Category: memoir blog

Ashes to Ashes

Aunt Clair’s ashes were sitting in a cardboard canister in the closet of our Manhattan apartment. The third anniversary of her passing was coming up soon. Her final wishes were to have those ashes spread over her parents’ graves. For many reasons, it had not been possible to make that happen, and as her yahrzeit (Yiddish for anniversary) approached, I was distressed.

When Aunt Clair died, I made the arrangements with the funeral home. She had no spouse or children, only nieces and nephews. I was her health care proxy. I had to identify the body before cremation. It was jarring to see my aunt without her spirit, it almost didn’t look like her, but sadly it was. The representative of the funeral home was kind and explained how things worked.  I wrote about her funeral and shared the eulogy on this blog previously (https://stories-i-tell-myself.com/2021/11/08/a-eulogy-for-aunt-clair/.)

The first problem with fulfilling her wishes was that when I inquired at the cemetery, I was told it wasn’t permissible to spread ashes there. We could buy a plot and bury the remains, but there wasn’t a spot near her parents, and it was expensive. After consulting with family members and my own conscience, I decided that we would at least spread some of her ashes there discreetly.  I imagine that the cemetery had its reasons, but I doubt it was because it would harm anything. I also didn’t want to take the chance of calling attention to ourselves, so I didn’t want to plan to spread all of the ashes there.

One of the things I learned through this process is that the amount of ash was more than I had imagined, though I had nothing to base my idea on. The canister was heavy, and it was tall.

I thought, given her love of biking and the frequency with which she would cycle from her apartment in Greenwich Village to her sister on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, that spreading the rest of her ashes through Riverside Park would be appropriate. I looked on the city’s website and believe it or not, it is legal to spread ashes in city parks*. It is not permissible to spread them in bodies of water within a park.

So, why were her cremains still sitting in my closet three years later? Life and death happened.

I recall when I picked up the ashes from the funeral home, the representative said, “You know how common it is for people to move into an apartment in New York City and find an urn with remains buried in a closet?”

I looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“You’d be surprised. People don’t know what to do, they put them away out of sight, forget, and they sit there for someone, years later, to discover. I’m just letting you know.”

“That won’t be the case here” I reassured him, and as I walked away, I thought, “That’s crazy. Who would let that happen?”

I have a better understanding now.

I had no prior experience with cremation; it isn’t a common choice among Jews, though apparently more are opting for it according to the guy at the funeral home. Aunt Clair wanted to be cremated, but she also requested that a memorial stone be laid at the foot of her mother’s grave. She had arranged for a footstone at her father’s grave in memory of the family he lost in the Holocaust in Poland, so she thought this was possible.  

After the funeral, I brought her remains back to my apartment. After a few months passed and thinking that we would have an unveiling for the footstone on the one-year anniversary (and we would spread her ashes at that time), I began the process of ordering the memorial stone. This proved to be complicated to arrange. It was not a typical request. The cemetery didn’t want it to be confusing as to who rested in the plot. After a lot of back and forth that isn’t worth detailing, we came to an agreement about what the stone could say. It wasn’t exactly what Clair wanted, but it was the best we could do. It took more than two years for the stone to come to fruition.

When the stone was finally available, other things were going on in the family. We were not able to arrange a time for the ‘unveiling’ of the memorial and we didn’t spread the ashes. In the interim Clair’s sister, Aunt Diane, passed away, as did my mother. A whole generation was disappearing. Another year passed.

As Aunt Clair’s third yahrzeit loomed, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer to fulfill her wishes. I wrote an email to my brothers and cousin and said I would like to visit the cemetery and spread her ashes on Friday, November 15th. Jewish cemeteries are closed on Saturdays (the Sabbath) and my Mom’s unveiling was planned for Sunday, November 17th. It would be a good time to make this happen. My cousin, who lives in Massachusetts, responded that her daughter’s due date was November 20th so she would not be comfortable traveling to NYC so close to that time. Aunt Clair would certainly understand that, as did I. It turned out the timing didn’t work for anyone but me and thankfully Gary. Despite that, I decided to go ahead with the plan

November 15th was a cool, sunny day as we drove the Jackie Robinson Parkway, a narrow, curvy roadway that connects Brooklyn and Queens and passes through a series of huge cemeteries. The trees were not yet entirely bare, the yellow and gold leaves shone in the sun. I had the location of my grandparents’ graves written down and we drove to the appropriate section of the cemetery. I thought I remembered my way to their graves. Gary and I combed the rows and couldn’t find them. I checked and rechecked my notes. Finally, I remembered I had taken a picture the last time I was there and maybe that would help. I searched my phone, those smartphones can be quite helpful and in the photograph I found a couple of landmarks that helped – a majestic tree and two large grave markers in front of my grandparents’ more modest ones with the name Feingold on them. We found the spot and now understood why we hadn’t seen them before – they were entirely blanketed in ivy.

