Category: Coping

Moments of Joy

I love yoga. I know it isn’t for everyone and that’s fine. I’m not proselytizing for it. To each their own. But for me, it is helpful. I don’t always have the experience I had this last session where I had a moment of joy, but even when I don’t it is well worth the time.

I started going regularly, two or three times a week, last November, so it has been a solid seven months. I have done yoga before, but never this consistently and for this length of time. I think the last time I did it, I had some issues with my wrist, and I stopped and never went back. Now I am more aware of how to work around the various aches and pains and am willing to accept my limitations. It feels more important for my mental and physical health to stay committed to going.

So where do the moments of joy come from? Usually it is during the last part of the class, when we take a comfortable pose and just let everything go. It is called shavasana. You’ve done the harder work of the different stretches and positions and now we rest. The leader will often give a prompt – a thought, an idea – that you can ponder (you certainly don’t have to!), but then we sit or lay in silence for a few minutes with only some soft music playing.

This last time the instructor had started the class by noting that soon we would be starting a new season, and it was a good time to consider letting go of something that no longer serves us. She pointed out that it could be as simple as a sweater that has been sitting in our closet unused for too long, or something major like a relationship. Sometimes when the instructors talk about new months or new moons, it doesn’t resonate with me. It doesn’t bother me – it can get a little woo-woo – but at this school of yoga it doesn’t go too far in that direction. I can appreciate a little spirituality, but if they go too far into the chakras and energy and planets and all of that they lose me. Anyway, in this case, her message did resonate. I do have stuff to rid myself of – and actually it does involve clothing. I have drawers stuffed with things I don’t wear and no longer need. It is a good time to purge, and I know it will feel good to do it – it feels cleansing, like I’ve lightened my burden. Things that don’t get used are clutter and when you see them every day it can feel suffocating. So, in that moment I pictured sorting through my drawer of workout clothing and t-shirts, putting the stuff in bags and either throwing them out if they are too worn or donating them. I felt better already.

But that wasn’t my moment of joy. Once I had decided on that, and I felt lighter, I thought of all that I am grateful for: that my body works well enough that I can get down on the yoga mat (and get back up!) and do many of the poses, and that feeling of gratitude led me to  thoughts of my family. Part of the reason I am motivated to be here in yoga class is to be in as good health as I can muster, being with my children and grandchildren for as long as possible. As I thought of my kids an image came to me from my granddaughter’s birthday party from last week. My son and his daughter were playing Bananagrams. Some of the older kids at the party joined in. They were just playing the game, laughing, having fun, looking healthy and happy. I was proud of my boy – he’s a good father and a good man. We were all together for a celebration. As I lay on my yoga mat with my eyes closed, I saw their faces and it brought me joy.

It isn’t that I couldn’t have that image come to me at another time. It can and it has. But, most of the time it is in the midst of other things, other tasks, other responsibilities. After doing about 50 minutes of yoga, when we wind down and relax into shavasana, my mind is clear and my body feels good – having stretched and exercised to the extent that I am able. There is more space to reflect and cherish the image. It is a gift I give myself to make the time to go to yoga. While I can’t say that when I leave, I carry that positive feeling with me for the whole day, it does help. I need moments of joy to get through the many challenges we all face.

Maybe yoga won’t do it for you, but I highly recommend finding ways to claim that moment of joy for yourself.

flowers bring me joy, too

The ‘Right’ Thing

This photo came up as a memory on Facebook a couple of days ago. It was bittersweet to see it. I remember that day clearly. It was only a year ago. Gary and I were in Florida for our annual pilgrimage to see the Mets during spring training. We took a short drive from our hotel to take a walk by the beach.  Gary did his thing – he likes to show he can still climb a tree – and I snapped the photo to document it and sent it to our children, who, in turn, would hopefully show our granddaughters.

At the same time that we were enjoying this ordinary moment of levity, I was struggling with a difficult and painful decision. My mother, whose health had been failing, took a dramatic turn for the worse the night before. We had only just arrived in Florida. Though Mom had not been doing well, I had spoken with my brothers, the hospice nurse and her aide before leaving and we thought she was stable. We were wrong. Thus the question: Should I return and go to New Jersey, or should I stay?

Gary and I contemplated that as we walked along the beach. I had several conversations with my brothers before our walk. Both of them encouraged me to stay in Florida. Mark was heading down to Jersey from Albany with his wife, Pam, so he would be there. Steven and his wife, Cindy, lived 15 minutes away from Mom so he visited regularly. Steven was quite insistent that I stay in Florida; they would handle things. I had been very involved with Mom’s care up to that point, they didn’t want me to cut short our brief vacation. We were scheduled to be away for a total of five days, and we were on our second day when things went south.

After much contemplation, we decided to stay, believing that there wasn’t much I could add. My brothers are capable people. Mom was sleeping most of the time. Despite that, I was still torn. Did I need to see her? I decided I didn’t. I remembered how painful it was to see my father during his last days. Those images stayed with me for years, crowding out memories of him as a healthy person. It was also possible that I would get back in time to see her since our trip was so brief. Though I was deeply conflicted, I didn’t have a strong gut feeling, so we decided to stay in Florida.

I was able to enjoy the sunshine and warm air. I had the welcome distraction of the baseball games and dinners with friends. We visited Gary’s mother. In between, I talked to my brothers and thought about Mom and continued wondering whether I was doing the right thing. My brothers and sisters-in-law were handling some rough stuff – administering morphine, watching Mom to see if she was uncomfortable while she mostly slept. I felt guilty leaving this final stage to them, but I was also relieved.

Gary and I flew back north on Monday. Mom was still hanging in there. Before we left for the airport, I called my sister-in-law Pam’s cell phone, knowing she was sitting with Mom. Pam told me Mom’s eyes were closed, and she seemed comfortable. I asked her to hold the phone next to Mom’s ear. I told Mom I was coming to see her the next day but if she was ready to go, it was okay. I told her I loved her, that she was a great mother and that she earned her rest.

