Big hugs for fantastic kindergarten teacher

With Patty Bein in Village Commons gift shop

The world has it back-asswards by rewarding multi-millionaires who do crappy things and not rewarding teachers who shape children in their formative years. I thought of this when I bumped into Pat Bein – Mrs. Bein – who had all three of my kids in kindergarten in a sweet little school, The Horizon School (no longer in existence) in South Hadley Falls.

Of course I had something to do with my kids turning out as great as they are, as of course did their father, but I wasn't exaggerating when I told her that my kids are who they are because of her. We were shopping at the Village Commons in the Arts Unlimited Gift Gallery, where most items (except the earrings I wanted to buy, insert frowny face) were 20 percent off during the annual Village Commons Days. We gave each other a big hug and talked for a few minutes. I showed her photos and she said their grownup selves looked just like their kindergarten selves! She remembered how worried I was when I left Ben for the first time and he cried his little heart out as I went to work. I called her as soon as I got to the newspaper, and she said he had stopped crying right away. She made me feel confident that they were in good hands. I did the glasses on, glasses off, photo in the middle of the displays at the store. At this point, my honey turned to leave. The store owner said he had lasted longer than most.

Glasses off

Meanwhile, Thanksgiving seems in the distant past, but I forgot to write that our little gathering of Joe, Katie and Jim went well. When I learned that it would be just us three, I felt forlorn. Then I sat back and thought about how silly it is that Thanksgiving is supposed to be big. In this post for Blood-cancer.com, I wrote about how Thanksgiving with my former husband is easier than it was during our married days when he got annoyed with the mess that my mother and I made in the kitchen.

I wrote, "It is easy to lose perspective when you’re as far “out” as I am. But periodically I remind myself to read what I wrote on my blog when I relapsed for the second time: 'I have been crying a lot, picturing myself at the end of the road. Thinking I won’t see my children finish growing up, won’t see my grandchildren.' So what if I don’t see them on a certain day? I’m thankful that the generosity of my bone marrow donor made my predictions wrong on the dark relapse day."

By the way, the post was dated Dec. 25, 2008, and I gave it the headline, "Downhill all the Way."
Those were the days that people commented directly on the blog rather than on Facebook after I share. Twenty-five people commented. Two of them have died. One of them is my friend Patricia, aka PJ, my doppleganger until she wasn't. She wrote, "Adding my support to all the comments here. I wish I could do more than sit on the sidelines watching as you deal with this. Even though I can literally picture where you are (you could be in my old room), I can't imagine what you're feeling. It's all too much, and just wrong."

I really miss my friends PJ and Ann and our little sisterhood of leukemia survivors. We all knew what the other was going through, and we could sometimes even joke about it.

But I have digressed, as usual.

Oh, by the way, circling back, I'm sure that Jim, my then-editor, wasn't the first one to say back-asswards instead of ass backwards, but I first heard it from him during my cub reporter days at the Holyoke T-T, and I thought it was so clever and it has stuck in my head.

Whining, dining, and giving thanks

In the summer, my Labrador retriever, Maddie, came up to my room to sleep in the air conditioning, but now she likes to sleep on the couch. In the morning she comes upstairs to wake me up and lies down on her hand-me-down LL Bean bed. She does the perfect downward dog. I gave her one of the quilts that co-workers had signed for me. It was after my relapse and was a smaller version of the large one that I took with me everywhere for a long time. She likes to rest her head on it.

I usually get down on the floor for a stretch and a hug and some mutually beneficial endorphins. She had a long puppyhood. I used to complain about her, but now I can't imagine life without her. She is almost twelve, and I can get all verklempt about her age, but I try to change the channel. On Thanksgiving, I told her I was thankful for her.

