Boone

Walp, one year has passed since the diagnosis. My dear friend Janet, remembers and asks me about it.

"How are you going to mark the occasion?"

"Gosh, I don't know," I say.

It's not like you want to celebrate the anniversary. But you notice it, and the mind works on its meaning.

Janet, whose mind is like a cricket you are trying to catch in one hand, suggests, "Give some money to some non-cancer-related organization. Find a group that is doing something happy."

"That's a great idea," I say, and mean it. I begin to think about happy organizations, looking for something kind of out in left field, where the crickets are.

I turn back to the task at hand. Janet and I are working by phone on the annual brochure for an institute we both teach at. As we are editing together, Janet asks -- from deep in left field, of course -- what my favorite animal is.

"My favorite animal?" I ask. "Gosh, that really depends. Is it going to live in my house? Or is it out there in the world?"

I think for a moment.

Giraffes amble into my mind. I dream of giraffes. Does everyone? For days after a giraffe dream, I feel lighter in my step, or maybe just taller. Either way, I've been visited, touched by Something.

"Giraffes," I say, hoping Bear and Juniper are not within earshot. "When I dream of giraffes, it is as magical as a flying dream."

"Give to the Giraffe Mommy Preservation Society," says Janet.

We go back to the brochure and tinker together. She needs a new example of adolescent emotional pain; last year's is so last year. We need a new name. "Lisa" is too last year, too. Lisa becomes "Madison." Madison is upset because someone tweeted to 300 people that she was a lousy hookup.

I am only half-thinking about Madison. I want to get off the phone and find the Giraffe Mommy Preservation Society. When we hang up, I google "giraffe rescue" and make my way to the African Conservation Foundation. They rescue giraffes, elephants, gorillas, rhinos. You name the fauna, they are trying to save it.

I make a donation and email Janet about it. She makes a donation, too. It is a nice moment for me, for Janet, and for the ACF. But I don't feel finished. I think maybe I skimped on my donation, that there is another one yet in me to make.

I look again this morning and come upon SanWild, a rescue organization in South Africa. Boone, the six-month-old baby giraffe, needs a sponsor. Here he is:

I haven't told Laura about the new addition to the family yet.

Saving a baby giraffe is a great way to mark a year past a cancer diagnosis. So obvious, and I can't imagine why I hadn't thought of it myself. I'll let you know how our little 200-pound bundle of lanky joy is doing as time goes by.

In the meantime, I am hoping Boone visits in a dream.