We arrived back in Albany late on Monday. Mom was still breathing. I got up early Tuesday morning and was packing my things to drive down to New Jersey when my phone rang. Mom’s aide, Ama, said she believed Mom had passed. She was waiting for the nurse to come to confirm it. I was surprised and I wasn’t. I thanked Ama for all she had done for Mom. I felt lost – now what should I do? After calling Gary, who was at work already, I wandered around my bedroom deciding if I still wanted to go down to New Jersey. For reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me, even now, I wanted to go. Maybe to see visual proof that Mom was gone, maybe to help Steve and Cindy with the details….

Ama was indeed correct. The next few days are a blur, planning the funeral, sorting through her things.

It was Mom’s time – I knew that. I wondered whether what I said to her on the phone made a difference.  I didn’t exactly feel guilty about not being there, though I wondered if I would have offered her some additional comfort. I had been with Mom through most of her medical issues over the last years. I think I offered her comfort then. A year later I am still not sure how I feel. I am not riddled with regret, and I have been spared thinking of Mom as the sick version of herself. When I remember her, I think of her vibrant self. I am grateful for that. I still think of calling her to share good news.

I am also grateful to my brothers for protecting me – I think that is what they were doing by encouraging me to stay in Florida. I believe that they thought I had pulled my weight in caring for Mom, and they stepped up to see her through to the end, painful as it must have been.

Aside from knowing that it was Mom’s time, I know one other thing: there is no “right” answer as to how to handle the end of life. There is only doing the best you can and making decisions with love and compassion. After that, if you are a believer, you give it up to God. If you aren’t, and I am not, you give it up to the great unknown.

Note: Mom passed one year ago today – February 27, 2024. We miss her but take comfort in the long, happy life she had.

An Unveiling

We gathered at Riverside Cemetery in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. In Jewish tradition, a year or so after a person is buried, you have an unveiling – literally the unveiling of a headstone or footstone that is the marker commemorating the individual’s life and death. Though it has been less than a year since my mother passed, my family gathered to observe this ritual for her on Sunday, November 17th, one day after what would have been Mom’s 91st birthday.

Photo by my brother, Mark Brody

19 of us stood around her grave on a brilliantly sunny day, unusually warm for mid-November in the northeast. It was appropriate weather given Mom’s sunny disposition (she was an eternal optimist, though, for better or worse, she shared her fears and complaints with me). She is buried between her mother, my Nana, and her husband, my father. The plot is part of an area that was established by the burial society founded by immigrants from Strickover, Poland where her father was born. Ironically, he is not buried here, he rests in Florida. But, other family members surround Mom, her brother, grandfather, aunts and uncles. There is something comforting to me about them all being together.

We began the ceremony by reading the portion of Ecclesiastes that tells us so eloquently that to everything there is a season – reminding us of the cycle of life. Then we uncovered the stone which reads:

Feige M. Brody

Nee Spilken

November 16, 1933 – February 27,2024

Cherished Wife, Mother, Grandmother, Sister and Aunt

Life-long Learner

Standing beside me were representatives of all those roles – her children, brother, sister-in-law, grandchildren ( a great-grandchild, too), nephew, nieces, and great-nephews.

I read these words: “On behalf of all of us, we consecrate this memorial to Feige Brody as a sign of our eternal love and devotion. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.”

The cemetery had provided a booklet with selections that could be read, and it offered the following passage which I am transcribing here because I thought it was insightful, comforting and appropriate and might be helpful to others who are grieving a loss:

“We gather here today at the final resting place of our beloved mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, Feige to unveil this grave marker dedicated to her memory and to call to mind our cherished memories of her. When Feige passed away, we assembled here to pay our respects. At that time our grief was deep, and we felt intensely the pain of loss. Now, with the passage of time, the pangs of our initial grief have softened, yet we still feel sorrow in our hearts whenever we remember her.

Jewish tradition teaches us that those memories of Feige, which each of us cherish, can provide us with a measure of comfort. Those memories also serve as a form of immortality that comes to those we love when we remember them, and when we live our lives in emulation of the virtues they taught us by example.

Our presence here today is already an indication that Feige has achieved that immortality that comes through remembrance. Our presence is also a sign of the respect and admiration in which Feige is held by us. We still feel an emptiness in our lives when think of her because she played such an important role in each of our lives as a beloved family member and friend to many. Feige was devoted to us as we were devoted to her, a relationship of love and affection that we recall today.

Throughout the months since Feige passed away, we have each had occasions to remember the impact that she had on our lives.

We are comforted by our memories of the joys she brought to people and by the contribution Feige made to the betterment of our world.

In the biblical book The Song of Songs we learn that “The bonds of love are stronger than death.” Our memories today prove the truth of that teaching.

Even though Feige is no longer present in person, the love that we shared and the way our lives were touched by her continue to be felt. The pain of loss and separation is the price we have to pay for the years of Feige’s love and devotion.

Therefore, it is with sorrow, yet at the same time with a deep sense of gratitude, that we thank God for the years during which we were privileged to have had Feige as part of our family’s life and as a member of our community. We thank God, as well, for the love that bound us together with Feige in life and that inspires our cherished memories. It is with these thoughts in mind that we now pay tribute to Feige by dedicating this grave marker to her.”

That passage provided comfort to me. I am consoled by the notion that we attain a measure of immortality by being remembered – it helps me to reconcile the loss of my mother and father, as well as other people who I have loved in my life and still think of regularly. And, it is meaningful to me to think of how, by carrying forward their values, by emulating their integrity and generosity, I am helping to preserve their legacy. Those thoughts help me to come to peace with my own mortality. Hopefully I will have touched friends and family in a way that merits remembrance.

After reading that passage, we said a concluding Hebrew prayer and Uncle Terry read a touching poem he had written in tribute. Aunt Barbara, as a self-described “out-law” welcomed into the family by Mom, offered her heart-felt perspective on Mom (and Dad’s) generosity and the importance of our family bonds. Terry noted that he had Barbara would, when the time came, rest in this same area of the cemetery, just across from where we stood. I said a silent prayer that that would not be any time soon.

