friends, all of whom knew and loved me so well—who think of you and pray for you and worry about you. All of these people’s loving energy surrounds you so that you will not feel so alone.
And last, wherever I may go, a part of me will always be with you. My blood flows within you. You have inherited the best parts of me. Even though I won’t physically be here, I will be watching over you.
Sometimes, when you practice your instruments, I close my eyes so I can hear better. And when I do, I am often overcome with this absolute knowing that whenever you play the violin or the piano, when you play it with passion and commitment, the music with its special power will beckon me and I will be there. I will be sitting right there, pushing you to do it again and again and again, to count, to adjust your elbow, to sit properly. And then I will hug you and tell you how you did a great job and how very proud I am of you. I promise. Even long after you have chosen to stop playing, I will still come to you in those extraordinary and ordinary moments in life when you live with a complete passion and commitment. It might be while you’re standing atop a mountain, marveling at exceptional beauty and filled with pride in your ability to reach the summit, or when you hold your baby in your arms for the first time or when you are crying because someone or something has broken your tender heart or maybe when you’re miserably pulling an all-nighter for school or work. Know that your mother once felt as you feel and that I am there hugging you and urging you on. I promise.
I have often dreamed that when I die, I will finally know what it would be like to see the world without visual impairment, to see far into the distance, to see the minute details of a bird, to drive a car. Oh, how I long to have perfect vision, even after all these years without. I long for death to make me whole, to give me what was denied me in this life. I believe this dream will come true. Similarly, when your time comes, I will be there waiting for you, so that you, too, will be given what was lost to you. I promise. But in the meantime, live, my darling babies. Live a life worth living. Live thoroughly and completely, thoughtfully, gratefully, courageously, and wisely. Live!
I love you both forever and ever, to infinity, through space and time. Never ever forget that.
Mommy
3
The Odds
It was meant to be a family wedding. Midsummer 2013, everybody gathered in Los Angeles to celebrate my gorgeous young cousin’s happiest day. I didn’t make it. Josh and I had flown from New York with Mia and Belle, intending to stay about a week. For a month or so before that I had been having stomach discomfort—amorphous, other than that it just didn’t feel normal. Nausea, cramping, and constipation had sent me to a gastroenterologist, but nothing appeared to be seriously amiss. Then, in L.A., I started vomiting violently, and so I got to spend the nuptials in the ER.
A colonoscopy revealed a mass in my mid-transverse colon; the colon was almost entirely obstructed. In the lexicon of diagnoses, a “mass” is way down the list of things that you want a doctor to find inside of you. Even before there had been a biopsy, the doctors were pretty sure that it was cancerous. But they wouldn’t know for certain until they went in.
I will never forget the moment I woke up after my hemicolectomy in the recovery room. Josh was being consoled by Tim, the nurse, and my surgeon, Dr. D.C. He was being told that he had to take care of himself in order to take care of me. Tim asked him if he’d eaten dinner and, before Josh could answer, brought him a slice of pizza from his own dinner. Even in my anesthetized state, I knew something had to be really wrong if everybody was fussing over Josh and not me, the person who had just come out of surgery.
So when Dr. D.C.’s youthful face appeared before me, I croaked out, “Is it dire?” Based on the mood in the room, I fully expected the answer to be yes.
Instead, Dr. D.C. said, “No, it’s not dire.