Scene: Saint Thomas More Church. Nate is standing on the kneeler. Sandy is seated to his left and Dad is seated to his right. Monsignor Fitzgerald is preparing the altar.
Dad (sotto voce): Oh dear.
Sandy: What’s wrong?
Dad: Nate put his used Kleenex in the collection basket.
Sarah died three years ago today.
The hospital cafeteria sent breakfast to the ICU, for those of us who had spent most of the night keeping vigil. I remember thinking how strange that was, orange juice and a bagel, and the sun coming up, and Sarah gone.
I remember Beth driving me to the rehab hospital to pick up Sarah’s things, and the Irish nurse saying, “Och, and the little one!” (meaning Nate, of course).
And Beth snapping at her, “You’re not helping,” and muttering imprecations under her breath as we waited for the elevator, holding paper bags full of comfy clothes and get-well cards. I had to laugh, in spite of everything.
I can remember everything about that day, but I would rather not. I choose to remember Sarah laughing, standing at the wheel of her parents’ sailboat, holding Nate on her hip.
And I choose to look ahead, not back.
Sarah would have turned 40 today.
As her birthday comes right on the heels of Christmas, Sarah always felt that she had been cheated out of her due. The whole fam damily would come together for nearly everyone else’s birthday, but after the holidays, everyone was just too burned out to muster another celebration. So I always tried to make her birthday extra special. One year, I took her to see the Broadway touring production of Footloose. Man, that was a stinker, but she loved it. I can’t imagine what I would have done for her 40th. Chances are she would have talked me into going to Churchill, Alaska, to visit the polar bears.
I was born a couple of years after Sarah. I am now officially pushing 40, and it is a strange feeling indeed. My son is five already; I’m on my third car. I can get an e-mail from someone I went to high school with, and say with complete accuracy that I haven’t heard from them in twenty years. And our handsome cat, who shares Sarah’s birthday, moves from “mature” to “old” today.
Figaro is 13 years old, by my reckoning. I got him when he was two. My neighbor, Liz, banged on my apartment door and thrust him into my arms. “Congratulations, you just got yourself a cat. The little bastard keeps trying to kill my kitties.” It took a while to train him not to climb inside the Doritos bag whenever it was opened, but we quickly learned to understand each other. He and I have been together for eleven years now. He recently spent a few days in the hospital, having eaten a bit of ribbon. The Christmas Turd used up one of his nine lives and cost me a cool $1200. I hated being put in this position, but I had to decide just exactly how much money I was willing to spend to save his furry behind, before giving him the needle.
It seems he will recover, but it got me to thinking. 13 is pretty old, for a cat. He may have made it through this time, but eleven years have passed awfully quickly. It will not be nearly that long before I can expect him to start peeing in difficult-to-find places around the house. He’s had a good, long life, and I wouldn’t want to see him suffer. He wouldn’t understand chemotherapy, for instance. Cats live in the now.
Which is my point, as it turns out. I wasn’t sure I had one, but I do. Sarah’s life was cut short, but even a hundred years is really not that long… and once you make it over the top of the hill and start down the other side, it goes faster and faster.
Live in the now, at least once a year. Celebrate your birthday. Visit the polar bears.
And don’t eat any more ribbon.
Scene: Fisherman’s Wharf, Monterey, California. There is a six-foot tall wooden sculpture of an ice-cream sundae, advertising an ice cream shop. Dad and Nonna are admiring the many typographical errors in the shop window. Nate is admiring the giant sundae.
Nate: Dad, can I climb it?
Dad: Sure, honey, but don’t lick it.
Nate immediately licks the sundae, and giggles.
Dad (resigned): Nate, do you know why I told you not to lick it?
Nate (confidently): Because it’s made of wood.
Dad: No. Because it’s covered with seagull poop.
Nate: Oh.
Nonna laughs.
Sarah and I had only been dating for four months when she introduced me to her niece, Catherine. Catherine was three years old, and cute as a bug. She kept calling me Tim, and why not? She had known Tim her whole life. Sarah was embarrassed: Tim was Sarah’s ex-boyfriend. I tried to convince her that it didn’t bother me.
The night before Sarah and I got married, we had our rehearsal dinner on the waterfront, at a seafood restaurant called Finz. We had the second-story function room, and as our families laughed and told stories, Sarah pulled her dad away from the party, and brought him over to the window to show him the view. They looked down at the dock and the reflections on the dark water, and she thought, Right there is where I almost told Dad that Tim and I were engaged, years ago.
The first time Sarah heard the Rockapella song People Change, we were decorating the Christmas tree. She paused with a glass ball in her hand, listening to the lyrics, and quietly observed, “This is a really sad song.” It was obvious she was reminded of a bad breakup. It was hard for her to talk about, and I didn’t want to press her on the subject, but I tried to let her know that it was OK that she had been in love before. I was never jealous of her. I was grateful. All of our relationships change us; we learn so much from each other. I loved Sarah, and she would not have been who she was without her family, her friends, and her exes. I loved them all, because they were part of her.
The last time I saw Rockapella perform live was at the Cutler Majestic Theatre in Boston. I brought Nate, who had been listening to a cappella music, and Rockapella in particular, since before he was born. And I brought Sandy. And of course Rockapella sang People Change.