Another Jewish tradition when visiting the grave of a loved one is to place a rock on the marker. This is to signify a visitor’s presence, that the person who has passed has not been forgotten. Several years ago, when we gathered at my father-in-law’s grave, my sister-in-law Doreen painted some rocks with pictures of things that she shared with her Dad or represented him. I thought that was a wonderful gesture. I decided to do that for my parents. I painted one rock to look like a bookshelf with items my dad read regularly: Economics, Puzo (he loved The Godfather and read it multiple times), L’Amour (he loved westerns) and History. I painted another stone with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (my mother’s favorite of her novels, and she read Austen every summer until dementia made that impossible) and a final stone with a blueberry bush (when my parents lived in the Catskills and the grandchildren came to visit, they went blueberry picking and baked muffins). I felt good placing those rocks that embodied precious memories, knowing that they would sit there for a while at least before the elements wear them away.

No Spilken/Brody gathering would be complete without partaking of food. So, we adjourned to the diner that was just outside the cemetery. Though the service was painfully slow, and we had to wait, and the orders got mixed up (no day goes by without some aggravation), we enjoyed each other’s company before going our separate ways and returning to our lives  – some in New Jersey, some in Massachusetts, some in Connecticut and the rest in Albany, New York. Hopefully our next gathering will be a happier occasion, but I am left with a feeling of warmth, believing that Mom and Dad rest easy knowing that our familial bonds are strong and that we are doing our best to live out their values.

I’ve Been Here Before

What do you do when you are sad?  Do you go about your business with a heavy heart? Do you take steps to cheer yourself up? Maybe it depends on the source of your sadness…if you can even identify it.

When I’m feeling down, I often turn to writing. This explains the fact that many of my blog posts reflect that mood. I don’t want to be a complete bummer, but the inspiration to write often comes from feeling bad and needing to sort it out. Believe it or not, I have about 370 (!) posts on my blog, with probably less than 10 of those from guest writers. I wonder what percentage are about feeling depressed or disappointed? I do try to end them on a hopeful note.

But, writing and sharing helps me and I hope it helps my readers. It helps me process my thoughts, clarify my thinking and sometimes reset my mood. When I get feedback, it feels validating. I know I am not alone. Plus, it feels like a constructive thing to do, instead of wallowing. Sometimes I do need to wallow a bit, but I try to limit that. Putting pen to paper, or seeing the words on my computer screen, can help to take the sting out of the emotion. There’s a quote from Mr. Rogers (yes, Fred Rogers, he was quite wise) that says: “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary.” Smart man, that Mr. Rogers. The stuff we hide away, mostly from ourselves, is the stuff that does the most damage.

I also find that usually when I am in a mood like this, it isn’t just one thing. There might be an incident or disappointment that pushes me over the edge, but there were likely other things that accumulated. So sorting it out, naming them, is helpful.

I have “finished” my manuscript for my memoir. I put quotes around finished because I feel like it will never really be done. I know it needs further editing, so there is that. But, also, every time I read portions of it, I tinker with the words, think of other potential scenes, wonder if it is any good. I could probably work on it forever. It reminds me of an observation Professor Weisband, one of my favorites from SUNY-Binghamton, made. I took a seminar with him that required a major research paper (it had to be 50 pages or more). Mine was on the U.S.-Soviet SALT talks. I was endlessly reading and finding new material. I asked him how you knew when your research was done. He basically said, you don’t. You decide to start writing. On the one hand, it was a very unsatisfying answer. On the other, I have found it to be largely true. You may realize that pieces are missing when you are writing and do some more digging, but at some point, and it may feel arbitrary, you have to stop and see what you have. I feel that way about my memoir.

Despite feeling like it may or may not be done, I have decided to move to the next phase which is trying to find a literary agent. I won’t go into the details of this grueling process but suffice it to say it is a little like auditioning for movies or plays. Mostly it involves rejection – or in this case, unanswered queries. No answer is the answer. I’ve only sent out 7 so far. There are hundreds, probably thousands, of agents. I will need to send out many, many more. At some point, again, perhaps an arbitrary decision, I can stop and decide to self-publish, but I want to give this a shot. It is hard not to be discouraged, especially when you feel so uncertain about whether your project is worthy. I remind myself to be proud of the fact that I am even doing this – I set a goal for 2024 to contact literary agents, and I have done that. (By the way, if anyone has contacts or suggestions, feel free to send them my way!) I need to just keep on keeping on.

Though this project weighs on me, it is not the primary source of my sadness. My memoir is something I have control over, at least to some degree. Getting it published may be as much a matter of luck as talent. The things that really make me sad are the things I can’t change: my friend’s serious illness; a relationship that isn’t what I wish it was; the precariousness of our democracy; Supreme Court decisions that defy how I understand our Constitution; and, the rise in antisemitism – to name a few.

I am old enough to have been here in this sadness  before. I will distract myself with a combination of constructive things, like doing something nice for my friend, making a contribution to a candidate I believe in, and other things that are just fun – like getting out in the sunshine, watching something mindless and entertaining, talking to friends. And I will wait for the sadness to pass. Thanks to writing this – and I am sitting in my backyard as I type, listening to the birds, seeing the sun on our daisies – my mood has already begun to lift.

The daisies in our backyard

Aging with Grace

I am gaining yet more respect for older folks. As I am aging and approaching my 65th birthday, I realize the high price we pay for getting older, and I am not referring to the physical challenges we face.  So many losses are endured, it is hard to fathom.

It is expected that we will lose our parents – that is the life cycle. Some, like me, are lucky to have had them for much of my adult life. Dad died when I was 45 and Mom just passed. Others aren’t so fortunate, and it is painful no matter the age, but at least we understand that it is the natural order of things.

I think about my mom and the losses she endured as she got older. Her husband, her brother, sister, and best friend, not to mention other friends and family members. Yet she persevered, she maintained interests, she sought joy, she smiled a lot. She also didn’t back away from those who were ill – she was fully present for my dad, as well as others. I don’t think everyone is able to do that. Some might get bitter or shut down. How could you not want to insulate yourself?

