A Surprise Recognition

Though I didn’t set out to tell the story of Gary’s graduation from medical school, it has been the thread that has pulled me along. His graduation was momentous, for Gary, of course, but for all of us. It was a culmination and a beginning.

I had stopped work at the Finance Department to prepare for our move and enjoy all the festivities leading up to the graduation ceremony. And there were festivities! Other than packing, both of us were without responsibilities for the first time in years, as were our friends, and that led to some serious celebrating. Gary and I were never major party-ers, but we gave it our best shot that week.

The graduation ceremony was held on the Tuesday after Memorial Day, May 29, 1986. In addition, the senior awards ceremony was conducted separately, before the weekend. The schedule clearly was not made with out of town guests in mind. Our families weren’t able to come to Pittsburgh for that long of a stretch. They came into town on Sunday. This was quite unfortunate because our families missed what may have been the highlight of graduation.

We knew Gary was getting an award, but we didn’t know what it would be. We got to the room where the ceremony was held, eager with anticipation, and most of the seats were already taken. We nodded hellos to his classmates as we made our way to two open chairs toward the back. The room wasn’t an auditorium, as I recall, it was more like a mid-size ballroom, set up with a podium at one end and rows of chairs. Awards in different categories were given, for different specialties. The Heard Senior Prize, honorable mention, for excellence in Medicine, went to Gary. First prize went to Monica Parise. Gary was not surprised, he believed Monica was very deserving. I was a bit disappointed, tremendously proud, but a little let down on Gary’s behalf. We didn’t know there was more to come.

More awards were given. We were coming to the end of the ceremony. The announcer presented the Jamie Sheehan Memorial award, voted on by the students, given to the “individual who is most aware that the role of the physician is to serve and honor the patient and who is most sensitive to the healing power of the doctor-patient relationship” to Gary Bakst. This was completely unexpected. Gary had said nothing to me about the vote. Later he told me that he had no thought that anyone would vote for him. He voted for a classmate who was instrumental in setting up a clinic for unemployed steelworkers. But, his classmates saw something, a quality that I knew well.

Gary got up to receive the award and the audience rose, as well. He got a standing ovation! I was smiling ear-to-ear, clapping, trying to take it all in. I did have one stray thought: I never realized how short Gary is! I couldn’t see him. I stood on my tiptoes, straining, trying to follow him as he made his way down the aisle to the front – to no avail. That was a ridiculous observation, of course, in the midst of the pride and pleasure in his recognition.

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I was only sorry that his family wasn’t there to see it. Damn the planners!!! But I would be sure to tell them all about it.  Meanwhile, we celebrated. It had been a long, hard four years for both of us. We earned that celebration. We weren’t our best selves by the time our families arrived on Sunday, but we managed to rally.

Next week: Graduation 

Why Albany?

As I reread my previous post about “The Match,” I realized there are some pieces of the story I wanted to add. Once again, the beauty of a blog presents itself: I can add to the history I am sharing whenever and however I want! Of course, hopefully I am keeping it coherent and interesting!

First, I want to explain how Albany, New York came to be ranked so high. The charms of Albany might not be evident. A number of my blog readers live in Albany and are well acquainted with its appeal, but not all of you are, so I will explain.

Some medical students, when they had breaks from school, went off for a beach vacation, Gary and I took the time to visit family. We’d start in the city, see Gary’s parents in Queens (Gary’s mom was kind enough to lend us her car so we could make the rounds), then mine in Brooklyn. We’d hit Jersey to see my brother and sister-in-law, Steven and Cindy. Then we’d travel up Route 17 to Middletown to see Gary’s brother and sister, Steven (so many Stevens in our lives!) and Rochelle. Finally, we’d go to Albany to visit my brother and sister-in-law, Mark and Pam, and, importantly, their sons, our nephew Joshua, and their newest arrival, Samuel Lee.

Mark began a campaign to have us come to Albany. Perhaps because of his fond memories of our grandparents and then our aunt and uncle living upstairs from us in Canarsie, Mark had visions of creating a family compound in Albany. He took every opportunity to lobby family members to relocate (his efforts, by the way, have paid off over the years. We don’t have a family compound, but some members have relocated, but more on that another time).

When we got to Albany, as part of our New York grand tour, Mark began the hard sell. He drove us around the residential neighborhoods near the hospitals, he showed us around the suburbs. He was on the verge of getting Gary carsick, but then he gave us quotes on property values. Gary had an appreciation for those numbers. We learned we might be able to afford to buy a house – not an option in most of the other places we were considering.

Mark pointed out that we were less than three hours from Boston and New York City, and only four hours from Montreal. He knew I loved those cities. He also dangled the offer of lawn passes to see the New York City ballet at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center in the summer. During my teenage and young adult years I went to the ballet regularly with my mom, her sister, Aunt Simma, and her daughter, Laurie. We had a subscription. I loved (and still love) the ballet.

Our visit ended with us sitting on the floor of Mark’s living room playing with Josh and Sam.