Having Joe and Katie home filled the house with warmth. It seems like only yesterday that they were fighting over the school bus. Specifically, over whether Katie could get downstairs fast enough for him to give her a ride, with Joe saying he was going to leave without her and me chiming in that she better hurry. (Actually, yelling up the stairs.) This probably did not help to de-escalate. If she missed the ride and the bus, I would have to drive her and wouldn't have enough time to run before work.

Now when I talk about running, I refer to my "so-called" run, because I'm so slow. Due to my neuropathy, I feel like I have lead boots on my feet. So when I went out for a Thanksgiving day jog of a little under three miles, I was glad that it was so cold – 15 degrees – that I couldn't feel my feet.

I tried some CBD oil but it hasn't worked well. A woman at the Brattleboro Farmers Market sold it to me. I ran into a "CBD Oil Users" group on Facebook, and when I put some photos up, they said it didn't have much CBD in it. Who knew?

 People have offered some good suggestions, such as how to buy samples from various manufacturers so you can see if it works before you buy more. There is another group, "Our Neuropathy Friends," consisting of people who are REALLY suffering and searching for relief.

That said, I'm not in shape, but I'm going to do the Hot Chocolate Run . It's for a good cause and crazy colorful and a lot of fun. 

After my little run on Thursday, I had just enough time to enjoy a breakfast that Joe made and then get ready to go to New Canaan for Thanksgiving. I got a kick out of telling people that I was going to Granny's. She's my daughter-in-law's grandmother, who graciously agreed to host us. 

Nell went around the table asking everyone what they were grateful for.

As soon as a person said they were grateful for her, she was on to the next person.

Maybe it was after my turn, but I think I got in that I was grateful for my family, and for being with extended family. The sun came out and I said I was thankful for that.  I would have said that I'm thankful for my bone marrow donor but it seemed out of place.

I wrote her a Thanksgiving thank you when I got home. 

Without her, I wouldn't be able to kvetch that my feet are killing me and lament that I only ran about three miles. 

As I wrote in my last post, it's good to have some perspective and remember when I couldn't even get out of bed. 

Missing my mother, and feeling grateful for her life

The four months leading up to my mother's death on Nov 26 – which this year fell on Thanksgiving – and the three months after in 2006, were the worst.

I had found out in August of that year – on my birthday – that she had lung cancer. Maybe Stage 3, but it, turned out, actually Stage 4. I said to a friend, "What am I going to do?"

"You'll do what she did when you were sick. You'll be there for her," she said, referring to my battle with leukemia.

In the months before her death, I was holding down a full-time job as a newspaper reporter and running a house with three kids in it, and racing back and forth to New York, trading shifts with my sister, Diane, as my mother quickly became bed-ridden. Meanwhile, the evil empire – a.k.a. the architects who had bought our building to convert to condos – were wreaking havoc in the lives of the elderly rent-controlled residents they couldn't kick out. One of the remaining few tenants at 1200 Fifth Avenue, where I grew up, said that they thought the new owners were trying to kill them. In updating the heating system, they butted out a wall in our already small dining room, upsetting my mother because she had a special drawer built onto the wall to hold her precious silverware, some of it previously belonging to relatives who had been killed by the Nazis. They painted the wall an unsightly green. My mother loved her Yankees, but she called it the Green Monster, in honor of the left field wall at Fenway Park, home of her grandchildren's beloved Boston Red Sox.

The condo owners removed the old windows and put in heavy top-to-bottom single paned monstrosities that were difficult to open, and furthermore, not installed properly, a point proven when one fell on an elderly resident, injuring her and sending her to the hospital.

We wondered if all the dust and stress had had something to do with her getting lung cancer. Inside me, a relapse was brewing. (I had been diagnosed with leukemia in 2003, treated with extensive chemotherapy and received a bone marrow transplant.) Later I wondered if the stress and all the bad air had set it off the relapse that occurred some six months later.

The new owners violated city codes by failing to turn the heat on that fall. They preferred to pay the fines. They even begrudged us the space heaters they were supposed to buy. My mother lay huddled under quilts and blankets. It was like a florist in there, so many people had sent flowers. Friends and relatives came and went. I lay next to her, holding her hand.