Death is part of life. Maybe grieving is a constant, on some level. It is just part of the mix of emotions we experience all the time. It is the price of loving people. After all, if you protected yourself from loss, you would be depriving yourself of friendships and connections.

I imagine the reason for the death makes a difference in how one processes it. All the losses that my mom faced in her later years came about because of disease. Our family has very limited recent experience with deaths due to violence, addiction, suicide, or an accident. Those bring a special pain – the kind that can permanently change the trajectory of the survivor’s life. We carry the generational pain of the Holocaust, but that is a different kind of grief, too.

There is a sort of joke that says no one gets out of this life alive. The truth is I have not made peace with that idea. I know it intellectually, but that doesn’t mean I have accepted it. I need to. It won’t change the anguish I feel when someone I love dies or is suffering, but maybe it will help me to not waste time asking why.

I can’t accept that God is making individual choices about who lives and who dies, or how they die. It just doesn’t make sense to me to believe that a higher power is invested in that, or would knowingly be so cruel, or has that detailed a plan. I suppose even if there is a God and even if s/he were making those decisions, we wouldn’t know the rationale anyway. It isn’t like good people don’t suffer and bad people do – it doesn’t work that way. So, either way, it may be best not to torture ourselves looking for an explanation for someone’s suffering or premature death. It just is and we need to move through it as best we can, becoming more compassionate toward each other knowing how hard life can be, and seeking joy, meaning and connection where we can find it. I think my mother and father-in-law, in particular, modeled how to do it. I will try to follow in their graceful footsteps.

From Rouses Point, Lake Champlain…appreciating the beauty all around us

Reset: Retreat and Renewal

After Mom died at the end of February, I felt like I needed a reset. The last couple of years have been difficult. Though I was not the primary caregiver for either my mother or Aunt Clair, I was very involved in their medical decision-making. I accompanied them to doctors’ appointments. I visited them and tried to provide comfort. It was a painful process watching them deteriorate and being powerless to change the inevitable. Not to mention the grief I felt and feel when they were gone.

I also faced my own abdominal surgery to remove what turned out to be a benign cyst – it was actually my left adrenal gland that had hemorrhaged. While I only had a long weekend of worry before I knew it wasn’t cancer, it was still surgery under general anesthesia. The recovery was uneventful, but not without its discomforts.

All of the stress involved in these circumstances left me drained. I was not taking good care of myself. I was on the road a lot, driving over three hours each way to see Mom, and making poor food choices, stopping at Dunkin’ Donuts or McDonald’s instead of finding healthier options. There is a long tradition in my family of seeking comfort in food and I succumbed to that impulse too many times.

I thought it would be helpful if I could go someplace and gather my thoughts, get into a better rhythm. I have never gone on a retreat before, but the idea appealed to me. I wasn’t looking for spa treatments, though a massage might be nice. I was imagining some yoga, healthy food, a walk in the woods. I heard of some places like Kripalu in the Berkshires, Omega Institute in Rhinebeck in the Hudson Valley, and Canyon Ranch in several locations.

I looked them up online and read what they offered. Kripalu seemed closest to what I was looking for. I talked to Gary about it and he was fully supportive. I signed myself up for three days of retreat and renewal. They offered structured programs of varying lengths, but I wasn’t so much interested in something that formal. I wanted more flexibility. Fortunately they offered that option too.

Kripalu offers different levels of accommodations which are priced accordingly. I chose a private, dorm-style room where the bathroom would be on the hall. The idea of sharing a bathroom didn’t bother me, but I wasn’t looking for a roommate.

As I anticipated my time away, I was a bit nervous. I had not done yoga in years. There was a time, about a decade ago, where I was doing it regularly but I was never a serious student of it. I was afraid I would be in over my head. Perhaps people who went to these things were committed yoga practitioners. I called Kripalu, before I put my money down, and asked: Is this appropriate for someone of my age and level of experience (or lack thereof)? I was reassured that they offered programming that met me where I was.

I was still nervous about it, but decided I would take the risk. What’s the worst that would happen? I would try a class and if I really couldn’t manage it, I didn’t have to go again. The classes were voluntary. I could spend my time reading, relaxing and taking in the Berkshires if it came to that.

It didn’t come to that. I had a great experience.

I checked in and got settled in my room. It was small, like a single dorm room. It did have a sink which I appreciated. It also had a lovely view of the lake, they call it the Stockbridge Bowl.

the view from my window – beautiful even in the rain/fog

This would be the first time since college that I would use a communal bathroom and shower. I wondered if it would bother me. It didn’t. They kept it spotless, and I think during my three days I might’ve crossed paths with another person only a couple of times.

I studied the schedule of classes/workshops and planned out my time. They told me that Gentle Yoga would be appropriate for me. They offered more vigorous classes, but I was quite challenged by the gentle version. The biggest difference from ten years ago was my balance, though my flexibility and strength weren’t what they used to be either. But I didn’t feel self-conscious about it. Everyone seemed to be focused on themselves and the teachers were encouraging. I did the best I could and felt reasonably good about it. I did a yoga class once each day. As I remembered from my previous experiences, I particularly enjoyed Savasana, the final ten minutes when you lay on your back (or choose a comfortable position) close your eyes and breathe while soft, soothing music plays…very calming.

