Saving Graces (42 page)

There were two very special gifts. Henry Walentowicz, with whom John and I went to law school, and his beautiful wife, Karina, gave me a rosary they had gotten from Pope John Paul II. I did not know how to accept it, though I wanted to, and I didn’t know how to return such a lovely gesture. It sits by my bedside now. The second gift is hardly one gift, but hundreds of gifts—started by a single generous soul. John had a supporter whose screen name on the campaign blog was Lilfroggy. When I was diagnosed, Lilfroggy created a website, PrayersforElizabeth.org, so that people from around the country—around the world, in fact—could have a place to post their best wishes, to send out that thread of support. Those threads made each day easier for me. While I was concentrating on my family and my extended campaign family and the circle of people closest to me, a whole unimaginably large community was forming to hold me up and boost my spirits. Someone told me about the website, and I would visit and read and be cheered. Lilfroggy enlisted Julie Simon, who turned the website into a booklet, which she sent me and that I cherish, a collection of affectionate threads and posts. I read every word. If I felt bad after a restless night, I would find the website, and once I had the book I would read that too, and I would remember how much my success in this battle meant to people I didn’t even know. They had seen me briefly on the campaign trail, or, like Ben and Alexander, had seen me on C-SPAN, or had never seen me at all. I think every person who watched me at a town hall in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, wrote—and mentioned it. I reminded Melody, who wrote of her daughter’s second-grade teacher—a compliment I carry with me—and she started her post with the words I would hear throughout: “We are pulling for you.”

There were cancer survivors, like Jen and Carol and Pat and Ellen. Maggie is a survivor who wrote, “Cancer has a frightening sound to it but don’t let it spook you. It is just a word and words can be changed into other words very quickly. Like ‘cancer survivor, cured, no evidence of a recurrence.’” Vickie managed to cheer me up by teasing John, “Hang in there, Elizabeth, and know that people in this country do love, care, and respect you and yeah, your husband, what’s-his-name.” Shari, Andy, and their two children posted, “You enveloped us and showed us such caring and compassion. Now it’s our turn to help you.” And Thom reminded me to “lean into the strength you would receive from your family, friends, and thousands of people who have never met you but feel touched by you.” And I did. Sherry’s confidence would buoy anyone: “The breast cancer is simply another box to check off your list of things you will overcome. Period.”

Sonja reminded me just by the act of posting that I was never alone. Marilyn let me know that if I did feel alone, I could call her. Martha told me that she would be asking the Quaker meeting in Columbus, Ohio, to “hold you in the Light,” as Quakers say, until you are well again. Brenda sweetly wrote, “May the angels walk with you and keep you safe.” They did, and they had names like Sonja and Brenda and Martha and Marilyn.

There was a political bent to some of the postings, but as in the letters, the politics seemed to slip away, but not always. Michelle wrote, “God bless you, Mrs. Edwards. Thoughts and prayers are with you and your family from the blue states and from the red states.” Someone with the self-confidence to call himself “Animal” wrote: “I’ve always liked politics, but John Edwards inspired me to get involved in this year’s election. Part of the reason was because of you, Mrs. Edwards. You would always lift us up with your positive message when things were down. We are all here and praying for you.” Richard wrote that we need you to get strong again so you can fight for health care for all the women who don’t have it. And Kevin wrote that he had voted for Leonard Peltier, the Native American artist and activist, and added, “I wish you a speedy remission of your cancer and may GOD bless you and yours.” Casey D. reported that John’s message motivated her 103-year-old friend Mammie of Atlanta to vote for the first time in her life. And Caroline L. sweetly wrote that after reading an interview with me in the
New York Times Magazine
, she wanted to make up a bumper sticker that read “Elizabeth Edwards, reason enough!”

Gordon said enough nice things about my campaigning that I felt good before I reached his good wishes on my health: “I have nothing but admiration for you in the way you held yourself during the campaign. You are a down-to-earth, sensible soul. Seeing you on C-SPAN and various talk shows was always a breath of fresh air, never shrill, never partisan, never harsh. Just straightforward, honest, with a quiet dignity and integrity. You have done nothing short of truly elevating political discourse in this society and nation. Thanks for all your service to the country. And may better health and healing find you as you endure this recent setback.” If I need a press secretary ever again, I am looking for Gordon.

