We are driving south on the Thruway once again. Heading to New York City for the weekend. Gary will be going to see a Met game with our son on Saturday. I will find ways to amuse myself – not a difficult assignment in the City (in my heart the one and only city :)).
I am struck by the disconnect between my life and the world at large. It is a beautiful day. The green hills of the Catskills are showing hints of color as we approach fall, they still look green and lush. The air is clear, the is sky a cloudless, azure, and the sun is beaming. If I only look at the world right in front of me, it is lovely. But, I know better. If I cast a wider look I think of the tragedies around the world (in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, etc.), the crackdown on free speech, the unrelenting gun violence in our country, the degradation of our environment that leads to more and more natural disasters, the fear that immigrant families live with, the extraordinary corruption and lack of integrity of Donald Trump. Most of those realities don’t touch me directly. Not yet, anyway. I am fortunate. I can afford higher prices in the supermarket and at the gas pump. I already own a home. Gary and I have savings – hopefully enough to ensure a comfortable retirement. We are able to make these pleasant plans for the weekend.
I look at the cars streaming down the highway, wondering about the inhabitants. Are they like me, heading off to pleasant destinations? If they aren’t faced with serious illness or job loss/uncertainty, are they just taking things at face value, telling themselves, “It’s all good.”
I worry that people like me, who are in my economic situation more or less, can delude themselves that everything is okay. If your immediate family is okay – they are gainfully employed, aren’t married to immigrants, perhaps own homes, if their children are healthy – you can put your head down and ignore everything that is going in the wrong direction. They may not be paying attention to the larger picture. Maybe they don’t need Medicaid, maybe their employment isn’t impacted by federal budget cuts, maybe the confusion around vaccinations isn’t concerning if they aren’t immunocompromised, maybe they assume that since they have resources, their children and grandchildren will be protected.
But life is fragile, and things can change on a dime.
A mass shooting and/or random violence can strike anyone. A natural disaster can unmoor a whole family. Illness can change everything. We don’t have control over these things, for the most part, but when they happen, we hope to have support to get through it. Some things could help minimize the occurrences – gun control (or see my last essay on repealing the second amendment), more mental health services, steps to slow down climate change could help. But even if we can’t stop these things from happening, we can build supports to help us cope and knowing that support is there, can lessen the anxiety. The current attitude, though, is in the opposite direction. Our social safety net is being decimated. Cutting FEMA, loosening environmental regulations, reducing funding for mental health and pulling government resources from medical research are all disastrous policy choices.
More than that, though, the attitude that is allowing all this to happen flows from our president, his callousness, his thirst for revenge, his selfishness. We, the American people, are being led by someone who is a terrible role model, and we are worse for it. We cannot allow his character flaws to become part of our national character.
The danger is that if our lives are largely blessed, or if our vision is narrow, we can pretend all of this is not happening.
I hope your eyes are open. I hope, as we approach the midterm elections, you pick your head up and use a wide lens to look around and then vote accordingly. It’s not all good and if we continue on this road, we will no longer be the United State of America that I grew up believing in, its values established in the Declaration of Independence: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men* are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
*I note the archaic use of the term men and understand it to mean all humans.
Lady Liberty still stands in the harbor of New York City, as viewed from Governor’s Island on a recent visit.
Almost two years ago, September 4, 2023 to be exact, I posted a blog entitled “Walking or Hiking?” It recounted an experience Gary and I had at Minnewaska State Park. We took a trail that was more demanding than expected and it was a hot day. We made it, but not without struggle, and not without Gary providing me necessary support. You can read that account here.
This past Friday we went back to the same park with the intention of doing the same trail. When we got to the visitor’s center and asked about the condition of the trail, we were told it wasn’t a wise choice because they had gotten over three inches of rain the day before and that route, which crossed a stream, would have taken a beating. We decided to take a different trail that would end at the same view but would likely be in better shape.
The reason we returned to the scene of that challenge was that some things were different this time around. I am 52 pounds lighter and more fit. I wanted to test myself. I told Gary a few months ago that when I had reached the 50-pound milestone I wanted to try the demanding hike again.
This weight loss journey has been an interesting one. A little over a year ago my bloodwork revealed I was prediabetic. I was not especially surprised given my family history. Diabetes is epidemic in my family. In some ways I knew it was just a matter of time. I hoped the fact that I was always active would stave it off, but the Covid lockdown had added yet more weight to my already heavy body, so I was losing the battle. I needed to do something.
