1 a day. Fellow
reporters told the story of Arsen over Armenian television to help
raise money.
She sold practically everything she owned to get here, including
their clothes and suitcases. Mother and son boarded a plane clutching
trash bags stuffed with a few belongings.
Pashley had never seen a case so severe. He worried he would not be
able to complete treatment. He went to the hospital board and pleaded
the little boy's case.
"My answer immediately was, 'What can we do?"' remembers hospital
chief executive Mimi Roberson.
Pashley knows some might say the hospital's charity should be
reserved for Americans but says: "I don't believe we should treat
people from other countries any differently than we would our own
children."
Sticking together
7:40 a.m. They are in the final countdown to get out the door to
school:
"Do you have your backpack? Is everything perfect? No, you can't wear
shorts. It's a little cold today. Faster, please!"
Arsen's mother cajoles one last bite of a bagel and cream cheese.
"Please, Arsen. Eat. Please." He rolls his eyes but takes a bite.
The television is switched off and the homework checked. Each night,
Arsen reads aloud to his mother, first in English and then Armenian.
"Arsen, I understand English now," his mother reminds him.
"No, Mom, you don't speak very good. And you have a bad accent," he
teases her. He has none.
Most nights she stays up long after the boys are asleep. Sometimes
she slips into their room just to check their breathing. For hours
she writes in her journal.
All they have in this country has been donated or borrowed.
Last year they moved to the two- bedroom caretaker apartment at the
Ronald McDonald House. The walls are lined with photos and framed
school certificates.
Arsen and Hrach each have their own bed, a luxury once beyond
comprehension. They spend hours sprawled across the floral
bedspreads, thumbs pounding the PlayStation controllers.
Poghosyan got the apartment in exchange for volunteer work. She can't
take a paying job. Her visitor's visa to this country won't allow it.
On Monday, they will travel back to Armenia. By law they must go home
every year to reapply for the visas necessary to turn around and come
back for Arsen's treatment.
While it's probable Arsen and his mother will be allowed to return,
permission for Hrach (pronounced huh-RAJ) remains dicey. Pashley
wrote to both governments saying Arsen's treatment is helped by
having his brother near.
In recent years, though, the Armenian government has cracked down on
the number of its people leaving.
"Every time I go back, I am stressed. I go the embassy shaking. No
sleeping. I say, 'Please, God, let me have my boys with me,"' she
says. "Hrach is my oxygen."
Each morning, she walks with her sons the three blocks to Whittier
Elementary. Today Hrach wears a baseball cap backward and straps on
his American Chopper backpack. Arsen has Spider-Man on his.
Arsen did not attend school until third grade because he was too
sick. His teacher marvels at his progress this year. He is now only a
little more than a grade level behind.
"He's a very inquisitive little boy who wants to learn," teacher
Latricia Goodloe says. "I have very high expectations for him."
Not long ago, he was picked by a classmate to help recite the Pledge
of Allegiance and the school motto over the loudspeaker. He was
nervous. What if kids laughed at his voice? When he returned to his
classroom, everyone clapped.
At school, a girl in pigtails runs to him and gives a quick hug.
"Hey, what's up, Arsen?" He shrugs off the hug but can't hide the
smile.
As the school year ends, the kids in his class trade memory books,
gathering signatures and phone numbers.
After school, Arsen runs to his mother in wonder and excitement.
"Look, Mom, phone numbers."
Others may see all the big things missing in his life: Good health. A
normal voice. A family complete. A home of their own.
But at age 9, what Arsen wants most in the world are friends.
He clutches his treasure as he walks to Ronald McDonald House. He is
grinning. Phone numbers.
Staff writer Jenny Deam can be reached at [email protected] or
303-954-1261.
------------------------------------------------ ----------------
Ronald McDonald House
Denver was the third city in the world to receive a Ronald McDonald
House, in January 1979. The first opened in 1975 in Philadelphia.
There are 31 rooms in the Denver Ronald McDonald House. A second
house will open late this year in Aurora. It will have 45 rooms.
Worldwide, there are 270 houses in 30 countries.
More than 800 families were served by the Denver house in 2006.
Global statistics are not available.
The average stay in Denver is 23 days. Ten years ago, the average
stay was seven days.
About 90 percent of families come from the Rocky Mountain region.
Only about 1 percent are international. Families have come from
Japan, Mexico, South America and Europe.
Families are asked to donate $15 a day, but no one is turned away for
inability to pay.
