September is National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. I honestly hadn't planned to write a piece about cancer. It’s been in me for a long time, but I never even considered letting it out until now. Still hopelessly torn, I ultimately took the easy way out and put it in my Step-Mother’s hands. I told her that I was thinking of writing a piece and if she agreed, would send it to her for approval before publishing. If Joyce said that I could write it, I would. If Joyce didn’t want me to, I would not.
I heard back from Joyce the same day: “I think that is lovely. I do not need to proofread it . . . I am sure it will be a wonderful tribute to him.”
When Jews go to the grave of a loved one, we leave a stone on their gravestone. It’s our way of saying “I was here, you are not forgotten”. I’m 1500 miles away from home so in this month dedicated to awareness of childhood cancers, this post will have to serve as a virtual stone on my (step)brother Peter’s gravestone.
Peter’s Mom married my Dad later in life, so I’m not going to tell you that he and I grew up together. There was an age difference between us as well. I was close to my Dad and Joyce, but got to know Peter best during his fight with cancer.
Peter grew up an only child. I remember him as a fun, happy, athletic kid. Ice Hockey was his game and he played it as often as he could. It was an unusually large swollen area from a hit with a hockey puck that resulted in Peter’s diagnosis. To this day I’m not really sure what kind of cancer he had, one of his Oncologists said it was most similar to a childhood cancer someone his age (17) wouldn’t have. By the time it was found it had taken over his kidney and adrenal gland and was the size of a grapefruit. He had surgery, but it had gone into his lymph nodes so it may have metastasized. It was decided that the Oncologist at Dana Farber would remain in charge of his case, but the chemo would be administered at a local hospital so he could be near home.
I know that Peter’s Mom was with him before the first chemo, but was not capable of being there when they started the treatment. I decided to go. It was all I could do to fight the visceral need to rip that bag of poison out of his arm as they hooked it up. I watched the line of fluid stream from the bag down, down, down into his arm. I felt sick at the thought of poison, hopeful at the thought of treatment, and sick that poison was making me hopeful.
Chemo is a very good thing, and a very bad thing. It is debilitating. There are profound side-effects that don’t go away. Peter had to be literally knocked unconscious for days following each chemo session because it made him so sick. He lost some of his hearing, he lost tons of weight, he lost the feeling in the bottoms of his feet. And Peter went into remission.
At one year post-chemo, Peter, Joyce and I went into Dana Farber for a checkup. The Oncologist told us that there was a mass where his adrenal gland used to be and other nodes as well. She talked about treatment. I remember going into the ladies’ room afterwards and talking to Joyce about what we’d found out. How surreal it was that Joyce and I had heard two completely different things. What she heard was positive, she heard treatment. What I heard was negative, I heard that it was back.
Peter went through more hell, and then just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, there was a bone marrow transplant. He was already beaten and bruised and battered and now they were going to eradicate his immune system. Poison, and hope, and poison.
Once I was allowed in the room (suited up) where Peter was recovering from the transplant, I went in with a backgammon game. I have to tell you, I’m not one who lets others win. Ever. Ask my poor little niece. I remember that I was winning, and then suddenly every time it was my turn Peter would reach up, take out a little clump of his (loose) hair and put it on the game. That little bugger was playing dirty. And it worked. He won. Every game.
Peter went into remission again and went to college. Cal State Chico. He was pledging a fraternity when it became clear that he wasn’t well. I remember that my husband (then boyfriend) and I had plans to host friends at his ski house when, the day before we were to head up to New Hampshire, Joyce called and asked me to come home and fly with her up to California to take Peter out of school. The whole 2 hour drive home was a blur. Joyce, her niece and I flew up there.
Peter ended up at Cedars Sinai on the same floor as Pierce Brosnan’s wife. It would have been a cool story if it had ended well . . . for either family. But it did not. For us, the end result was this: Peter could fight, beat the cancer back, wait for it to return, fight, beat, wait, fight, beat, wait. It was up to him to decide when to stop.
I stood at Peter’s funeral 8 days before my wedding. Peter had been 20 years old. I remember my sister and I approaching together and holding hands as we threw a rose into his grave. I don’t remember anything else.
Jews name babies (in many cases the child’s Hebrew name) after the dead. It’s a way to remember them through the living. My oldest son’s Hebrew name is Peter’s. My son’s always known who he was named after and the general story.
When my son was very little and we were back home, he wanted to go see Peter’s grave. I wasn’t really sure what to do so I talked to Joyce. I knew she’d come with us, but you never know what a small child will say. I was really concerned that Older Son could very well inadvertently hurt Joyce. We knew, though, that his simple request to see his namesake’s grave would be honored.
We went but didn’t stay there long. We saw his beautiful, simple gravestone. Joyce talked a little about Peter, we said a prayer and one by one left him a stone. In the car, as I was pulling out of the cemetery, I heard Older Son say “I wish Peter had never died”.
There it was.
I sort of held my breath as Peter’s Mom turned around, looked at my little boy, and simply said “me too”.
There it was.
I sort of held my breath as Peter’s Mom turned around, looked at my little boy, and simply said “me too”.
Peter David Sferra is remembered.