She was drifting in and out of reality when Thanksgiving came. I wanted to bring my children, Ben, Joe and Katie, to New York to have it by her bedside, but she said to please go home to Western Massachusetts and have it with them in the dining room of the historic colonial where my parents had loved to have Thanksgiving with us. Meanwhile, I finally decided to take a leave of absence from my job so I could spend her remaining days with her. She died before I got the chance. When I cried and cried and cried, I couldn't stop thinking about Thanksgiving.

A wise cousin said to me, "You gave her the greatest gift. She wanted to picture you in your home with your children, and you let her be the mother and tell you to do that." She had not been alone; my aunt and uncle and cousin were with her, and it was all for the best.

We had three months to clean out the apartment. When a toilet broke, the EE (Evil Empire) at first said they didn't want to fix it because we were leaving soon anyway. They finally caved in.

Every Thanksgiving, this all comes back to me, and I wonder how it will be.

It was Ben's year to be with my daughter-in-law's divorced father and his wife. So for Thanksgiving, it was me, Joe, Katie and Jim, my former husband, at my house. In the two days before, I must have gone to five stores picking up this and that. I figured I did not need do buy the yahrzeit candle that Jews burn on the anniversary of a loved one's death. I thought I had a stash. But when I reached back into the cabinet, there were none. The stores were closed. I made a few calls to Jewish friends, to no avail. Then I remembered a friend's mother had given her an electric one. We had joked about it at the time, but it came in handy after I called her and she said she would lend it to me.

At her Thanksgiving morning yoga class, our teacher, Michelle, talked about a positive way to view bad things: "This bad thing happened...AND this good thing happened." For example, she found out that she needs to replace her heating system, AND she still has heat in her studio to teach classes for now.

I raised my hand.

"At the last minute, I realized I did not have a yahrzeit candle to burn for my mother," I said. "AND my friend had an electric one." I said I think my mother would be OK with this. Michelle said she thought so too.

I applied Michelle's phraseology throughout the day.

"I miss my mother so much, and she had a wonderful long life."

"We had a horrible end to our life in the apartment, and we had a wonderful life there."

"I am sorry not to be with Ben, Meghan and (baby) Nell, and I get to be with my other two wonderful children and I am friendly enough with my ex-husband to have it with him."

I had a bad divorce, and now I can cook Thanksgiving dinner with my ex-husband.

I had leukemia three times, and I had the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and my bone marrow donor, Denise, to save my life.

When I took my mother's beautiful serving spoons out of the drawer in the hutch, I said, "Hi Mom," as I looked at the photo of her doing one of her favorite things, arranging flowers.

I knew my mother was there, and it was OK.

Thankful

Joe, Meghan, Ben, Katie and me

Thankful for Denise, my donor, for making it possible to enjoy this wonderful Thanksgiving with my family.

Two holidays merge into one

Above, Joe, Ben, Katie and moi; below, Deborah and Charlotte
with the banner made by Meghan.

We had fun taking advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to celebrate Thanksgivukkah, the convergence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah.

Turkey with cranberry sauce, plus latkes with apple sauce, actually went together well along with the traditional fixin's. For dessert, we gobbled up (sorry!) pies made by Katie (pumpkin) and Evelyn (apple). Afterwards, we lit the menorah and I gave out presents; just some little things.

It definitely is nice to be done shopping before the Christmas rush begins.

I have been slivering the pies all night. I'm just sorry that I'm not running the Talking Turkey race tomorrow.

Thanksgiving

If you've had a bone marrow transplant, on Thanksgiving you're probably like me, feeling grateful for our  donors, those incredibly generous people who gave us another chance at life. Not that we aren't grateful every day, but when we pause to give thanks for everyone we love and all the good things we have, our donors are right up there at the top of our list.

