HOME | DD

Description
Gail was born on the first of August 1942, the elder of two. She grew up in New York City, marrying by age 22 and producing three children of her own.

She'd tried her first cigarette when she was eleven. That shouldn't surprise you; in those days there wasn't a Surgeon General's warning — or for that matter, any other public service messages.

While she enjoyed motherhood well enough, Gail also had a restless spirit; she was happiest when she was working, helping others, or driving her car. Accordingly, just before her 53rd birthday (and with her children grown and flown) she lost forty pounds and fulfilled a lifelong dream: qualifying as first an ambulance driver, then an EMT, for the local fire department.

She threw herself into her responsibilities with newfound purpose, losing even more weight and finally finding the strength to quit smoking. One young woman credited Gail with saving her life when she'd had a seizure at work. And she once made the local papers as one of several rescuers hospitalized for inhalation during a warehouse incident.

At the end of '99, she was diagnosed with COPD — chronic obstructive pulmonary disease — and put on restricted duty. It seemed that four decades of cigarettes, plus recurrent exposure to soot and other toxins, had finally caught up with her.

During one of her hospital visits, a chest X-ray revealed spotting inside one of her lungs. She gave the hospital permission to perform a needle biopsy. The tested tissue was benign; but the site became infected, leading to a terrifying and near-fatal weeklong bout with pneumonia.

So it was with reluctance that Gail checked herself back into the hospital ten months later, this time with mysterious shooting pains in her foot that had crippled her ability to stand, walk, or — worst of all — drive. With the memories of her previous stay still fresh, she refused permission for some of the more-invasive tests, including any further biopsies.

Which meant that by the time her doctors discovered that the pains were caused by a tumor pressing against her spine, it was too late: the cancer had metastasized; she was already at stage IV.

In March 2001, Gail left us. If there's an upside, it might be that she wouldn't have to suffer through New York's — and America's — worst nightmare six months later. I'd like to think that on the day in question she'd been stationed by the gates, garlands in hand, ready to welcome her fallen compatriots.

I'm proud to be her son.

Description
Gail was born on the first of August 1942, the elder of two. She grew up in New York City, marrying by age 22 and producing three children of her own.

She'd tried her first cigarette when she was eleven. That shouldn't surprise you; in those days there wasn't a Surgeon General's warning — or for that matter, any other public service messages.

While she enjoyed motherhood well enough, Gail also had a restless spirit; she was happiest when she was working, helping others, or driving her car. Accordingly, just before her 53rd birthday (and with her children grown and flown) she lost forty pounds and fulfilled a lifelong dream: qualifying as first an ambulance driver, then an EMT, for the local fire department.

She threw herself into her responsibilities with newfound purpose, losing even more weight and finally finding the strength to quit smoking. One young woman credited Gail with saving her life when she'd had a seizure at work. And she once made the local papers as one of several rescuers hospitalized for inhalation during a warehouse incident.

At the end of '99, she was diagnosed with COPD — chronic obstructive pulmonary disease — and put on restricted duty. It seemed that four decades of cigarettes, plus recurrent exposure to soot and other toxins, had finally caught up with her.

During one of her hospital visits, a chest X-ray revealed spotting inside one of her lungs. She gave the hospital permission to perform a needle biopsy. The tested tissue was benign; but the site became infected, leading to a terrifying and near-fatal weeklong bout with pneumonia.

So it was with reluctance that Gail checked herself back into the hospital ten months later, this time with mysterious shooting pains in her foot that had crippled her ability to stand, walk, or — worst of all — drive. With the memories of her previous stay still fresh, she refused permission for some of the more-invasive tests, including any further biopsies.

Which meant that by the time her doctors discovered that the pains were caused by a tumor pressing against her spine, it was too late: the cancer had metastasized; she was already at stage IV.

In March 2001, Gail left us. If there's an upside, it might be that she wouldn't have to suffer through New York's — and America's — worst nightmare six months later. I'd like to think that on the day in question she'd been stationed by the gates, garlands in hand, ready to welcome her fallen compatriots.

I'm proud to be her son.