I think my jaw literally dropped open when my Uber pulled up to the house. I hopped out in my tuxedo, grabbed my bag, and, as the Uber drove away, found myself staring at a completely unexpected variation on the Gift of the Magi story—the walkway to the front door was covered with a red carpet.
Amy and I had shared a special connection since the night we met. Sometimes it was almost uncanny. Amy (and her mom!) were blown away by my having worn my tuxedo. Her reaction was sweet and loving. She was so happy.
Of course, along with the profound gratitude that we were still together to celebrate moments like these, we both contended with the constant unspoken fear that each might be the “last . . .”
On Amy’s birthday, April 29, 2016, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I had to let it spill out on paper in a letter to her:
When I was at Anshe Emet as a boy, we had a crew called “The 51ers.” Dave and Jeff were in it. Now, you and I form our own gang. The New 51ers, you and me at 51. And boy am I honored to be in this union with you.
To say that 50 was a brutal year is quite the understatement. Who knew what Rabbi Kudan meant when he said “in sickness and in health”? When we were 26 and getting married, certainly we did not think ahead to what came our way in 2015/16. Maybe we thought about comforting each other when we got the flu or had knee surgery. Not this.
I know people—you included—give me credit for helping you through surgery, chemo and recovery. Honestly, I could not have acted any other way. I just did what I know how to do. You, on the other hand, accepted this challenge in typical Amy fashion, “textbook” even. Who goes through chemotherapy and works 16-hour days? Amy. Look back. You never complained, ever. Today, we officially close this chapter and move on.
Because you are who you are, there is so much to look forward to this year. Is it cliché to say “You deserve it”? Well, whatever you believe, having a book in the #1 position on the New York Times bestseller list is quite an accomplishment. I mean, really, Margaret Wise Brown, Eric Carle, Mo Willems and AKR. Good company indeed. What a way to start your 51st year!
August 9th.* That certainly is also something to make your 51st year pretty darn exciting. It already is making things so exciting for you. I share your utter enthusiasm and anticipation for this process and all that comes with it.
I am so, so happy to be celebrating this day with you. Any occasion to honor you, I accept. I look forward to sharing so much with you, Amy. You make my life so full, so interesting, so loving, so fun and so fulfilling.
I just love you so very much.
Love, Jason
8
One Last Bash
I could be yours so true
I would be, I should be, through and through.
—Nick Drake
As life would have it, we had more to celebrate in the summer of 2016 than we’d dared to imagine—we got the news after the conclusion of her chemo treatment that Amy was in remission.
Our relief and excitement levels were off the charts. It’s funny, even with the intensity of everything we’d been through, and the severity of Amy’s disease, we briefly shifted from stressed-out overload into elated optimism.
Amy fell in love that summer with a Justin Timberlake song called “Can’t Stop the Feeling.” Her taste was normally a bit more solemn: Nick Drake, Elliott Smith, and Badly Drawn Boy come to mind. We decided to throw a celebratory dance party with that song as its theme. It was a euphoric multigenerational gathering, our kids, our friends, and their kids, eating and drinking and dancing the night away in our backyard. Amy was spectacular—who else just north of fifty could pull off a lime-green Soul Train–worthy one-piece? We toasted her, our friends and family, and life in general.
Then we went in for Amy’s follow-up appointment and scan.
Courtesy of Brooke Hummer
The scan showed that the malignancy was back, in her liver and her lymph nodes.
Our world came crashing down again.
Amy’s medical team strongly recommended immunotherapy, which apparently borders on being the new normal in the treatment of many cancers. She started the protocol right away. The doctors were encouraging, and we let some cautious optimism creep in again.
Paris was with Amy in Chicago, and Justin returned to California, where he’d just moved. Miles was about to start his senior year of college, and the plan was that I would drive him and his belongings to Atlanta, about an eleven-hour journey. On August 17, 2016, a few days before we were scheduled to leave, Amy was admitted to the hospital. She was experiencing shortness of breath, and her blood pressure was an alarming, life-threateningly low 86 over 68.
They were able to stabilize her fairly quickly, but Miles and I were already talking about alternative plans to get him to Atlanta. Amy wasn’t having it. I was taking him back to school, period, drive carefully, buh-bye. She desperately wanted as much normalcy for the kids as possible through this awful chapter of their and our lives. It would give her a sense of peace knowing they were doing “what they were supposed to be doing,” and in Miles’s case, that meant starting his senior year on time, keeping up with his coursework, and graduating right on schedule.
So Miles and I set out on our road trip.
Our white Ford was packed to the gills with Miles’s belongings as we set off for our marathon journey. It seemed like yesterday that he, Amy, and I had taken this exact same pilgrimage to see our middle child off to the beginning of his college career. Where did the time go? What had I worried about back then that I thought was a big deal? Had I appreciated every precious, simple moment, when we were all so happy and healthy, as much as I should have? Probably not, without something like our current circumstance to compare it to. And now, if Amy weren’t surrounded by family and more than competent health-care providers in the hospital, could I have even brought myself to pull out of our alley, let alone travel eleven hours away? Probably. But only because she was right, it wouldn’t do either of us any good to have such an important time in our kids’ lives turned upside down by something they couldn’t do a thing about.
Miles and I were approaching Nashville, roughly the seven-hour mark, when we got the call from someone in the family. I don’t remember who. I just remember what they said: Amy wasn’t breathing well. She might not be able to breathe on her own. Her doctors were thinking of intubating her, and they might have to put her in a medically induced coma that she might or might not come out of.
Message received. Loud and clear.
Thankfully, I was vaguely familiar with the area and the stretch of interstate we were on, and I knew we were close to the Nashville airport exit. We were there in minutes, veered off at the exit, and floored it into the airport entrance.
For the first time in my life, I chose the valet parking lane at the airport and screeched to a stop in front of the attendant. Miles and I jumped out of the car—it was packed from floor to ceiling with Miles’s belongings—and I handed over the keys.
I explained the situation as quickly as humanly possible. “My wife, this young man’s mother, is in the hospital in Chicago. We need to get on the next plane immediately. We have no idea when we’ll be back.”
Miraculously, I could tell by his nod and the look on his face that he understood. I owe that man a lot more than the thank-you and the tip I gave him.