Gary and I peeled away the ivy and exposed all the markers. Aunt Clair’s stone was there, as expected. I looked around and seeing nobody around, I took the baggie with a portion of Aunt Clair’s ashes out of my pocket and spread them over the graves. “May you rest in peace, Auntie.” I said. Gary and I paused and stood quietly for a bit. Then we got back in the car and headed back to Manhattan. Part one of my mission had been accomplished.

Gary clearing ivy
Aunt Clair’s memorial stone

The sun was still shining brilliantly as we made our way to Riverside Park. It was also quite breezy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this. I carried the canister in a canvas bag. As we walked, a plan revealed itself to me. We passed a garden, now gone to seed until the spring, and I thought this was a perfect spot to provide what perhaps could be fertilizer. I looked around and nobody was paying attention – I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I also worried it might be disturbing to onlookers. I spread a good deal of the ashes throughout the garden, and nobody seemed to notice. There was still a lot of ash left.

We continued walking through the park and came upon a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. The shrubs surrounding it presented itself as another opportune spot. Though Aunt Clair was not a religious Jew by any means, she was fiercely proud of being Jewish. This would be a meaningful location, as well. Gary reminded me to stand upwind as I poured the ashes over the bushes. I had not been as mindful of that the first time.

The canister was still not empty, and I knew of one more spot that I wanted to visit. Aunt Clair was an admirer of Eleanor Roosevelt and there is a statue of her at 72nd Street just inside the park. We continued our walk south to find it. I was pleased to see that there were plantings around the memorial. I spread the remaining ashes there.

Walking south in Riverside Park
Statue of Eleanor Roosevelt

Throughout our walk, aside from talking about mundane things, Gary and I shared memories of Aunt Clair. I felt good about what we were doing. I was grateful to have Gary to share it with. He knew her well and shared his own unique relationship with her. We had come darn close to fulfilling her wishes and I think we honored her spirit. Part two of our mission was now accomplished. I was glad she was no longer sitting in my closet.

We took a different route through the park back to our apartment, walking along the Hudson River. I felt peaceful. The sun lowered and its rays glistened on the water. The day was fading, and I was satisfied.

*This is where I found the information: https://portal.311.nyc.gov/article/?kanumber=KA-03480#:~:text=New%20York%20City%20Parks%2C%20including,the%20site%20of%20cremated%20remains.

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.

A Trip to Pittsburgh in the Aftermath

A view of downtown from the top of Mount Washington after riding the Duquesne Incline

I could write a book about our trip to Pittsburgh. We were traveling there for a mini medical school reunion.

So many thoughts flood my mind:

  • The choices we make in our lives, being reminded of a turning point and what might have been. We could have settled in Pittsburgh but wanted to be closer to family. The road not taken is hard to resist imagining.
  • The side trip that took us at least 90 minutes out of our way, not to mention the time spent at the stop itself, a museum to see an exhibit of Andrew Wyeth’s paintings. When I suggested the detour, Gary initially didn’t want to take the time knowing what a long drive it was already from Albany to Pittsburgh. Then when we got in the car to start what should be a seven- or eight-hour trip, he said, “What the heck. We aren’t in any rush. Let’s go to the museum.”  I think he took pity on me, knowing my spirits were low from the results of the election and imagining a stop to look at art might help. He was right – it worked…for a while anyway.
  • The juxtaposition of gleaming office buildings, the beauty of the confluence of the three rivers and the unhoused, hurting people on the streets of that same downtown area. It is painful to see folks strung out, young people panhandling, wondering what’s worse: to walk by with a shake of the head and a murmured “sorry,” or to give some money? Our society must do better taking care of its own. The wealth suggested by elaborate skyscrapers, high-end stores and fancy hotels, side-by-side with people whose possessions are held in a bunch of plastic bags begs for a more humane economy. Below is evidence of the issue in Pittsburgh.
  • Gathering with friends from 40 years ago, some we did see eight years ago but others we had not, in the aftermath of an election that broke my heart but likely brought joy to some of theirs, was daunting. I was worried about how it would go.

