BIRTHDAY PARTY
It was 1954. Fran had recently been moved to Bellevue Hospital. Much to the dismay of Leon Lichtman, who had by then operated on her three times and, perhaps intemperate for a sawbones, formed an emotional attachment to her. I transferred Fran from his care at Polyclinic to an experimental treatment program at Bellevue. Meyer Texon, my cousin Amy's physician husband, arranged her acceptance into this very early trial at combating cancer.
Perhaps it was Fran’s youth that got to Lichtman. Perhaps her glowing personality. When I announced my intention to transfer her, he railed at me. “You’re wrong to do this. I know when to let her go!” He was right. The effort was totally unsuccessful except for prolonging her life a few months, hence also her suffering. Still, it may have contributed to scientific knowledge.
They didn’t have single rooms at Bellevue. But a general-purpose storage area at the end of a ward was converted into a cheerful and well-lit room with a large window looking out toward the river. There they administered to Fran a series of experimental drugs we now call chemotherapy. The staff were warm and sympathetic. Allowed me to break all the visitation rules, including sneaking our beautiful daughter Stephanie in on her first birthday, dressed like a pink--skirted doll, Fran was alert enough to enjoy our visit. To hold her hand.
We left while there was still daylight. Stephanie and I were staying temporarily with Fran’s mother, Esther. Returning there from Bellevue on the East Side Parkway I ran into the rear of another car cutting across my bow on the complex approach to the Triboro Bridge. Additional turmoil I did not need in my already troubled life.
Thanks to my dear friend and college roommate Joe Russell I escaped all blame. Joe hunted down the police officer who, while not a witness, had recorded the accident’s tire tracks in his notebook – and I was exonerated. By law, the rearmost vehicle, mine, was responsible for such accidents. But not, it turned out, if the front car was crossing lanes illegally which the other driver had.
Fran’s death came within the month after Stephanie's birthday. Strangely, it was Dr. Lichtman who phoned me the news. Though no longer his patient, he had followed Fran’s progress. And learned she had died from his personal grapevine before they were able to notify me.
There was a funeral. And before it, a religious service arranged by an outlier among the skeptics in her family. Except for stubbornly refusing to stand when we were asked to, I remember nothing about the ceremony beyond wishing everyone would go away and let me grieve. Not that I disown funerals. I remember Fran’s mother, after being restrained from throwing herself into her husband’s grave, giving way to sobs as it was filled. I saw then that covering the casket was equivalent to erecting a permanent wall between her and her loved one. That is what Fran’s funeral did for me.
THE CAREGIVER FROM HEAVEN
A few months later I wanted return with my new daughter to our 7th floor apartment on 228th street overlooking the EL. I needed someone to care for her while I was at work downtown. In the days of classified ads, it was easy to seek help. “Widower needs live-in helper to take loving care of one-year old baby girl, keep house, prepare her meals and dinner for him daily. Weekends off.” A lovely black woman, slightly plump, effervescent, showed up for an interview. She was neat and kind-voiced. Maddie Bragg. She wasn't a professional caregiver . Rather, a successful self-employed caterer. “I read that ad, she told me, and heard God’s voice saying ‘Madie, you are being called. This is something you must do.’” No other applicant was as appealing. For the next fourteen months Madie, frequently aided by Fran’s two grandmothers, was in constant attendance. She adored Stephanie, and Stephanie loved her. The caterer part of her was a bonus. Could she cook!
I was not converted to her personal god, but if anything could have done it, Madie’s presence might have.
Madie departed as swiftly as she arrived. One day she pronounced that her job was done. She kissed Stephanie goodbye with a tear in her eye, hugged me, and left. After that I found a progression of other caregivers, but none shone as she. I didn't stay in touch with her but wish I had.
I began to see friends. These included Murray and Judy Hoffman who lived nearby in the Amalgamated project. Fran had directed the project’s presentation of Oklahoma during her last year alive. Bert was its star. He was a talented baritone, and full of life. While it lasted.
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