I took two hikes. Each was guided by a staff person. I loved the approach they took. They began with a short meditation, and they suggested that during the walk out – in one case we hiked down to the side of the Stockbridge Bowl (walking through some woods and meadows in route) and the other we climbed up to a pond – that we walk in social silence. In other words, we traveled as a group, but without chatting. They wanted us to pay attention to our surroundings, listen, see and smell nature. They asked that we leave our phones in our pockets, not even to take pictures. I thought that was great – took the pressure off. When we arrived at the destination we sat quietly for a few minutes. In one case the guide read us a poem. After a time of taking it all in, the guide said if folks wanted to take photos or chat, they were welcome to; if you wanted to continue in silence, that was fine too. On each return trip I chatted with people.  It was a great balance. I did notice a difference in how much I took in when we walked quietly versus when I talked with someone, but I enjoyed both experiences in different ways. Here are some views from my hikes:

the pond
the path by the lake
i love light on water

Another interesting aspect of Kripalu is that they ask that breakfast be eaten silently. There are signs up around the dining hall and other spaces where you can take your meal asking that you respect the silence. (In fact some folks come to Kripalu for a silent retreat – they spend their days in silence.) The sign on the table explained that they urged you to be present while you were eating your first meal of the day – to pay more attention to the tastes and how your body felt. Again, I found it to be a great practice. This only applied to breakfast, other meals were social. For all meals, though, they ask that you not use electronic devices – they preferred that you use a physical book, but people did use e-readers. The prohibition on electronic devices extended all over the campus. There were designated areas where they were permitted and of course you could use them in your room. I loved being free of my phone. Most of the time I left it in my room, unless I knew I wanted to use the camera.

I have more to share about the workshops I took, but I will save that for another essay. It has been over a month since I returned from my retreat. While I wish I felt as energized as I did in the days immediately after my return, I can’t say that is true. I do carry the lessons I learned, the peacefulness I experienced and the spirit of it within me. I am sure I will return to do it again.

Breathe

Life can be crazy. So many ups and downs. Times when you are too busy; times when you aren’t busy enough. Celebrations followed by funerals. Health scares. Plans ruined by weather. A fabulous vacation. Profound disappointment when an effort (a job, a project, a relationship) fails. All of these things can happen in the course of a year or even a month. It can be unmanageable.

Often the roller coaster that is life feels out of control. We don’t control the weather, disease, the behavior of others. We are left to cope – how we respond is the choice we make. That is the challenge. Sometimes I am not prepared to rise to it, but I have no alternative. I soldier on.

A few months ago, I started planning a weekend away with our family. My husband’s 65th birthday was coming up in April and he was also beginning semiretirement after more than 30 years as a very fulltime endocrinologist/internist. I thought those milestones merited a celebration. I invited our children to a lovely lodge in the Catskills and arranged a dinner that included our siblings. It promised to be a fun time.

Our kids and grandkids were due to join us late Friday afternoon at the lodge. Friday morning I got a call from our daughter, Leah, that our granddaughter, Lenny, was running a fever and they needed to adjust their plans. We hoped that she’d rally and maybe they could come for the dinner Saturday night.

The rest of us went ahead with the plan. We left Albany under cloudy skies. The weather wasn’t promising for the weekend. The route took us past Kaaterskill Creek on a scenic winding road. Unfortunately, the weather gods decided that was the moment for the skies to open up. Rain poured down in sheets. The creek looked like a raging river. It was beautiful but also a little scary as we wondered whether the road would wash out. We were glad to be traveling during the daylight and hoped that things would improve before our other guests were making the trip.

A small sample of the raging waterfall

We arrived at Scribner’s Catskill Lodge, across from Hunter Mountain, and were not disappointed with our accommodations. Even with the leaden skies and intermittent rain, the scenery was beautiful.

We explored the premises and looked for a place for dinner. We texted with Leah every so often, getting updates on our granddaughter’s condition.

As the afternoon progressed, Lenny’s fever rose. Now we weren’t so much thinking about whether they would be able to come, now we were worried about what was wrong. We know little ones can run hot, but it is scary when their temperature goes above 103 and continues to climb – especially without an evident source of infection.

It was strange to be in this lovely setting, ostensibly celebrating, but having a part of my heart and mind elsewhere. Of course this wasn’t the first time I’ve been in that situation. Just a couple of months ago, we were in Florida for Mets’ spring training when Mom’s condition took a turn for the worse.

My rational mind knew our granddaughter was not in grave danger. She was taken to urgent care, and they diagnosed a virus. All her vital signs were good, and she was breathing well. I knew that Leah and Ben were taking excellent care of her – keeping her hydrated and nourished as best they could and watching to ensure that nothing else emerged. Knowing all of that didn’t mean my imagination couldn’t get the better of me. My stomach churned.

We did manage to enjoy our company and the delicious dinner. We had a wonderful time with our son, daughter-in-law and other granddaughter. She was a delight – full of energy and enthusiasm, a tonic for my worries. But when I returned to the quiet of our hotel room, the worries returned in full force.

We said our good-byes on Sunday and headed home, still waiting for Lenny’s fever to break and debating whether I should head to Somerville to lend a hand. Since I retired my time is generally my own and I don’t have that many commitments. The week ahead was unusual in that I had several things scheduled. I kept expecting Leah to call or text with news that Lenny was on the mend, but that wasn’t happening. In fact, Sunday night they went to the emergency room when her fever went up to 104.3. Once again, they could find no source, recalibrated her dose of ibuprofen and Tylenol and sent her home. My stomach kept churning.

Last year I did a 30-day meditation course using an app on my phone. One of the main useful ideas I took from that exercise was to recognize that my thoughts were not ‘real,’ in other words thinking something didn’t make it so. Worrying about the future or what might happen was counterproductive. Not that you can stop yourself exactly, but you could recognize it and bring yourself back to the present and breathe. I was trying to remind myself of this practice when I was fretting about Lenny, but it wasn’t working very well. There was still a pit in my stomach, and it was hard to concentrate on anything else.

I didn’t want to cancel my plans. In one case I had already postponed because of bad weather, and the other was an unusual opportunity to hear someone interesting speak. But, if things didn’t improve, I thought Leah and Ben needed reinforcements. It is exhausting caring for a sick baby – sleep is interrupted, and the little one needs constant comforting. I knew they could use another set of hands, if only to take care of things around the house. They were on their fourth day of spiking fevers. I knew what my priorities were. If things didn’t get better by the next day, I would call my friends to cancel and head to Somerville.

The next morning Lenny woke up with a temp of 101.7, which was actually lower but hardly normal. She was still out of sorts. They would take her back to the doctor. I decided I needed to be there to help. My friends were very understanding (shout out to Alison and Colleen!), not surprisingly. That’s why they are my friends – they share the same priorities. They know family comes first.