It turned out that our reunion was warm, and we avoided politics, but I did have some interesting discussions with the woman I knew best all those years ago. We sat next to each other during the Pitt-Virginia football game that neither one of us was interested in. I knew she was a Trumper, and she knows I’m a bleeding-heart liberal. We would not change each other’s minds about anything. I come away as mystified by how I feel about folks who voted for Trump as I was before. Maybe I understand a bit more about her thought process – she sees the world differently than I do. One part of our conversation I will share because I think it is revealing.

I explained that I could not forgive Trump for, among other things, his reaction to the unite the right event in Charlottesville where the marchers chanted, “Jews will not replace us” and carried tiki torches. Trump responded saying there were good people on both sides. My friend explained that Trump was referring to the people who were trying to prevent the removal of confederate monuments – that he was sympathetic to their cause –  not to the chant. I said that I didn’t understand his statement that way and if that was the case he needed to make it clearer. She told me that it was obvious to her that’s what he meant. I said that even if that was what he meant, those monuments needed to come down. She disagreed. She asked me if knew anything about Abraham Lincoln. I said yes. She went on to explain that Lincoln supported monuments and naming forts after confederate generals to allow the South to save face. I responded by saying that may well be, and may have made sense in 1865, but it is now 2024, and the country needs to understand that the South lost the war. Those statutes and stories can be displayed and explained in museums and history books. Monuments in public squares should help us to remember and celebrate our better selves – the people honored don’t have to be perfect, but they do have to be on the right side of history. She just shook her head saying history should be preserved. I said, let’s change the subject and we did.

The game took almost three hours. There was a lot of conversation. Most of it was ordinary stuff about family, travel, health, but we couldn’t help but return to politics every so often, after all some of those subjects involve policy. Every time we did, we had to agree to disagree. At one point she said, amused, “You’re just too woke.” I smiled and said, “Exactly – that’s no insult to me. I work at being woke.” We both laughed.

I was proud of myself. I didn’t pretend that I didn’t disagree with her, but we didn’t get heated.  I was able to hold on to the good times we shared, aware of the pain she’s had in her life, the disappointments and struggles. I assume she could do the same for me. We hugged when we said our good-byes.

Gary was sitting next to his friend and former classmate, her husband, who shares her politics. After we left, Gary and I compared notes about our experience of the game. Interestingly, they had not discussed politics at all. Not surprisingly they were more focused on the game, but they talked about other subjects too – work, memories, family, being grandpas. No politics, though. I wondered how they managed that.

I am still processing the entirety of the trip. It was only 4 days, including all that driving, but it represented so much. I am also still processing the election results. It is going to take a long time to digest it all.

The best part of the game that Pitt lost – the half time show. The band was terrific.

Some Observations

Months go by very quickly. It seems like I just paid my cellphone bill yesterday when the next one shows up in my inbox. I don’t understand how this happens. It feels like I’m always struggling to keep up. When I go online to pay, I check to make sure that in fact it was a month since I last paid, and, lo and behold, it has been. How did that happen?

On a related note, I pay a ridiculous amount of money for phones, internet and streaming services. There has to be a better way, but that would mean taking the time to research things thoroughly to figure it out. I think I am probably paying for streaming services that include other services that I pay for separately. Does that make any sense? I am probably double paying for Hulu. But it is all so complicated, and it gives me a headache, so I throw up my hands. Someday, I promise myself, I will sort it all out. Of course, they probably have a service for that – but then you’d have to pay for it. I find it very frustrating. And these companies are probably counting on our throwing up our hands to make more money.

And then there is the confusion about which streaming service plays which program. I might only watch one program on a given service – that also makes no sense. And there is almost nothing I watch on cable, except for HGTV, SNY (the Mets baseball channel) and the tennis channel. Then there is Gary’s penchant for having some version of Law and Order playing in the background for hours each evening. Sometimes I put my foot down and say that episode was just on, please find something else. But, then there is nothing else worth watching so it is back to Law and Order. So, I guess we do use cable. But it should be more straight forward. I imagine eventually, with consolidations and such, that we will be back to the equivalent of three major broadcast networks. After all, there is only so much content we can absorb.

