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But Katrin’s reaction was totally different.“I can’t believe that the last time I was in thisbuilding, I was one of them,” she saidthoughtfully after the interns left, just a hintof sadness in her voice. “Or and I had justmet.”

The initial few weeks of chemo wentsmoothly. As we’d seen with Florence, the effects of chemo are cumulative, and in thefirst several days Katrin said she felt terrific—in fact, more energetic than she’d felt inmonths because they were giving her regularblood transfusions to counter her anemia. She spent her time writing scientific papers(one of which was published by Cell whileshe was in the hospital), supervising her labat Stanford long-distance, and buying books, toys, and winter clothes for Jake and Ellaover the Internet.

Even after Katrin started feeling the effectsof the chemo, she never complained, notabout the Hickman line inserted into herchest that carried chemical toxins straightfrom a drip to her major veins (“Not bad, butI still can’t look at it”); or the shivering feversshe’d suddenly get; or the hundreds of injections, pills, and needle pricks she had to endure. All the while, Katrin sent me funny emails that sometimes made me laugh aloud.“Yay!” she wrote once. “Starting to feel SICK. Chemo is working. . . all according to plan.”And another time: “I am looking forward tothe phlebotomist visiting me this a. m. This iswhat I am reduced to.” The phlebotomistwas the person who drew her blood and toldher what her blood counts were. And: “Ableto drink clear fluids again. Going to trychicken broth. Yum.”

I came to realize that when I didn’t hearback from Katrin—when she didn’t answermy calls or return my e-mails—she waseither violently ill, swollen up with hives because of an allergic reaction to a platelettransfusion (something that happened regularly), or sedated with painkillers to bluntsome horrible new affliction. Her updates, though, were always light-hearted. To mydaily “How was last night?” e-mails, she’d respond, “You don’t want to know,” “Not toobad but not great at all,” or “Alas, anotherfever.”

I also realized something else: Katrin wasdetermined to live for the sake of her children. Growing up, she’d always been themost focused of the four sisters, the one withthe most concentration. Now she devotedevery bit of her intellect and creativity to thetask of battling her leukemia. Trained as adoctor, she was completely on top of her owndisease, double-checking dosages, reviewingher cytogenetic reports, researching clinicaltrials on the Internet. She loved her doctors—she was medically sophisticatedenough to appreciate their experience, acuity, and good judgment—and they loved her. So did all the nurses and young interns. Once, an M. D./Ph. D. student doing a rotation recognized her name—Dr. Katrin Chuaof Stanford, author of two papers publishedin the prestigious scientific journalNature!—and asked her in awe for some professional advice. Meanwhile, to stay in shape, Katrin forced herself to walk around fortwenty minutes twice a day, wheeling aroundthe IV stand she was hooked up to.

I was in Boston a lot during the fall andwinter of 2008. Every weekend, our wholefamily would go up—sometimes we’d makethe two-hour drive to Boston immediatelyafter Lulu and I got back from our four-hourtrip to Miss Tanaka. Katrin didn’t care at allabout having visitors herself—and after thechemo killed off her immune system, visitorswere discouraged—but she was worriedabout Jake and Ella, and it made her happywhen we spent time with them. Sophia adored her baby cousin Ella, and Lulu and Jakewere best friends. They had similar personalities and looked so much alike, people oftenthought they were siblings.

Of course, we were all holding our breathfor one thing: to see whether Katrin made itinto remission. On Day 20, they took thecritical biopsy. Another week passed beforewe got the results. They weren’t good—not atall. Katrin had lost her hair, her skin waspeeling, and she had every conceivable gastroenterological complication, but she wasnot in remission. Her doctor told her she’dneed another round of chemo. “It’s not theend of the world,” he said, trying to soundupbeat. But we’d done our research, and weall knew that if the next round didn’t work, the odds of Katrin having a successful transplant were effectively zero. It was her lastchance.

28The Sack of Rice

Sophia, age sixteenI came home from work one evening to finda carpet of raw rice on the kitchen floor. Iwas tired and tense. I’d just taught, then metwith students for four hours, and I wasthinking about driving to Boston after dinner. A big burlap sack lay in shreds, therewere rags and plastic bags all over, and Cocoand Pushkin were barking up a storm outside. I knew exactly what had happened.

At that moment Sophia came into the kitchen with a broom, a distraught look on herface.

I exploded at her. “Sophia, you did itagain! You left the pantry door open, didn’tyou? How many times have I told you thedogs would get into the rice? The entire fifty pound bag is gone—the dogs are probablygoing to die now. You never listen. You always say, ‘Oh I’m so sorry, I’ll never do thatagain—I’m so terrible—kill me now,’ but younever change. The only thing you care aboutis staying out of trouble. You have no concern for anyone else. I’m sick of you notlistening—sick of it!”