So a shout-out to Denise. Today on Thanksgiving I am thinking about you.

Our Thanksgiving was different this year. Instead of having it here as is our tradition, Joe and I went to Ben and Meg's in Stamford for a dinner bringing together parents and siblings from both sides of their families. I brought my mother's beautiful serving pieces, symbolically placing my mother (and my father) at the table. Katie was there too, via Skype in Spain.

Everything was wonderful, from the delicious food to the turkey-shaped butter to the festive mood centering around Ben and Meg's upcoming wedding. I enjoyed talking to everyone, including to Jane, Meghan's mother, my future machatunista (Yiddish for the mother of your child's spouse).

It is in many ways a difficult time of year. My mother died six years ago on Nov. 26. Right before Thanksgiving I had been in New York, and I was torn about whether to stay or to go home and have Thanksgiving with my family. My mother was fading fast, in and out of consciousness and unable to get out of bed, so it would have meant sitting in her  room with my aunt and my cousin.

She told me she wanted me to go home, so I did. After she died I thought I would never stop crying, of course about her death but also from thinking I should have been there for Thanksgiving. My cousin Joanne told me that I had given my mother the best gift possible by complying with her wishes and allowing her to think of me at home with my kids.

I don't have regrets anymore, just good memories and the feeling that they are still here. So I am thankful for that too.

Say what?

I had an interesting day at Brigham and Women's for my pre-op appointment Wednesday.

The scheduler at my doctor's office told me I could get there early for my 12:30 appointment in hopes of beating the Thanksgiving traffic and that they would try to squeeze me in. Uncharacteristically, I did get there early, around 11:30. The person at pre-op, however, wouldn't even let me sign in. She said that due to an emergency, they were about an hour and a half behind.

So I had to wait beside the sign-in sheet until 12:15, at which time I put my name down. The receptionist said that I should then go kill an hour and a half and she would call me on my cell phone when they were ready.

I decided to go up to the sixth floor to see if any of my nurses were around on 6A, where I got my transplant and where I was so sick.

And they were. It was pretty incredible. They remembered my room (12) and much about me. This was almost three years ago. I guess when you're there for 3 1/2 months and you nearly die, you make an impression. We talked for quite a while. One of my favorite nurses told me, "You just made my year." It's great to make someone's year.

Then I went to Au Bon Pain to get lunch. I had just started on a cup of soup when I got a call from the anesthesiologist saying they were ready. I was a little surprised, because it was 15 minutes before my time. "Put a cover on your soup and come right over," he said, sounding annoyed.

In going over my records, the anesthesiologist asked, "Do you know you have a leaky heart valve?"
Picture the look of surprise on my face. I had him repeat it. I asked when that turned up.

"In an echocardiogram in 2009," he said.

OKaaaaaay.

He said this condition is relatively common. It is rated mild, moderate and severe, and mine is moderate.

Now, nobody has EVER mentioned this to me.

I told him how active I am and how surprised I was. He told me to go discuss it with my internist, which I am not going to do. I plan to run it by Melissa, my nurse practitioner, sometime next week. Since it never came up, I am not concerned, just curious.

Anyway, I went over my history and my meds with the anesthesiologist and then went over the same exact stuff with a nurse. I got out around 4, chomping at the bit, as they say.

Katie met me there, and we drove home together. The traffic was pretty bad, but at least it was moving.

Everyone came for Thanksgiving, and the feast went off without a hitch. There's always something, so I was a little surprised when preparations were going so well. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did.

I took out my mother's nice silver and special plates. Katie set a beautiful table. We lit the candles. Just as we were raising our glasses in thanks, Diane called. The machine picked up. "Happy Thanksgiving," Diane said. So she became part of the toast too. My parents would have smiled.

Tough times emotionally

Despite unseasonably warm weather earlier in the week, today was really November. Overcast, cloudy and gray.

 Kind of like my mood.