I have done many diets over the years and found some success with Weight Watchers but I had never been able to sustain it. The Covid shutdown, which wreaked havoc with my emotional state and limited my exercise, did me in and I never recovered. It was time to consider a new option. In the past I had always been leery of fad diets, surgery or meal replacement approaches because I didn’t think any of them addressed the root problem. Now the weight-loss landscape has changed with the introduction of medications (GLP1’s). My doctor recommended Wegovy. After much consideration, and consulting with my husband who has hundreds of patients using these drugs, I decided to try it.
The first hurdle was getting preapproval from my insurance company. There were hoops and loops to jump through, but the reality was that I met the criteria, and they did ultimately approve me.
The second hurdle was that it is an injection. That turned out to be a non-issue. The medication is not delivered by syringe, it is a pen. You barely see the needle and it comes pre-measured. It wasn’t particularly painful either. That was a relief.
Next issue, was side effects. This I did have to deal with. When I started, I felt some queasiness, but that resolved. The bigger issue, and this may be TMI for some readers, was constipation. I am prone to that to begin with and this made it worse. Some folks have the opposite problem on these drugs. Anyway, it took a while to work that out – making good dietary choices and generous amounts of Metamucil or sometimes MiraLAX helped. Eventually I got to a tolerable place.
But there were other side effects that built up. I have reflux (heartburn). These medications slow digestion. Again, I have a slow system to begin with. The food sitting in my stomach created more reflux. That is my unscientific explanation for what was happening. For a while this was manageable. As time went on, it became worse. The low point was when I experienced episodes of water brashing, a situation where your glands overproduce saliva not unlike what happens before you vomit in order to neutralize the acid in your esophagus. (My doctor explained this to me when I asked what was happening.) It was very unpleasant. Three weeks ago, I decided to stop taking Wegovy even though I believe I still need to lose weight – at least 15 pounds. But the discomfort was too intense to continue. Thankfully, within a week I was so much more comfortable! I had been on Wegovy a little over a year.
For me, Wegovy was not a miracle drug, even in terms of the weight loss. Yes, I lost 54 pounds and my recent bloodwork showed that I was no longer prediabetic. But it wasn’t magic. Aside from the side effects, it didn’t entirely change my appetite or remove my issues around food. I still wanted more pasta than protein or vegetables. I still have a sweet tooth. And, the impulse to eat for emotional reasons is still present.
It is interesting to me how this drug has different impacts on people. According to Gary, who has prescribed GLP1s for soooo many diabetic patients, some folks entirely lose their appetite and are unable to eat. They have to stop taking it since it becomes risky. Some folks have no impact on their appetite and experience little weight loss. Others report that the noise in their head about food, the craving or the urges, are greatly reduced or for some is gone entirely. I had the experience of the noise lessening. If there were cookies in the house, they were no longer calling to me, at least not loudly, more of a whisper.
I still had to make choices about my diet. I have heard from some friends that they know people who took Wegovy (or Zepbound, another weight loss drug widely prescribed) and would order mozzarella sticks or some other similarly unhealthy item for dinner, but just not eat the whole portion. In other words, they made poor choices, but lost weight. Or other people who only ate one meal a day. I didn’t do either of those things and wasn’t tempted to. The biggest change for me was in portion size. I am a carb addict. This is where I have my toughest challenge. I love carbs in all their forms, particularly pasta, bread and rice. Potato is low on my priority list, but I still love me a baked potato with butter. Anyway, controlling the amount of intake is a major hurdle for me. This is where Wegovy was most successful. I could have a reasonable amount because I would get full more quickly, I could feel that I was full (before taking the medication, I didn’t necessarily perceive fullness until it was way too late), and I knew that I would be terribly uncomfortable if I continued eating beyond fullness.
In sum, from my experience, the medication helped me to adhere to a Weight Watcher style eating program. I ate what I wanted, more or less, but modestly. Before Wegovy I had a relatively healthy diet, just too much of it, with the added bonus of having a sweet tooth. If it was up to me every meal would include dessert. With medication, since I was feeling full and the noise around cravings had quieted, I was able to control the sweet tooth. That’s how I found success.
When the side effects became too much, I stopped taking it. Now it remains to be seen if I can sustain the good habits. I already am aware of the increase in wanting sweets. I am trying to keep the portion sizes moderate. So far, and it is way too soon to reach any conclusions, I am managing it.