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I just brought my car in for service. It is a Honda Accord hybrid. Aside from needing an oil change, a light came on telling me my acoustic system wasn’t working. I drove around with that message for a while since it didn’t seem to be a critical thing to the functioning of the car. If you haven’t driven a hybrid, when it is in electric mode the engine is close to silent. To make others, especially pedestrians, aware of the car, it generates a sound – so they are alerted to its presence. My car sounded like it was singing. A regular car motor you can hear. Well, the singing stopped. The part will cost $248.00 to replace, not including labor. I am not excited about spending that amount of money, but it doesn’t seem right to be putting people at risk if I don’t get it fixed. It is always something. And it always ends up costing more than $200. Sometimes it feels like we hemorrhage money. And, I can’t complain because we have the resources to pay for it. I feel for folks, the vast majority frankly, who don’t have that luxury. We used to be in that position where we lived paycheck to paycheck – it is very stressful. No one wants to hear me complain given my privilege, but I can’t help but comment on how crazy it is.

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I’ll close this blog post by noting that we are coming up on 4 months since my mom passed away. The pangs of grief that hit me come as a surprise, though they shouldn’t. I was thinking the other day about how unusual Mom was. Dad died when Mom was only 71. At that point they were living most of the time in Florida. Mom had always wanted to live in New York City, but Dad had no interest. When he passed, thanks to Mom’s sister-in-law Clair’s ingenuity, she was able to sublet an apartment from an NYU law professor in Greenwich Village for the summer. She did this for probably four or five summers, until various things made it impractical. During those summers she went to see shows – sometimes a matinee and an evening performance on the same day. She went to museums, not just the major ones. She read the New York Times arts pages looking for interesting exhibits. She invited her grandchildren and their friends to visit and stay over. She cooked them pasta from a neighborhood shop that made it fresh. Most women I know wouldn’t be able to do that. Yes, they could cook the pasta, but not the rest of it. Many women I know wouldn’t go to NYC alone – and not necessarily out of fear of crime. They would just be afraid of taking it on – all of it, negotiating the crowds, knowing where to go, etc., etc. Granted Mom had her sister-in-law nearby and her children to help out, but in a day-to-day way she was on her own and she reveled in it. I am happy that I have inherited some of that. I think nothing of driving down to the city or elsewhere by myself. She was a terrific role model. I believe my daughter has inherited that combination of confidence and curiosity that allows us to do what might be uncomfortable for others. Hopefully it will be a gift that keeps on giving.

While my relationship with Mom could be complicated, I am lucky that I got to be her daughter.

Four generations – what a great day that was!

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.

Old School

We were on our annual pilgrimage to the Mets’ Spring Training in Port St. Lucie, Florida. Gary is a lifelong Met fan and we have been fortunate over the last five years, Covid notwithstanding, to join friends and watch some preseason games while getting a break from the harsh Albany winter.

We began our trip with a 6 a.m. flight. When I book a 6 a.m. flight I have good reasons for doing so. I think it is far less likely to be delayed and we will get to our destination early, leaving us a good part of the day to get settled and enjoy ourselves. The reality of the 6 a.m. flight though is painful, and I wonder if it is worth it. We are lucky that Albany Airport is small and only 15 minutes from our house. But even with that, we had to be up and at ‘em by 4 a.m. A lot of sleep is sacrificed.

As we approached the airport there was a sign saying that the only parking available was in the economy lot. I was grateful for the warning – saved us driving around in a fruitless effort to find a spot in the lots that are closer. They even had a guy at the gate telling us to go to row V – that’s where there were openings. Again, I was impressed. This was well organized. Not only that, but the shuttle bus was waiting for us at the end of the row so once we parked, we hopped on and got to the terminal very efficiently. Score three for Albany Airport.

Travel these days can be quite stressful. I don’t know if it is that everything is understaffed, but it isn’t uncommon to stand in long lines for everything from checking bags to security to getting coffee. Years ago, we signed up for TSApre. In some airports it doesn’t offer much of an advantage, but it sure does in Albany. Though it was still only about 4:45 am, the line wrapped around itself many times. The TSApre line was short. As we passed hundreds of people, Gary whispered to me, “It’s great that no one signs up for this. I hope it stays that way!” I probably shouldn’t write this as it might jeopardize the advantage we enjoy.

Everything was going entirely too smoothly. Gary found the place with the shortest line to get us coffee. On the other hand, it was Burger King so it wasn’t great, but it still had caffeine. We boarded the plane without incident. The flight was smooth. We both watched “The Holdovers,” a very enjoyable movie that had humor and emotion.

