36 Candles

It snowed last night (still is). I am listening to Lori McKenna’s Bittertown. I had a piece of C’s birthday cake with ice-cream and coffee with cream for breakfast this morning.

More years than not, I have awakened around 3 A.M. on this day. I lie awake for a few minutes and wonder at what I will never know and because I never will, have reconstructed into short stories, novels, poetry over the last however many years of consciousness. There are no pictures from this day so long ago, no snapshots of birthdays or “firsts.” My only conclusion is that he must have been in them somewhere, perhaps his back, or part of his face, an arm or hand, so she removed them entirely, along with any memory of such things by which to answer my questions. The few pictures of my hood I stole from her. I was an adult and visiting. She was already in bed for the evening; E, five months old and full of her mother’s milk, was contentedly asleep next to me in the guestroom. I spied the basket in which she tossed all snapshots. I dug through them for hours, excavating only 13 from the hundreds. I fell asleep exhausted, angry, feeling only slightly guilty from my theft of the pictures that were safely ensconced in the bottom of my luggage.

Now, onto less melancholy things. A gift from you to me: Tell me your favorite Top 40 Hits from the past 36 years. You can give me all 36, or just 12, or only 1. Your choice. I am going to post mine later today.

It can be done

There is still one hour and fifteen minutes left.

Beneath my banner is a button for the April 1st Commentathon for Breast Cancer, hosted by Greg in memory and honor of his wife, Cheryl. No matter my investigation, I can't see it though I am told that everyone else can.

I find it quite ironic and surreal that I have read so much about this woman's life and her death; her loves and triumphs; her strengths and the one thing that finally overwhelmed her body, but not without a tragic and Herculean effort to overcome, and just like her person, I am unable to see this banner in real time.

She is like a character in a well-written novel, when you reach the last page of the last chapter, you want more but mourn that there will be no more, no sequels, no more stories that empty your eyes, and split your sides, and pull your own heart out through your chest, forcing examination of things hidden and things treasured.

I am sure that each woman that reads through the tomes of Cheryl that Greg has meticulously collected and views the touching, sometimes funny photos in the image gallery, feels as if she would have been one of Cheryl's close friends. I attribute that connectedness to Greg's writing of his best friend, his lover, his partner in life. In presenting her as a human being, in sharing the intimacies of her fight against her body's rebellion, he has shown her to be uniquely herself, and yet presented her as every woman. Who wouldn't take the route that she choose, disallowing depressing talk, deeming it as aiding and abetting the enemy?

The story that he unfolds isn't just about her; however, but is inclusive of his own anguish, his own fears, his own fight for his beloved. I once queried Greg as to the number of male readers, guessing it be low. He approximates it at about ten percent of the readership. Through the display of his quieted and private fears as together they make decisions about Cheryl's treatment, he admonishes strength, requires fortitude of himself, and the men who read. In the ensuing questioning of the choice of such treatment, treatment that extended Cheryl's life, but did not, indeed, preserve it, he compels honest examination of the decisions that they made, and the support he lent his wife in the pursuit of her life, and how much he should have objected or demanded, or not done, or should have done.

I simply can't imagine not being here to see my daughters grow into women. The thought of facing it pains me. The fortitude with which Cheryl fought cancer from stealing their mother from her daughters, his wife from her husband, their daughter from her parents, the sister from her sister, the friend from her dearest friends, is astounding, inspiring, and so very sad.

Greg doesn't seek sympathy and that pity that comes from trite words, although he knows the intention of most people is to be kind. He seeks to find some resolution to his frustration, his sadness, the missing of his lover and best friend. He knows that there will never be a time when he doesn't think of her, and by writing hopes to ensure that no one else will either forget her luminous beauty that transcended physicality; that no one will forget her dogged determination to defeat the disease that sought to consume her.

The thing is, Cheryl wasn't just a well-developed character in a book. Her life, and her death were very real. Help do something about breast cancer. You don't have to run a marathon, a 10K, or go door-to-door, though all of those things are profitable. Go to Greg's site, California Hammonds, as soon as 12:01 A.M. PST and leave a comment. You may say as little or as much as you wish, but just do so. Cheryl was 36 years old when cancer finally devoured her body; it took five years. It will take you less than a minute to comment- less than a minute.