I am continuing to weigh myself. It isn’t hard to weigh yourself regularly when you are seeing weight loss. Other than going to the doctor, when I couldn’t avoid it, I probably hadn’t weighed myself at home for five years or more until I started taking the Wegovy. I was in denial. I can’t let myself do that again. After a week of being off the medication, I had gained two pounds. I freaked out. I told Gary I needed a pep talk. He is very good at that. He said some very useful things.
First, he pointed out that two pounds is a small fraction of what I lost. He told me not to panic; it was to be expected. He reminded me that I needed to give myself more time to adjust – that I had spent a year developing good habits, not only making healthier food choices, but incorporating more exercise (I took up yoga, as I also have written about). Even if I gained some of the weight back, I would still be better off than I was before. He reassured me that regardless of my size, he loved me (yes, he said that, and I needed to hear it). And, he suggested we go to Minnewaska and see how different I felt climbing that mountain.
Last Friday we went. Though we didn’t do the Millbrook Mountain footpath that we had done before, we took the carriage road to another footpath, Gertrude’s Nose, which was higher up and involved fewer streams/creeks. It was a demanding hike that was about 6.5 miles round trip. It was not as hot as it was two years ago, but it was probably longer and certainly as physically demanding with a couple of scrambles. I managed to sweat profusely. We brought more water this time. We reached Gertrude’s Nose, which has a great payoff with a beautiful view, and I was in good shape. I wasn’t winded and my legs were strong. Very different from how I felt the other time.
The view from Gertrude’s Nose
We returned the way we came. We stopped twice briefly to sit but otherwise got back to the car without issue. It was a spectacular hike, and I felt proud of myself. My body was tired, but it should have felt tired.
2025 -I made it2023 – before the climb and the weight loss2025 -My hiking sticks resting. I needed them!
Hopefully the reward of being more fit, of fitting into my clothes and feeling overall better about my body will provide enough motivation to stay on the course.
I am continuing to navigate this path – I have weighed myself and it bounces around. I lost the two pounds I gained, then went up a pound. Maybe these are normal fluctuations. The weight loss wasn’t a straight line downhill either. I am trying to be honest with myself about portion sizes. I am trying to listen to my body to recognize fullness. It isn’t simple. And, I reserve the right to try the other weight loss drug, if I need to (and insurance approves it). Please don’t judge me.
Use of weight loss drugs is a sensitive subject. I see no reason to keep it a secret, but it is something people have opinions about. I could write a whole other essay about that and maybe I will. For now, I will end with this thought: taking care of yourself can be a complicated issue. Most of us struggle with it one way or another. Let’s wish each other well on our journeys. If we have something genuinely helpful to say, great; if not, spare the judgment.
Note: The following was written by my husband Gary Bakst, lifelong Met fan, which means 65 years, except the Mets are actually 3 years younger than that. But you get the idea. Anyway, I hope you enjoy his prose as much as I did.
I put Gameday on my laptop as I saw my afternoon patients yesterday. I was nervous, anxious, worried. Dan, my son, texted to ask if I was stressed and that is exactly what I was feeling. The Mets gave up 2 runs in the 3rd inning and another in the 6th and were down by 3-0 going into the eighth inning. It was looking like yet another of those miserable late season games in Atlanta. We have been here before. We have seen this movie. And we never liked the ending.
Then, out of nowhere, the Mets erupted for 6 runs in the top of the eighth inning capped by Brandon Nimmo’s two run home run way deep into the right field stands. Finally, a better ending was coming into view. All of those demons would be erased. The Mets were just 6 outs from the postseason. What could possibly go wrong?
And then came the bottom of the eighth. Maton came in to pitch it and was ineffective and they brought in Edwin Diaz to try to get a 5 out save coming off a thirty something pitch save Sunday. Diaz failed to cover first on a ground ball to Pete Alonso and one double later, the Mets were suddenly down by 7-6 heading into the ninth inning.
Of course. Of course the Mets couldn’t just lose by 3-0. They couldn’t just fail in an ordinary way in front of the brainless Braves’ fans. They had to first get our hopes up with an historic eighth inning only to give it away in the bottom of the inning. They had to take our hearts out. They couldn’t just let the patient die mercifully. They had to make it painful, long and heartbreaking.
This could not be an ordinary loss. This had to be a Mets fan special. I was almost sure that blood was coming out of my skin, my pores and slowly spilling onto the floor of the exam room. The ninth inning would surely be just one, final, painful chapter in a sad, tragic story.
