In Loving Memory

Exactly two years ago today,
my cousin Mimi playing Candyland with Jack and Madeline

When Jack was first diagnosed with diabetes, we were filled with questions. Should we seek the best endocrinologist in the country, or is it safe to stick with local doctors? How do we get air bubbles out of a syringe, when drawing up insulin? What’s the truth about artificial sweeteners?


One of the first people we called was my cousin Mimi, as Mimi was a family practice doc. My father always turned to Mimi when he needed medical advice, and he always trusted her answers and opinions. Mimi was actually my dad’s first cousin, and they were raised more like siblings than cousins. My father was like her big brother, and he felt intensely proud of her and all that she’d accomplished.


Growing up, I heard all sorts of stories about Mimi. She climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro as part of ex-President Jimmy Carter’s medical team. She earned not just her M.D., but her Ph.D., too. She taught herself foreign languages.


In 1990, Mimi was diagnosed with breast cancer, and on January 11, 2010, after a valiant twenty-year battle, she finally succumbed to the disease. I say valiant, because Mimi fought her disease with every ounce of her being. She truly gave it her all. She repeatedly sought the best medical treatment and even underwent an experimental bone marrow transplant shortly after her initial diagnosis. She endured many rounds of chemo and radiation, remission, reoccurrence, metastasis, complications, severe secondary problems from the treatment and more.


Despite her health problems, she lived the life she wanted to lead. She did the things she wanted to do. She moved to one of the most gorgeous places on earth: Kodiak, Alaska. She traveled the world. She volunteered at the Kodiak public radio station, learning how to work the board and becoming an on-air personality. She grew a vegetable garden. She hiked and kayaked and enjoyed the beauty that was her backyard.


Within this past year, her cancer came back with a vengeance. She fought hard, but the disease had taken its toll on her body, and she could fight no more. She passed away in her sleep at home in her own bed. Just as she lived the life she wanted to lead, she died the way she wanted to die. She was 61; she would have turned 62 in March.


Mimi did not want a funeral or any other Jewish traditions. Following her requests, her friends will simply hold a memorial in Kodiak today. I wish I were there. My parents wish the same, but my father is not well enough to make the trip. So together, we will hold our own little memorial of sorts. We will go to dinner at Chompie’s, a local deli she loved. The last time she visited, I think we ate there three times over the course of the week. “There are no good delis in Kodiak,” she used to say. Over pastrami and corned beef sandwiches, we will share stories and talk about the cousin we loved dearly and will miss terribly.


I write this post with tears in my eyes. I’m grieving. My heart hurts. It’s hard to believe she’s gone. It’s hard to believe she will no longer visit us, and I will never see her sitting at my kitchen table playing Candyland with my kids again. We will never be able to take the kids to Kodiak to visit her and explore her surroundings. When Max is in kindergarten and his teacher conducts a unit on the U.S. Postal Service and asks students’ friends and relatives to send post cards, he won’t receive any mail from Alaska. I’m guessing Madeline and Jack will hold tight to their kindergarten postcards, the ones that show pictures of seals and bald eagles and, in Mimi’s handwriting, tell a little bit about her home state and end with “I miss you. Love, Mimi”


Just as the kids will treasure their postcards, I will treasure the memories and I will forever remain grateful for her love and support after Jack was diagnosed. “He’s better off consuming real sugar than artificial sweeteners,” she cautioned me. “Just watch how much sugar and carbohydrates he consumes. Take a balanced approach.”


“If you flick your fingers and tap lightly on the syringe,” she instructed, “you can some times remove the air bubbles, but make sure you tap lightly.”


“Joslin is an excellent center for diabetes,” she said, “but your local endocrinologist, especially a pediatric endocrinologist, can help you manage his disease just fine. I’m sorry you’re going through this, but don’t worry. He’ll be okay. He can live a long, happy, healthy life with diabetes.”


Her biggest message and greatest lesson came not from what she said, but from what she did. She didn’t let cancer stop her until the very end of her life, until weeks before her death when she could fight no more. She would want us to fight diabetes in the same fashion, and we will—for her and for Jack.

The view from Mimi's backyard