Fifty-sev­en Fri­days is a deeply inti­mate and mov­ing mem­oir in which Myra Sack recounts los­ing her first daugh­ter, Havi, to Tay-Sachs in 2021. Havi’s sto­ry stretch­es from the time before her ter­mi­nal diag­no­sis at fif­teen months, through the pre­cious, joy-filled moments Sack and her daugh­ter shared, to Havi’s death and its heart-wrench­ing aftermath.

From the start, Sack shows read­ers a calm and sweet baby whose gold­en curls, huge sparkling eyes, and laugh­ter light up the pages. Read­ers will fall in love with Havi and despair know­ing that Tay-Sachs — a rare, inher­it­ed, and fatal dis­or­der — will even­tu­al­ly steal her life.

The mem­oir takes place by the sea in Cal­i­for­nia and at Sack’s home in Boston. Each para­graph radi­ates with ​“bound­less love and bot­tom­less pain,” two seem­ing­ly polar emo­tions that Sack repeat­ed­ly describes as coex­is­tent, even intertwined. 

Sack describes the pro­gres­sion of Tay-Sachs, which grad­u­al­ly strips away Havi’s abil­i­ty to sit, feed her­self, smile, and, even­tu­al­ly, swal­low. Sack and her hus­band, Matt Gold­stein, move through their anguish and remain present with their daugh­ter, fill­ing her short life with trips to the beach, music, nature, and so much ten­der­ness and love. The book includes poignant let­ters addressed to Havi. One begins: 

… There is a pho­to in our kitchen, which we hung up after we got back from our Hav­i­moon, show­ing us all sit­ting at our dai­ly break­fast table in Del Mar. Your hand is rest­ing on top of a small bowl full of fresh fruit, your beau­ti­ful long fin­gers curved per­fect­ly around a blue­ber­ry. I’ve been star­ing at that pho­to this week, los­ing myself try­ing to get back into that moment to remem­ber what it looked like to see you feed your­self. And some­times I can’t remem­ber com­plete­ly, and that scares me. 

Sack por­trays the sup­port Havi received from grand­par­ents, sib­lings, friends, health­care providers, and men­tors. She also describes spe­cial moments and rit­u­als they cre­at­ed, such as ​“Shab­birth­days,” which involved ​“Havi’s posse” going all out to cel­e­brate Havi’s life each Fri­day night. This unique twist on a Jew­ish tra­di­tion becomes a pow­er­ful sym­bol of how the fam­i­ly chose to nav­i­gate their journey. 

The book also delves into the legal bat­tle the fam­i­ly pur­sued after the hos­pi­tal they vis­it­ed ordered the wrong test, result­ing in a mis­re­port­ed neg­a­tive-car­ri­er sta­tus. While Sack knows the law­suit won’t bring her daugh­ter back, it offers her a glim­mer of pur­pose: to hope­ful­ly pre­vent oth­er fam­i­lies from endur­ing the same tragedy. 

Since Hav­i’s death, Sack and Gold­stein have both found new ways to inhab­it the world through their respec­tive Havi-inspired work. Sack found­ed E‑Motion, a non­prof­it orga­ni­za­tion cre­at­ed to sup­port peo­ple through loss, and Gold­stein start­ed JScreen, an orga­ni­za­tion ded­i­cat­ed to pro­vid­ing edu­ca­tion, genet­ic test­ing, and per­son­al­ized support. 

Sack’s mem­oir may be a great com­fort to those expe­ri­enc­ing loss, espe­cial­ly the death or ill­ness of a child. It can also serve as a guide for those seek­ing to sup­port griev­ing loved ones. Sack relates how she and Gold­stein process(ed) their pain, both indi­vid­u­al­ly and as a cou­ple. In the after­word, she reminds us how to show up for each oth­er, and what not to do or say when some­one is in the depths of sorrow. 

Havi taught her par­ents lessons not only about nav­i­gat­ing grief, but also about liv­ing life with greater mean­ing and pres­ence. Sack describes their life with Havi dur­ing COVID-19 iso­la­tion: ​“We are cre­at­ing our own real­i­ty, one that is hyper-present and hyper-aware. Hug­ging, hold­ing, kiss­ing Havi feels imper­a­tive on a cel­lu­lar lev­el and I am immersed in her. I’ve nev­er lived this way and it’s beautiful.” 

Fifty-sev­en Fri­days is a sto­ry of fam­i­ly, love, and the pow­er of com­mu­ni­ty, as well as a dev­as­tat­ing yet hope­ful med­i­ta­tion on loss. It will stay with read­ers long after they reach the final page.