I knew something had to go wrong. I’ve never traveled to Florida without enduring trials and tribulations. I’ve lost my phone, gotten my laptop crushed, suffered food poisoning, had my usual floaters (a routine condition in my vision) escalate to the point that we had to go to the emergency room – all on prior visits The list can go on. What would it be this time?

When we landed, as is our custom, I went to text our kids that we had arrived safely. My phone, though, would not connect to a network. Instead of bars, it displayed SOS. That was an inauspicious sign. I had never seen that before. Gary’s phone had the same problem. I figured once we got into the terminal it would connect. Nope. Still no service.

We retrieve our luggage, which took a while. Every so often I rebooted my phone to see if we had service. Still no. Gary connected his phone to the wifi network in the airport and learned that AT&T, our provider, was experiencing nationwide problems and in some areas service was down.

We got to the rental car agency. Still no service. We needed to provide proof of car insurance in order to decline their exorbitant extra fees; I had never been asked that before. We had no phone to contact our agent. The clerk behind the counter, a nice guy, gave us the office landline to use. After being on hold a fair amount of time, we got through that and produced the needed proof.

We still didn’t have phone service and now it was time to head to our hotel. It had been a long time since we drove anywhere without a GPS app. I asked the clerk for a map. He said they didn’t have them anymore. Not surprising.

Okay, we knew the general direction we needed to travel – north. We would have to figure things out old school.

We pulled out of the lot and saw a highway and headed toward it. It was the wrong highway, but it helped orient us. We turned right and headed north. We came to a red light. We needed to find our way to I-95. I rolled down my window and yelled out to a guy who was putting something in the back of his pick-up truck. “Excuse me, sir!” I got his attention. “Which way to I-95?” He pointed – we needed to make a left at the light. “Thank you!” He was a young guy, that may have been the first time he had ever been asked directions. Happily he didn’t lead us astray.

I knew our hotel wasn’t far off of the interstate. We drove north and fortunately spotted it. We figured out how to get to it from the exit – we still had common sense.

Though it felt strange not to have access to GPS, or the other smartphone apps, for those hours, we were proud of ourselves! We managed to get where we had to go. We were relieved that service was restored shortly after we arrived at the hotel. The idea of managing without it for more than a few hours was daunting. It was a reminder that, if pressed, we could still function without it, but wouldn’t want to have to.

Note: I wrote this piece mostly in Florida. I wanted it to be light-hearted. I didn’t know when I began it that something else would go wrong while we were in the Sunshine State – something much more serious. My Mom took a turn for the worse on the second day we were there. I don’t blame Florida for this. I decided to keep this piece light. Learning that the end was near for Mom and debating whether to return home immediately or stay for the few days we had planned will be a topic for another essay at another time.

Eulogy for Mom

Note: I have written a great deal about my mom and posted some of her essays on this blog. She was an avid reader, supporter and contributor to this effort. After putting up a long fight for life, she passed away on Tuesday, February 27, 2024 in Freehold, New Jersey. Though we are broken hearted, we are relieved that she is no longer suffering. Here is the eulogy that I offered at her funeral service.

First, I must say thank  you, Mom. I was not the easiest child to parent, more specifically to mother. I was sensitive, self-conscious and insecure. I was not blessed with the innate optimism that Mom had. Mom had her work cut out for her – something I did not fully appreciate until I became a mother myself. I would like to share two stories of her successes.

I had a truly terrible teacher in 6th grade – and in those days in NYC you had one teacher for virtually all the subjects. It made for a long, unhappy day. My best friend and I decided we had had enough and planned to play hooky. And, we did. Her apartment was empty during the day and we had a fine time. Some kids might look for trouble – we baked cupcakes, had a food fight and watched TV. Her older sister came home early and found us. I was afraid my parents would find out so I fessed up to Mom when she got home from work. She didn’t get angry, she didn’t punish me. She told me if I ever got so distressed to the point that I needed a break, to tell her and she would let me stay home. I never did take her up on that – the idea that I could was enough of a comfort. I knew she trusted and supported me.

