Roger Federer hoists the Wimbledon trophy, plants the traditional kiss and, once again, I’m glad it’s over. Once my favorite tournament, Wimbledon is now the one I dread.

Although I lived the first 16 years of my life in England, I never visited Wimbledon. My husband Tom and I made our first trip there in 2000 to watch our son James play the qualies. From 2000 to 2002 we made three memorable trips together. James failed to make the main draw singles the first two years, but got into the doubles. For us, it was a treat just to walk the hallowed grounds of the All England Club. It was also a treat to introduce Tom to the family I had left in England, and to show him where I grew up. He loved it, and they loved him.

In ‘02, our last trip to England together, James not only made it into the singles main draw, but he was seeded. The British press discovered that he is half English and descended on me when I arrived. They took me onto the roof for an interview, had me gaze down on all those tiny green rectangles and try to describe my emotions. Acutely aware of trying not to look foolish in front of thousands of people on both sides of the Atlantic, I’m not sure what I said. My youngest son playing in the world’s most prestigious tournament in my native land — does it get any better than this.

James won his first match and the press went wild. His second match developed into an epic struggle with Richard Krajicek in which James came back from two sets down only to lose the fifth 11-9. Despite that disappointment, Tom and I enjoyed England again and also made a trip to France with my 80-year-old cousin, who showed us the Normandy beaches where he fought during WWII. Those were good times.

In ‘03, Tom opted not to go to Wimbledon. We had made the trip to Australia early in the year, and he felt he couldn’t spare more time away from work. He convinced me I should go because of my ties with England. I tried to persuade him, told him we should seize the moment because who knows how many more moments there would be (how prophetic that turned out to be). Then he told me of another reason for not going.

Since March, he had not been quite up to par. Sometimes he had trouble keeping food down and consequently had lost weight. He had been going to the VA Hospital for years for check-ups, but now it seemed he went more than before. When I questioned him, he laughed and said, “Don’t you know I’m dying?” Knowing how healthy he was (not one sick day in 30 years), I laughed too, but I felt a bit uneasy. Then, toward the end of May, I had to pick him up from the hospital after one of those check-ups. There he tells me they are checking a spot on his lung from an early bout with pneumonia. I feel a bit more uneasy.
Just before I’m due to leave for England, he tells me it’s a good thing he decided not to go because he’s scheduled for a minor operation at the VA hospital during that time.

“I’ll cancel the trip,” I tell him. “The money’s not important.”

But he won’t hear of it.

“I’ll be home before you get back,” he assures me. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

With some misgivings, and with his promise to e-mail me, I agree to go. But I have a nagging feeling that this is not as minor as he would have me believe.
As soon as I arrive in England, I confide my fears to Brian Barker, James’ coach. His is a sympathetic ear, and it feels good to share the burden. We decide not to tell James and Thomas until they are no longer in the tournament. That’s what Tom would have wanted.

James wins his first round, then two days later plays an uninspired match against Sargis Sargsian and loses. By now, I’ve been away for almost a week and have had no word from Tom. I call and e-mail but get no response. I called a friend who tells me Tom came into the club with several rackets he had strung and said he wouldn’t see her for a while. Immediately, I call the airline and change my flight to the next day. Then I have to explain to our sons why I’m cutting short my vacation. I can still see the frightened looks in their eyes. I don’t know what to tell them, but they sense it must be pretty bad to warrant giving up trips to my relatives.

The next day turns into an endless nightmare. I leave England in the afternoon and after a seven-hour flight, it’s still afternoon in the U.S. After retrieving my luggage, negotiating customs and finding my limo, I arrive home in the early evening. Hope against hope, I open the front door and shout, “Anybody home?”
Silence. My hands tremble as I look up the number for the VA hospital. Still hoping it was a minor operation, I ask when Tom will be home. The nurse’s voice seems to register disbelief at my ignorance as she tells me he’ll be there for some time. Visiting hours end at eight, but they will make an exception in this case.

