“You dodged me once， kiddo， but I’m back. Refuse to think about me？ Yeah， right. How’s that working out？”
When I come home after Thanksgiving there is food. My friends Sybil and Martin send a cooked chicken and mashed potatoes from the Jefferson Market， because they know I do not cook； my college roommate Christie sends a pound of chocolate with a note， “Eat it all”； my friend Carol drops off her spectacular meatloaf through a year of 13）chemotherapy， just leaving it at the door， because she knows what’s going on. When I have chemo every three weeks Herb comes to my house and sleeps on a blow-up bed， and when he has to go out of town my friend Cheryl comes down to New York from Boston and fills in.
I try to avoid the stats， but there comes a time I have to decide between protocols， so I go to Sybil’s to do research because her computer is faster. These are the early days of the web， the mid-90s； research is harder. The survival rate we measure everything against is five years， though sometimes the reports deal with two. The numbers are bad： 25 percent of patients lived two years on this trial； 20 percent lasted five years on that one.
“So you think you have time for a cup of coffee？” Sybil asks finally. “If I make it instant？”
I am laughing. I am doubled over， laughing. Here is my big insight： You can have Stage 3 cancer but when a friend 14）cracks you up， you are as alive as anyone else.
So here we are 18 years later. Not all of us. My friend Heidi Handman， lost to cancer； my friend Vic Ziegel， lost to cancer； my friend Jack Newfield， lost to cancer； my Aunt Shirley Wadler， lost to cancer. The older you get， the more the losses.