Jed has always accused me of a tendencyto use disproportionate force, attaching hugemoral opprobrium to the smallest of oversights. But Sophia’s strategy was usually justto take it and wait for the tempest to pass.

This time, however, Sophia exploded back.“Mommy! I’ll clean it up, okay? You’re actinglike I just robbed a bank. Do you know whata good daughter I am? Everyone else I knowparties all the time, and they drink and dodrugs. And do you know what I do? Everyday I run straight home from school. I run. Do you know how weird that is? I suddenlythought the other day, ‘Why am I doing this? Why am I running home?’ To practice morepiano! You’re always talking about gratitude, but you should be grateful to me. Don’t takeout your frustrations on me just because youcan’t control Lulu.”

Sophia was completely right. She’d mademe proud and my life so easy for sixteenyears. But sometimes when I know I’mwrong and dislike myself, something insideme hardens and pushes me to go even further. So I said, “I never asked you to runhome—that’s stupid. You must look ridiculous. And if you want to do drugs, go ahead. Maybe you can meet a nice guy in Rehab.”

“The dynamic in this household is ridiculous,” Sophia protested. “I do all the work, and I do everything you say, and I make onemistake and you scream at me. Lulu doesn’tdo anything you say. She talks back to youand throws things. You bribe her withpresents. What kind of ‘Chinese mother’ areyou?”

Sophia really nailed that one. This mightbe a good time to raise an important pointabout Chinese parenting and birth order. Ormaybe just birth order. I have a studentnamed Stephanie, who recently told me afunny story. An eldest child and the daughterof Korean immigrants, Stephanie told methat when she was in high school (straightAs, math whiz, concert pianist), her motherused to threaten her, “If you don’t do X, Iwon’t take you to school.” And this prospectwould strike terror in Stephanie’sheart—miss school! So she would dowhatever her mother asked, desperately hoping she wasn’t too contrast, when hermother threatened Stephanie’s younger sister with the same thing, her sister responded, “Awesome. I’d love to stay home. I hateschool.”

There are lots of exceptions of course, butthis pattern—model first kid, rebellioussecond—is definitely one I’ve noticed inmany families, especially immigrant families. I just thought I could beat it in Lulu’scase through sheer will and hard work.

“As you know, Sophia, I’m having troublewith Lulu,” I conceded. “What worked withyou isn’t working with her. It’s a mess.”

“Oh. . . don’t worry, Ma,” Sophia said, hervoice suddenly kind. “It’s just a stage. It’sawful to be thirteen—I was miserable. Butthings will get better.”

I hadn’t even known that Sophia wasmiserable at e to think of it, mymother hadn’t known I was miserable atthirteen either. Like most Asian immigranthouseholds, we didn’t have heart-to-heart“talks” in my family. My mother never toldme about adolescence and especially notabout the gross seven-letter word that startswith p-u and ends withy and is what happens to adolescents. We absolutely nevertalked about the Facts of Life—just trying toimagine that conversation retroactivelysends shivers up my spine.

“Sophia,” I said, “you’re just like I was inmy family: the oldest, the one that everyonecounts on and no one has to worry about. It’san honor to play that role. The problem isthat Western culture doesn’t see it that way. In Disney movies, the ‘good daughter’ alwayshas to have a breakdown and realize that lifeis not all about following rules and winningprizes, and then take off her clothes and runinto the ocean or something like that. Butthat’s just Disney’s way of appealing to allthe people who never win any prizes. Winning prizes gives you opportunities, andthat’s freedom—not running into the ocean.”

I was deeply moved by my oration. All thesame, I felt a pang. An image of Sophia racing home from school, arms full of books, flashed into my head, and I almost couldn’ttake it. “Give me the broom,” I said. “Youneed time to practice piano. I’ll clean thisup.”

29Despair

My sister Michelle and I were both tested tosee if either of us could be Katrin’s bonemarrow donor. Siblings have the best chanceof being a perfect match—about one inthree—and I felt strangely hopeful that myblood would come through. But I was wrong. Neither Michelle nor I was a match for Katrin. The irony was that we were perfectmatches for each other, but neither of uscould help Katrin. This meant that Katrinnow had to try to find a donor through thenational bone marrow registries. To our dismay, we learned that once siblings had failedto match, the odds of finding a donor decreased dramatically, especially for people ofAsian and African descent. The Internet isfilled with appeals from dying patients desperately searching for a bone marrow match. And even if there was a match out there, theprocess could take months—months thatKatrin might not have.

