"I think that very much applies to cancer, to medical situations, and to all aspects of life. You need to learn from history but don't dwell on it. You need to educate yourself, but don't get mired in it. Look to the future. That's what your father would want you to do, I would tell your girls, because that's what he did himself."

.22.

CHRONICLES OF THE LOST YEAR

volume VII

July 13

Dear Friends and Family, The morning sun is s.h.i.+mmering off Snug Harbor this week, and the skies over Cape Cod are as bountiful as the blueberries our girls picked this morning. The clear days and fresh fields are a welcome relief from a long spell in New York marked by "May Gray," "June Gloom," and this year's Summer Solstice, the Cloudiest Day of the Year.

Last week I went to visit a friend I hadn't seen in a while. I sat in his chair in New York's trendy Meatpacking District surrounded by dis...o...b..a.l.l.s, leopard divans, and dolls with pink hair. Michael Angelo (yes, that's his real name) gave me a hug as we talked about the horrendous ordeal that has elapsed since we last met. Then he went to work. It was 5:30 P.M. P.M. on the 365th day of my Lost Year, and I was about to do something I had not done in that entire time. on the 365th day of my Lost Year, and I was about to do something I had not done in that entire time.

I was getting my hair cut.

Twelve months have pa.s.sed since I first learned I had an osteosarcoma in my left femur. During my recent quarterly checkups, I received much good news. There are no signs of cancer in my bones or lungs. My prosthesis is growing nicely into my femur. As Dr. Healey said, "You are on your way to recovery. Truly."

He then added, "But we both know..."

On the sobering front, the chemotherapy has left me with neuropathy in the tips of several fingers. The fibular graft is not fusing to my femur in quite the way we hoped, and I may have to have more surgery to correct it. And my leg is still a burden. We reach this one-year milestone with relief, if not champagne. My Lost Year is over, but my long road continues.

Since April, I have been attending a superb physical therapy facility at the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan. (Its official name, still visible on the uniforms of its employees, is The Hospital for the Ruptured and Crippled. Branding by d.i.c.kens?) I am under the sage, demanding care of Theresa Chiaia, a onetime basketball prodigy who now regularly supervises the care of a.s.sorted Mets, Yankees, and other area divas. On my first visit, she carefully a.n.a.lyzed every stretch, bend, and lift of my leg, then announced, "I think your prospects are promising."

Theresa has me on a strict schedule of exercises, weights, and stationary bike riding. I also work out in a pool and walk on an AquaCiser, which is basically a treadmill with shoulder-high gla.s.s walls that fill with water. It's like strolling in a was.h.i.+ng machine.

The encouraging news is that I am making measurable progress, occasionally walk with only one crutch, and hope to move to a cane by fall. But the truth is that after fifty-two straight weeks on crutches (that's nearing three percent of my life), I sometimes grow weary of the challenge.

Having said that, people often remark that they hope to live long enough to take advantage of a medical miracle. I have lived that long. Twenty years ago doctors would have cut off my leg; even a decade ago, my surgery would not have been possible. That I stand today-and on two legs, no less-is a testament to the skill and tenderness of a great many well-trained hands and minds. Whatever life I enjoy from now on comes entirely from their grace, and for that we will always be grateful.

So how are the girls? Great. Now that the Fourth of July has pa.s.sed, I think we can say with some confidence that Eden and Tybee's April 15 birthday has finally come to an end. Their final gift was a week in California, during which they visited LEGOLAND, made their own dresses in Beverly Hills, and squeezed hand-picked lemons for their first lemonade stand. Their mother, the guru of entrepreneurs.h.i.+p, was pleased with their marketing ac.u.men and their monopolistic control of the playground but was concerned that they underpriced their product, charging only a dime instead of a quarter. One thing they definitely learned: Don't dump your till in the sandbox! Great. Now that the Fourth of July has pa.s.sed, I think we can say with some confidence that Eden and Tybee's April 15 birthday has finally come to an end. Their final gift was a week in California, during which they visited LEGOLAND, made their own dresses in Beverly Hills, and squeezed hand-picked lemons for their first lemonade stand. Their mother, the guru of entrepreneurs.h.i.+p, was pleased with their marketing ac.u.men and their monopolistic control of the playground but was concerned that they underpriced their product, charging only a dime instead of a quarter. One thing they definitely learned: Don't dump your till in the sandbox!

