My throat is raw and scorched. The orange Jell-O my mother spoons into my mouth hurts going down, as if it were made from burning leaves. I try not to complain, though, since this is a holiday, and everyone in my family is excited to see comedian Jerry Lewis on the television later with his healthy, wealthy friends, singing and dancing for charity.
It’s the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, 1977. I am nine. In our house the Muscular Dystrophy Association Telethon is as much a holiday tradition as fireworks on the Fourth of July. Jerry raises money for families with sick kids and huge medical bills. We watch every year as the numbers on the big board turn to the next million, and though we don’t say it out loud, we are a family that needs help, too. Our illnesses are not as grim as muscular dystrophy, but the hard work on the farm and the frequent bad weather — droughts, tornadoes, freezes, blizzards, floods — put us on edge and make us predisposed to health calamities. Then there’s the guilt that goes with becoming sick, as if you’ve let everyone down by allowing your white blood cells to take over.
