Thanksgiving

Thursday morning we arrived at the hospital to find my dad, wearing a hat designed to resemble a giant turkey, already holding Truman. Truman looked like he was loving it. He hasn't yet been taught to run from strangers with poultry-shaped headgear, so his seeming serenity was excusable. We spent the morning with Tru.

Braving horrid Thanksgiving day traffic, C, her parents, my dad and I drove to Connecticut to spend the day at my parents' house. For many people, faith or close friends may be the best means of assuaging sorrow; for me, there is no substitute for family.

We drove up to the house to find my brother, an investment analyst, dressed in a head-to-toe turkey costume. He was chasing our dog, Duma, through the glut of parked cars in our driveway. Duma is named after the home city (in the Philippines) of our Nana, who greeted us in the doorway. If you have never met Nana, you will not understand the role she plays in our family. While my parents worked full-time, Nana bathed us, fed us, disciplined us, advised us, listened to us, drove us to practices, and endured our incessant complaining and bickering. In our family, there is a third parent beyond mom and dad, and she's it.

Behind Nana stood my mom, furiously pulverizing vegetables in preparation for the feast that was about to begin. There were 15 guests for Thanksgiving, and mom and Nana had, as always, overprepared. After the 15 of us had gobbled our way through the turkey, lasagna, beet and frisee salad, purple potatoes, linguine with brussel sprouts, arborio rice, broccolini, latkes with caviar, stuffing, cranberry sauce, guacamole with pomegranate seeds and pineapple, and on and on, there was still enough food left standing to feed my parents for weeks. For my mom, who loves to entertain, to cook for 15 people is to cook for hardly anyone at all. My mother is a unique person, so far as my experience is concerned: since I was a child, my mom has been calling me "asshole" as a term of endearment. She would drive from Connecticut to New York to do my laundry when I was in college (yes, I am ashamed to admit it). She calls Truman "Trumanity". She wants to be called "Umama" and not "Grandma".

The vitality (some might say insanity) that is alive in my mom has its most obvious descendant in my sister who, along with her boyfriend, designed the pins at the top of this post to honor Fisher at his memorial. At that memorial, where the better part of the attendees wore suits and dresses, my brother wore a leather jacket and jeans, while my sister wore a powder blue mechanic's jumpsuit with a rendition of a wolf howling at full moon obscured by clouds on the back. That design was entirely rendered in sequins.

My brother and I spent hours (rudely?) ignoring the crowd downstairs while we engaged in the ageless tradition of sparring over hockey video games and verbally bludgeoning each other. C, her parents, my sister and my dad sneaked away to toss a rubber football in the backyard. Her parents, my new family, are cut from such a different material than my family that one might never expect the two groups to mesh. C's family is sturdy, respectful, polite, faithful, and awesome, where mine is frenetic, tactless, rambunctious, secular, and awesome. Nevertheless, the two families have merged beautifully. C's dad led us in prayer before the meal.

We were joined by my mother's sister and her husband, and the family of one of my father's colleagues. Incidentally, my father's friend has acted as a sommelier of sorts for several large gatherings. His wine collection is dear enough to him that it is currently housed in a former nuclear bomb shelter.

After dinner, C's family and I drove back to the city to be with Tru. He seems to be recovering (he had a rather large poop...we celebrate such things) and we pray for his continued improvement.

Fisher's preliminary autopsy results have returned and have, unfortunately, not yielded much new information. We wait for further results.

I spoke at some length with a good friend of mine this morning at 10. The kindness of our friends is profound. As unlucky as we may have been, we are lucky still. I spent the hour before I began writing this holding my son. So much to be thankful for.

Love to you and yours.

Thank you Dan, Barb, Amy, Lyla, Maya, Ben, Jac, Zamboni!, Bob, Tara, Colleen, Alice, Theresa, and Rizza. More thanks to come. Much more.