Mis“givings”
As told to Roizy Baum
There are many who call our family laid-back. When a new Viktor and Rolf perfume bottle crashes to the floor, we joke about the pricy diffusion wafting through the house. When a haircut goes awfully awry, we declare ourselves sophisticated trendsetters, and a broken dish calls for raucous exclamations of “Mazel tov!” That’s just our way of dealing with the less than exciting things in life.
So last year when Hashem tested our family by having Mom (me) run around for medical diagnoses for a lump she’d discovered, the fun (a.k.a. our family’s way of brightening up every situation) was on.
Now before I continue, I’d like to make an enormous disclaimer and state three things: Cancer is not fun. Cancer is really not fun. Cancer is really, really not fun. Cancer and fun cannot even be cousins. (Oops. I listed four things. Math is not my thing.)
By telling you about the positivity we displayed during our challenge, I am not in any way attempting to diminish the pain that cancer warriors and their families endure. It’s a vicious battle and everyone involved suffers tremendously. It’s the I-wouldn’t-wish-it-on-my-greatest-enemy kind of illness.
There is absolutely no right or wrong way to handle this challenge. This is simply a peek into the way we accepted it, and a story about one of the more humorous bumps in a very bumpy road.
The diagnosis, not kept a secret but not exactly announced on a loudspeaker, eventually became public knowledge. Project Who Knows was going strong. Bizarre comments (“You are sooo lucky. Not everyone is as lucky”), sympathetic nods, sudden street crossings, and excessive tongue-clucking were the language of the world telling us, “We already know.”
If a camp friend called out of the blue, or if a neighbor who had never in a million years exchanged a single syllable with my children started dispensing words of chizuk, my progeny added those names to the Who Knows list. (Of course, there were many times when my kids were convinced they’d received special treatment due to their status, only to later learn that the special-treatment givers had been blissfully unaware of the situation.)
Our policy of candidness was a blessing. I was juggling so many concerns; at least I didn't have to worry about bottled-up emotions bubbling inside a flask holding so much more than it could handle that it was at risk of exploding. My belief in open communication meant that my children constantly shared their thoughts and feelings with me.
During supper one night, in the initial stage of my illness when my appetite was still intact, my children predicted over their sesame chicken and rice what they believed would happen in the ensuing weeks.
“I wonder if my teacher knows already. She’ll treat me like the biggest neb now,” Bluma began as she picked the scallions out of the sesame sauce that glazed the pile of nuggets on her plate.
Sari, my then-twelfth grader, nodded as she served herself some more salad. “So this week we’re probably going to get a Shabbos package from organization XYZ. I remember when Breindy’s brother was sick. They got challos, cakes, and flowers delivered to their house every week. She’d bring the leftover cake to school every week because they sent soooo much.”
“We’ll probably get a toy and game delivery every other week,” Bluma carried on, smacking her lips. “When Yael’s father di-”
A nudge from Sari shushed her immediately. A fleeting fear of death filled their eyes.
Yanky, just shy of seven years old, perked up. “Every week? Is it because I’m learning well?” I patted his cheek and adjusted the yarmulke on his head, silently thanking Hashem for the innocence of the young.
Sari looked up. “Wait until more people find out. We won’t be able to handle all the attention.”
Face flushed, my preschooler walked in right then, fanning three pages of colored paper up and down. “Hellllllooo! Ma, I get to be Shabbos Mommy, ABC girl, and show-and-tell girl all in one week!”
Rani, who’d been sitting quietly until now chimed in. “Ha, Sari is probably going to be valedictorian this year!”
The laughter was at first subtle, but rapidly gave way to a full-fledged giggling attack, making further eating impossible.
The word was out! Time to start handling the overdose of attention.
Chanukah was around the corner and on the minds of all Jewish families. On my mind was a different C-word altogether, treatment in the form of a devil that wiped me out with a vengeance. When I felt I couldn’t be drained any further, it brutally mocked me saying, “Ha, you thought you were weak and nauseous yesterday? Let me show you what I can do today!”
Keeping my eyes open, let alone staying afloat amid the housework, was a daily struggle. Time, now something impossible to keep track of, intermittently reminded me of its existence when, in my comatose-like state, words such as Chanukah vacation and menorah drifted about me. My older and highly capable kids completely took over the running of the house.
There were better days, days further away from the last treatment (although frighteningly close to the next one), when I braced myself to sit up and smile as my children tiptoed into my bedroom with the hope that their mother would muster enough strength to flash them a grin.
A few days before Chanukah found me on the couch sipping a health food store’s entire inventory of energy drinks. I was scheduled for my next dose of chemo right after Chanukah and was hoping that my counts would be high enough for my next chemo session to proceed uneventfully. (Who would ever believe you’d do anything to help a venomous energy-zapper to course through your veins?)
School bag swung low on her shoulders, Sari sauntered in, a bemused expression on her face. “Ma, we’re on Organization X’s list. Bluma’s words of prophecy have come true. There’s a gargantuan Terrific Toys bag loaded with wrapped boxes of all shapes and sizes at the doorstep.”
Completely knocked out, I wasn’t up to thinking of a self-deprecating reply. So I just nodded, thinking, If their mother is incapable of arranging the nitty-gritty details of Chanukah gifts, at least there’s a plethora of wonderful organizations out there taking care of that. I remembered how involved I was in finding the absolute perfect Chanukah gifts in previous years.
Sari’s voice took on a no-nonsense tone, “Ma, I’m calling them to ask them nicely to come pick it up. We manage perfectly well without them and can afford our own Chanukah gifts, thank G-d. Come on!”
The ringing of the phone interrupted our conversation. It was my married daughter Nechama. Sari rushed to answer, beginning her harangue before Nechama could even begin to speak.
“Nechama? Organization X sent this huge package. Like, hello? What do they think is wrong with us? Someone must’ve found it extremely important to report our situation. Perhaps someone noticed Chayala had a runny nose and is nebach neglected?” She did a great job impersonating a meddling middle-aged lady.
Nechama laughed.
“Very funny, Nechama. You’re married, living in la-la land, so it doesn’t bother you. You’re not going through what we are here at home. You know we’re doing everything we can to make sure the house runs well. Put yourself in my shoes—”
“Sari, listen! Listen to me for a sec!” Nechama was practically choking from laughter. “I told you my uncle Gedalia is here from Eretz Yisrael now, right? My mother-in-law always likes to purchase her toys in New York. You know her meshugassen, better deals, better quality.
“Finding a shliach from abroad is no picnic and because Gedalia is flying himself he has a full suitcase to spare. So now for Chanukah she placed this huge toy order to distribute toys to her eineklach. Because the store is near you, she asked me if they can deliver it to Mommy’s house. Do me one favor, please make sure the kids don’t open a thing! Gedalia is coming to pick it up soon.”
So much for Sari’s indignation. At least it gave us one more thing to laugh about.
(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 619)
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