Living with Holidays

I’m not looking forward to the holidays. Thanksgiving was good, but after reading a story in today’s New York Times about a new recreation center for cancer patients at Sloane Kettering, I understood why I feel sad.

Flash back to Thanksgiving 1989. I have vivid memories of my first husband, Jerry, our then 13 year-old daughter, Daphne, and I celebrating the holiday at the home of our dear friends and neighbors, Evelyn and Ken. After more than three months of chemotherapy following a diagnosis of B-cell lymphoma, Jerry’s appetite had returned.

Granted Evelyn and Ken always set a splendid feast, regardless of the holiday. There was nothing these friends wouldn’t do for us, and they had been there for us the day that day in late August when doctors at Mass General delivered the bad news. They also shared our joy when Jerry had a “near normal” CAT scan in mid October.

Jerry was scheduled to complete his chemo in January, after which he, Daphne and I were booked for a celebratory vacation in Boca Grande, Florida. Our hopes and dreams were shattered on the second Friday after Thanksgiving.

The fever and night sweats Jerry had had when first diagnosed with cancer had returned. We sat at Mass General, waiting for him to have another CAT scan. The power failure that swept through radiology made the waiting especially harrowing. After the scan was finally done, we were told it wouldn’t be read until Monday.

When Jerry called me at work on Monday, I begged him to stay at his office until I could pick him up. He suggested we go to Legal Seafood for lunch. I was too devastated to do anything other than take him home where we awaited a call with hospital admission info.

By this point Hanukkah was approaching. As crazy and irrational as this may sound, I was determined to make sure Daphne got her holiday gifts. As Jerry retreated to his study to make arrangements for his patients, I whisked my daughter off to the Chestnut Hill Mall. She wanted some things from the Gap, including a heavy cotton tennis sweater, and we got them.

Jerry’s brother and sister-in-law, wanting to shield Daphne from the horror of watching her father die, insisted that she spend Christmas vacation with them and their daughters at their home in Pittsburgh. Meanwhile Jerry was having salvage chemotherapy. Seeing all the Christmas decorations plastered on the room of his hospital door only served to remind me that we were in an institutional setting. On New Year’s Eve, I arrived to visit him with a split of champagne and two flutes.

Jerry died on January 6, 1990. To this day, I remember Rabbi Emily telling Daphne that we would now be a single parent family, but with one key difference. Dad had loved us very much, and did everything he could to stay.

2010 is upon us. I’ve been married to Dennis for nearly ten years. Daphne is a journalist living in Orlando with her husband and colleague, Etan. This Thanksgiving we gathered at their home – along with Etan’s parents, Janice and Don, and Jerry’s sister, Helene, and her husband, Steve. I found it very comforting to be there, and I think they did too.

Long before Jerry became ill, I’d suggest that we take a cruise. Fearing a bout of seasickness, he would reply: “Some day you and Daphne will go together,” implying that we would have fun times even after he was gone.

It might just be coincidence that my daughter and I selected January 7 as the day we leave for a week together in Paris. Still, anticipating the trip will get me through the holidays.