I drove to Somerville and arrived to see Lenny sitting on the couch next to Leah not looking like her usual lively, happy self, but not terrible. Turned out that she had developed double ear infections. The doctor hypothesized that the virus was running its course and winding down when, possibly as a result of being in a weakened state, her ears became infected causing the fever to spike again. An anitbiotic was prescribed. Lenny already had one dose and Leah and Ben noted some improvement.

I was grateful that we had a treatment and an explanation for why the fever had come back so vigorously. I was also glad to be there – Leah and Ben both looked exhausted. Ben’s mom had been there that morning, bringing food, and allowing them to attend to work responsibilities. I would pick up the slack.

I spent the next couple of days lending a hand where I could, watching Lenny for a few hours so they could do their work. I returned home when she was ready to go back to daycare.

I am left with some thoughts. While I respect those who are able to be ‘zen’ in difficult situations, I am not one of them.  I’m fine with garden variety disappointments or annoyances. I don’t know if I can overcome my nature when it comes to the health of my children and grandchildren. I cope, I function – I don’t curl up in a fetal position, but I haven’t figured out how to calm my innards.

I hold on tight to those I love, and it seems this is the price I pay. I don’t know if I can loosen my grip. I think some are able to give the worry up to God, or a higher power. That doesn’t work for me. Others, like my mom, just didn’t worry that much – that wasn’t where her mind went, especially about her own health. I’m better about my own health scares; children and grandchildren are a whole other ballgame.

I was thinking about how things must’ve been in the past when infant mortality rates were higher and life, in general, was harder. I don’t think in those days people expected happiness or ease. Just surviving required effort. The very rich always had more options but for most people leisure time was a luxury. Today we have so many conveniences and improvements in health care. Our expectations are so much higher for the quality of our lives. But I wonder if we have become unreasonable, thinking we will be happy, engaged in work we are passionate about, healthy, etc. Life is still unpredictable. It is still challenging. There is heartbreak. Knowing that hasn’t made it easier for me to roll with the punches.

Meanwhile I will remind myself to breathe.

The sun did come out for a bit on Sunday morning. I stood here, enjoying the view, and breathing

Silverware and Memories

I don’t know why but I think of Mom’s silverware as I stare out the window over my sink. My stomach clenches. I feel an ache; a sense of loss.

A week or so ago Mark and I brought some things, jewelry and said silverware (which upon closer inspection was silver-plated) to a place where they bought and sold gold and silver. No one in the family wanted these items – we had offered it far and wide with no takers. So, we decided we would see what we could get for them. All told the silverware came to $6.51. The woman who took it explained that they would melt it down and extract what was valuable, which wasn’t much, or we could take it back and try to sell it ourselves.

We could have cleaned it up, it was badly tarnished, and sold it on eBay or in a garage sale and perhaps gotten more, but that was more effort and time than either of us were willing to give. We decided to take the money. I think it was the right decision.

I realize I am not actually sad about the silverware; I understand why we did what we did and that if I kept it, I would not be happier. It is the loss of my mother, who valued that set, who took it as she moved from place to place, that I grieve. My mother liked pretty things. She set a lovely table. She used her ‘fine’ china – I’m not sure how fine it was – and silver when she entertained. When she served tea, she chose from one of many beautiful pots and cups she collected over the years. It gave her pleasure. I don’t tend to do that. I try to present food nicely when we have guests, but I don’t put the same effort into it, and I don’t enjoy it the way Mom did.

The silverware represents something else aside from Mom’s aesthetic sense. It was a reminder of family gatherings from long ago. Mom would have me set the Thanksgiving table – the table for the adults, we always had a kids table, too – with that silverware. I also helped when she and Dad hosted dinner parties, which they did often. They had a book club with friends that usually included Mom making dinner. I was her sous chef and assistant, vacuuming and raking our red shag living room carpet, straightening up and setting the table. My bedroom was just off the dining room. I would fall asleep still hearing their voices and laughter.

Despite the warm memories, I would not want to return to childhood. I was lonely and terribly sensitive. The societal upheaval of the late ‘60s and ‘70s weighed on me. I would not want to relive growing up with all of the insecurity it entailed, but I can get sentimental about certain things from that place and time. I thought my family was perfect. Though I didn’t appreciate that my brother Mark teased me mercilessly and my brother Steven had a scary temper, as did my dad, but it all felt comfortable and right. I knew they loved me and would protect me. I thought our extended family, my aunts and uncles and my mother’s aunts, uncles and cousins, were the best. They were part of my everyday life – coming in and out of my grandmother’s upstairs apartment regularly. I didn’t know there were tensions and complications in those relationships – not then, that awareness didn’t come until I was fully an adult. As a child my family life felt like a cocoon that shielded me from the pain of the outside world.

It has been many years since I emerged from that cocoon. The first peeling back of my comfortable nest was when Nana died, and I was 11. In some ways Mom carried on Nana’s traditions, but things changed. I left home at 16 to go to college and though I came back for some summers and a year of graduate school, I never lived with my parents again.  

Mom died one month ago. Her death is perhaps the final goodbye to that world.  Mom and my relationship evolved and in her final years. I was more her caretaker than she was mine, but she was still present. She was still Mom. I still wanted her blessing.

I am now part the oldest generation of the family. I am one of the elders. How strange! It’s also unnerving. I know I have matured, but I am still the same person inside. My spirit doesn’t feel old. Sometimes my body argues otherwise, but mostly it functions as it did, and I am grateful for that. But I can’t deny reality. I have one remaining uncle who I am so thankful to have, but that is all that is left of the older generation.

I suppose it is inevitable that seeing certain things, a favorite mug of Mom’s, a lovely piece of pottery that now resides in my cabinet, will remind me of her. Or a memory might be jogged when I set my table with my silverware for the seder, and I will grieve the loss again. Not just of my mother, but Dad, Nana and my aunts and uncles. Though the pang I feel in my heart is painful, it is a good thing, too. It tells me I have had rich relationships and there has been a lot of love given and received.