The other story was again in the midst of a trying time in August of 1975. I had cut short working at a summer camp because I was not comfortable with the drug use and partying that surrounded me there. My parents welcomed me home. Aside from that, my grandmother, my father’s mom, was seriously ill in the hospital. One night I couldn’t sleep, my heart racing, I woke Mom. She comforted me as best she could – reminding me of the positive things in our lives and she suggested that we plan a sweet sixteen for me. Mom always believed in making the best of bad times. I was nervous at the prospect of a party– would friends come? She planned one of the all-time great parties. It was a mystery bus ride – my friends tried to guess where we were going. We went to see The Fantasticks off Broadway in Greenwich Village, we had fried chicken dinners on the bus, and returned home to make our own sundaes. I had a sign in book where my friends and family wrote kind and loving messages – I still have that book – I still read that book. It was a revelation to me – a little like Sally Field when she cried, “you like me, you really like me!” when she won the Oscar. Mom, you did good.

Mom wasn’t perfect and she knew that – she could be very hard on herself. I think I knew her in a slightly different way than my brothers – maybe being her daughter she more readily shared other parts of herself, the less optimistic side. But one of her great messages was that we should always be learning and striving to be better. That we could improve ourselves. She believed that until her dying day. That may have been the greatest gift she gave me – the belief that we can grow and evolve if we are open to it, if we work at it.

I am so grateful to Mom. Many of you know I write a blog and I share stories on it that are sometimes painful and, in some cases, may have been difficult for Mom to read. But she only encouraged me. She read what I wrote. She loved it. She appreciated my honesty. Another gift.

So, Mom, you were a wonderful human being and you raised three good human beings – is there a better legacy? I think not. We will continue to pay it forward. We love you and will miss you terribly, but you have earned your rest. I hope your spirit is reunited with all those you loved so much. Rest in peace and love, Mom.

Mom on her 80th birthday

A Visit With Mom

I walked into Mom’s room and knew immediately that it was a good morning. Despite her pale color, Mom’s eyes were open and clear, and she smiled broadly at me. “Good morning, Linda!” she greeted me with enthusiasm from her bed. She knew it was morning, knew who I was and was happy to see me. That is not the reception I always get. Thankfully she reliably knows who I am, her daughter, but more often she can barely keep her eyes open, and her speech is slurred – a product of the various illnesses, including dementia, she is living with.

The unpredictability of her condition confuses me. I wish I understood it better. I try to emotionally prepare myself for whatever the visit will bring, but it is hard. The variability also makes it difficult to decide what to do about her care. Do we continue to aggressively preserve her life, or do we begin to let her go? I believe Mom’s life at this point is largely sustained by the medications she takes – a high dose of diuretic, as well as heart and blood pressure medications. On the visits that she is foggy and lethargic, spending most of her time sleeping, I wonder if we are doing her any favors. Although she will never fully be herself, on mornings when she is alert, when she is more connected and engaged, then all the medicine and effort make sense.

On this day Mom’s lucidity is a double-edged sword. We enjoy conversation about our family. She is entertained when I read a chapter from Mel Brooks’ autobiography. She listens avidly to his experiences during World War II, which bring back her own memories. But, on the flipside, she is painfully aware of her limitations. She ruefully tells me that she can’t buy the little things she likes to have for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren when they visit because she can no longer go out to shop. She shows deep frustration when she has difficulty getting up and walking to the bathroom. The effort leaves her breathless. It is a titanic struggle to get out of bed (despite having a hospital bed): to sit up, shift weight to her legs and shuffle the few steps to the toilet takes major exertion. And that is even with the assistance of her aide. Given that she is on a diuretic, the need to go is frequent. When Mom returns to bed she is clearly dismayed by her dependence on others and her inability to be in control of her bodily functions.

As the day wears on, Mom gets more confused. The energy and alertness of the morning give way to weariness and confusion. “Maybe they will send me home tomorrow,” she says to me. “Mom, you are home.” “I am?” She thinks she is in the hospital. She is in the same apartment she has been in for the last six years.

I point to the pictures that adorn the room. I show her the table that sits in the dining area just outside the doorway to her bedroom. She nods but then goes on to tell me about how when she was in the Air Force hospital in Texas after giving birth to Steven, they were in a barracks style room. They had to line up to use the bathroom and, “what did I do?” she asks me. “I don’t know.” “I fainted.” She goes on to tell me a convoluted story about them forcing her to get up, but then they put her to bed, and she heard her Aunt Bess in the hall loudly arguing that the nurse should take better care of her. “She made sure I had a silver pitcher, it wasn’t real silver, it was probably silver-colored but that’s not the point, with cold water. Aunt Bess was something.” She was rambling a bit, I thought maybe she was conflating several different experiences. It didn’t matter – I just listened. Then she said again that maybe she would get out of the hospital soon. This time I didn’t try to correct her.