And then. And then, with one out, Starling Marte got a base hit and suddenly, our guy, our MVP, back from his back, strode to the plate. Francisco Lindor, batting from the left side, hit a ginormous home run. Perhaps the second biggest home run in Mets vs Braves history (Piazza, of course). The ball was well struck and carried deep into the Atlanta late afternoon gloom. It seemingly broke open a new dimension. It carried hope and joy and goodness and love and was itself carried by will and determination, by desire and honor and the conviction that, in the end, goodness will triumph over evil. It was propelled by a force both divine and human and when it landed angels called from the heavens, doves flew overhead and lions lay down with lambs.
And it sailed over the right centerfield fence and suddenly, out of nowhere, the Mets were up by 8-7 and only three outs separated them from the post season, from an opportunity to celebrate right there on the turf of their most arrogant nemesis. And it left one giant question: Who was left to get those last three outs? It couldn’t be Diaz. He had thrown a ton of pitches on Sunday and a bunch more in the 8th inning. And yet, the sad reality is that they really don’t trust any other reliever.
And then. And then, emerging from the dugout with the look of a man on a mission, came Edwin Diaz. He was back and he was going to find a way to finish the job. And somehow, despite the fact that it looked like his right arm came onto the field well after the rest of him, he got it done.
The Mets were in the playoffs. A great miracle happened there. It was not the ending Mets fans have been accustomed to, not the ending we have been trained to expect. And it was just so sweet and so amazing. I had to look at the screen on my laptop for a while to make sure that it was real. Wait, they’re gonna call for some kind of do over, right? Somehow, they’ll say it can’t be over until the Mets lose. But it was real. And it was good.
The Mets are in Milwaukee today for a 5:30 PM (eastern time) wild card playoff game).
#LGM
It all started back in Spring Training and we were there.
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.
Maybe it’s just me, but the political narrative that gets presented in the media makes no sense. I’m listening to a podcast where New York Times columnists are talking about the relatively healthy economy and why people are still not optimistic or confident in it. They are hypothesizing about Covid lag, lingering inflation, negative feelings about Joe Biden. Those things may be relevant, but I don’t think that is what is at play in the poll numbers.
I think the reason the polls show negativity is because, though the survey questions may target the economy, people are pessimistic because the world is going to shit. Everywhere you look, it is scary. I think this view applies to Democrats, Republicans and Independents. Personally, I find the divisiveness in our country, whether it is around Trump’s trials, the war in Gaza, global warming or the issues the panelists were talking about (lingering effects of Covid and inflation), call into question whether we will be able to come together to address the problems. I don’t think I am alone in being pessimistic. We are a country famous, maybe even envied, for our optimism. I’m not sure that still applies.
In fact, just the other day I was at a gathering at my daughter’s house. A friend of hers was talking about his lack of hope generally, that it was hard to find things that inspired confidence in the future. He made the point that one of the few bright spots, something he was grateful for, was the young children of his friends. When he looked at them, their innocence and promise, it made him feel better. The man who was expressing this thought is in his mid-thirties.
Ever since that march in Charlottesville in August of 2017, the Unite the Right Rally where folks were marching with tiki torches, and our President couldn’t condemn it, I have been uneasy. I imagine for some that might not have been as seminal a moment as it was for me, but there have been so many things that have happened since then that make me question whether we live in the same reality. That event hit me hard. I thought I was watching something that happened fifty years ago, not a protest in an enlightened college town. And things have only gotten worse. The chasm has widened.
There is the possibility that we have always been this divided, but we just didn’t know it. People’s ugliest thoughts weren’t broadcast on social media. If someone stood on a soap box in a town square, even Union Square in New York City, and proclaimed that (insert your favorite scapegoats) were the devil, it was likely to fall on deaf ears. Now that person gets support from people across the globe who share a similar warped world view and the idea gets momentum. It also gets overrepresented in the social media narrative because it generates clicks – controversy or outrageousness always does. It is hard to get a handle on how many believers there really are when you have bots and trolls and foreign and domestic agents who benefit from the chaos.
