Jerry and his wife, Tricia, live in New Jersey. He is a computer programmer and she an eighth grade teacher. They share a fascination for Victorian architecture.
I was 28 years old when I first arrived at Memorial Sloan-Kettering on October 12, 1982. My wife, Tricia, was four months pregnant with our son when I was diagnosed. The good news was that I could count on being alive for his birth. The not-so-good news was that there was only a 50-50 chance that I would live until his first birthday. The doctors at MSKCC timed my chemo around Tricia's due date, and five months later I was able to be with her for the birth of our son, Evan.
Evan was a strong, healthy baby. As happy as I was to hold him, I couldn't ignore the possibility that we might never get a chance to know each other. Who was going to teach him how to throw a ball or how to put on a tie for his prom? I hoped it would be me, but there was a very real possibility that it wouldn't turnout that way. A couple of pictures, maybe, and his mother's memories . . . that might be the only knowledge Evan would ever have of me.
