First-time readers, kindly find the first entry on October 27, 2012, when this story began . . .
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Thanksgiving has more ghosts for me than Halloween. My mom died the day after Thanksgiving, in 1979. She was diagnosed with cancer just after Labor Day.
She didn’t attend any of her children’s college graduations, or their weddings. She never met her grandchildren.
The man everyone expected me to marry, after I’d been a single parent for many years, dumped me the day after my daughter’s dog was put to sleep, on the Saturday before the annual November 25th gathering with his family. To his credit, he inspected the hole I’d dug for our puppy’s ashes and pronounced it deep enough, before he disappeared forever.
That was a few years after I received a call from my gynecologist, who’d performed my annual exams for years and knew my medical history. “You need a diagnostic test,” she said. “They have an opening tomorrow. I’ve told them you’ll be there.”
I didn’t ask her why I needed the test.
Nothing is ever scheduled by the courts Thanksgiving week. Thankfully, was no need to make any calls . . . not to the court, opposing counsel, or anyone else. “Gotta leave for awhile,” I told my office staff.
The technician entered the room with a towel draped over her forearm like the maitre d’hotel in movies, except her forearm seemed unnaturally long. “Have you ever had a pelvic ultrasound before?” she asked.
“No,” I replied.
“The apparatus scares people sometimes, but I’ll be as gentle as possible.”
She removed the towel and I began laughing hysterically. “That’s a typical reaction,” she said, seating herself next to the examining table. She held my hand as I wiped my eyes.
“It’s unlikely you’ll hear anything until after the holiday,” she said. “Try not to worry.”