Thirty for an Evening

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Yesterday evening after my radiation session, I flew into Toronto from Montreal for my colleague's farewell dinner. Michelle is leaving our law firm for a fabulous in-house position in New York that has better pay and better hours. I helped organize the firm-sponsored event and Michelle chose the guest list, which consisted of all the remaining lawyers in our year. Our cohort started out with 38 lawyers back when we articled in 2002, and now, five years later, there are nine left, and that includes Michelle.

Working at a law firm is a bit like being on Survivor. People drop like flies, and you never really know who will outlast the others to become partner. There are any number of reasons why people leave, ranging from a decision to go back to school, to a spouse finding a job overseas, to a realization that their true calling is art, to not being a good fit with the firm (this decision is not always a mutual one), to simply wanting a balanced life.

Despite a snow storm and work emergencies, eight out of nine of us managed to attend the dinner (and the ninth person I understand is on leave, like me). This was actually an extremely impressive attendance rate, particularly if you consider the long hours and stressful deadlines that are part of being a lawyer. There are many reasons why people made the effort to attend. Of course, they wanted to show their support for Michelle, plus, going out for dinner is always a bit of a treat. But I think the attendance rate also reflects the strong sense of solidarity that exists among the people in my year. There was an unquestionable bond that developed among my cohort from the very beginning when we articled together. I am close to several among this group, including both alumni and those who are still at the firm. And I think fondly of each my colleagues who attended the dinner.

Our evening bore semblance to a reunion, since we had not truly socialized together as a group since our articling days, which had been filled with swanky events and nights out on the town. Over dinner, we reminisced about old times and shared updates on alumni. Between the eight of us, we were able to determine the status of most of our former colleagues - one was in Australia, another one in England, a third in Curacao, several had children (although only one out of the nine of us at the firm had time for progeny), some worked in government and others had moved in-house. Some of these individuals had left a strong impression, while a few we could barely recall.

The evening was certainly meaningful for Michelle, who thoroughly enjoyed her sendoff. She was also grateful to me for coordinating the event, for saying a few words about the Top Ten Things that we would miss about her, and for selecting a gift on behalf of the firm (which was a gorgeous little Kate Spade wristlet - the Gansevoort noel zippered chrissy, pictured at right) and a Kate Spade key chain.

The event was perhaps hyper-meaningful for me because I am currently on leave from the firm while undergoing my fabulous cancer treatments. When I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease back in May, 2007, I left work to start my life as a cancer patient - biopsies, fertility treatments, bone marrow tests, chemotherapy and self-administered neupogen shots (to increase my white blood cell counts) followed. Perhaps the worst part of it all was the isolation that I felt and the loss of my daily routine. It is not until your life is devastatingly interrupted that you realize how comforting it is to have a routine and to see the same colleagues on a daily basis. While vacations are fantastic, there is something grounding about having a reason for waking up early, and something validating about going to work.

Living in a different city intensified my sense of isolation. I decided to receive treatment in Montreal, where my parents are physicians, and so my husband and I relocated to their home for several months. While my parents have been invaluable, I was inevitably infantilized both by them and by the hospital system where I was plastered with the labels "sick" and "patient". My life as a functioning adult existed only as a memory.

Returning to Toronto for yesterday's dinner was something that I had looked forward to for weeks (could I sound more pathetic?), and the evening itself lived up to my expectations. I drank too much, and probably talked a little too much - I was hungry for camaraderie, conversation, collegiality and normalcy. The focus of the evening was on Michelle's departure and on shared experiences - my cancer was not discussed, and that was perfectly fine with me. Some colleagues mentioned that they were glad that I was there and that they were pleased to see me, but overall, I could cast away my cancer patient persona and just be an associate among a group of colleagues who had grown up together from naive students to sophisticated lawyers. Sadly, we did not snap any photos of the event, and I am really kicking myself over this.

We closed down the Yorkville restaurant, Pangea, when we left at midnight, and went our separate ways. I walked one of my friends, Nadine, from the event to her apartment and then continued on my own the few blocks to my place - I could have taken a cab, but had a craving to walk along the familiar Toronto streets. I even relished the cool winter air, which seemed to freeze the walk in time. I arrived at my apartment where I was greeted by my husband - he was back in Toronto for the week on business.

That night, I dreamt that I was productively working on a file at the office, when it suddenly dawned on my that I had missed the flight into Montreal for my radiation treatment. I approached various colleagues to ask for help, to see if anything could be done, but they simply shrugged their shoulders. They didn't understand.

The following morning I returned to Montreal where my mother sat waiting for me at the airport. She picked me up and a few hours later she drove me to the hospital, where I had my head strapped in a mask to the radiation table for my nineteenth treatment. As usual, I lay perfectly still and let the technicians draw on me, measure me and position me. As usual, both my parents sat in the waiting room. When I emerged from the treatment room, my parents stood up and we walked down the hall together. My father kissed me goodbye and went back to work, and my mother drove me home. Afterwards, my mother drove my brother, who was visiting from Washington, D.C. during Thanksgiving weekend, and I, to see my grandmother. We went to her apartment and my grandmother - our Nanny - stood in the hall and opened her arms and pretended to bend down so that we could run into her arms like we did when we were little. She adored having us all there, like when we were little. It is a good thing to spend time with family. But not when you are thirty-years-old and are made to feel so little.

Looking Out the Window, copyright Judy Guiao 2006 Image Source