As time came to leave Los Angeles, Tybee announced, "I never want to go back to Brooklyn." Some of this was surely the hospitality we received, but more, we suspect, came from having the undivided attention of her parents. Tybee and Eden are growing up quickly these days. They enjoy running their fingers through my hair and are showing few signs of the trauma they endured. Above all, they appreciate having Daddy back.

Recently, during our nightly game of Bad & Good, Eden's good was, "Daddy is using one crutch now, so I can hold his hand." Tybee followed with this bit of wisdom: "I have so much love in my body for you, Daddy, that I can't stop giving you hugs and kisses. And when I have no more love left, I just drink milk, because that's where love comes from."

How about their mother? A few days before arriving at my one-year milestone, Linda and I reached our six-year anniversary. We grilled on our deck, used our (rarely used) wedding china, and counted our blessings. A few days before arriving at my one-year milestone, Linda and I reached our six-year anniversary. We grilled on our deck, used our (rarely used) wedding china, and counted our blessings.

And we talked.

When I first met Linda eleven years ago, she was strong, dynamic, and charismatic. But she was also, in personality, the least dark person I had ever met. Her outlook on life ranged from thumbs-up to thumbs-sideways. By her own admission, she was unsure around the pained emotion, uncertain around the afflicted friend.

This year has changed that. I have watched as Linda absorbed the pummels and emerged not only with her head unbent but with new dimensions in her heart. There were days when her thumb simply had to point down, and the forced practice was transformative.

"My experience makes me want to reach out to people who are in pain," she said. "Before, I would have been uncomfortable, or unsure of what to say. Now I realize what you say doesn't matter. It's that you say something at all."

Even more, where Linda had always prized self-sufficiency, she now allows-even embraces-her own vulnerability. Particularly for a woman in business, she mentioned, the instinct is to overcompensate, to lead only with strength. But letting people in made her own struggle easier, she said, and in the process made her a more compa.s.sionate leader.

Finally, what Linda appreciated about the last year, she said, was that every decision was simpler. It was easier to say No. In the parlance of modern life, the noise was reduced, the signal strengthened. And as she resumes her own stride forward, her wish as a parent, spouse, and friend is to hold on to a fragment of that lucidity.

To keep the clarity.

And you? A few weeks after I was diagnosed, I spoke to a friend who had undergone a similar chemo routine. He lost most of his hearing, the feeling in many of his fingers and toes, and about 15 percent of his cognitive ability. I was horrified. A few weeks after I was diagnosed, I spoke to a friend who had undergone a similar chemo routine. He lost most of his hearing, the feeling in many of his fingers and toes, and about 15 percent of his cognitive ability. I was horrified.

Today, whatever physical ailments I endure, I am pleased to report that my mind and spirit are unbowed. My blood may have been ravaged, but my lifeblood remains untouched. I am myself.

But I do have scars-and they flare up at unexpected times.

In April, Linda and I attended the bat mitzvah of a friend's daughter, Alison, at the Boathouse in Central Park. Alison's mother sang a song to her daughter. It was called "Parent's Prayer."

May G.o.d give you life, and strength, like Joseph's sons....May G.o.d make you like our parents, our blessed ones.

Like most people in the room, I teared up. But in my case, as my mind turned to our girls and their own life occasions I may miss someday, my tears wouldn't stop. I tried to s.h.i.+eld my face but couldn't. I reached for my crutches and fled the room.

Outside, rowboats were in the lake. Families were enjoying the warmest day of the year. The scene was straight out of Manet. For the first time in weeks, I convulsed with tears. And that's when I realized these emotions would never fully disappear. They will reside in my body forever and return at unforeseen moments. The monster within.