Katrin’s first round of chemo had not beena nightmare, but the second round morethan made up for that. It was brutal. Nowdays would go by without my hearing fromher. In panic I’d call Or, but often just get hisvoice mail; or he’d answer brusquely and say,“I can’t talk now, Amy. I’ll try to call later.”

The main source of mortality from chemotherapy is infection. Ordinary ailments likethe common cold or flu can easily kill a cancer patient whose white blood cells havebeen destroyed. Katrin got one infectionafter another. To fight them, her doctors prescribed a slew of antibiotics, which caused allkinds of painful side effects, and when thoseantibiotics didn’t work, they tried differentones. She couldn’t eat or drink for weeks andhad to be given fluids intravenously. She wasalways either freezing or burning up. Thecomplications and crises kept coming, andshe was often in so much agony she had to besedated.

When the second round of chemo hadbeen administered, we again had to hold ourbreath and wait. One of the ways we’d knowif Katrin’s leukemia was in remission was ifshe starting producing healthy bloodcells—in particular neutrophils, which defend against bacterial infection. I knew thatKatrin’s blood was drawn first thing everymorning, so I’d sit at my computer screenstarting at 6:00 A. M., waiting for an e-mailfrom her. But Katrin no longer wrote to me. When I couldn’t stand waiting anymore ande-mailed Katrin first, I’d get terse answerslike, “Counts not going up yet” or “Stillnothing. Pretty disappointed.” Soon, shedidn’t respond to my e-mails at all.

I’ve always wondered what’s wrong withpeople who don’t get the point and leavevoice message after voice message (“Ca-a-llme! Where are you? I’m worried!”) evenwhen it’s obvious there’s a reason no one’scalling them back. Well, now I couldn’t helpmyself. I was too anxious to care about beingannoying. The week after her second roundof chemo ended, I called Katrin over andover every morning, and even though shenever answered—she had caller ID, so sheknew it was me—I kept leaving messages, giving her updates on useless things, imagining that I was being cheery and uplifting.

Then one morning, Katrin answered thephone. She didn’t sound like herself. Hervoice was so faint I could barely hear her. Iasked her how she was feeling, but she justsighed. Then she said, “It’s no use, Amy. I’mnot going to make it. There’s no hopeThere’s just no hope,” and her voice trailedoff.

“Don’t be silly, Katrin. It’s totally normalfor it to take this long for counts to go up. Sometimes it can take months. Jed actually justresearched all this. I can send you the numbers if you want. Also, Or tells me that thedoctor is extremely optimistic. Just give itone more day.”

There was no reply, so I started up again.“Lulu is such a nightmare!” I said, and I regaled her with stories about the violin andour fights and me flipping out. Before she gotsick, Katrin and I had often talked about parenting and how it was impossible for us towield the same authority over our kids thatour parents had exerted over us.

Then, to my relief, I heard Katrin laugh onthe other end and say in a more normalvoice, “Poor Lulu. She’s such a nice girl, Amy. You shouldn’t be so hard on her.”

On Halloween, we learned that they hadlocated a donor, a Chinese-American whowas apparently a perfect match for Katrin. Four days later, I got an e-mail from Katrinsaying, “I have neutrophils! Level is 100,needs to be 500 but hopefully rising.” Andthey did—very slowly, but they did. In earlyNovember, Katrin was released from thehospital to regain her strength. She had exactly one month before the bone marrowtransplant, which unbelievably would require yet another round of chemo—this onethe mother of all chemos, administered in aspecial germ-free ward—to wipe out all ofKatrin’s own diseased bone marrow so thatthe donor’s healthy marrow could replace it. Many patients never made it out of thatward.

During her month at home, Katrin seemedso happy. She enjoyed everything: feedingElla, taking her children for walks, and justwatching them sleep. Her favorite thing wasto watch Jake play tennis.

The bone marrow transplant took place onChristmas Eve. My parents and my wholefamily took rooms in a Boston hotel. We hadtakeout Chinese food and opened presentswith Or, Jake, and Ella.

30“Hebrew Melody”

A brand new year—2009. It didn’t start offtoo festively for us. We returned from Boston, exhausted. It had been hard work trying to bring holiday cheer to Jake and Ellawhile their mother lay in an intensive-carebone marrow ward. Dealing with my parentswas even more excruciating. My mother insisted on torturing herself by asking why, why, why Katrin had gotten leukemia. Isnapped at her cruelly a few times, then feltawful. My father kept asking me the samemedical questions over and over, which I referred to Jed, who patiently explained themechanics of the transplant process. Wewere all terrified of what the new year mightbring.

When we got back to New Haven, wefound our house dark and freezing. Therehad been a vicious snowstorm with record high winds, and some of our windows werebroken. Then there was an electricity blackout, which left us heatless for a while. Jedand I had a new semester starting up, andcourses to prepare for. Worst of all, the violinloomed—Lulu had three concerts comingup—and so did Lulu’s Bat Mitzvah. Back intothe trenches, I thought grimly.