A Tourist in My Hometown

Last week was difficult. My mom’s health has continued to deteriorate, and it has presented challenges to get her needs met. Suffice it to say that elder care in this country is imperfect – and that is a generous assessment. We are a family with resources but even with that, it can be hard (perhaps impossible) to find services that match her needs. I feel for folks who don’t have the financial wherewithal or time or knowledge to navigate this terrain. And that doesn’t even touch on the emotional toll all of this takes and the baggage we may be bringing to our decision-making. So, Saturday night, when I could finally breathe, I realized that I had Sunday to myself before diving back in to Mom’s care. And it was supposed to be a sunny day! Not warm exactly, but warm enough. I decided I could be a tourist in my hometown – New York City.

When I was old enough to go from Brooklyn to Manhattan by myself or with a friend, I loved exploring. They used to have city buses that ran ‘culture loops.’ It was an inexpensive way to see the sights. I went to museums, I visited landmarks, I window shopped. I especially enjoyed observation decks – I went to the top of the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center multiple times – they weren’t that expensive back in the day. I loved walking the avenues and side streets, finding interesting buildings and people-watching.

I thought about how I might spend my Sunday. I had read about a new observation deck, The Summit. It is next to Grand Central at One Vanderbilt and stretches upward for 93 floors. The observation area is comprised of three floors and includes an art installation or two. Decision made. I would check this out. I bought a ticket online. It was not cheap.

Before starting my day of touring, I accompanied Gary to the Amtrak Station. Though I had taken the train from Albany several times since the new Moynihan Hall opened, I had not seen it. Somehow when I exited the train in Penn Station and made my way to the subway, I missed the new part. So, this first stop revealed a new sight – a vast improvement from the old, dingy station I was accustomed to. I said goodbye to Gary, he was heading home to go to work on Monday. I would have enjoyed having him join me on my adventure, but there are advantages to not having to worry about anyone else’s preferences.

I exited the station and started walking east and north. I was reminded again that New York City is beautiful. Yes, it can be dirty and gritty, but the parts I traversed were not. The architecture can be so interesting. You also find hidden gems, like this in front of the Polish Consulate on Madison and East 37th Street.

I am also often struck by how the sunlight makes its way through the caverns created by the buildings and casts shadows. The sun was brilliant, and the air was crisp and clear.

My ticket was for 12:00. When I arrived at One Vanderbilt there was quite a long line for the noon entry. I should have anticipated that it would be crowded – it was the weekend and it is New York! Somehow, I had forgotten about that. They had it well organized, with sufficient staff shepherding us through the process – the line snaked around kind of like it does at Disney World. We had to go through security, too. They issued booties – a good portion of the floors up top are mirrored and they don’t want them to get scuffed. You aren’t allowed to wear stilettos – not a worry for me since I’ve never worn a pair in my life! They also provided sunglasses, they warned that it was quite bright up there, but I had my own. It took a while to get through the whole process and I wondered if it was going to be worth it.

The final hallway before the elevator is darkened and there’s dramatic music playing. I guess they are trying to play up the excitement. I could imagine it being a bit scary for young ones. They also warn you if you are sensitive to flashing lights or loud noises that you should tell the staff.

Finally, I got on the elevator and we flew up to the 91st floor.

It was worth the wait. The views are stunning. The mirrored walls and floors create a wild, pixelated scene.

Though it was likely designed for the Tik Tok generation, I loved it. There were young folks making the most of it, creating what I am sure were super cool selfies or portraits of partners or friends, but I was surprised to find that it didn’t annoy me. It was interesting. I was mostly focused on taking in the vistas and people were considerate. They took their pictures but kept moving so you could get to the windows. Since the air was so clear you could see across Brooklyn, Queens, New Jersey, Westchester. You get a full appreciation for New York Harbor and the waterways that flow from it. All I can say is wow!

The art installations were cool, too. One room had mirrored balloons floating around. This was designed by Marie Kusawa and I enjoy her work – so whimsical and fun.

Naturally there were opportunities to spend more money – but you don’t have to buy anything in the gift shop or the café (there is also an open air terrace where you could bring the drink purchased at the cafe). You don’t have to buy the photos they take. But, there is no denying that it can get expensive. The base price, just to take the elevator and walk through the three floors of observation areas and installations is $42 for an adult. It was worth it to me.

There is a glass ledge you can step out on – they take a picture of you there. I bought this one. I tried to take my own photo, didn’t come out nearly as good.

It was a great day. Accomplished just what I needed it to. Now I will get back to the real world.

“Why Am I Here?”

Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, is behind me. It was an intense day for many reasons – it usually is. Especially compared to an ordinary day. After all, if one observes, you fast and spend many hours in quiet reflection. A combination of things came together to make it especially emotional for me this year.

Though I have not written about it directly, I may have alluded to it in other blog posts, I have been facing a bit of a health challenge. Back in June, as part of a CAT scan to determine my calcium score, there was an incidental finding of a cyst in my abdomen. At first my doctor didn’t recommend follow-up, but on closer inspection of the scan, it was determined that it needed further investigation. Over the course of the summer, step by step, we tried to figure out what this thing was. There was a three-to-four-day period in early August where it was thought to be a pancreatic cyst that might not be innocent. During that stretch of uncertainty, I wondered if this was the beginning of the end. My aunt passed away from pancreatic cancer two years ago. I wondered if I was embarking on that journey.

Fortunately, another test result revealed that possibility to be extremely unlikely – they were able to take a fluid sample and the outcome was very encouraging. However, the question of where this cyst originated (it is large – about the size of a baseball, but not the shape of one) is still not clear and it makes a difference in terms of the course of treatment or whether just watching it is sufficient.

As I write this today, after much consideration, Gary and I, along with my doctors, have decided that we will get this thing removed, but it is not an emergency. Gary and I had planned a river cruise ten months ago that is scheduled to depart on October 15th. We have been assured that there is little to no risk in keeping our travel plan. It has been a confusing time and, with all of the back and forth, I am comfortable with our decision.