I planned to be in the final steps of getting ready for Saturday's Talking Turkey, but due to my cold and a bad cough, I haven't run all week. I did continue to walk the dog and even jogged a few steps to make sure my feet still lifted up, but it didn't quite make the cut. I hope I can still run the race.

This time five years ago marked the final days of my mother's life, a good long one with a very brief period of illness. Today I heard a story of someone who died young in an accident, and it kind of put my loss in perspective. But still, as everyone knows who lost one, it is your mother.

She has been coming to me in my dreams. The other night I dreamt that she and my aunt were lying on a bed intertwined like snakes. That's how close they were in life. My mother was dying, and as the two revolved around each other, my mother's head became visible. She looked just like she did the last time I saw her. "You're so beautiful," I said.

A few nights later, I dreamt that I was back in our apartment in New York. My parents, both very frail, were in the kitchen. My mother was bandaging my father's arms just as she did during the end of his life when his skin, so thin, developed patches that bled. They couldn't go outside, and I needed to go and get them some things.

First I went out to the park for a run. And suddenly I couldn't see where I was going. It was snowing and then raining, with little visibility. I lost my way on the path and went into a dead-end snow tunnel. I realized what I had to do, got out, turned left and found the path. Ah, the proverbial dark wood.

I was running in all the wrong clothes, dress boots and a long skirt. But I finished the loop and ended at the park exit that I usually took when I went back home. I had made it.

Yesterday, I called my cousin Joanne in New York, who is a big help and support in many ways. My mother often visits her as I feel my mother visits me, and sometimes Joanne calls to tell me about it. Joanne said she loved the symbolism of my dream run. Despite all the odds, I had found my way, just as I have done in life.

But, but, but, I said, I left my parents in the apartment.

That's OK, she said. Your parents are OK. And you are too.

Joe is already here, and the other kids are coming tomorrow. Today I bought beautiful flowers for the house, not just the usual assorted mums for the Thanksgiving table but also a special bouquet of small yellow roses that I put on the kitchen table. Buy something to brighten things up, I heard my mother say.

I think it is working. And having everyone here will definitely lighten things up, too.

Turkey transfer averted

When I signed off last night, I was still unsure if my oven would open today.

Things looked dire this morning when Joe told me that after he came in last night, he yanked on the handle a couple of times and it fell off. And the oven still refused to open. I couldn't be angry with him because I had pulled on the handle myself, only not as hard.

This morning I talked to Deb about bringing the turkey there. I had it all ready to go, and she was preheating her oven, when Jim came by to perform a last-ditch investigation.

He fiddled with this and that and still, it looked like the oven would not succumb.

"It's frustrating, isn't it?" Joe asked.

Jim wasn't ready to give up, and suddenly, a Thanksgiving miracle happened. The door opened! We all high-fived, and we called the turkey transfer off. Jim said it had something to do with the lock being slightly out of position. Whew.

It was kind of hard to open with the handle missing, but two small end pieces remained to pull on. The fate of the oven, and of the attached broken microwave, is a problem for another day.

I puttered around doing a few things such as fixing the flower arrangements, getting down the serving dishes and getting out my mother's silver serving pieces, with some jobs remaining such as ironing the tablecloth so that Katie could set the table.

I took my time eating a bagel and reading the paper.

Maddie needed to be walked, so I took her out in the early afternoon, not checking the time. We went around the lake twice, talking to people along the way. When I got back home, Ben was at the door. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" he asked. "They're coming in half an hour!"

What? I actually did not have any idea what time it was. I thought it was 2:30, but it was an hour later.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm a moron."

"Do you expect us to disagree with you?" someone asked.

"No, but I figure if I criticize myself first, then nobody else will be able to," I said.

"Actually," Jim said to Joe, "I think she really didn't know what time it was."

If we were married, this situation might have led to a fight. Sometimes being divorced and friendly is so much easier.

Anyway, the kids and Jim finished up while I changed. Deb, Charlotte and their black lab, Mary Margaret, arrived just a couple of minutes before I came down.