A lot of people who had not voted for my husband, like Kevin, sent good wishes but also pointed out that we had political differences—and often they wanted to state that right from the start. Dan from Raleigh sent good wishes, but began his e-mail with “I am a Republican.” Tommaso and Stacy from Durham started their e-mail to John by announcing, “I did not vote for you,” but ended with a prayer that “God heal your bride Elizabeth.” I do like being called his bride. Porter described himself as a right-wing blogger and Bush supporter, then said, “When the day is done we all are people and Americans,” and sent his warmest wishes. Rachel M. sent a note that wished me well, adding, “I am a diehard Republican—see, we aren’t so bad after all.”

There were more Democrats, admittedly, who wrote, but despite the fact that most of these people had gotten to know me in a political campaign, there was very little politics, even from those we knew from politics.

Sweet Ashish Patel wrote. Ashish was in high school when I met him, earnest and energetic and smart. Time and again he would reach out to us, with photographs or magazines or something for the children. He made booklets for us with news stories and calendars from the campaign, something the busy staff promised but never had the time to do. He sent a cake once, flowers another time, and he called to tell us when he got into Vanderbilt University. The most important thing Ashish gave us was Ashish himself. It was no surprise to see that he had posted. “Just from meeting you a couple of times,” he wrote, “I have no doubt you will get through this. You have become like a part of my family through the campaign trail. All of America is behind you and rooting for you to win this battle.”

The theme of family came up over and over. Sapphire wrote, “Your extended family across America is wrapping you up in their arms, hugging you tight, and offering you the strength of millions of well-wishers. All with the same goal in mind…to see you beat this easily! Namaste!” Loquatrix wrote what I was feeling, “I became quite fond of you all these last many months. Quite the extended family you have in this fine country!” And there were people of such naturally good hearts, like Sandy and Joe A., who wrote, “Our thoughts and prayers are with you. I feel like you’re part of our family. You have worked so hard this last year. It is now time to rest and take care of yourself. We love you.” I was lucky, I knew, to have the loving and supportive family I did, but I was doubly blessed to have this huge circle reaching out and embracing me. And, I hope, my larger “family” made it a little easier on my family at home.

Cate used to call home to check on me and to rib her father that she was the only one in the family with a job. John was devoting a lot of time to caring for me, but I could see he was also restless. We talked about what was next. The people he trusted most called him and talked to him about what was next. He probably tossed and turned at night wondering what in fact was next. And finally we pulled everyone together, and John and I had meetings with the people whose opinions he trusted. At the first meeting, the people who had been so important to John—and to me—in the past, Robert Gordon, who coordinated John’s domestic policy agenda; Derek Chollet, who was invaluable on foreign policy; Wendy Button, not just John’s speechwriter but a clear thinker; Miles Lackey, who had been John’s Senate chief of staff and knew John as well as anyone; David Ginsberg, who was with John longer than anyone; Peter Scher, from the vice presidential campaign, who had been quickly wrapped into our little family; Bruce Reed, the youngest elder statesman and one John trusted completely; and Jennifer Palmieri, who had been John’s press secretary in the primary campaign for president and whose wit was matched by her good sense. These people had come into our lives at different times, in different roles, but now we were wrapped up in their lives and, even more so, they were wrapped up in ours.

The meeting was run by Nick Baldick, who had run the primary campaign and who was the most organized no-nonsense person in the room, excluding John. Nick walked through a list of things John might do as John sat and listened to the vocations and avocations he might consider. His expression didn’t change. It all sounded too political, too calculating, too mundane, and I could see that he was just as restless in that room as he was when alone thinking about the future. And then Robert Gordon brought up poverty, and it was as if a flame had suddenly been ignited in John. He became so animated, happy, really. To him, all the other ideas had felt like holding patterns that were not so much efforts to accomplish anything real as decent ways of filling the time until he made the decision to run or not to run for office. But the mention of devoting himself to poverty swept away all the other ideas. It felt good and right to him, and to me. It was what he had been talking about in the campaign; it was what he had given time to in the years before he’d had any thought of going into politics. In that moment everyone in the room knew what John would do next. “I want to do something that makes a difference,” he said, “and if I never run for office again I will feel great about how I’ve spent my life.” I sat there, my knit cap covering my bald head, and I thought,
This is why I married this man.

