Don died seven years ago today, five days after entering hospital, eight weeks after being diagnosed with neuro-endocrine cancer.
Last winter, after suffering debilitating emphysema, my mentor and favourite professor died, leaving in her wake a devoted husband and adult son.
A few weeks later, my best friend from high school, Sandy, called to tell me that her breast cancer had migrated to her brain.
In March, our dog of seventeen years died suddenly, followed closely by Edith the goldfish. (Please don’t laugh. That dear little fish, my faithful desk companion, meant the world to me.)
Last spring, at the age of thirty-two, my middle child (Don’s third) and older son, Pablo, was diagnosed with Type II atypical meningioma. A few weeks later, he had surgery to remove a large benign brain tumour, signalling the beginning of weeks of radiation and drug therapy, which subsequently caused their own sets of problems.
A few weeks prior, my first boyfriend, Homer, who is from Jamaica and who has long lived in Florida, called to tell me that he had undergone radical surgery for prostate cancer. He, who never failed to contact me at Christmastime, has been silent, absent in fact, for several months.
Last fall, at the age of thirty-four, my oldest child and only daughter, Sarah, was diagnosed with primary lung cancer, which has since migrated to her brain. She is combating what her respirologist calls the fight of her life, and she is doing so more valiantly and energetically than most people could comprehend.
A few weeks ago, our beloved cat Boots, the eldest and most obstinate, and Sarah’s first pet [later inherited by her parents], died after a short battle with cancer. (I think he knew how complicated it was for us and travel, what with Sarah ill.)
It has been an odd year – a year of mourning and memories, a year of lessons.
What I have learned from – what I pay homage to – on behalf of Don, Sarah, Pablo, Fran, Homer, Sandy and the pets – what I chiefly remember, is this:
• That the last week of his life, magnanimous Don was still writing notes telling me how much he loved me; how happy I had made him; how much he was going to miss me; how much fun I had brought to his life.
• That the last weeks of Don’s life were spent with our small family, talking, laughing, watching funny movies and old television comedies, Don never complaining, still getting up at 5 AM to dutifully sit at his desk and tend to office matters; asking for small treats from the store, which he could no longer eat, still optimistic that he would get well and at the same time not afraid of – not sharing whatever fears he might have had of – dying.
• That a professor who in the beginning barely knew me, sent letters of encouragement, telling me what an asset I was to the university, urging me to pursue an English degree despite my late start, sending out possibilities for my future.
• That this same woman who, when my life changed, did not judge me, also shared in the loss of my husband, and never failed to send me notes and cards and cheerful letters about her comings and goings.
• That a best friend from grades seven through ten (before she moved away) saved my young life, the two of us resolving to a pragmatic obliviousness...away from alcoholism, abuse, and abandonment, all the kinds of things that turn lonely children into child abusers, drug users and serial killers.
• That a first boyfriend, who taught me how to be a sister and girlfriend in a world without family, remained in my life all these years, despite our not having seen one another in decades.
• That a son, afraid for most of his life of the dark, fought against pain, potential blindness, loss of taste and smell and coordination, loss of life, by remembering in his less painful moments how to have fun and how to be a father.
• That a daughter, suddenly cut down and lopped off at the knees, maintains hope, laughter, pride, parenting and a strong sense of the future.
So much can happen in a year. Even more can happen in seven. I remember that I broke a mirror right after Don died, and stooping over to pick up the pieces of glass I reminded myself of what my lovely superstitious mother would have said.
Life is truly what you make it; how you choose to view it; what a person sees as opportunity and loss.
When I think of Don I remember how generous he was; of Fran, how she made people laugh; of Homer, how he worked his entire life aimed toward an ability to cope; of Sandy, how grateful she was to have had what she called “all those extra years”; of the dog and cat, how patient and affectionate they were even when they must have felt their worst; of that chatty little goldfish, following me on the keyboard with her shiny eyes; of Pablo, spending the greater portion of his life afraid, but never balking in the face of greater pain; of Sarah, getting up every morning with a smile on her face, assured that she will once again be well.
There are many things in life I most certainly regret, not merely for myself but clearly for the people that I love. And when I examine what I suspect is the finiteness of my life, of all our lives, I am afraid. But even in those moments when I am most afraid, I try to keep within my heart and head – in memoriam – the lessons I have learned.
As Don once said to me, and later wrote, “It’s life, not death, that life’s about.”
Here, then, to life, and to all the people who make up that life, before and after.
In loving memory of Don Ives, October 15, 1952 to January 19, 2004
Little Glass Of Wine