By all known measures, I am in remission, and I have a good chance to remain in that condition indefinitely. But I do remember very keenly the December of 2011: Chemotherapy had failed; I was on a treatment regimen of unknown promise; no one had any way to tell what might happen next.
At that point, as I recall, I refused to give much credence to the possibility that I wouldn't see another Christmas, let alone my daughters' respective graduations. A certain amount of denial is not only protective but therapeutic, from what I have read--but who knows how much and when it's time to stop?
Those of us who are cancer survivors, or who have loved someone who has had to deal with it, know the radical uncertainty that a cancer diagnosis introduces. The more fortunate among us are left with the searing awareness that why yes, we all do die, and it may come to pass much sooner than we would like. I daresay, if my own reaction is any guide, that it is relatively easy to lose that acute sense of living on the edge, once a measure of good health is regained.
My younger daughter had two childhood friends whose fathers died of cancer, when the children were late-elementary age. We knew the story of one of them only after he died, at the age of 42. He declined so quickly, the whole family was gasping in disbelief till the end. The other had a couple of good years, then a dramatic reversal. He died in early January, knowing for a few months that his death was not to be deferred very long. Although Thanksgiving had always been his favorite holiday, he was so depressed by his imminent death that he refused to participate in anything the family did that year.
I don't honestly know how I would respond myself, if I were so ill it was clear my time was limited. I devoutly hope I won't find out any time soon; my previous experience was close and vivid enough.
But I hope that I could gain sustenance from what I most like to do for the holidays, whether sick or well. Spending time with those I love; enjoying the holiday lights and decorations; singing at every opportunity; making (and eating) good food--my desires are relatively simple, when it comes down to it.
I can't send cookies to you all except by imagination, so I will share one of my favorite recipes with you instead. I'm Hungarian on my mother's side, and kifli are traditional Hungarian walnut crescent cookies with a rich crust around a mixture of ground walnuts, brown sugar, and cinnamon. My older daughter has clearly lapped me with her cookie-making skills, so the photo I'll post is of her work-in-progress. Ironically enough, my recipe is not from a relative but from a co-worker at my first real post-BA job.
Kifli (for about 3 dozen cookies)
Dough:
2 cups flour, sifted
2 sticks softened butter
1 egg yolk
3/4 c. sour cream (not low fat)
Cut butter and flour together until pea-sized. Add yolk and sour cream, and combine till the dough leaves the side of the bowl. Divide dough into quarters, wrap in waxed paper, and refrigerate for at least 8 hours or overnight.
Filling:
3/4 c. ground (not chopped) walnuts
3/4 c. brown sugar, packed
1 tsp. cinnamon
Mix filling together.
The baked cookies on the rack still need a dusting of confectioner's sugar.
Assembly:
Work with one quarter section of dough at a time. Roll out to a thickness of 1/8" on floured surface. Cut dough into isosceles triangles, close to equilateral (short and wide better than long and skinny). Put 1/4 tsp. or so of filling in the center of each triangle, then fold down two of the corners (to keep the filling in place). Roll the triangle toward the remaining apex. Place on ungreased cookie sheet and brush with melted butter.
Bake 18-20 min in oven preheated to 350°F. Cool cookies on rack, then roll each in confectioner's sugar.
With so many musical riches available at this time of year, it's hard for me to pick favorites. But here are a couple, one long-known and one brand new to me.
We who survive our bouts with cancer long enough to experience the turning of the seasons more than once are likely to find each subsequent year layered with gratitude and humility. Why us, after all, and not so many others? That remains a mystery. Whatever this season signifies for you--if anything at all--I hope that this prelude to a new year finds you in stable if not good health, with the sustenance you need to find pleasure in each and every day.
Monday Night Cancer Club is a Daily Kos group focused on dealing with cancer, primarily for cancer survivors and caregivers, though clinicians, researchers, and others with a special interest are also welcome. Volunteer diarists post Monday evenings between 7-8 PM ET on topics related to living with cancer, which is very broadly defined to include physical, spiritual, emotional and cognitive aspects. Mindful of the controversies endemic to cancer prevention and treatment, we ask that both diarists and commenters keep an open mind regarding strategies for surviving cancer, whether based in traditional, Eastern, Western, allopathic or other medical practices. This is a club no one wants to join, in truth, and compassion will help us make it through the challenge together.