If you ask me that classic question, “Are you better off today than four years ago?” I don’t know how to answer that. My economic situation is about the same, maybe better, but the precariousness of the health of the world, in every sense, affects my response. My feeling has little to do with Joe Biden or his policies. To me it feels like he is working to hold back a tsunami of terrible things – trying to preserve women’s reproductive rights, slowing climate change, bolstering the economy, minimizing inflation, reducing tensions in the Middle East, addressing crime, the list can go on. Some would include the southern border as a crisis. In some ways it is, but in other ways it is a manufactured panic. There are real problems with our immigration system, but some politicians are invested in keeping it a problem rather than making it better. I think Biden is doing a reasonable job against staggering obstacles. He has not created these problems.
No matter how good a job he does, though, it pales in comparison to the challenges. And it is done in the setting of unprecedented division.
I see footage of what is going on at Columbia University and other college campuses where backers of Palestinians have set up encampments to protest United States support of Israel and the universities’ investment in Israel and/or our defense industry that aids Israel. Separate and apart from the rightness or wrongness of the protesters’ positions (a topic for another essay), there is a way to get your message across effectively. If the idea is to win people over to your side, persuade them of the righteousness of your position, it isn’t by shutting down traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge or harassing Jewish students or impeding folks from getting to their calculus class. In most cities, (perhaps all cities – I am not a lawyer) you need a permit to stage a protest or march. There is good reason for this. It goes back to the balancing of different legitimate interests: the protesters and other citizens going about their lives. It is fine to disrupt the routine, to a degree. But you can’t purposely jeopardize public safety. I’ve attended any number of rallies for causes. I believe in showing up to voice my opinion on public policy, but there is a way to do it. Chanting hateful slogans doesn’t help either.
We live in confusing times. I think the polls reflect people’s general uneasiness, not a judgment of the economy. I wish Biden was more effective at communicating his vision for the future of our country. I do fault him for not showing clarity of purpose and leadership, but I don’t hold him responsible for the sorry state of our union. I believe we are suffering the effects of the cynicism, greed and fear that has become the stock and trade of the Republican party, along with the poisonous influence of social media over the last decade. Add in natural disasters which are increasingly frequent with climate change, seemingly endless wars across the globe and it feels overwhelming. I don’t know what the solution is, but we need to understand and acknowledge what we are dealing with before we can find answers. Polls are not shedding light on the issue. We need to be asking different questions.
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
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.
Hooray! I moved back into my bedroom this morning. My period of isolation is over! Ten days is a long time – at least in some contexts. After three years of avoiding it, Covid caught up with me.
I went to Boston to give my daughter a hand as she was dealing with a sick husband and child. We thought, based on the diagnosis at the hospital, that her daughter had croup, and that Ben was just under the weather. I figured I would mask while I was there, hoping to avoid getting whatever bug they had. What’s that saying? Something like, ‘woman plans, god laughs.’
I arrived at their apartment, said hello, and picked up a prescription that needed to be filled for the baby, and their insurance card. I went to a pharmacy and then got sandwiches for lunch. When I returned, I helped fold laundry. I removed my mask to eat lunch but sat distant from Leah. We opened a window to increase the airflow. Leah was relieved to have me there. So far so good.
About two hours into my visit, Leah’s phone rang. It was the Somerville Health Department telling her that someone in the household had tested positive for Covid. The baby had been to the hospital the night before. As part of the examination of the baby, they swabbed her for Covid. Given that she was diagnosed with croup, Leah and Ben hadn’t given it a thought. The news came as a shock.
Leah and Ben did a home test and, lo and behold, they were both positive. They called the pediatrician to share the information and find out if it changed anything in terms of the care of the baby. Turned out, it didn’t, which was a relief in some ways. We discussed what I should do.
I decided I would stay at a hotel for that night – I certainly wasn’t going to stay at the apartment. I told them I would bring them dinner and other supplies that evening. I left. Ben, who was feeling pretty miserable at this point (totally exhausted), was going to call his doctor to see if they recommended treatment.
I double masked everywhere I went. I decided I would go home the next morning. If I got sick, I didn’t want to be in a hotel in Boston and I didn’t want to feel too poorly to drive the three hours home. I stayed at the hotel that night after picking up Paxlovid for Ben and dinner for them. I felt fine.
I brought them breakfast in the morning. I was double-masked. Said my good-byes. I felt terrible leaving them, everyone sick. At this point, Leah was having symptoms, too. Great – a cranky baby and two parents who felt like shit. Plus the anxiety of not really knowing how serious Covid would be for the baby. But, what choice did I have?