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Dad and Sam, on Sam’s first birthday, in 1986. Just after Gary and I moved to Albany.
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Other than wearing the wrong baseball cap, Josh was perfect. He is 4 years old in 1986.

That’s how Albany made it to number two.

When ‘the match’ revealed itself and we learned we were going to Albany, I think Gary was a little perplexed. His interview at Columbia had gone well. He had done research there before attending medical school in Pittsburgh. His grades and board scores were excellent. While he certainly didn’t feel like a shoo-in, it seemed like a reasonable bet.

We thought it was just one of those things that we would never understand. But not long after match day, Gary saw the head of Pittsburgh’s internal medicine department, Dr. Levy, and they chatted a bit. Gary learned that during the process Columbia had called Dr. Levy to express their interest in Gary but wanted to know if Gary would attend if they selected him. We were unaware that there was gamesmanship going on behind the scenes. Dr. Levy told them that Gary was planning to come to Pittsburgh. When hearing this, Gary was speechless – he didn’t know where Dr. Levy got that impression. Gary didn’t apply to or interview at Pitt. When Gary shared this with me, I wondered whether there was something that could be done. Gary believed that when you entered the match, you agreed to the terms, which would mean accepting the assignment. We also thought maybe it was for the best anyway – the stresses and strains of commuting and working at Columbia were daunting. Though neither of us put a lot of weight on fate, we decided to let it be.

And, finally, another word about the Firebird. The car, when last we left off, was sitting in a Breezewood, Pennsylvania service station, 123 miles away from me in Pittsburgh. After many phone calls, I had the car towed back to Pittsburgh to a recommended repair shop. They found a replacement engine. Since the car had been gifted to us with the understanding that we would return it when we no longer needed it, we wanted to repair it. The problem was that the cost was $1100, not including what we paid to tow it! I don’t recall now, but our credit limit on our Mastercard may not have been high enough to handle it. But, I was blessed with an unbelievably supportive father – I could always count on him. With Dad, if I even hinted at some difficulty, he was quick to offer his help. Fortunately, Mom and Dad were in a comfortable place financially at that point. I didn’t even have to ask; he knew we were struggling to make ends meet. He gave us the money, no strings attached!

Dad’s birthday is coming up, he would be 86, this Friday. It seems particularly appropriate to end this blog post with a remembrance of him and his extraordinary support and generosity. It may be almost 14 years since he died, but I think of him all the time and he is alive in my heart.

The Match

Towards the end of Gary’s third year of medical school, we were thinking about next steps. Though graduating from medical school is a significant milestone, it isn’t close to the end of the journey. Internship, residency and, likely, fellowship remained to be completed. And, before he could begin, he had to go through a process called ‘the match.’

Medical students choose a specialty and then apply for programs in that specialty. Gary chose internal medicine. The way it works is that he fills out an application, which includes his transcript, the scores on the different medical boards that are taken along the way, and references. I don’t recall all the specifics, but after the initial application, you would be invited for an interview if the program was interested in you. During the 4th year of med school, about four weeks were set aside so that the student could travel around for those interviews. Then, the student ranked his/her preferences from top choice to places they would accept. At the same time, the programs ranked their choice of students. The two sets of rankings were fed into a computer and voila! – a match was made.

So much went into this process; so many decisions along the way – from choosing the specialty to deciding what part of the country we wanted to consider. Although we enjoyed our time in Pittsburgh, we wanted to be closer to family so Gary focused his attention on programs in the Northeast – mainly New York (upstate and the metropolitan area) and Philadelphia. He scheduled the interviews and we created an itinerary. The Toyota Celica we had when I first came to Pittsburgh had died, we got tired of pushing it downhill to pop it into gear and donated it to a local vocational school, and we were without a car for a while. We were fortunate that Gary’s brother Steven bought a new car at that time and generously gave us his old one – a car way too cool for us, a Pontiac Firebird with a t-top. We gratefully accepted his gift, it would make the interview process so much easier and less expensive.

Gary left Pittsburgh early afternoon on the first Sunday in November to make a grand tour of Pennsylvania and New York, with his first stop in Syracuse. I would meet him at the end in Brooklyn for Thanksgiving. We said our good-byes, I wished him luck and he went on his way.

He was driving on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, not that far out of Pittsburgh (but far enough), when the engine light came on. Neither Gary nor I were knowledgeable about cars. He drove for a bit, thinking he’d get off the next exit. But, exits on turnpikes aren’t that close together. To make a long story short, he had to pull over onto the shoulder when he saw smoke wafting from the engine. A state trooper luckily came upon him quickly. The car got towed to the nearest service station.

At that point, I got a collect call from Gary, explaining that he was in Breezewood, Pennsylvania and was being told that the engine had seized. The car would be out of commission for quite a while, even if they were able to find a replacement engine. Gary was in something of a panic, his interview was scheduled the next day at 8:00 am in Syracuse. I went into problem-solving mode. We decided I would deal with the car. We got off the phone so he could look into transportation back to Pittsburgh and I would figure out how to get him to Syracuse.

