Chapter Four

One Big Happy Family

It was those last few months before Hope’s fast decline that are so valuable to my two sons and me. It’s truly remarkable how an intimate tragedy can coalesce into a warm, memorable experience.

By mid-August, Hope’s cancer had entered her right thighbone, extremely rare for ovarian cancer. The chances of survival for her and our partnership were waning. The Divine seems to sense when further intervention is required. A week or so after Hope’s cancer entered her bones my work life was shattered. I was a principal in an international construction company, running one of the largest, if not the largest, residential divisions in the United States. We had new management, and many of my executive peers had left the company by this time. I was one of the last few remaining executives from the old regime, and I didn’t entirely fit in with the new management’s outlook. A situation occurred with one of my superiors that devastated my view of my entire career. My understanding of human nature had been dismantled, and that, coupled with Hope’s recent medical situation, shattered me. Due to all the pressures, I had a mental lapse for the first time in my business career, and should probably have handled the situation differently, but the affliction was emotionally devastating. And then the Divine intervened.

One of my peers walked into my office and closed the door. He understood my anguish, and as tears of empathy streamed down his cheeks, he said, “Leave. Get out of here now.”

A widower whose wife had died from cancer, he had worked during his wife’s illness. He repeated, “Leave or you’ll regret not spending this time with your wife for the rest of your life. Trust me—I suffer every day for not leaving work sooner.”

Those words hounded me over the course of the next two weeks. Without my knowledge, The Divine paved a path for me to leave my company without regret. By mid-September, I left the company I had worked in for eighteen years, to be with my entire family for the last time with absolutely no working-world worries.

All Divine cylinders drove the engineering of these months to come. My older son, Evan, had graduated college and was living at home with us. He was at Hope’s and my side. Hope and Evan were extremely close, and his presence comforted her as the ordeal took its course. Evan’s closest friend was his younger brother Ryan. Together they formed a formidable defensive pair in ice hockey, Evan on defense and Ryan in goal. In business, since Ryan’s ninth grade, they competed around the country in DECA, a high school club that prepares emerging leaders and entrepreneurs for their future careers. Through Hope’s illness the two comforted each other as one medical episode after another exploded into difficulty.

Ryan was missing from the equation to make us whole as a family. He was entering his senior year at the University of Minnesota. Ryan is exceedingly creative in finding ways to achieve the outcomes he seeks. He wanted to join us and complete the family. Somehow, he found a way to conduct his classes for the semester in our home in Oceanside, Long Island.

Our family was entirely together, and one more addition was to join us. Evan had fallen in love with a delightfully cheery and beautiful woman who had a propensity to liven up any occasion. Somehow sadness always disappeared when Lindsay was around, and Lindsay became part of our home.^[1] She moved in to be with us and support us in that delightful September. The hand of G-d works in mysterious ways and knits a world we sometimes just don’t understand at the moment.

Our home was full with our children at our side, not as receptors of our guidance but as adult friends. Every evening we all ate dinner together and discussions took on new laughter and understanding. We were sharing our lives as equals. Every two weeks, Hope received her chemotherapy treatment and was incapacitated for several days. She didn’t want to be left out of the daily fracas, so our living room couch became her place of fulfillment. Her pillows and comforters adorned the couch as she lay there watching us. When well, she interjected her own brand of humor.

The kitchen had a thirteen-inch TV on a wall-mounted swivel, and was a good fourteen feet from the couch. The entire family would sit next to Hope, squinting as we watched her favorite shows: Everybody Loves Raymond, Two and Half Men, and I Love Lucy. We must have watched every episode at least three times, but we laughed at each one as if seeing it for the first time. Only comedy programs could be played when Hope was around. She filled her life with happiness as she strove to get better. That couch is filled with memorable stories; I’ll share one with you.

Hope needed to smoke marijuana to endure the intense chemotherapy regimen. She tried everything and pot was the only thing that would relax the stomach-wrenching spasms so she could eat just enough to survive the treatments. One night Evan entered the living room with one of those T-Shirts with the words and letters all jumbled. Lindsay, Ryan, and I tried to make sense of the scrambled words as Hope dozed off from her recent marijuana treatment. Then she woke up and asked what was going on, just as a napping five-year-old might when not wanting to be left out of the happenings of the world. As we explained what we were trying to do, her marijuana-lucid mind said, “Oh, come on, that’s easy.” She then, without pause, deciphered the jumbled words. We all laughed uncontrollably as the three of us recalled similar college incidents of pot-inspired revelations. Hope caught on and joined in our glee.

Ryan and I formed a bond that will be everlasting. He was home with me every day. We shared the medical chores and daily home regimen, but the true bonding occurred every morning when we would work out in our basement home gym and then meditate together. This daily physical and mindfulness exercise had a lasting impact and is reflected in Ryan’s current entrepreneurial endeavor.