I am not going into all the details of this medical odyssey– no need to go into the nitty gritty of it. I am sharing it because it contributed to my state of mind going into the High Holy days this year. There had been uncertainty and a good deal of soul searching even before Yom Kippur began.

I am a Jew who is not religious; I am doubtful about the existence of God. Despite this I have taken the ritual of Yom Kippur to heart. Starting with Rosh Hashana, we are asked to reflect upon our behavior over the course of the prior year and admit to our flaws and failings. We ask for forgiveness from those we have injured or disappointed and we make promises to do better in the year ahead. For many, this process might involve asking God for forgiveness and beseeching him or her to allow us to be ‘sealed’ in the book of life for another year, but that isn’t what resonates with me. The practice of, on an annual basis, taking stock, holding yourself accountable and quite literally making amends is powerful – or it can be if taken seriously. It can also be an exercise in going through the motions. If I am honest, there were years that I have done that. Not this year.

Perhaps because of my heightened awareness of the precarious nature of health, I was more open to the message of the holiday. I listened to the sermon of the rabbi from B’nai Jeshrun, a synagogue in New York City that we live streamed, as we came to the close of Yom Kippur and I found his message very profound and more than a little unsettling.

Rabbi Rolando Matalon, who speaks eloquently with the Argentinian accent of the country of his birth, implored the congregants to ask themselves: ‘why am I here?’ ‘what is my particular mission?’ He offered a story from the bible of an unnamed person who asks Joseph, who is wandering in a field, what he is looking for and when Joseph replies that he is looking for his brothers, the man shares what he overheard the brothers say. This sets Joseph on a path to Egypt, a path he would not have otherwise taken, but we know how consequential that was. The rabbi offered a number of interpretations of this interaction, but ultimately the point he made was that every individual has an impact, whether they know it or not. In this bible story, a man only called ‘Ish’ (somebody) plays a critical role in setting events in motion. Rabbi Matalon continued by explaining that each individual is a messenger, each individual has to fulfill their particular mission – we have to do the work of figuring out what we are doing in this world. He noted that it was hard work that takes time and commitment. Whether I felt that the parable he shared was a perfect illustration of that idea or not, I believe his point is correct. That is the work of our time on earth: to discover what I can contribute to repairing the brokenness we see all around us and within ourselves.

In those days of deep uncertainty in August, when I wondered if I was facing a truly life-threatening illness, I asked myself that question. I realized I didn’t know how to answer and that was very troubling. As I listened to the rabbi, I visited the question again.

As a child and young adult, I thought about these things. I was always very introspective. I thought I would find a career that would lead me to fulfillment. I was growing up at a time when girls were encouraged to have careers, to consider alternatives to the traditional role of wife and mother. I believed that it wasn’t enough to be a homemaker. I wanted to make more of a contribution to the world. When I was in college, I remember conversations with friends, particularly with one friend whose mom was very devoted. We talked about how it was important to have a well-rounded life, to not be solely defined by being a mother. At that point, I didn’t even know if I wanted to have children, I didn’t imagine that I would ever define myself that way.

As I went to school, through college and graduate school, and through my first professional jobs, the question of what I was meant to do nagged at me. I had not figured it out. Sometimes I would really struggle – I would not go so far as to describe it as depression, but persistent sadness over my inability to find purpose. Imagine my surprise when I found that the questions stopped after I became a mother. I had no expectation that it would answer that very fundamental issue. While I still grappled with defining myself, a substantial part of me felt settled. I understood what I needed to do. In a day-to-day way my purpose was clear. I thought to myself, ‘I guess the joke is on me because mothering appears to be what I am meant to do.’

My children have been adults for a long time now. My relationship with them has evolved and continues to evolve. Since they left home about 15 years ago I worked at a job that provided some satisfaction. Then I retired to take up writing with very little success, if one defines success as mainstream publications or earning money or fame or large readership. I would not say the question of my purpose has plagued me as it did in my youth, but all is not quiet inside either. There I was all those years ago, smugly talking in my dorm room, about how I wouldn’t be like the women raised in the 1950s, and yet here I am struggling with finding meaning now that the years of active mothering are behind me. The irony is not lost on me. The role that felt the most fulfilling is essentially done – not that I don’t have a meaningful relationship with my children and grandchildren. But it doesn’t feel the same – my soul (whatever that is) is not as well nourished.

I think the rabbi’s question, and the intensity of all the emotion leading up to the moment, led to a bit of a crisis of meaning and confidence. In the week that has passed since then my innards have settled. I am finding comfort in reflecting on meaningful conversations, friendships and experiences.

All of this introspection is not only prompted by the High Holy days. It is also the season of my birthday. The lyrics of that Beatle song “When I’m 64” have come home to roost. That number kind of freaks me out even though I am still a year away from Medicare eligibility. Apropos the lyric of the song, I am confident that Gary still needs me. One of the thoughts that has given me solace over this past week is the idea that I have helped him to make a significant contribution to the quality of his patients’ lives – and that ain’t nothing.

I will leave you with one other important lesson learned from this Yom Kippur. In the spirit of the holy day, I hoped to ease the tension (make amends) in a relationship by calling and discussing the issue. It may be obvious to many that it wasn’t wise to have that kind of heartfelt conversation on a day of fasting – it wasn’t obvious to me. It is now. Perhaps I should have taken a clue from Jewish law which prohibits making phone calls on the holiday – something I have always ignored. It might have gone better in the days leading up to or days following Yom Kippur because the odds of success are greatly enhanced when all parties to the conversation are fed, hydrated and caffeinated. Sorting out fraught emotions while headachy, hungry and tired is not a winning strategy. Tensions have subsequently been eased but we may have arrived there with less agita if I had placed the call on any other day.

Live and learn – something I hope to continue to do every day that I inhabit this earthly realm. And, I believe that is also in keeping with the rabbi’s sermon.

Foggy morning on the Mass Turnpike