HERE'S TO PIZZA LADY
She who finds hope (and a slice of New York) when things are *not going so well.*
When my son, Lou was deep in treatment, all he wanted to eat was pizza. So I’d trek on over to Second Avenue, delighted to get some actual air, trying not to think about the fact that I was feeding my sick child greasy pizza every night. That said, I loved the anonymity of being Pizza Lady, as opposed to Cancer Mom. This lady must really love pizza, I imagined the Pizza Guy chuckling to himself, if he even thought of me at all.
Then one night, Pizza Guy asked me about my paper hospital bracelet, and I had no choice but to tell him that all this pizza was for my son. We both burst into tears. Pizza Guy shared that his wife was a survivor, too, and from that day on, Lou’s slices were on the house.
I was deeply touched. But as the nights went on, I also began to slowly resent Pizza Guy. I had relied on my fifteen minutes as Pizza Lady for my sanity. Sometimes I didn’t want to talk about cancer! I was relieved when Pizza Guy wasn’t always at the front of house, I was totally happy to pay the cashier like a normal person. It only occurred to me years later that, despite Pizza Guy’s generosity, maybe he didn’t want to talk to me all the time either?
Back at the hospital, I’d try to hide my pizza boxes from the disapproving nutritionist. Pure slapstick. “Oh, don’t even bother,” said Marnie, our favorite nurse, as I collapsed onto the recliner chair with the pizza, my waters, my purse. “I mean, he won’t keep it down anyway!” At that time, Lou could barely stomach two Cheerios let alone the pizza he made me get him every night.
Twenty-some days in, we were really losing it. The nutritionist kept pushing these gelatinous protein shakes on us. Looking at the ingredients, I didn’t know what was worse, Pizza Guy’s pizza or the shakes. “Can you just hang the bag?” I kept asking her. Even Lou was begging for the IV nutrition bag. “Just hang the bag!” he’d yell at dear Marnie, pushing away the pizza, the shakes, the Cheerios.
We had been moved to a new room, one with a better HVAC system, as Lou’s counts were zero and we had to be extra careful. I was grateful for the safer air, but I was pissed off that we lost our room with the panoramic view of the East River. I had depended on that room for my sanity as I did my fifteen minute Pizza Walks. The new room had a tiny window that faced an air shaft, and a bigger window that directly faced another building, what appeared to be the maternity ward.
“Seriously?” I’d asked Marnie. “Insult to injury isn’t it,” she joked.
At night, I’d stand there, finishing off Lou’s pizza while he slept, watching the new mothers nurse their healthy babies. How did I get here from there?
One night, I noticed one of these mothers staring straight at me. I didn’t know what to do. Do I wave? Close the curtains? Offer her some pizza? Wait, how would that work? Maybe I could send Marnie over. “Hi, New Mother, here’s some pizza from the Mother We Hope You’ll Never Be?”
I shut the curtains and went over to the tiny window that faced the shaft. To my surprise, if I craned my neck, I could actually see a slice of the river between the shaft and the other building.
“Lou, look!” I said, grabbing my child, his lines, all of it.
Together, we watched the pink sun disappear into the thin strip of crystalline water, and for the first time in many weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope. I held my child close. I wanted the New Mothers to see us like this, as Mother and Child. And while I would never again be the New Mother, convinced she alone could and would keep her baby alive, I was This Mother — with her pizza boxes, her city, her river…
Another day done.
A MEDITATION
May all beings find hope.
I’d love to hear how you found hope when things were *not going so well.* Or perhaps you have a pizza story to share, too. I wish we could send pizza to suffering beings worldwide, on the house! But, today I send everyone love. Keep going. Everything changes. Somehow, the day finds the night, finds the day.
May all beings be safe, happy, healthy, and free — and may they have access to the care they need.
xx Alexa
A CHANCE TO GIVE…
PS. If you feel called, consider making a contribution to The Making Headway Foundation to support kids like Lou with brain and spinal cord cancers and their families.
Thank you!
Yes, Pizza Lady goofed and I scheduled this on Easter Sunday! A small group of us will still meet. Monthly workshops are a perk for paid subscribers, upgrade to paid below, there’ll be more, TBA. To register, e-mail alexa@alexawilding.com. (If funds are tight, but you really want to join, e-mail me and I’ll comp you, no questions asked, believe me, I get it.) Endless gratitude for your support, dear readers!
There's a lot of beauty to be found in this story. Thank you for sharing.
When my daughter wen through treatment it was the turkey sandwiches lady from around the corner, that morphed into cups of coffee that got added for me and the daily "it is good to see you today!" I craved desperately. It's weird how the little daily rhythms are sometimes your tiniest saving grace.
Cheers to every sunset you get!