During her bat mitzvah ceremony, Alison had read from the Book of Leviticus. While Leviticus is perhaps the least loved book of the Bible, it also contains the Holiness Code, the highest expression of ethics in the Ancient World. One verse, Leviticus 25:10, is quoted on the side of the Liberty Bell: "Proclaim Liberty throughout the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof."

This line refers to a tradition whereby every seven years, farmers are obliged to give their fields a year of rest, a Sabbath. Every seven sets of seven years the land gets an extra year of rest, during which all slaves are to be freed, all families reunited, and all people reminded to uplift the needy and tend the sick. That fiftieth year is called the jubilee year.

And though I'm still shy of fifty, that tradition perfectly captures this past year for me. I was forced to lay fallow. I took off the trappings of contemporary life-vanity, ambition, pretense-and entered into a sort of parallel time where I was compelled to do things the Bible envisions. Be needy. Be a stranger. Be uplifted by those around me. Be reunited with the ones I love.

My Lost Year was my Jubilee Year.

And the jubilation, such as it was, lay exactly where G.o.d always knew it would: In lying fallow, I became more fertile. In taking pause, I planted the seeds for a healthier future.

Naturally I worry that I might forget what I learned. I might slip back into the easy tug of whatever vices attract. Having taken off those old clothes, I am tempted to pull them out of my closet and resume my old life as if nothing happened.

But far beneath those clothes I have a lasting reminder of where I've been. In the Book of Genesis, Jacob wrestles with an angel one night and comes to a standstill. The angel leaves a mark on Jacob's thigh to commemorate his struggle. Forever after Jacob walks with a limp.

I, too, have a mark on my thigh, and though mine is far less lofty, it's a permanent sign of the wrestling I've endured. Touch it, and it takes me back to the darkest moments of despair and the brightest moments when others came to uplift us.

A few days after the bat mitzvah, Eden came crying to the side of our bed late one night. Monsters had come into her room and tried to take her stuffed puppy, Do-it. "The best way to get rid of monsters is for us to work together as a family," I said. "Would you like me to sleep with Do-it tonight? That way, when the monsters come, I'll say, 'No, Monster, no!' And they'll go down the stairs, out the door, and leave us alone."

Again we had stumbled into a poignant metaphor for our lives. Monsters came into our home last year. They kept us awake for many months, but we worked together as a family, and, for now at least, they've gone down the stairs, out the door, and left us alone. We still shake occasionally in their wake. We have no guarantees they won't come back. But if they do, we know that the most effective defense we can muster is the best offense we have: to work together as a family.

Thank you for joining our family this year. Thank you to the friend who sent a postcard every day. To the friends and relatives who sent notes, bits of beauty, and ca.s.seroles. To those who pushed the swings, repotted the plants, and dried our tears. To those who just read these words, thought for a second, or prayed.

And as this year closes and these letters grow further apart, we turn our thoughts to you. May you find an ounce of jubilation in your own pain, may you enjoin your own fears, "No, Monster, no!," and may you drink from a bottomless gla.s.s of milk and remember where love comes from.

And one of these days, please, may you take a walk for me.

Love,

.23.

TAKE A WALK WITH A TURTLE

THE OPENING LINE OF THE tune "Danny by My Side" captures the fantasy. "The Brooklyn Bridge on Sunday is known as lovers' lane." A soldier in tune "Danny by My Side" captures the fantasy. "The Brooklyn Bridge on Sunday is known as lovers' lane." A soldier in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn A Tree Grows in Brooklyn expresses the lure. "I thought if ever I got to New York, I'd like to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge." expresses the lure. "I thought if ever I got to New York, I'd like to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge."

It was called "the future of civilization" by its builder, "the grandeur of its age" by a booster. "Babylon had her hanging gardens, Nineveh her towers, Rome her Coliseum," crooned a congressman. "Let us have this great monument to progress."

And for me, in its 126th year, it was the rainbow at the end of my storm.

"Come on, girls," I said one morning. "We're going to take a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Yippee!" Tybee shouted. "Can we bring a compa.s.s?"

