Party
January 1, 1999 I had
a party, the first party I have held in 22 years. It was my
husband’s idea; he thought it would cheer me up. He had been
suggesting it for several weeks until I finally said yes, a
whopping ten days before the prospective event. That gave us ten
days to clean the house (which, after eight months of cancer
treatment, could qualify for a Disaster Relief Fund), cook, and
invite enough people to ensure an assemblage of
revelers.
I started recruiting guests
that day. “Hi, we’re having a Thank-Goodness-1998-Is-Over Party,
and you’re invited!” I asked craftspeople at the Hollywood
Farmers’ Market, customers, friends. I got home and spent four
hours of the next two days calling people, and about an hour a day
for the next week. I invited all my cohorts at the gym, three of
my health care workers, and everyone who had in any way helped me
get through this past horrible year.
Then I invited
friends whom I had not spoken to in a while, people who did not
yet know I had breast cancer. Those were the hard calls. It
wrenched my gut every time I told someone and heard the crying
silence on the other end of the phone. “Come to my party,” I would
say feebly. “We are celebrating.” After a while, I just couldn’t
make any more of those phone calls, so some friends were never
contacted although I would have dearly loved to see them.
In all, I invited 40-50 people. 15 showed up.
Some of the non-attendees had legitimate reasons (pre-planned
family vacations, difficulty in bringing small children) and two
called the day of to apologize for being sick. I didn’t
necessarily expect everybody to come, but some people who I was
sure would want to share this day, severely disappointed me with
their absence.
People who had
repeatedly asked what they could do to help when I was ill, were
somehow unable to make a commitment if I was going to live. In the
ensuing weeks I heard excuses — didn’t feel like driving, decided
to go to the beach — that told me who my friends are. Two
different no-shows actually had the gall to ask for invitations to
next year’s party. I wanted to scream, Don’t you get it? This party
was to celebrate my survival from cancer, to mark the end of the
shittiest year of my life. If I need another party like that next
year, I’ll probably be too dead to have it. But I held my tongue and smiled — even illusionary friends can
be a comfort when times are really rough.
Fifteen people
showed up, and I was grateful to every one of them. It was a
wonderful party. My husband and I spent ten solid days cleaning
and two days non-stop cooking, but it was worth it. Every inch of
our house was immaculate enough to perform surgery. We ate
leftovers for three weeks. Most important, my friends came to show
their love and support in what had been a very difficult and
harrowing year.
I will send out announcements: Don’t bother
coming to my funeral if you did not attend my party. Don’t weep at
my grave, don’t make maudlin speeches. The time I need you is now.
Affirm my life, affirm my joy. Dance, sing, enjoy my
food.
Please come to my
party. I am celebrating my life.
Bio: Meredith Laskow penned over 300
poems and essays as a teen and young adult, but then stopped
writing completely for twelve years until she was diagnosed with
breast cancer. In the summer of 2000 she joined a poetry critique
group and started reading her work in public for the first time in
almost thirty years. She began sending her work out for
publication five months ago, and has what she thinks is a good
rate of success. She has promised herself to publish her book "The
Breast Cancer Papers: A Personal Journey" by the fifth anniversary
of her cancer diagnosis. Ms. Laskow lives in Orange County,
California, where she works as a contemporary/ethnic jewelry
artist, selling her creations in galleries and craft fairs. She
also volunteer teaches an exercise movement class for breast
cancer survivors. She is a certified gym rat and is currently and
forever painting her house. You can contact Ms. Laskow at the
following e-mail address: meredithbead@netzero.net