I still felt fine as I drove home. I tested when I got home – negative. Maybe I would escape. I tested the next morning – still negative. But, now I’m starting to feel poorly. Headache, sore throat, tired.
Covid is a strange virus. It behaves differently in everybody. Plus, you can test negative and still have it. You can test positive and have no symptoms. You can continue to test positive long past the infectious stage. It so hard to know what to do. You hear horror stories about people having long-haul covid.
I went for a PCR test that morning (Saturday) and got a positive result within 24 hours. During the height of the pandemic, it could take 3 days or longer to get a result (which made the test almost useless) – so at least that is better. By the time I got the result, it was clear I was sick. My body hurt all over. I felt exhausted. I started coughing. I called my doctor. They recommended Paxlovid. I have several risk factors for serious illness, so though I am always a bit anxious about taking a new medication because it isn’t uncommon for me to have strange reactions to things (rash, anyone?), I decided it was worth it.
Meanwhile, it is now Sunday, the day I am supposed to read for the Brooklyn Nonfiction Prize. I didn’t want to miss it. I had a strategy. Though I was coughing, it wasn’t that bad (yet). I decided I would take cough medicine in advance. I had throat lozenges at the ready. I took Tylenol, too. I napped for an hour beforehand. The adrenaline kicked in. I was next to the last to read – of 15 people! I did not win. Nothing to be ashamed of – the other essays were good. I was still disappointed. I have to admit, I kind of crashed afterward. I was exhausted. It didn’t help that I was facing 7 more days of isolation.
I moved into Daniel’s old bedroom for the duration. I used what had been the kids’ bathroom. We are lucky to have so much room. Gary is serious about this isolation and masking stuff. He has masked at work from the beginning of pandemic and continues to do so now (he just recently stopped using goggles). We ate separately. We would watch t.v. in the same room, but distant and masked and, as long as it wasn’t too cold, we had a window open. It appears that he has not gotten it. When he had it last Fall, he still blames Las Vegas (we will likely never go back there!), I didn’t get it from him after we followed much the same isolation protocol.
I’m glad I took the Paxlovid. I did have a very unpleasant taste in my mouth for the five days I took it, and my digestive system did not enjoy it, but I recovered pretty quickly. The fever, severe headache and body aches were gone within 24 hours. The fatigue lasted a bit longer and the cough lingered. As of today, ten days into this, the cough is almost entirely gone. That is always the last symptom to go when I have a respiratory illness.
Though I was clearly recovering, I woke up each morning feeling sad. Another day isolated. I felt okay, but not so good that I had the energy to be productive. In theory, there are always things to do in the house – junk drawers to sort, stuff to organize. I didn’t feel up to it. Instead, I binge watched Top Chef. Thank god for that!
Fortunately, the baby, Leah and Ben have recovered well, too. I could hear them cheering all the way from Somerville when the baby could go back to daycare. Ten days cooped up in a relatively small apartment with an 11-month old who is healthy enough to be active, but fussier than usual, with no reinforcements, and little sleep, is an ordeal. They rose to the occasion, as they always do.
One piece of good news: we should all be immune for the next few months! Gary and I have a trip planned at the end of May. I should be able to travel without worrying about Covid. Leah and her family should be able to go out and about the rest of this Spring and early Summer without thinking about Covid, too. And we appear to have weathered the illness without lasting effect. It is always a matter of perspective – and finding the stuff for which to be grateful. It doesn’t come naturally to me to do that, but eventually I figure it out.
The view out my kitchen window. I looked at that a lot over the last ten days. I’m lucky to have such a lovely view
Yesterday we drove through the Berkshires on the way home from visiting our daughter. The oranges, reds and yellows of autumn were on full display. I selected Jackson Browne’s Solo Acoustic Album 2 as the soundtrack for our ride. The song “Alive in the World” came on. I looked at the magnificent scenery as the song played and I decided I needed to listen to it again. “Do you mind if I replay that?” I asked Gary, who was behind the wheel. “Go for it.”
Here are the lyrics:
I want to live in the world, not inside my head I want to live in the world, I want to stand and be counted With the hopeful and the willing With the open and the strong With the voices in the darkness Fashioning daylight out of song And the millions of lovers Alive in the world
I want to live in the world, not behind some wall I want to live in the world, where I will hear if another voice should call To the prisoner inside me To the captive of my doubt Who among his fantasies harbors the dream of breaking out And taking his chances Alive in the world
To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world
With its beauty and its cruelty With its heartbreak and its joy With it constantly giving birth to life and to forces that destroy And the infinite power of change Alive in the world
To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world
To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world
The song resonates with me – I have always liked it. I could have written the first two lines, or perhaps they were written for me. But the whole song is right on point. “With its beauty and its cruelty, with its heartbreak and its joy, with it constantly giving birth to life and to forces that destroy, and the infinite power of change, alive in the world.” What a perfect description of this thing called life.