Between the end of chemotherapy in February and the surgery scheduled for March, we went to meet the radiation oncologist at Washington’s Sibley Hospital. Since radiation would be five days a week for six or seven weeks, we figured she planned to walk us through the daily routine. But it wasn’t what she wanted at all. Although she was in charge only of the radiation plan, she wanted to change our surgical plan. We had planned for Dr. Smith to do a sentinel node biopsy—testing the most likely lymph node to see if the cancer had migrated. If it was positive for cancer cells, more lymph nodes would be removed; if it was negative, no more would be taken. The radiation oncologist’s preference that we initially take more lymph nodes was clearly the most cautious course, but it was caution that came at a very high price. It meant the chance of a lifetime of lymphedema in my right arm, which would limit my activities from then on—and I hadn’t missed a side effect yet. For the first time in the process, I felt angry. Admittedly, she was saying something I didn’t want to hear, so I am sure that that elevated my reaction. She is a great radiation oncologist, but, I wondered, was she the right one for me? I thought it improper to have tried to undercut the surgeon without at least consulting her, and so I went home and called Dr. Smith. I told her about the conversation, and I made clear to her that I was going to do what she recommended, that I chose her as my surgeon because I trusted her.

The next day, the radiation oncologist called, ostensibly to see how I was doing. I was really frank with her that I didn’t think what she had done was right. She said she was just trying to make sure I had the best treatment, which I am certain was her motive, but I explained I didn’t like her doing it behind Dr. Smith’s back. Our frank conversation allowed us to move on. Honesty and transparency allowed the relationship to find a workable place, where I could have the confidence in her I needed and where she could have the appreciation she deserved for her great skill. In any case, it turned out that the sentinel node biopsy that Dr. Smith performed was positive, and I had to have the lymph nodes out, surgery that I had hoped to avoid.

The procedure was scheduled for March 7th, first thing in the morning, at Massachusetts General Hospital. Lexi Bar, who had worked with us for so many years, made all the arrangements for the trip to Boston, and she even came with us so if there were any problems she could handle them and allow John and Cate, who would both be there, to concentrate on me. I had insisted that John, who had to be in North Carolina that Sunday, stay for the UNC-Duke basketball game at Chapel Hill and fly up to join Cate, Lexi, and me later that night. He demurred, I insisted. Yell for all of us, I said, knowing of course that he wouldn’t. He claps, he doesn’t yell.

The original plans were for Cate to fly from New York and for me to fly from Washington, and we would meet at Logan Airport in Boston, go to the hotel together, have a late lunch there, and watch the basketball game on television. Everything seemed on track until Cate and I noticed that we were both scheduled to be in the air at tip-off. We called, frantic. No, no, we have to be on the ground, in the room, before The Game starts or we are staying put in New York and Washington until it is over. So the flight schedule was changed, and we arrived before the 4
P.M
. tip-off. Cate and Lexi and I sat on a tiny couch in our hotel room and watched the UNC-Duke game.

Here’s a secret about the people who work on campaigns: not many of them know much—and way too many know nothing at all—about sports. As much as I love David Ginsberg and Miles Lackey and Matthew Nelson, I don’t want to watch basketball with any of them. We are serious fans. Lexi, on the other hand, was great company. A Cornell graduate, she didn’t have any uncomfortable basketball allegiances—meaning she didn’t cheer for Duke—and she was a sports fan through and through. The hotel staff had been really sweet—they knew why we were back in Boston—and they left platters of fruit and sodas and water for us, so we wouldn’t have to leave the room while we contemplated the upcoming surgery. What it meant for us was that we never had to leave the room during The Game.