[This time of year, every blogger writes the obligatory, heartfelt giving-thanks post, listing the things that he or she is thankful for. I think it’s, like, a law in the blogger handbook, to of course be followed by the reflections on the past year/new year’s resolutions post.]

Many years ago—twelve years, to be precise—my family hosted Thanksgiving. Our dining room table was stretched thin (the extensions had come out), chockfull of close extended family members and friends of friends. Some of the people there I had only met once or twice.

For the first time in Bogart family history, someone suggested that we go around the table and each say what we were thankful for. (Typically, and ever since, we just shovel food into our faces, competing with one another for the Who Can Eat the Most and Say the Least title.) My turn came last, and I supplied a doozy:

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m not really thankful for anything this year.”

“Nothing?” my mom said. She stared at me as if I’d just slapped her.

“Nope. Not really.” I shrugged.

“Well, okay then,” she said, trying to cut the brief tension with some humor. “I guess Julie has absolutely nothing to be thankful for. Her life is horrible. Let’s eat.”

I should explain. At the time, I was a freshman in college. A few weeks earlier, doctors had discovered a tumor on my boyfriend’s brain. He was spending the holiday by himself in a hospital in Philadelphia, far away from my hometown of St. Louis, recovering from brain surgery.

My euphoria at having found love for the first time in my life had been quickly followed by hospital visits, anxiety-induced bed-wetting, and the contemplation of death. In other words, in the span of three months, I had experienced my highest high (true happiness) and my lowest low (gut-wrenching agony). In other, other words, I was kind of fucked. I was also 18 and prone to the melodramatic.

Thanksgiving that year had come at the worst possible time in the worst possible way, and I flipped the holiday off with both middle fingers.

Flash-forward twelve years to the present day, and the present holiday. Four weeks ago, my dad was diagnosed with stage II colon cancer. He had surgery to remove the tumor, and in the upcoming weeks, he will most likely undergo chemotherapy. I’m not going to lie and say that, because I’m older and wiser, I’m fine. Because I’m not. I’m sad and I’m scared and I’m dealing.

But, and here’s the part where older and wiser do come into play, I know now that whatever happens, I will survive it. This year, I have many, many things to be thankful for. My dad’s cancer was caught early, and it hasn’t spread, for starters. But also at the top of my list are the people who have seen me through this. They are the people who will be there for me always, no matter the highs or lows, the people who bring joy to my life every single day, even when there’s cancer.

They are my friends. And even on Thanksgiving, I can’t thank them enough.

I have a new article up at Sirens Magazine: “Doing the (Post-Divorce) Deed.”

Again, I think the title sums it up quite nicely. It’s never too late to get some action.

[Update 12.1.09: AlterNet re-printed (posted) my article.]

One of the challenges of writing memoir is that there are so many ways to tell a single story. So many different points of view (who will be the narrator?), so many slight variations on memory. I remember it one way, she remembers it a different way. Who’s to say which one is true?

All you can do is remain true to your own memory, and to tell the story, your story, the story of your family or friends, as truthfully as you remember it. As truthfully as you feel it.

In her novel, No One You Know, Michelle Richmond writes:

Every story is flawed, every story is subject to change. Even after it is set down in print, between the covers of a book, a story is not immune to alteration. People can go on telling it in their own way, remembering it the way they want. And in each telling the ending may change, or even the beginning. Inevitably, in some cases it will be worse, and in others it just might be better. A story, after all, does not only belong to the one who is telling it. It belongs, in equal measure, to the one who is listening.

As I begin to re-write my own memoir (soon? One day? Years from now? This week?), as I start over from the beginning, though the characters and setting and events will remain the same, the story could change. Hopefully (please? Pretty please?) for the better.