Miracle Makeover

By Kelee Katillac, Kansas City, Missouri

As appeared in

I opened the door to the bedroom. The photos I’d seen were pretty dismal, but it was even more depressing in real life. Dingy gray carpet. Peeling wallpaper. A patchwork of old cardboard-like tiles on the ceiling. Beige walls. Blah curtains. Beat-up paneled closets. Dim lighting. And right in the middle, a hospital bed. Could I really turn this room into a healing space? I run my own design firm and a DIY studio called the Katillac Shack, and I’d redone hundreds of spaces. But this project wasn’t just another makeover. It meant much more than that.

In June 2008 Guideposts ran a story about how I redid my kitchen. I heard from lots of readers, including Colette Gauthier of St. Louis, Michigan. She was a single mom raising two boys, a social worker who was always doing things for others. Now she needed to do something for herself. She asked me for ideas for redoing the very bedroom I was looking at now. “I’ll be spending a lot more time there,” she said. She’d been diagnosed with breast and bone cancer and would be undergoing chemotherapy and radiation. “If I’m going to be cooped up in my bedroom,” she said, “I want it to be someplace I’ll feel happy and relaxed.”

“E-mail me a photo and I’ll come up with some suggestions,” I said. But as soon as I opened the picture on my computer, I knew this room needed more than a few DIY touches. It needed a complete overhaul. This room needed spirit, a soul for hope to live.

I decided to bring my tools, supplies and team to her. Before we drove the almost 600 miles to Michigan, though, we had to have a plan. “I’d love to feel like I’m in a cozy cottage in springtime,” Colette said. I asked her to pick colors—ones that she found healing and inspiring. She came up with a list and told me what each color meant to her. Amethyst, for peace. Spring green, for health. Rose pink, for love and family. Sky blue, for faith. And orange, which made her feel “awake to the beauty of life.”

A design began to emerge. So did help, from my town and hers. A girl from a lighting shop donated some lamps. A lumberyard supplied wood for ceiling beams. My friend Eric built armoires. Folks from Masonic Pathways, the senior care center where Colette works, volunteered their time. And a hotel agreed to put Colette up for three nights while we tore the room apart and put it back together.

On a brisk February morning my team and I had packed our tools and supplies into the back of a U-Haul and hit the road. Now here we were in Colette’s bedroom. The imposing hospital bed sat there, dominating the room. It screamed “sickness.” Colette had told me that her Labrador, Annie, always used to snuggle up next to her in bed, especially if she sensed that Colette was hurting. But Annie wouldn’t go near that hospital bed.

Still, cancer hadn’t stopped Colette, and it wasn’t going to stop me and my team. We paused for a prayer of inspiration and strength, then jumped right in.
First thing was to move out all the furniture. We pulled up the dingy rug. Tore out the closet. Mike Whitney, a carpenter from the senior center, and his brother David were a huge help. We lined the walls with bead board (nothing says “cottage” like bead board) and crown trim. Jen Hanson, my assistant, was tireless. We all worked around the clock for three days. We painted, adding some special touches. Above Colette’s desk, near the ceiling, I painted an angel sprinkling tiny flower buds. Underneath the mirror I applied a vinyl wall sticker with a powerful healing message: “Every day holds a miracle.”