Despite her admittedly dominant talent and repeatedly demonstrated fortitude (more about these qualities later), Julie’s resources are, for the nonce, fully engaged as she undergoes the last portion of a course of chemotherapy — this holiday’s gag gift from medical science. Consequently, gentle reader, you now share with Max’s fourth grade teacher, Sam’s new pediatrician, and the weary but tolerant personnel at the local Dominick’s and Blockbuster the task of coping with my second string efforts.
Julie’s health problems have, in fact, been the most significant and most pervasive factor in our family’s life. Consequently, while the topic seems unseasonably somber for a holiday epistle such as this, Julie and I believe that our friends and family would rather read a letter reporting on her status than receive a few paragraphs of Christmas wishes that avoided the issue. In any case, I view her continued courage and resilience legitimate cause for celebration.
Rather than a document Julie’s detailed medical history, however, I think I can provide a sense of her experience by noting that she has, in the past twelve months, undergone an earlier course of chemotherapy, kidney failure requiring a two week hospitalization (during much of which she was delirious), a couple of months of outpatient hemodialysis, and another five months or so of peritoneal dialysis before beginning another round of chemotherapy in August. The good news is that the current drug regimen appears to be effective and, as importantly, will be completed the week before Christmas. Julie is convinced that Santa Claus appeared not only early this year but also disguised as her nephrologist who revealed to her the mysteries of home dialysis (arguably the most dramatic self-improvement program anyone in this household has attempted) which has, in her estimation, released those six hours a day, three days a week that outpatient dialysis held hostage.
While Julie’s medical adventures reduced her output as an author, she had a gratifying series of successes from earlier work with four stories accepted for publication in 1998. The accomplishment that appears to have most impressed her and her buddies who are writers appeared to have been her being awarded the Pushcart Prize (or, as it always seems to be described in literary circles, “the prestigious Pushcart Prize”). Philistine that I am, I cannot help but note that a newspaper that published another of her stories actually paid her more, a feat which is the sine qua non, in my estimation, of “Most Valuable Publication.”
In the midst of all this, the boys continue to insist on growing up. Sam informed us earlier this year that he, by virtue of turning twelve, met criteria as a “preteen,” while Max, at nine, was still, lamentably, “a child.” Certainly, there are some changes this Christmas. The once coveted Toys R Us catalog was cursorily thumbed through and quickly discarded. Both boys demonstrate a preference for the literary offerings from Sharper Image and Hammacher-Schlemmerer, well-marked copies of which they carry like a talisman in their peregrinations about the house. Innocent pleasures (for example, watching the “Two Fat Ladies” cooking program) are in perpetual danger of interruptions by comments such as “Look, Mom, it’s a CD player, a compass, a hatchet, AND a watch — the world’s only one.”
Sam continues to love rambling in our woods above all things. He makes daily rounds to check where the deer slept last night, to assess how vigorously the creek is flowing, and to greet the neighbors. He has casually mentioned building a fort in the woods, but neither Julie or I have worked up the nerve to reconnoiter this installation.
Max has developed in interest in cooking. His specialty is scrambled eggs for large groups (he likes to start with a dozen eggs). At Thanksgiving he amazed us by carving the turkey using an electric knife which he gleefully described as “kind of like a chain saw.” Losing Santa has not removed the magic of Christmas for Max. In previous years he asked, “What happens if I get up in the night and see Santa Claus?” Now he asks, “What happens if I get up in the night and see you and Dad?” In similar fashion he confronted his grandmother with a request for a boat he had seen in a magazine. It turns out the magazine had the term “Yachting” in the title and that the boat would cost $4,000,00, give or take a brass fitting or two. Grandmother pointed out that, disappointing as must be, her Christmas Club account was still a tad short of $4,000,000. Max, undeterred a whit, then pressed her on the question of whether she would buy the ship for him if she had the $4,000,000. Nonplussed, she haltingly agreed. From my experience, should grandma ever win the lottery, she can expect Max on her doorstep with a captains hat perched on his head.
Early this year, I exchanged my private practice for grocery coupon clipping, serving as tech support for our family’s computers, travelling between doctors’ offices, and time spent with Julie, Sam, and Max. I continue as Medical Director of XXXXXX and have had the chance through that position and a business venture with some friends to obsess about why some folks, when given medical recommendations that are clearly to their benefit, do not follow those instructions. Well — it’s fascinating to me. And I’ve got hours of slide shows, anecdotes, and statistics to batter any doubter’s ennui into a reasonable albeit a tad desperate facsimile of agreement.
While the events of 1998 were not on our Top Ten Things I Want to Experience in the New Year, Julie’s strength has given the boys and me even more reason to love her, we more consistently keep our priorities in order, and we are reminded of the value of friends and family who care.
All that notwithstanding, I will confess to succumbing to the hope for a healthier and less inspirational 1999.
To all our friends, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
