By Amanda Klarsfeld

Ron Gordon stood in the kitchen of his West 79th Street apartment, heating leftover lasagna in the microwave. His wife, Stephanie, was at her book club, and he planned to spend the evening alone — reading, maybe watching TV. It was July. The couple had been out of the city for the summer, but returned for the book club –  and a second opinion about the pain in Ron’s left leg, which, despite anti-inflammatories and physical therapy, was getting worse.

“I heard a terrible sound,” Ron, 81, recalled, in a recent interview with West Side Rag. His femur had broken and was bent at a right angle, sending him crashing to the floor. “I was probably in shock because I don’t remember a lot of pain,” he said.

“I dragged myself across the kitchen floor,” Ron continued. Finally, he reached his phone, but he could not reach Stephanie. He then called his neighbors, Jon and Barbara, and Theron, the doorman. The three entered the apartment, found Ron, and called 911. 

Later, at Lenox Hill Hospital, Ron learned that cancer had been responsible for his weakened femur. Extensive testing indicated lymphoma and Ron was transferred to Weill Cornell hospital to begin treatment, including chemotherapy.

While in the hospital, he received a get-well video message from another neighbor: a three-year-old boy.

“He said ‘get well, Mr. Ron,’ and I burst into tears,” Ron recalled. “It made me see the beautiful world I might be close to losing.”

Ron had a long career as a graphic designer. Since his retirement, he has spent more time drawing for pleasure. His pastel pieces adorn the Gordons’ apartment, some on the walls, others leaning frameless against shelves of books.

After his accident and diagnosis, followed by surgery to repair his femur, Ron was not in the mood to draw. “Still, I wanted to do something for that little boy and his twin sister,” he said. He decided to create a book featuring people, places, and things in and near their building, showcasing the different letters of the alphabet.

When he was able, using a cane to walk now, Ron spent two weeks taking photographs. “It was a breakthrough for me, because it was so spontaneous and free-form,” he explained. “I’m used to precision as a graphic designer.”

When the book was finished, Ron and Stephanie met the toddlers in the building’s garden to present it. Though the youngsters were not yet able to read, they were exuberant upon seeing the people, places, and objects they recognized, next to the letters of the alphabet they represented. D is for Deli. E is for Erick, the doorman. N is for Neighbors. O is for Open Door. 

The Gordons have stayed at 118 W 79th Street for 50 years due in large part to the neighbors and open doors he pays tribute to in the book. “When we moved in, there were teachers and scientists and opera singers and musicians,” Ron recalled. “When my daughter was playing the violin and a string broke, there were three violinists who knew how to fix it.”

There is still a sense of community in the building, which Ron is more aware of since his illness. “People have gone well beyond the call of duty,” he said, describing how Theron brought him Hershey’s Kisses in the hospital, knowing it was his favorite candy.

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