The turkey was delicious, as was everything else. We were all in good spirits.

We gave thanks for health, family, friends and of course good food and a warm, safe place to live. Ben gave the "Al Gordon" speech in honor of my father, who loved to say that despite our country's flaws, it is still the best country in the world.

If the oven were a person, it should have given thanks that we did not beat it to pieces before it finally gave in.

How not to get ready for Thanksgiving

Once you get comfortable on the floor, it's hard to get up.

On the day before Thanksgiving, this is what you do:

First, you get up early...and play tennis. Then, you sit down on the floor and play with the dog.

Then you get comfortable.

Eventually you get up. You run a mile with your daughter. You mention that the dog needs her walk now, but there are no takers. So you walk another mile with the dog.

In the meantime, you decide to clean the oven for the first time in you don't know how many years. You follow the self-cleaning instructions: set both dials to clean, set stop time for three hours and move the bar on the oven from unlocked to locked. After about 45 minutes you decide the smell hurts your throat, so you cancel the cycle. You let the oven cool down and unlock the door.

The door refuses to open. You figure that it wanted to wait the whole three-hour cycle, so you wait until three hours has passed and try again. No luck. You ask son (Joe) to try. He pulls hard on the door, to no avail. You set it on a shorter cycle so it can finish, and then you try again. No deal.

Then you do what any smart-thinking mother would do: You take daughter and hightail it out of there, going to Northampton to do errands and get a Starbucks. When you return, son has read about the problem on the internet, where it says to turn the power switch on and off. No luck. You decide to set it again for another three hours so it can complete the whole cycle without feeling cheated and will then hopefully feel generous enough to unlock itself.

This is where things stand now, at 10 p.m. To my credit, I did do all the shopping yesterday, except for forgetting all of my knives at the butcher shop, where they can be sharpened for free. Joe, who came home Sunday, returned and got them today.

Thanksgiving dinner will take place here, oven or no oven. It will be the three kids and me, our friend Deb and her daughter Charlotte, and Jim, my ex-husband.

Deb, who lives down the street, said we could cook the turkey there if need be. We could use the microwave for reheating Deb's stuffing and Jim's sweet potato casserole...if the microwave worked.

If we do have to make a few trips to Deb's and back, it will end up making a good story.

Thanksgiving came quickly. It wasn't too long ago that I mourned my empty nest when Katie went to college. I spent part of last year dreading her departure, only to realize, after the initial shock, that I was fine on my own. And now, suddenly, they're all back.

Ben rolled in tonight. Katie got here yesterday, and, as I said, Joe came on Sunday. Tonight we had pizza and salad in the den. At one point, everyone was talking at once. The dog, oblivious, snored on the couch. I soaked it up.

They each went their separate ways after dinner. In order to continue not getting ready, I am sitting next to the dog writing this. Next I'm going to check for last night's episode of "The Good Wife."

Then I'll gather up my courage to see if the oven opens.

Whether it does or doesn't, it promises to be a blessed day.

Remembering. Wondering. Thankful.

My mother, Lynne, arranging flowers from my garden four years ago.

Two years ago today, my mother died after a short battle with lung cancer.

Tomorrow, of course, is Thanksgiving.

On Thanksgiving two years ago, I was consumed by grief and by guilt, while also being buoyed by all of the love around me, from my children, family and friends.

Quintessential New Yorkers, my parents always came to our house for Thanksgiving; they loved the mood of the holiday in New England. My mother, with help from the kids, set the table, turning it into a work of art. Distrustful of Western Massachusetts florists, my mother brought a centerpiece from New York.

My mother loved getting dressed up to go out to dinner with my father, Alfred. She also loved wearing sweaters and slacks for Thanksgiving in the country, always with flair.