I arrive just as everyone is leaving. The hospital seems woefully understaffed, and I have trouble finding Tom. When I do find him, I can only gape in horror. This tower of strength, this iron man, lies supine with tubes protruding everywhere from his lean body. Monitors buzz and something gurgles at the foot of the bed.

Almost as dazed as he looks and fighting tears, I ask, “Tom, what happened?”

He manages a thin smile and says, “They really did a job on me, didn’t they?”

I sit with him until they make me leave at 11 p.m. Doped with morphine for the pain, Tom is barely lucid and often hallucinates. I’m having trouble coming to grips with this. This is the man who never gave in to one day of illness in all the 30 years I’ve been with him, the man who gave his sons their values to live by, who taught them the value of education, taught them how to play tennis, and is now beginning to enjoy the results of his work. It’s not fair.

Still stunned, I find my way out of the eerily quiet hospital and drive home. Zombie-like, I walk through the dark, desolate house, not knowing what to do or what to think. Finally, I try to sleep. I’ve been awake now for 24 hours, but still sleep doesn’t come. At 3 a.m., the nightmare continues. Concerned about his dad, James calls from his stopover in Italy. How do you tell your youngest child that his beloved father has cancer? It’s not easy. I arrange to pick him up at Kennedy in the afternoon and wonder how I’ll make it if I don’t get some sleep. Thomas is on a different plane. I still have to tell him.

Thomas comes home in the limousine, and we all drive to the hospital to visit Tom. I tried to prepare them, but their faces still register disbelief when they first see their father. After they recover, we all try to be upbeat, but it seems Tom does better than we do.

At the family meeting with Tom’s doctor, she tells us about the particularly virulent cancer that attacked Tom’s stomach and esophagus, but consoles us with the fact that he could live for one or two years. She seems to imply that this is good news, but it is the first inkling we have that the illness is terminal. Initially stunned into silence, I recover, grasp Tom’s hands and look into his tear-filled eyes.

“We’ll fight it,” I tell him. “You’ve got so much to live for.”

It’s difficult to leave him alone in his hospital room. I can only imagine what his thoughts must be after we leave. Wimbledon continues on TV, now into the second week. How far off and unimportant it seems.

After two weeks, Tom comes home. We decide to transfer his treatment to Sloan-Kettering, and he opts for an experimental course of chemotherapy. Looking back on that horrendous year, it seems like an endless round of trips to the hospital for chemo, urgent trips though the night when something goes wrong, endless hours in hospital waiting rooms, bouts in and out of hospitals, pills, bottles, IV equipment and later an oxygen generator in the house when Tom could no longer breath without it. Through it all, Tom tries to continue his job at 3M and tries to stay positive.

In May I receive a phone call from Rome. James has severely injured his neck and will be home in a few days. On the day before Mother’s Day, Tom and I drive to JFK to pick up James and Brian. James successfully conceals his pain and anguish, bantering normally with us on the trip home, the only difference being that he can’t turn to look at the person he is speaking to.

The injury turns out to be an act of providence. As the neck gradually heals, James spends more and more of his time with his father who, by now, is almost totally dependent on oxygen and spends most of the day in bed. Had James been healthy, Tom would have insisted he play the French Open and Wimbledon. James still treasures that time spent with his father and feels the injury was a blessing.

By the time Wimbledon comes around again, Tom is a shadow of his former self. He takes in nourishment day and night, but continues to lose weight. He breathes with the help of oxygen, and on the rare occasions he goes out, must trundle a tank along with him. He enters Sloan for an excruciating procedure to remove fluid from his lungs. It does no good, and he comes home again. Increasingly uncomfortable, he has me take him to Bridgeport Hospital in Connecticut. Three days later, at 6 o’clock in the morning of the men’s semifinals at Wimbledon, I watch Tom take his last breath. Still holding his hand, I watch the sun rise on a beautiful summer day, and I wonder if any day will ever be beautiful for me again.

If someday our son raises high the Wimbledon trophy, will it change the way I now feel about this tournament? Could anything erase the memories that Wimbledon now evokes? The moment, of course, would be ecstatic, but it would be just that — momentary. For fame is fleeting. Grief lasts forever.

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