A Profound Typo

While reading the obituaries last week, I came across this line:

“She died after a long ballet with cancer.”

Oh yes, I thought, cancer is more like a ballet than a battle! The dance is long and involved, with many steps, variations and rhythms. The choreography changes sometimes weekly—your dance partners (GP, oncologist, surgeon, pathologist, dosimetrist, chemo nurses) revolve around you in dizzying array. In addition there are the cancer pharmacists to whom you have access when you have doubts about your nausea drug, about how many opioids it is safe to take, what to do about the blisters in your mouth and throughout your digestive tract after chemo. Added to the dance may be the dancers in your cancer support group—other souls going through what you are now experiencing, giving encouragement, advice, holding onto you when you melt into tears. There are pauses in the dance to learn about chemo-brain, about neuropathy in your dancing toes, about whether or not you want to have nipples tattooed upon your reconstructed breasts, or where to go to get your free wig. Then there are the inevitable funerals—the memorial services for those you love who have lost the “ballet.”

Each day the obituaries are there to tell us who we have lost, how young, how hard they fought, (in some cases, how carefully they kept their cancer a secret from the public). Sometimes the stories are about calculated survival, about double mastectomies done to prevent the inevitable before a trace of cancer appears. Famous TV personalities let the cameras into their hospital rooms to trace the ordeals of bone marrow transplants and weeks of chemotherapy. Children with cancer get a boost from the “Make A Wish” foundation. But cancer surely is the shadow that haunts us all. My grandmother Fanny died of “a stone in the stomach,” and my father died at 56 from leukemia that was treated then with the most primitive of medicines, a chemical used in WW Two called “mustard gas.”

My own five year mark comes up in March. I know it is just another day, but I await it like one awaits a precious and desired signal, a signal that says “Yes, you may go on! You may go on!”

 

 

 

 

Welcome and About Me

Merrill-s

Merrill Joan Gerber was born in Brooklyn, New York. She has published thirty books, and is an award winning novelist and short story writer. She has published stories in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Mademoiselle, The Sewanee Review, Salmagundi, The Southwest Review, and many other journals. In 1986 Gerber won an O. Henry Prize. In 1993, she won the Ribalow Award from Hadassah Magazine for her novel, The Kingdom of Brooklyn. She currently teaches fiction writing at the California Institute of Technology.

In these pages you will find my published books: the stories, novels and memoirs whose secrets first began to speak to me when I was twelve, when my father gave me a blank printer’s dummy and inscribed it: ”To Merry, a book to enter happy and interesting events—Dad.” That year, he set up a card table in our cellar and presented me with my first typewriter. There, in the musty quiet under our house, with the fiery furnace roaring behind me, I wrote my first impressions of the nature of life.

Gallery

The photos below are images from my childhood in Brooklyn, to the shores of Miami Beach during World War Two and through the years of my growing up. Ultimately, my passion for writing invited the illuminations and insights that grew with the events of each passing year. The paintings I did came as a surprise to me, in the watercolor class of the cancer support community. Everything, it has turned out, is a story.