"Hooray!" Eden echoed. "Can we have a picnic, too?"

TWO HOURS LATER WE were out the door, after one crying fit, four changes of clothes, three lunges of sunscreen, and at least one bellowed threat that there would be no special treats for the rest of their lives. Maybe someone should warn all those lovers on the bridge. Some monuments defy improvement: Four-year-olds are never-changing. were out the door, after one crying fit, four changes of clothes, three lunges of sunscreen, and at least one bellowed threat that there would be no special treats for the rest of their lives. Maybe someone should warn all those lovers on the bridge. Some monuments defy improvement: Four-year-olds are never-changing.

And just when you think you've maxed out on exasperation, they save themselves. As we pa.s.sed Walt Whitman Park and turned onto the bridge, Tybee looked up at me with her perfect ponytail and said, "Daddy, can you tell us how the bridge was built?"

From the beginning it was shadowed by sorrow and symbolized rebirth. Conceived in the wake of the Civil War, the longest suspension bridge in the world would link the human hive of Manhattan with the backwater of Brooklyn and prove that science could trump human misery. Engineer John Roebling promised one additional feature, the first-ever elevated promenade, which would allow "people of leisure, and old and young invalids, to promenade over the bridge on fine days, in order to enjoy the beautiful views and fine air."

Roebling knew something about misery. An immigrant from Germany, he held seances with his dead wife while designing the bridge and died himself before construction began when a ferry crushed his toes, giving him teta.n.u.s. His son, Was.h.i.+ngton, who took over, came down with a crippling case of the bends while working on the bridge underwater. He was forced to spend the final years of work confined to his home in Brooklyn Heights, unable to read or talk, staring at his masterpiece through an eyepiece. Twenty people died during the decade and a half it took to construct the bridge.

But the bridge also symbolized recovery-for invalids, bereft New Yorkers, and the nation alike. "The shapes arise!" said Brooklyn resident Walt Whitman.

The Brooklyn Bridge embodied for its contemporaries what it became for me: a symbol of affirmation, an arc of renewal.

A parabola of open road.

AS WE CLIMBED THE ramp toward the first tower, we settled into our familial gait. Tybee and Eden flanked Linda, skipping, jumping, and practicing their "rock star" poses, a series of Mick Jaggerlike contortions that involved c.o.c.king their hips, flipping back their hair, and flinging open their arms, as if to say, "Aren't I fab?" I was bringing up the rear on crutches. ramp toward the first tower, we settled into our familial gait. Tybee and Eden flanked Linda, skipping, jumping, and practicing their "rock star" poses, a series of Mick Jaggerlike contortions that involved c.o.c.king their hips, flipping back their hair, and flinging open their arms, as if to say, "Aren't I fab?" I was bringing up the rear on crutches.

Soon enough our singer-songwriters had made up a tune: We're walking across the Brooklyn BridgeOur daddy has st.i.tches and a scarWe're walking across the Brooklyn BridgeDon't worry, it's not that far!We're walking across the Brooklyn BridgeAnd singing just like a rock star!

Since walking was the first thing I lost when I got sick, I spent much of the months that followed contemplating this most elemental of human acts. Walking upright, or bipedalism, is considered the threshold of being human, the skill that most distinguishes us from our ancestors. It's also immune to improvement. Ever since humans began walking four million years ago, the act has been essentially unchanged. Every step, my physical therapist observed, is a tragedy waiting to happen: You nearly stumble with one leg, then catch yourself with the other. It's a constant struggle against gravity, clumsiness, and misfortune.

But walking can also be the source of meaning. As long as humans have wors.h.i.+ped G.o.ds, they have walked to get closer to them. In the Bible, the greatest spiritual breakthroughs occur when the heroes are on journeys: Abraham going forth to the Promised Land; the Israelites crossing the Red Sea; Israel being dispatched to Babylon. From the Haj to the Stations of the Cross, the greatest pilgrimages involve walking. And many pilgrims purposefully make their gait more arduous-with bare feet, awkward clothing, or pebbles in their shoes-in order to slow their pace even more.