Arsen's story: an Audio show at
http://www.denverpost.com/photoessays/ci_609497 0
http://www.denverpost.com/movies/ci_6104038
June 10 2007
Arsen's American life
If he were still in Armenia, most likely he'd be dead.
By Jenny Deam
Denver Post Staff Writer
Arsen Lazarian likes SpongeBob and chapter books, the Broncos and
the Black Eyed Peas. At age 9, he's a whiz at PlayStation, although
his 12-year-old brother claims to be better. "Dude, I don't think
so," he counters in disgust.
"I'm an American boy," Arsen insists.
In truth he is Armenian. But by summer's end, the fourth-grader will
have lived nearly half his life here, growing up at the Denver Ronald
McDonald House, playing tag in the stairwells and riding his bike in
the parking lot. He taught himself English watching cartoons.
He is believed to be the longest resident of any of the 270 Ronald
McDonald Houses in the world.
Arsen arrived in this country in July 2003, unable to speak or to
breathe on his own. His airway was blocked by tumors growing on his
larynx.
He came for surgery with his mother, Elmira Poghosyan, who at the
time also spoke no English. She, too, has taught herself, by watching
movies on Lifetime Television and chatting with people at the Ronald
McDonald House.
With a mother's stubborn fury, she had refused to believe the doctors
in her country who said nothing could save her son. She searched the
Internet until she stumbled on a doctor in Denver who could fix
Arsen's throat.
"Never could I imagine how long I be here," she says. Two years ago,
the Armenian government allowed her other son, Hrach, to join them.
In four years, Arsen has undergone 62 surgeries. More are expected
over the next few years to completely eradicate the tumors and repair
the boy's vocal chords.
His voice is a raspy whisper. Sometimes at night he asks God to let
him sound like other kids. He also asks to help his mother not worry
so much.
Presbyterian/St. Luke's Medical Center decided early to take Arsen as
a charity case. The Ronald McDonald House also will let them stay as
long as needed.
"I don't think it's ever fair to ask a
In their apartment, below, Arsen gets a lift from his older brother,
Hrach, 12. (Post / Glenn Asakawa)family to leave. They are going
through enough," says Pam Whitaker, executive director of the Ronald
McDonald House, which provides free or low-cost lodging for families
of children undergoing treatment.
Besides, she would miss them.
They have become fixtures, offering counsel to the newcomers. One
night in the second-floor cafeteria, Poghosyan catches the eye of
another mother. The woman's son has laid his head on the table during
dinner.
"Is he OK?" she mouths across the room.
The other woman shrugs and nods.
"He's just tired," Poghosyan (pronounced poh-goe-sian) reassures her.
At times she must gently remind Arsen that the Ronald McDonald House
is not really their home. With its hotel-room decor, its pantry of
donated DVDs, its food served on cafeteria trays, the three-story
brick building is clearly meant to be temporary.
But she understands why her son is confused. He's seen countless
others come and go. He stays.
His father waits patiently in Armenia for Arsen's return, caught in a
diplomatic standoff that won't let him join his family.
Last year when they went to Armenia for a visit, within days Arsen
asked when they were going home.
"No, no, no, Arsen," his father told him, "this is your home."
"No, Dad," the boy said. "My home is in Denver."
A prayer answered
In the spring of 2003, the phone rang in Dr. Nigel Pashley's Denver
office. An Armenian man living in Colorado knew of a little boy back
home who needed treatment. Would the doctor help?
"Of course," the pediatric ear, head and neck specialist replied.
With those words, prayers a world away were answered.
Arsen was born Aug. 10, 1997, in the capital city of Yerevan, eight
years after the country declared its independence from the former
Soviet Union.
Those early days of freedom were hard. The staples of the West -
heat, gasoline, electricity, even working telephones - were scarce.
Elmira Poghosyan had wed Artur Lazarian in an arranged marriage in
1985. She has a university degree in journalism, and he is a police
officer turned baker.
Arsen was 2 years old when doctors first found the tumors, called
papillomas, growing in his throat. Doctors patched him up and said he
would probably die soon.
About the same time, Pashley and a handful of other doctors around
the world had discovered the condition could be treated with laser
surgery and by injecting large doses of a routine childhood
immunization against measles, mumps and rubella.
When Poghosyan found the research on the Internet, she found hope.
But the surgery would cost $10,000. Her husband made $1 a day. Fellow
reporters told the story of Arsen over Armenian television to help
raise money.