At night, Evan, Ryan, and I would sit together in the hot tub and relax our exhausted minds and muscles while Lindsay and Hope bonded. Though she never expressed it outwardly, I feel that Hope had a belief that her chances of seeing Lindsay and Evan married were slim. She wanted to know everything about Lindsay so she could feel certain that Evan would be graced with a caring, loving woman. Lindsay and Hope laughed, cried, and shared lives. They became mother and daughter, and it was a true gift that they could experience each other. Length of time doesn’t always equate with quality, and the compression of time can bring joys that long duration sometimes can’t fulfill.

The weeks passed and our family grew to new understandings. There was a feeling of encouragement with each chemotherapy treatment. We were becoming a family of five now, and Hope so much wanted the future. She decided she was going to surprise us with a family vacation. This was the only time all of us would travel together as a family. Hope picked a luxurious vacation spa in Pennsylvania. For four days and nights we ate all our meals together, played together, and had fun together. Hope’s strength had diminished and she couldn’t accompany us on a hike into the mountains. Cheerfully, she told us to go without her and occupied her time with spa amenities. This was our last family vacation, but one none of us will ever forget.

In early December, Hope and I decided to go on a vacation to Disney World, which was becoming our vacation spot for many reasons: First and foremost was that Orlando International Airport was just a two-hour flight from New York City, with lots of flights available should we have to scurry back to NYC if medical needs required. In addition to location, Disney World was extremely handicap friendly and accessible. They made Hope feel special, as they could see on her face the effects of chemotherapy. Disney World also sported many fine restaurants and lots of fun entertainment. Hope loved the shows in all the parks—they were happy and upbeat, and laughter and children were what she wanted to be surrounded with.

During this vacation Hope was extremely weak and for the first time needed a wheelchair. We checked in and the chair was brought out to us. I started to cry uncontrollably, the gravity of her illness sinking in like never before, but Hope wasn’t going to let a wheelchair affect her one bit. She looked at me crying, and then at the chair. “Oh, so much fun,” she said, grinning like a child. “You will be my driver, and I can order you around as I wish.”

And so she did. We would travel through the parks mimicking Mr. Toad’s Magic Ride, making errant turns and hitting walls with the kind of playfulness children use when parents aren’t looking. Hope was living her kindergarten classroom experiences in that wheelchair.

I want to share two events that come to mind from that trip. One involved the famous actor Edward James Olmos. As we waited in the handicap queuing area for one of the Magic Kingdom shows, he happened to walk in next to us. I thanked him for his wonderful entertainment (coincidentally, he had co-starred in Blade Runner). He looked at Hope and recognized her situation. Politely, he asked if we would like a photo of the two of us with him. He embraced Hope in her wheelchair and placed his arm on the chair’s handrail as if he was a dear friend. The photo was snapped. Oh, Hope’s smile in that picture is childlike, and here it is.

Hope and Dennis
with Edward James Olmos at Disney World.

Hope so much wanted to be or be surrounded with children, which brings us to the next story. We loved watching the nighttime Electric Light Parade in the Magic Kingdom. It’s truly magical. The Disney-character floats are all brightly lit in colorful LEDs as the characters stroll on the fringes and favorite Disney tunes fill the night air. We were in the handicap section and got an early seat on the curb of the street, a prime viewing location. The curb was packed with onlookers waiting for the parade to begin. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and a grandparent behind us asked if we could make room for their five-year-old grandson. I don’t know how, but the boy made his way between Hope and me. As the parade began, the three of us acted as if we were friends from home, laughing, giggling, and greeting the Disney characters. At one point Hope and the boy started to wave to the characters and call for them to come over. The waving turned into childlike beckoning of each character by name as Hope and the boy wanted so much to be recognized by them.

“Hey, Peter. Hi, Goofy. I love you, Donald.”

I joined in the fun, and the three of us were chums who collected badges of honor as, one by one, the characters shook our hands. The parade ended and we parted just as friends say goodnight when it’s time to go home after a summer night’s game of tag. Hope had a child’s or maybe a grandmother’s smile on her face. It was the grandmother she wanted to be. A week after we came home her illness took a severe nosedive and we never laughed again as a couple.

I don’t want to end this chapter on a sad note. Those last few months before Hope became a permanent resident in the hospital were filled with joy and delightful memories. How many people have moments that are so clear and enjoyable? How many adults can say they spent months living with their adult children without cares and only fun? How many adults in their fifties have played with a parade or made a crazy go-cart out of a wheelchair? How many adults surrounded themselves with only comedies every night?

Yes, Hope was going to die, but her teachings, laughter, childlike outlook, and love will remain with my family, friends, and her students forever. How many adults can say they experienced, laughed with, lived with, and deeply loved Hope Freed for thirty-two years?

I can, and that graces my journey every single day.

^[1]    The November after Hope’s death, Lindsay and Evan became engaged at the Wishing Well in the Magic Kingdom in Disney World, one of Hope’s favorite places. Lindsay’s parents, Ryan, and I hid in the bushes and witnessed Evan’s proposal to Lindsay. They were married the next fall. Hope was not physically present, but the ceiling lights shone bright in the wedding hall.