Now I understand why.

The simplest consequence of walking on crutches is that you walk slower. Every step must be a necessary one. In my case, the propulsion and pain were distributed throughout my body, from the pinch under my arms to the tingling of my toes. More than bipedal, walking on crutches is full-bodied. Along the way, it makes you more human.

For starters, the act of disrupting your pace brings you into contact with more people. We weren't fifteen steps onto the bridge before a group of men said to me, "Whoa! You're doing this on crutches?! Good luck!" It also creates a bond with others who are slowed, disrupted, or struggling with their own displacement. You develop a citizens.h.i.+p of the estranged. In just the few days before our crossing, I quipped with a businessman in a knee brace, offered to trade maladies with a man in a neck brace, and patted the back of a woman in a walker.

At the risk of admission: I was never nicer than when I was on crutches.

During a visit to New York in the years before the bridge was built, Mark Twain described a desert of solitude, buzzing with impatient hurriers. His portrait captures most people I know today. "Every man seems to feel that he has got the duties of two lifetimes to accomplish in one, and so he rushes, rushes, rushes, and never has time to be companionable-never has any time at his disposal to fool away on matters which do not involve dollars and duty and business."

Few things rupture this tempo more than the inability to hurry. And the interruption becomes an invitation. Stripped of status and authority, the invalid becomes open to community. Going fast, you head only for your destination and inevitably arrive alone. You a.s.sert yourself on the world. Going slow, you allow yourself to encounter your surroundings and invariably arrive helped along by strangers.

You discover.

In the 1840s, when walking was just becoming a source of recreation across Europe, a new type of pedestrian appeared in Paris. He was called a flaneur, one who ambled the arcades and strolled the parks in a silent labyrinth of observation and leisure. One emblem of that idleness was the fas.h.i.+on among flaneurs to take a turtle for walks and let the reptile set the pace.

As a paean to slow-moving, I love this notion. And it seems particularly appropriate for the Brooklyn Bridge, which has its own history of Noah-like crossings. The first person to ride across in a carriage took along a rooster; cattle were charged a nickel to cross in those days, sheep and hogs two cents; and soon after the bridge opened, P. T. Barnum herded twenty-one elephants across the main thoroughfare, before deeming it satisfactorily solid.

Above all, I could relate to the flaneur's commitment to the measured tempo. The single most common shard of wisdom I encountered in my excavations of fatherhood-from my grandfather's tapes to my father to my surgeon-was, "Don't be in a hurry." Slow down.

Take a walk with a turtle.

And behold the world in pause.

AND EVERY ONCE IN a while, stop entirely. a while, stop entirely.

We reached the apex of the bridge. It was just before noon. Eden wanted to eat her picnic immediately, while Tybee was more interested in ogling the joggers wearing no s.h.i.+rts. "Daddy, when are you going to take your s.h.i.+rt off?" she asked. We found a sheltered spot against the face of the tower and spread out bagels, cream cheese, fruit, and milk. A grape rolled through a gap in the planks onto the cars pa.s.sing beneath us, and Tybee wondered if she could squeeze through and retrieve it. "I think I would have to be very tiny," she said.

"Girls, guess what?" I said. "After lunch, I have a surprise!"

"Oooh, cupcakes?!" Eden cooed.

"No, not something to eat," I said. "Something to do."

Whitman, himself a well-known walker, frequently crossed the river from Brooklyn to Manhattan. His sentiments to those who might cross after him were the same I would speak to my daughters were they to cross someday without me.

Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt; Just as you are refresh'd by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh'd...

These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you.

Above all, I would urge them to cross as often as possible, and be able to say, as Whitman did, "I too lived lived."

When our picnic ended, we packed away the half-eaten bagels and empty grape stems. "I wonder what Daddy's surprise is!?" Linda said. The girls rubbed their hands together. The cyclists and joggers were zooming past us now, blowing whistles to frighten pedestrians from their path. Teenagers were posing for cell phone pictures. An artist hawked charcoal drawings. Sat.u.r.day noon was rush hour on the Brooklyn Bridge.