Having spent two days holding our four-month old granddaughter, a bundle of light and joy, the lyric brought tears to my eyes – and it does as I write this. I need to believe in the infinite power of change alive in the world.
I wake up this Monday morning not feeling particularly hopeful, but I am replaying the song and holding on to that thought as we face the absurdity of Kanye, Elon and Trump (the list of threats could go on and on). I renew my request from last week, please vote, please make your voice heard. Let’s elevate Jackson Browne’s message, not theirs.
Note: I wrote the following in a fit of frustration, anxiety and sadness two weeks ago. Some things have changed since then (some things haven’t), but I thought it was still worth sharing as a snapshot of my state of mind that others might relate to.
I can solve NOTHING!
I can’t get the handle on the fireplace damper fixed or replaced.
To be more precise, the company hasn’t called back to offer any solutions.
I can’t get a spare tire or ‘donut’ in case of a flat tire.
To be more precise, if I get a spare it will take up the whole trunk.
Not a good option.
Donuts are difficult to find. I can get a used one shipped from Arizona or California for a lot of money.
The Honda dealership offers no options or solutions.
I went to AutoZone and a helpful man showed me the tire sealant he recommends. I bought it and threw it in my trunk.
I will keep my AAA membership – I’ve been getting good use of it these past two months.
I will pray that if I get a flat, I’m in cell phone range.
I can’t get a memorial stone for Aunt Clair.
She wanted a footstone placed at her mother’s grave, though she herself chose to be cremated.
It comforted her to think of it.
I ordered one and paid for it immediately after she died six months ago.
After many emails and layers of approval, from the burial society and the cemetery,
After mock-ups back and forth,
The dates are wrong on the latest one.
Must it be so difficult?
Is it time for Plan B? What is Plan B?
I have an idea,
But it doesn’t have Aunt Clair’s seal of approval.
I may have to live with that.
I’ll give it one more shot with the monument company, then we move on.
I can’t get my mother’s insulin regimen straight.
Her doctor rarely responds to my calls or emails.
I placed another call this morning.
Fortunately, Mom is getting her insulin
Though her glucose is not well controlled.
Ironic given that I am married to an endocrinologist.
It is not his fault, nor can he manage this in a day-to-day way
For many reasons.
Sigh.
I can’t convince my granddaughter to make her entrance into the world.
She is 9 days late and counting.
I am grateful that all appears to be well with mom and baby,
But we are on pins and needles.
We are at loose ends.
Waiting
I know patience is a virtue
Sadly, I was not blessed with it.
Is this a test?
I can’t resolve my laryngitis.
A month into this
A course of steroids
Decongestants
Nasal spray
Allergy medication
Reflux medication
Cough medicine
After ten days, I can at least make sound, I can talk on the phone
So that is an improvement,
But, is this hoarseness permanent?
Of course, it could be worse.
It could be my grandchild gunned down in school.
It could be my friend murdered in a supermarket.
That is small comfort.
So much struggle
Can we hope for more than being grateful that we weren’t in the site of a gunman?
Update: There is some good news. There is hope for movement on gun safety legislation. It isn’t enough, it isn’t what I would want, but I am a pragmatist about public policy. Something is better than nothing and hopefully it can be built upon.
Our granddaughter did make her entrance into the world – the day after I wrote this she arrived. We are thankful and in love with the peanut.
I haven’t had to call AAA in the last two weeks – but I don’t want to jinx myself as I will be driving quite a bit over the next few weeks!
Aunt Clair’s monument is still unresolved, we are still struggling with Mom’s diabetes though she seems to be stable, and I am still hoarse.Of lesser importance, the damper on our fireplace is still not repaired – and the guy who said he would pave our driveway a month ago hasn’t been in touch. I figured I’d throw that in since that is another one of those things that feels out of my control.
Despite the remaining frustrations, I am in a much better frame of mind than when I wrote my screed of exasperation and anxiety, and for that I am grateful.
Stories I Tell Myself 