Lulu and I were barely speaking. Her hairwas a violent rebuke. Despite the hair cutter’s best efforts, it was still short and a littlejagged, and it put me in a bad mood.

In late January, Katrin was released fromthe hospital. She was initially so frail she hadtrouble going up stairs. Because she was stillhighly vulnerable to infection, she was notpermitted to go to restaurants, grocerystores, or movie theaters without a protectivemask. We all crossed our fingers and prayedthat her new blood wouldn’t attack her ownbody. We’d know within a few monthswhether or not she’d have the worst kind ofcomplication—acute graft-versus-host disease—which was potentially fatal.

As the weeks passed and her Bat Mitzvahgot closer, Lulu and I engaged in intensifyingcombat. As with Sophia, we were being unconventional and having the Bat Mitzvah inour home. Jed handled the major responsibilities, but I was the one constantly haranguing Lulu to practice her haftarah portion—I was going to be a Chinese mothereven when it came to Hebrew. As always, itwas over the violin that we fought most bitterly. “Didn’t you hear me? I said go upstairsand practice the ‘Hebrew Melody’ NOW!” Imust have thundered a thousand times. “It’snot a difficult piece, so if it’s not incrediblymoving, it’ll be a failure.” “Do you want to bemediocre?” I’d yell at other times. “Is thatwhat you want?”

Lulu always retaliated fiercely. “Not everyone’s Bat Mitzvah has to be special, and Idon’t want to practice,” she’d shoot back. Or:“I’m not playing violin at my Bat Mitzvah! And you can’t change my mind.” Or: “I hateviolin. I want to quit!” The decibel level inour house went off the charts. Right up untilthe morning of the Bat Mitzvah, I didn’tknow if Lulu was going to play the “HebrewMelody” or not, even though it was on theprograms Jed had had printed up.

Lulu did it. She came through. She readher Torah and haftarah portions with poiseand confidence, and the way she played the“Hebrew Melody”—filling the room withtones so hauntingly beautiful guests cried—itwas clear to everyone that it came from deepinside her.

At the reception afterward, I saw Lulu’sface glowing as she greeted guests. “Oh myGod Lulu, you are, like, scary on the violin, Imean like totally amazing,” I heard one ofher friends say to her.

“She’s extraordinary,” a singer friend ofmine marveled. “She clearly has a gift, something no one can teach.” When I toldher how much trouble I was having gettingLulu to practice, my friend said, “You can’tlet her quit. She’ll regret it for the rest of herlife.”

That’s how it always was when Lulu playedthe violin. Listeners were gripped by her, andshe seemed gripped by the music. It’s whatmade it so confusing and maddening whenwe fought and she insisted she hated theviolin.

“Congratulations, Amy. Goodness knowswhat I could have been if you’d been mymother,” joked our friend Caren, a formerdancer. “I could have been great.”

“Oh, no, Caren, I wouldn’t wish myself onanyone,” I said, shaking my head. “There’sbeen a lot of yelling and screaming in thishouse. I didn’t even think Lulu was going toplay today. To tell you the truth, it’s beentraumatic.”

“But you’ve given your girls so much,” Caren persisted. “A sense of their own abilities, of the value of excellence. That’s somethingthey’ll have all their lives.”

“Maybe,” I said dubiously. “I’m just not sosure anymore.”

It was a great party, and everyone had fun. A big highlight was that Katrin and her family attended. In the five months since her release from the hospital, Katrin had slowly regained strength, although her immune system was still weak, and I panicked every timesomeone coughed. Katrin looked thin butpretty and almost triumphant carrying Ella.

That night, after all the guests had goneand we’d cleaned up as much as we could, Ilay in bed wondering if Lulu might come andhug me the way she did after “The LittleWhite Donkey.” It had been a long time. Butshe didn’t come, and I went to her bedroominstead.

“Aren’t you glad I made you play the‘Hebrew Melody’?” I asked her.

Lulu seemed happy, but not particularlywarm toward me. “Yes, Mommy,” she said.“You can take the credit.”

“Okay, I will,” I said, trying to laugh. ThenI told her that I was proud of her and thatshe’d been brilliant. Lulu smiled and wasgracious. But she seemed distracted, almostimpatient for me to leave, and something inher eyes told me that my days werenumbered.

31Red Square

Two days after Lulu’s Bat Mitzvah, we left forRussia. It was a vacation I’d dreamed of for along time. My parents had raved about St. Petersburg when I was a girl, and Jed and Iwanted to take the girls somewhere we’dnever visited ourselves.