I had to laugh through my tears: isn’t it funny how things change. Now I was the one with a Troubled Past. I squeezed Sandy’s hand, and hoped she would understand.
People change. Life changes. Sometimes people leave you.
But love never dies.
Happy anniversary, Sarah.
When I went to vote on Tuesday, I brought Nate with me. As we walked through the parking lot, we heard singing. A woman was singing. A black woman was singing. She was singing a spiritual—a song of hope and faith. And she was walking slowly towards the polling place.
I stopped to let her go by. I turned to Nate, tears in my eyes, and said, “Remember this. Remember that woman, and her song.”
Of course, he asked why, but I didn’t want to explain the historical significance of the moment. He is five years old, and he lost a big chunk of his innocence when he lost his mom. I don’t think he needs to know about slavery just yet. I don’t know if he could understand. I don’t know if he would believe me.
We have done so very many things to be ashamed of.
He will learn history, in time. But for now, I am proud that Nathaniel has no idea why a black woman voting for a black man should be at all noteworthy. For him, this is the way things have always been.
And I am terribly, terribly proud that I lived to see this day.
It gives me just a little bit of hope for the future.
Scene: Nate’s bedroom, at bedtime. Dad has just finished singing two lullabies and is administering goodnight kisses.
Nate: Daddy, can I please have another song?
Dad: It’s time for bed, sweetie, but we’ll see you in the morning.
Nate: Daddy, can I just have one little hug?
They hug.
Nate: Daddy?
Dad: Yes, my darling?
Nate: How does electricity work?
In the sweltering heat of July, our star magnolia tree has its mind on the future. A tiny little bud appears at the tip of each branch, hidden by the green leaves. As summer draws to a close and fall begins, it drops just a few leaves and unveils the buds, slightly larger now. When the frost comes, the buds grow little fuzzy jackets, to keep them warm through the long, cold winter. Nate and I check on them every night when we get home from school. Fuzzy jackets? Check. Can I pet them? Sure. He gently strokes one with a fingertip, and smiles. He knows what’s coming next.
Winter will be here soon, with the shoveling and the shoveling and the shoveling. But as we always have before, we will wear our fuzzy jackets and keep ourselves warm. And as the last of the snow melts away, the fuzzy jackets begin to unzip, just a little. Nate is right on top of it: “Spring is almost here, the jackets are opening!” Every day, a little more, until finally KABOOM! the tree explodes in a riot of giant pink flowers. The fragrance is intoxicating, and there’s no mistaking it: spring is here again.
It’s such a basic life lesson: change is the only constant. Five little words—”we think you have cancer”—and everything changed for us. When Sarah died, it was March, the beginning of spring in the Northern Hemisphere. It was strange to see the icicles melting and the world coming back to life all around me, when in my heart, it was winter. I kept my fuzzy jacket zipped up tightly.
I was cold for a long time.
But my magnolia tree is a living reminder: winter doesn’t last forever. As 2007 was winding down, and the weather grew colder, my heart began to thaw out. I met a girl, and I asked her to dinner. I introduced her to Nate. And as we all decorated the Christmas tree together, I realized that we weren’t just celebrating our second Christmas without Sarah. We were celebrating our first Christmas with Sandy.
I’ve always known that I do my best writing when I’m miserable. So if you’ve wondered why I haven’t been posting as often, now you know. It’s not just that we’ve been busy, with the road trips, and the vacations, and the fireworks on the Vineyard. It’s the falling in love. I’m happy. We’re happy. And even though I’ll never stop missing Sarah—even though the leaves are falling off the magnolia tree—there are big, pink flowers in my heart.
Sarah was a patient at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. They are, quite simply, the best. I am very grateful that we had that resource available to us.
But chemotherapy is damned expensive, let me tell you. Sarah’s six months of surgeries and treatment cost almost a million dollars. We had excellent health insurance. Many others are less fortunate.
On Sunday, September 21, Nathaniel and I will walk in the 2008 Boston Marathon Jimmy Fund Walk. The Jimmy Fund helps pay for cancer research and care at Dana-Farber.
We are walking to raise money. We are walking to honor Sarah and remember her life. Most of all, we are walking because we believe we can make a difference. If everyone who reads this donates just $10, I will exceed my goal of $1,500.
We walked last year and it was a wonderful experience. I hope to walk again next year.
And I hope to live to see the day when we don’t have to walk any more.
Five years ago tonight, Nathaniel was born.
Sarah had awakened me at five o’clock that morning. I had been up late the night before, assembling the crib, and I thought she was joking when she said it was time. I was not amused. But I quickly figured out that she was serious.
It was a long day. I took a few naps on the chair in her hospital room.
Nate arrived during the night shift change, so we had double the usual number of nurses on hand. The room was a flurry of activity. They bathed him, weighed him, squirted antibiotics into his eyes, and before we knew it, whisked him off to the nursery.
Suddenly we were alone. Sarah looked at me, and laughed. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re tired.”
I looked at the birth certificate. 11:11 PM.
Happy birthday, child. I love you.
Make a wish!