New Year’s Eve 2005: I am standing in the boisterous, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd at the Dakota night club in Santa Cruz, Calif. As the countdown rings out, my best friend Christopher hugs me and wishes me a happy new year. Terrell, a tall, dark and gorgeous acquaintance, gives me my official kiss. I clink glasses with Anne, my fellow cancer survivor, vowing we’ll be “staying alive in 2005! We join the loud, sweaty mass of revelers on the dance floor, and stay until the bar closes. 

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Many years ago, on a twelve-hour flight from London back to California, I was seated next to an Indian woman.  She was older, with long gray hair woven into an intricate braid, wearing a flowing sari and many gold bracelets.  We got to chatting; she was on her way to meet her new granddaughter in San Francisco.  Did I have any children?  No, I replied.  Her eyes grew wide.  “Oh, you must have children!  Woman is not woman without being mother.”

 

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