THE SNOWMAN

“...Mom let him pick out two plastic Christmas decorations from the hospital gift shop.”

Christmas of 1969 was my brother Jerry’s last. He had terminal leukemia, although at the time my parents still had hope for one of the drug trials he was in. He was 5 and I was 7 and I had no idea he was dying. I mean, I knew he was sick—it was a fact of life that he had something wrong with his blood, something connected to the loss of his hair and his swollen face and body—but our parents made the decision to keep his prognosis from me, reasoning that I would treat him differently if I knew. So I continued to treat him like an irritating little brother.  

I was the boss of all our childhood games, which included hours of playing school where I was always the teacher and Jerry, my patient student. (In real life, he loved school, though he had to miss half of kindergarten. He wanted to be a doctor when he grew up so he could make himself better.) He had a sunny disposition, but chemo and blood draws sometimes left him tired and grouchy and unwilling to humor me or share his toys. When I thought he was being a brat, I’d try to get him in trouble. Years later, my mother confessed that she almost told me the truth once when I tattled. She thought better of it, though, and I’m glad she did. 

Jerry traveled to Pittsburgh Children’s Hospital at least twice a month for treatments and sometimes hospitalizations. On one of these trips, Mom let him pick out two plastic Christmas decorations from the hospital gift shop. He chose Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and this snowman. We both loved Rudolph beyond all other Christmas characters and waited with excitement for the yearly TV special. But Jerry let me choose: Rudolph or the Snowman—which did I want? 

I chose Rudolph. Jerry gave in without a fuss, though I knew how much he wanted Rudolph too. 

He passed away the next August in the bottom bunk of our shared bunk beds. I’m now 60 years old and Rudolph is long gone, but I still have and treasure this beat-up old snowman, evidence of a selfless little boy I once knew and will always love. As the years march on, fewer and fewer people remember Jerry.  It is my goal to keep his memory alive as long as I can.

—Cheryl Duncan 

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Cheryl Duncan is a Pennsylvania native and mother of four adult children who lives on Whidbey Island, Washington, with her husband of 35 years. Though she has practiced law and taught reading, this is her first published piece of non-legal writing.