She sold practically everything she owned to get here, including
their clothes and suitcases. Mother and son boarded a plane clutching
trash bags stuffed with a few belongings.
Pashley had never seen a case so severe. He worried he would not be
able to complete treatment. He went to the hospital board and pleaded
the little boy's case.
"My answer immediately was, 'What can we do?"' remembers hospital
chief executive Mimi Roberson.
Pashley knows some might say the hospital's charity should be
reserved for Americans but says: "I don't believe we should treat
people from other countries any differently than we would our own
children."
Sticking together
7:40 a.m. They are in the final countdown to get out the door to
school:
"Do you have your backpack? Is everything perfect? No, you can't wear
shorts. It's a little cold today. Faster, please!"
Arsen's mother cajoles one last bite of a bagel and cream cheese.
"Please, Arsen. Eat. Please." He rolls his eyes but takes a bite.
The television is switched off and the homework checked. Each night,
Arsen reads aloud to his mother, first in English and then Armenian.
"Arsen, I understand English now," his mother reminds him.
"No, Mom, you don't speak very good. And you have a bad accent," he
teases her. He has none.
Most nights she stays up long after the boys are asleep. Sometimes
she slips into their room just to check their breathing. For hours
she writes in her journal.
All they have in this country has been donated or borrowed.
Last year they moved to the two- bedroom caretaker apartment at the
Ronald McDonald House. The walls are lined with photos and framed
school certificates.
Arsen and Hrach each have their own bed, a luxury once beyond
comprehension. They spend hours sprawled across the floral
bedspreads, thumbs pounding the PlayStation controllers.
Poghosyan got the apartment in exchange for volunteer work. She can't
take a paying job. Her visitor's visa to this country won't allow it.
On Monday, they will travel back to Armenia. By law they must go home
every year to reapply for the visas necessary to turn around and come
back for Arsen's treatment.
While it's probable Arsen and his mother will be allowed to return,
permission for Hrach (pronounced huh-RAJ) remains dicey. Pashley
wrote to both governments saying Arsen's treatment is helped by
having his brother near.
In recent years, though, the Armenian government has cracked down on
the number of its people leaving.
"Every time I go back, I am stressed. I go the embassy shaking. No
sleeping. I say, 'Please, God, let me have my boys with me,"' she
says. "Hrach is my oxygen."
Each morning, she walks with her sons the three blocks to Whittier
Elementary. Today Hrach wears a baseball cap backward and straps on
his American Chopper backpack. Arsen has Spider-Man on his.
Arsen did not attend school until third grade because he was too
sick. His teacher marvels at his progress this year. He is now only a
little more than a grade level behind.
"He's a very inquisitive little boy who wants to learn," teacher
Latricia Goodloe says. "I have very high expectations for him."
Not long ago, he was picked by a classmate to help recite the Pledge
of Allegiance and the school motto over the loudspeaker. He was
nervous. What if kids laughed at his voice? When he returned to his
classroom, everyone clapped.
At school, a girl in pigtails runs to him and gives a quick hug.
"Hey, what's up, Arsen?" He shrugs off the hug but can't hide the
smile.
As the school year ends, the kids in his class trade memory books,
gathering signatures and phone numbers.
After school, Arsen runs to his mother in wonder and excitement.
"Look, Mom, phone numbers."
Others may see all the big things missing in his life: Good health. A
normal voice. A family complete. A home of their own.
But at age 9, what Arsen wants most in the world are friends.
He clutches his treasure as he walks to Ronald McDonald House. He is
grinning. Phone numbers.
Staff writer Jenny Deam can be reached at [email protected] or
303-954-1261.
------------------------------------------------ ----------------
Ronald McDonald House
Denver was the third city in the world to receive a Ronald McDonald
House, in January 1979. The first opened in 1975 in Philadelphia.
There are 31 rooms in the Denver Ronald McDonald House. A second
house will open late this year in Aurora. It will have 45 rooms.
Worldwide, there are 270 houses in 30 countries.
More than 800 families were served by the Denver house in 2006.
Global statistics are not available.
The average stay in Denver is 23 days. Ten years ago, the average
stay was seven days.
About 90 percent of families come from the Rocky Mountain region.
Only about 1 percent are international. Families have come from
Japan, Mexico, South America and Europe.
Families are asked to donate $15 a day, but no one is turned away for
inability to pay.
Arsen's story: an Audio show at
http://www.denverpost.com/photoessays/ci_609497 0
http://www.denverpost.com/movies/ci_6104038