After that became cumbersome, we ordered the centerpiece from the local florist. When it arrived, my mother sighed, shook her head, took it apart and redid it with her usual flair. She cleaned the silver and ironed the tablecloth, despite my protestations that she needn’t bother. Cleaning up loose stems and leftover silver polish, I got a little annoyed, and then guilty about feeling annoyed. I was glad that she was there, and I had no idea how I'd do it without her.

I could be annoying too. I insisted on going for my traditional Thanksgiving Day run before putting the turkey in. We ate late, so when I got back from my run I felt that I had all the time in the world to stretch and lollygag. Inevitably, my mother would say, “We better put that bird in.”
Yes, Mom, if you say so.

The last-minute preparations were usually chaotic, but eventually we sat down to the feast. My father gave a short speech about being thankful to be in America, the best country in the world despite its problems.

My mother came alone for four years after my father died in 2002. But two years ago, she couldn’t get out of her bed. For most of that fall, Diane and I had taken turns going to New York to be with mom, first in the hospital and then at home under hospice care and with full-time aides. The once-lovely apartment building where we grew up was in shambles, having been caught in the wave of classy co-op developments in New York.


In top photo, Diane, left, and I stand in front of the apartment building where we grew up.
In bottom photo, me, Mom and Diane leave the building for some sort of ladies' outing in 1964.

Working around the mostly elderly rent-controlled and rent-stabilized tenants who could not be made to leave, the developers tore out walls and replaced old pipes, making a big mess and not cleaning up after themselves. Big fat rats scurried up and down the back staircase. There was debris everywhere. And did I say there was no heat? It was illegal, but they chose to pay the fine rather than to spend the time and money to work faster to get the heat going. They did give the tenants space heaters, certainly not enough to heat a whole apartment. My mother spent much of a month curled up under heavy quilts; the one time she did try to get up, it was so cold she just wanted to go back to bed.

I last saw my mother two days before Thanksgiving. I told her I would bring the kids down for the holiday, and we could eat on stack tables in her room. She begged me not to. She wanted to picture me in my own house, not hanging around her bed. I stayed home, planning to turn around and go back down on Monday. She died on Sunday. I cried my heart out, wishing I had gone. But my cousin Joanne and others told me I had given her the gift of letting her be the parent. She had asked me to stay home, and I did what she asked.

I was so attached to both of my parents that I often wondered if I could survive without them. I thought that somehow, when they died, the earth would open up and swallow me. They both lived into their 80s, lived good lives and were sick only for a short time. What more could you ask? No matter how old they are, you want more.

Before my father died, I remember asking a childhood friend how she coped with her father’s death. “You don’t get over it,” she said. “But you get used to it.”

I got used to it. My sister and I leaned on our mother, on each other, on our children and on a whole lot of loved ones. I ran a half marathon. I played good tennis. I did yoga. I drank a lot of water, took care of myself, got plenty of rest. I spent extra time with my mother.

I didn’t get swallowed up by the earth.

I did get cancer. After each parent’s death.

My initial leukemia diagnosis came just about a year after my father’s death.
I relapsed less than a year after my mother died.

With the relapse, was it something I had breathed in from the construction? I doubt you could make a direct connection.

Was it grief, which, both times, created a vulnerability causing cancer to pounce?

The straight scientific answer is that, no, loss of a parent cannot cause cancer.

Still. I am left wondering if there was a relationship. But what happened happened, and now I must focus on the present.

Tomorrow, Joe will put the extra board in the table and help put the tablecloth on evenly. Katie will set the table the way my mother taught her. We’ll take out the turkey that Katie made years ago out of a tiny upside down flowerpot for the body, construction-paper feathers and pipe-cleaner legs. I’ll clean the silver (sigh) and try my best to make a decent flower arrangement, hoping my mother’s hands will guide me. We’ll prepare a small feast. A few friends will come. Ben will deliver what his annual “Al Gordon speech,” in my father’s place.

We will be thankful. We will try to think of my parents’ presence, not of their absence.