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She's the real deal

A musician battling cancer doesn't miss a beat.

By ELISABETH DYER, Times Staff Writer
Published February 1, 2008

DOWNTOWN 

That first week she wore a scarf. Then Jean Crossman decided to bare her struggles.

No wigs, scarves or fake breast.

"This is who I am," she said. "When you go through hardships, it either weakens you or strengthens you."

As the director of liturgy and music, Crossman, 46, leads Mass four times each Sunday at Sacred Heart, Tampa's oldest Catholic church.

Crossman also teaches a class for those considering Catholicism.

She isn't about to let breast cancer slow her.

"It's not a job," she said. "It's a vocation. I feel like the work I do here is life-giving."

A week after a mastectomy, Crossman's 18-year-old daughter, Celeste, drove her to the 6 p.m. Mass. She found a pew, but then realized that no one was there to play for Mass.

So she took her place at the piano.

Father Andrew Reitz's jaw dropped as he entered. He didn't expect her to be in church so soon after surgery. "She has been an inspiration to us all," he said. "We're very blessed to have her."

One out of eight American women who live to 85 will develop breast cancer, according to the American Cancer Society. Crossman's mother had cancer, too, which made the chances higher for her.

Still, she has not missed a beat, said Sandra Polo, who has attended Sacred Heart for 62 years. "Not just by being here, but by being joyful, she's living the message."

Three things are getting her through this, she says: faith, community and a sense of humor.

Occasionally she gets the odd comment. That's when her humor kicks in. She took it in stride when an older man in the congregation said to her, 'Is that a wart or a mole on the back of your head?'"

"I got one boob and I'm bald," she responded. "Are you trying to make me feel good?"

It was early August when she found the lump in her breast. At first, she was terrified. She had four tumors in one breast. As Crossman went under anesthesia for her mastectomy, surgeon Sylvia Campbell recited Psalm 27.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?

Things have gone remarkably well since then, she says. She has one more round of chemotherapy and then six weeks of radiation.

Hundreds of people pray for her.

"It's humbling," she said. "You know, I think there's something in the power of prayer."

Brother Juan de la Cruz came to the church the month Crossman was diagnosed. He watched as she cut her shoulder-length brown locks short and then as the rest gradually fell out.

"She's not hiding behind anything," de la Cruz said. "It's a way to share. We live in a culture where we don't want to show our hardships."

On a recent weekday, she leans on the piano in the chapel. Like the Franciscan friars who took over the church from the Jesuits several years ago, she wears sandals and brown clothes.

A hymnal rests open to Christ Be Our Light. "I love that piece," she says. She flips to another favorite. Sing a New Church.

She wants to build a sense of community within the 1,500-family congregation, which is especially tricky at the downtown site when most people don't live nearby.

"Everything fell into place in a beautiful way," she said. "The Franciscans have a beautiful, fresh, down-to-earth approach."

Crossman grew up Protestant but yearned for ritual. She was hooked on Catholicism after reading documents from Vatican II, which gave back ownership of the church to the congregation.

"We're all called to be Christ in the world," she said. "Own your faith."

Crossman graduated from Dunedin High School and then the University of South Florida. She knew she wanted to be a singer, perhaps opera or chamber music. She won a full scholarship to the Manhattan School of Music.

When she arrived in New York she opened her mouth and nothing but a screech came out.

She was sent to a psychoanalyst. After three or four sessions, she sought help from a throat specialist who treated Broadway's stage and opera stars.

He took one look, she said, and diagnosed her problem. "Sweetheart, you have a hemorrhaged vocal chord. Shut up."

In the weeks that followed, unable to sing, Crossman went to protests and volunteered with victims and children of war.

"In the absence of music, I found social justice," she said.

Several weeks later, her vocal chords healed. But her life's course was altered. She wanted to use her voice for a purpose.

Her talent led her to sing at churches throughout Tampa Bay. She lives in Palm Harbor and before coming to work in Tampa, she directed music at St. Mary's Catholic Church in St. Petersburg.

On Sunday, Tim Eves, who plays the guitar for the 9 a.m. Mass, rubbed his hand across Crossman's half-inch stubble.

"Your hair's getting long," he joked.

She laughed.

Elisabeth Dyer can be reached at edyer@sptimes.com or 813 226-3321.

[Last modified January 31, 2008, 07:12:14]