Chapter 61 – Mixed Celebration

On the ninth of October (John Lennon’s birthday) Donna’s chemotherapy began. She had timed it perfectly after the doctor said her hair wouldn’t fall out for a couple of weeks. Although the chemo would compromise her energy level greatly, she would still have plenty of hair for the bar Mitzvah. I knew I would have to take the ball and run with it, but I also knew that Donna would be right there keeping things together as usual. She wouldn’t let a thing like cancer stop her from fully experiencing one of the most important days in her (and my) middle son’s life.

 Donna was scheduled for six rounds every two weeks of what they called the ominous “red” drug. After that she would be tapered down to four rounds every three weeks of the “yellow”. As I said before, the treatment would begin on Thursdays. She would have to come back on Friday to get a shot to replenish the good cells after the red had destroyed everything else (hopefully the cancer cells, too).  This shot was expensive (a hundred dollars a pop even after insurance) and one time she had forgone the shot hoping she could get by without it. Unfortunately, her blood count was too low for the next treatment. It goes without saying that she continued with the shot from then on after that.

That first chemo day a week before Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah, I was beside myself with anxiety (I could only imagine what Donna was going through, but I knew she was keeping a brave face). They sat her down in a vinyl recliner and administered the IV with the “red”. Surrounded by sickly people (some so old that it seemed a shame they had to be subjected to such agony), that I began to lose it. I actually had to leave the room and head for the lavatory to cry. I wanted to punch the paper towel dispenser in a fit of rage, but stopped myself at the last second. It would have caused a disturbance and that was the last thing I wanted to do at a time like that. I washed my face in the sink and returned to my wife’s side.

On the following Tuesday her Mum, Dad and her younger sister Heather arrived from Scotland, and I went alone to pick them up at the airport since Donna wasn’t feeling quite up to snuff to tag along. I told them that their amazing daughter was hanging in there and just needed to rest up for Daniel’s big day in four days’ time. With the arrival of all the out of town guests, it turned out to be a blessing (in disguise?). The distraction of engaging in conversation with Donna’s and my family proved to be worth its weight in gold. Now it was Daniel’s turn to shine and we were spending every waking moment to make sure the event went smoothly. Still, I couldn’t help but think and dream of what sinister incubus had inserted its infected hands into the physiognomy of my wife. How did it happen? How long had it been there? Could it be put in check? These were questions that invaded my mind and I couldn’t let on that they were preying on my conscious and subconscious.

Two days before the Bar Mitzvah, I had emptied my office of all its junk and valuables, ripped up the carpet, rented a professional sander from Home Depot, and began the unenviable task of refinishing the hundred year old wooden floors. All the landlines had to be disconnected (something we hadn’t thought of since the mains were in that room). It was lucky we all had our cell phones to keep in touch with the throngs of people that were arriving and scattered around the Franklin and Nashville area. The floors looked incredible, though, and Donna was as pleased as punch.

October 17^th came at last and we caravanned our way to Congregation Micah, and by 8:30 we had arrived. All the guests began to file in, all except the photographer. Fortunately, we all had our cameras, cell phones and plenty of decent pictures resulted from these devices. At the last minute, Holly, the photographer arrived and had apologized profusely for her tardiness blaming it on the traffic. We took it all with a grain of salt, and before you can say “cheese” the professional pictures were snapped.

Daniel, I must say, was amazing. He spoke clearly and elegantly, reading his Torah portion with a single flub or mumble. I was the proudest father in existence. I looked over at his mother, who was also beaming. She looked so beautiful then, and I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for her after the chemotherapy’s effects reared its ugly face. The least of my worries was her losing her hair. Small potatoes. I had the wig anyway, lying in wait on the Styrofoam head in the bedroom.

After the service, we all went back to the house in preparation for the party which was to be held at a restaurant by the name of Stoveworks in the Factory, a converted mattress factory now a mall in Franklin. This time, instead of a live band, I hired a deejay I found on Craigslist, who did an admirable job until he mistakenly played a rap song with the F-bomb in the lyrics. I didn’t really care, but most of the Christians (and Jews) and some of the stodgier old folks objected. I had to go over and give the deejay a good talking to. Fortunately, he recovered nicely with a few Beatles songs. All was soon forgiven, but not forgotten. I myself had forgotten what it was like in Middle Tennessee, not like L.A. where the f-word was part of the everyday vernacular.

Life tried to continue as normal as possible. Soccer games were played, the boys went to school, meals were cooked (mostly by me, some still by Donna). The week after the Bar Mitzvah, Donna’s hair began to fall out. We had cut it shorter in preparation, but how can one really prepare for something like that? It was thin and straggly when she came out of the bathroom. I said it would be better just to go with the Sinead O’Conner look—completely bald. I got out the electric dog clippers and shaved her beautiful cranium. She actually looked great, and after trying on the wig again, it fit a lot better.

The weeks dragged on after that, and, I have to say, most of it was a blur. I do remember taking Jonathan to Chattanooga in mid-November to visit the college on a Saturday, two days after Donna’s chemo. I don’t know how, but she managed to take the other two boys to their respective soccer games while we were gone. Maybe she was getting used to it? I doubt it, but life continued on in spite of her travails.

By January, I began a new album project with musicians I had met in my usual way—Craigslist. My session leader was a wonderful bassist names Tom D’Angelo who charted out the music and helped me find a studio. Tom was very helpful finding other musicians too. Rudy Miller, who shined on drums and Chris Tuttle, a master madman on keyboards. We recorded at an amazing studio in Antioch called Switchyard owned and operated by Michael Saint-Leon. It was a wonderful, but temporary distraction from the nightmare. I knew that I couldn’t devote too much time away from home, so the sessions were long and spaced at times when I knew it was okay to be away. One of the songs I wrote, called Empty Chair, was taking on new meaning. I contemplated not recording the song thinking it might be tempting fate. I had written the song a year earlier before we even knew about the dreaded disease that would attack my wife some months later. It was really about a relationship going through a hard and incommunicative time. The lyrics of the first two verses and chorus are as follows:

Feel like I’m sitting in an empty chair.

I’m at the head of the table but there’s nobody there.

And it it’s true why do I care,

If I’m sitting here in an empty chair.

Feel like I’m sleeping in a lifeless bed.

And I gave up on this skin I shed.

Who is that man lying in my stead,

With you every night in my lifeless bed?

Life can be sweet, an easy street,

You can take it as far as you can.

Heaven help me help myself to your love again.

Donna was staying positive, I know that, but she really couldn’t hide the worry, especially at night when we lie in our bed. She was keeping a brave face for the boys, though, and I was amazed at how she could do it. I definitely married a strong, beautiful woman. The best decision I ever made, leading to the next three best decisions we both made: Jonathan, Daniel and Morgan Haymer. God bless my family and keep them safe!