Radio television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

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My husband was a seaman in those days, and away part of the time, but our whole life stretched rich and full ahead of us. It was only a little over two years ago that John and Johnny and I were happy beyond words to tell it, for we had found out that Rosemarie was on the way. By that time Johnny was just about through high school and my husband and I had almost given up thinking that we'd ever have more children. Then had come the night of Rosemarie's first birthday. I'd dressed her in her little blue dress trimmed with white ruffling. Johnny had rushed home from school to help me make our fourroom apartment spick-and-span for the celebration. Eagerly we waited for John to come home. Finally we heard his step on the worn marble stairs which wind up the four floors to our Bronx apartment. The thought went through my mind that he must be very tired tonight, for usually he started slowly but fairly bounded up the last flight. I went to the door and opened it. There he stood with Rosemarie's birthday cake — a great big cake for such a little girl. He was carrying it in front of him, and I thought how heavy it must have been to carry up the long flights of stairs. I took the cake and went to put it in the kitchen. When I returned to the hall John was still standing there, one hand clutching the door frame. Before I could reach him, he fainted. I don't like to remember the months that followed, though I know I'll remember them to the end of my days. The worry, the fear, the anxiety — They are things you live with, and in living learn to hide. My John had cancer. Cancer beyond the stage of cure. Cancer that would allow him life . . . but only for a little while. Can you know what it means to have your grasp of life torn from you? There are moments when you think you can never go on. But, somehow you do. You look at your young son and watch the inevitable happen. Not wanting it, but somehow not being able to do anything about it. It was Johnny's own decision that he should quit school, get a job, somehow or other help get food on the table. You watch your son hardly out of his seventeenth year assume the burden of caring for an entire family. And your husband — -it makes your heart ache to see him worrying. There's the physical pain, and even more painful, his thoughts that you can read as plainly as if they were written in a large clear hand on a slate — worry lives like a black cloud behind the sun of his smile. Watching one day, I told myself something, something just had to be done to relieve his mental torment. Wasn't it enough, I asked myself, that his poor body, which had been so strong, should now be racked with pain? Idly, I listened to the announcement of the next television show as it came on the screen. "The Columbia Broadcasting System presents: The show with a heart! Strike It Rich!" I went over and took John's hand again as I sat down beside him. "John," I said, thinking out loud. "Perhaps I should write to that program and see if they could help us . . . I've had an idea for a long time, but I didn't quite know how to go about it. If I could win enough money to get me to a typing school, I could learn to type and do work at home. That way it wouldn't be like a regular job — I could be here with you and Rosemarie and still be helping out." John grew serious. Gently he straightened out my hair where it had fallen loose from the combs. "We could try anyway," he said softly. That day I wrote a letter to the producer of Strike It Rich, Mr. Walt Framer. I told him as honestly and straightforwardly as I could what I needed the money for. A few days later I heard from him — I could come down to the program and see if I could answer enough questions correctly to pay for a course at business school. When I appeared on the show, just as I finished telling the television audience about my husband and my family, it was time for the program to go off the air and I was asked if I could return the next day. Disappointed, I took the subway from the CBS building in Manhattan to our apartment out in the Bronx. All the way home I kept thinking of the hopes my family had for my success. Sure I'd have another chance the next day, but suspense carried with it an element of heartbreak. But, when I walked in the door of our apartment, John told me I was to call Mr. Framer's office immediately. Over the telephone Mr. Framer told me the exciting news that I'd been given a brand-new typewriter. A member of the audience had donated it. The next day was a nightmare that turned into a beautiful dream — a dream that somehow was real. I returned to the studio and got up as far as $110 on the questions. Then I missed the last question, and I realized I had failed — $110 was not enough to pay for the business course. It meant the end of a hope and a prayer. But glory be, just then Mr. Hull told me that the Cambridge School of Business had given the program a complete typing course for me. I could attend the school for free! And besides that I had the $110! I have started school. And Mary Pagano, a woman the Cancer Society has sent to me, takes care of my husband and Rosemarie while I'm learning to type. Each week I get a little better and already I'm able to earn eighteen dollars a week at odd jobs the school has gotten for me. My husband's face still reflects the physical pain he feels, but that other more subtle pain that was eating at his soul is gone. He shares with me the sure knowledge that people are kind and good, that Johnny and Rosemarie are safe. And his soul is at peace.