Three Years.

Three years ago.
“Hi I’m doctor Michael Harris and I’m the head of pediatric oncology.”
I wanted to say, “Hi nice to meet you. You’re tall and have kind eyes and surely you are in the wrong room. I feel sorry for whomever you really meant to introduce yourself to.”

But I was alone because Michael was returning from calling the store and there was no cell reception in the room. Instead he was looking at my face while the backs of the oncology team were talking to me. Then as he got close he could read their nametags and see the word ONCOLOGY.

First bad news… the tumors on Sylvie’s liver lobes that filled up her entire abdomen. Second bad news… shadows on both lungs and additional CT scan to immediately follow. I don’t want to rehash things I’ve written about already but for the first 48 hours or until they got the alpha fetoprotein test and tissue biopsy back, they wouldn’t confirm it was cancer although so there was a part of me that really thought they would return and say it was all a mistake. 72 hours later we had our team meeting where we discussed treatment for stage IV (metastatic) hepatoblastoma, chemo, chemo side effects, surgery and the potential liver transplant which Michael and I decided we were not going to tell anyone about. Oh yeah, and dancing at Sylvie’s wedding.

Three.
Years.
Ago.

Sometimes I torture myself by making myself reenact tragic moments like this. I do it because I don’t ever want to forget them. Maybe you’ve heard about or personally experienced posttraumatic amnesia. Not me. Not Michael. I can tell you everything. Doctors’ Red Sox ID card lanyards, the lovely volunteer we called the Bead Lady telling me about her lifelong dream to open a sex toy retail store and hoping Sylvie was not listening so I wouldn’t have to explain, the glare of the lights in the “treatment room” in the middle of the night while they reinserted Sylvie’s NG tube by threading it through her nose, down the back of her throat and into her stomach while she kicked and screamed immediately followed by her shaking down the nurses for a big ticket Disney princess scrolling art thingy that I had already bought her for her birthday and it was waiting for her wrapped at home. I think I would need two-carat diamond studs if someone were to jar me from a deep sleep and do that to me. I remember ninety nine percent of the folks who paid their respects. And lots of bagels. I’ve eaten MAYBE five bagels in the past two years. We are on a bagel moratorium. We try not to ‘break fast’ after Yom Kippur with anyone because the sight of a pile of bagels does not make us happy. And I admit, I also had gestational diabetes during my pregnancy so I now know just how many carbs and just how bad bagels are for you.

I went to the cemetery as I often do. (Michael usually goes on his way home from work). I measured out Sylvie’s height amongst the mini boxwoods that Michael planted because a). He likes plants and shared his passion with Sylvie and b). Perpetual care costs nearly $5,000 every fucking year. Add that up. No really, add that up. I thought about the silk taffeta dress she’s wearing that I was saving for the spring. Her favorite pink cardigan with the flower buttons that she’s wearing in pictures with Megan. Hello Kitty socks, of course. And the black party shoes that look like Chanel flats. I think about all the times I traced the outline of her perfect little eyebrows, bridge of her perfect daddy’s nose, cheekbones. Ryan looks exactly like her so I do that to him, too. I say outloud that she has perfect Chicklet teeth. Then I explain what Chicklets are although Sylvie never had chewing gum. Then I sob. I read “Rabbit’s Winter Walk” which is one of her favorite books. I have two copies. Ryan is going to love it and Spencer will undoubtedly steal it halfway through. I talk about Spencer and Ryan. I sprinkle sparkly beads over the mulch hoping that half will get tilled underneath and the rest will be taken by birds that will make their nests sparkly. Then there will be a Ridgewood Patch article about the sparkly birds’ nests in Bergen County and I’ll silently giggle. I make a mental note to bring a garbage bag next time because I need to clean up the place a little. Sometimes it gets a little Jim Morrison-like. It’s not a shrine. My three and a half year-old daughter is buried there.