I was getting ready to end my visit. We had talked about the weather forecast, which called for a snowstorm. I told Mom that I wanted to get on the road before the weather turned. She agreed and told me if the roads were bad not to come back to visit the next day. “It isn’t worth taking the chance.” “Thanks, Ma. I’ll stay safe.”

I had no intention of coming back the next day and earlier in the day she knew that. I was going to my apartment in the city to wait out the storm and then drive the rest of the way home to Albany. Mom knows that my house in Albany is a 3.5 hour drive away from her – well, usually she knows that. Depends on the moment.

I walked out to my car reflecting on the visit.

I know what I would want for myself. I firmly and passionately believe that I would not want to live the way Mom is living. I would prefer to stop the life-sustaining medications, take morphine or whatever would allow me to be comfortable while my heart and breathing ebbed, and say my goodbyes. Let nature take its course. Mom’s doctor has said that it is a legitimate, ethical decision – to stop Mom’s diuretic and other meds, make her comfortable and let her go. Though we have made the transition to hospice care, we have not discontinued those essential medications.

Mom is DNR and that decision was made with her full knowledge and consent – she was quite capable of understanding what it meant when we did the paperwork many months ago. I am her health care proxy, but we did not discuss this current scenario. I can’t in all honesty say I know what she would want. If I did it would make this much easier. I comfort myself with the thought that she does not appear to be in pain. Her activities are severely limited, her ability to engage in conversation is variable, her energy is negligible, everything is an effort…is she taking pleasure in her existence? Sometimes, but at best it is a small portion of the day. What is the right thing to do?

So I confer with my brothers and we decide to stay the course…for now.

There are only two things I know. I don’t want this for myself. And, there is no objectively right thing to do. No matter how much I rack my brain, or gut, clarity does not emerge. I need to make peace with the path we are taking and stop ruminating. One way or another, it will resolve itself in time.

In better days: Mom two years ago on the patio of her apartment

Note: I wrote this painful post because writing it helped me process my thoughts. Instead of having a jumble of emotions and images, I understand myself better. I share it because I imagine others may have gone through, are going through or will go through this journey. I think it is important that we talk about end of life choices. Perhaps it will spur conversation in your family.

Goals for 2024

Sargent portrait – seen at the exhibit at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts

Historically I am not one to set goals or make resolutions. I think that reluctance stems from the recognition that we mostly fall short and then have to deal with the failure. The other day I was watching, of all things, House Hunters and this guy in the couple made a point of needing to be able to post his annual goals on his bathroom mirror. This was something his wife didn’t especially want to see every day, so they wanted their new home to have separate vanities in the bathroom. I thought the guy was way over the top, but it got me thinking. While goal setting presents risks, it offers real opportunities: to prioritize how I use my time, to remind myself of what is important to me, to feel accomplished when something is achieved. Of course, I don’t need to share them publicly since that adds pressure, but what the heck. What is my blog for if not to take some risks, so here goes:

Read Moby Dick.

            [No other story is referenced as often in other books.

             It appears on lists of the best American novel.

            And yet, somehow, I never read it.

            I think it is time.]

Write everyday – or realistically almost every day.

            [I only posted 29 essays on my blog in 2023.

             My goal has been weekly.

             Perhaps it is time to reconsider my goal.

             Okay, my goal for 2024 is to reassess how often I want to add to my blog.]

Send out 10 query letters to literary agents.

            [probably more]

Accept rejection and continue onward.

Stop wanting more!

            [I have enough.

            Be more Zen,

            Let go of expectations.

            Exhale the want.

            Inhale the beauty,

            Appreciate the gifts,

            Even on cold, damp, gray days.

            Hear the music: bird calls, the wind in the trees, voices harmonizing.

            See the splendor: light, color, richness rendered on a Sargent canvas.

            Receive what is given,

            Feel the love expressed in a glance, in a gesture.

            Let it fill me.

            Trust the love.

            Trust the relationships.

            The child in me still wants…]

Plan a trip.

Sort through the clutter.

            [Simplify]

Gary, my husband, upon reading the above, said, “Good luck with that. I thought reading Moby Dick was enough.” Maybe it is ambitious, but I’m going to try. Let’s check back in a few months, meanwhile, Happy New Year! Wishing you all a peaceful, joyful, and healthy year ahead whether or not you set goals or make resolutions.