A number of things fell into place: he was able to get a bus to Pittsburgh very quickly, then he grabbed a cab to the airport. I found and booked him a flight to Syracuse and arranged for a rental car. It looked like we would be able to pull this off in time to make his interview. It also meant that we spent hundreds of dollars we couldn’t afford, but that’s what credit cards (and parents, if you are lucky) are for.

The rest of his travels went well. When he finished all the interviews, we had some decisions to make. I put my policy analysis skills (I knew I’d find some use for them) into action to help sort things out. The task of figuring out how to rank the programs was overwhelming. Without going into the gory details, we made a matrix – yes, a matrix! The elements that were relevant to the decision were listed on one side (quality of the program, quality of life for us, closeness to family, affordability, etc.). I think we had something like 7 factors. We gave a weight to each factor (quality of program got the most weight, and quality of life was second). Then we ranked each program according to each factor and came up with a score. Much discussion went into this, as well as many hours of thought. While the matrix was helpful, it wasn’t an exact science. Ultimately, Gary ranked Columbia (in New York City) first, Albany Med second, I think one of the Philly programs was next and I don’t remember after that (maybe Gary does). I know he ranked ten programs

One of the considerations in this equation was what each program offered in the way of experiences. The sad reality was that this was in the midst of the AIDS crisis, before any viable treatment options were available. When Gary visited NYU (located in Manhattan) and Downstate (located in Brooklyn), the combination of the huge number of AIDS patients, their suffering and not being able to offer much to relieve their symptoms, was devastating. All hospitals were challenged by this crisis, but the internal medicine programs in those two locations were simply overwhelmed. I don’t recall if Gary included either of those programs on his list, or if maybe he ranked them at the bottom.

All the paperwork and interviews were done, now it was up to the invisible, giant (in my imagination anyway) all-powerful computer to do its magic. Match day was March 19, 1986.

All the students gathered in a large common room in the medical school at the appointed hour – I think it was noon. I took off from work to be there to get the news hot off the press with Gary. Each student’s name was called and they were given an envelope. Inside was a computer-generated letter that indicated the program.

Our hearts were thumping. I believe names were called alphabetically – it was good to be a Bakst. Gary went up and got the envelope and quickly made his way back to me so we could open it together. He ripped it open, our eyes scanned the paper and found…Albany. I looked at Gary to see his reaction – after all this was his second choice. I did not read disappointment. I felt a small let down and maybe a bit of surprise. Of course, I had no idea what would happen, and had no reason to assume he would get Columbia. We compared results with our friends – it seemed that everyone was happy with their placement.

We knew our families were waiting to hear where we would be going. We went over to the pay phones to call them. As we made the calls, and processed the outcome, we got more excited. Then we joined friends and went out to celebrate.

We would have a few more months in Pittsburgh, and then start the next phase of our lives together…in Albany, New York.

When We Went to Medical School

Sometimes I slip and say, “when we went to medical school.” Of course, I know that I didn’t go. In fact, when I would meet Gary on campus, we would take a short cut that went through the anatomy lab. I kept my eyes tightly closed, held my breath and he guided me through as quickly as possible. I wasn’t cut out for blood, guts or formaldehyde. But, I still feel like I went through it. Maybe because it was so intense. Maybe because our lives were totally consumed and structured by the demands of Gary’s schedule. Whatever the reason, now and again the phrase still slips out.

When I joined Gary in Pittsburgh, one of the things I was struck by, and people will be pleased to know this, was how seriously Gary and his fellow students took their learning. I don’t know if it is like this in other medical schools, but at Pitt, with a few exceptions, students were committed to learning all of the material. There was concern about grades, too, but the focus was actually on learning. They took their responsibility very seriously. Not only were they studying for a given test, they were trying to retain the knowledge beyond that test. Certainly, this was true for Gary and his circle of friends.

This was a contrast from my experience in graduate school, where my fellow students at Columbia were present and worked hard, but didn’t display that level of commitment, not even close. The med school students saw a connection between what they were learning and the quality of care they would later provide patients. I found it very reassuring.

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These were some of the thick books Gary lugged around.

The first two years of medical school were comprised of traditional classes. Gary lugged huge, thick texts on biochemistry and anatomy and physiology to and from the apartment – sometimes to one of the libraries on campus, more often downstairs to a room in our building. Ruskin Hall, where we lived, had a lounge on the first floor that was good for studying. There was a long wooden table with sturdy chairs and some more comfortable chairs against the walls. It was never terribly crowded, but there were always some people studying there. When he wasn’t in class or lab, that’s where I’d find Gary. It became a routine: every evening around 8:00 I’d bring him a cup of Maxwell House International Suisse Mocha (the instant mix). We’d touch base for a minute or two and then I’d go back up to the apartment, watch t.v. or read and go to sleep. I didn’t know what time Gary came up.

It could be lonely for me. Other than Gary, I didn’t know a soul in Pittsburgh. It took a few months for me to find a job, but even after finding one, it was hard to make friends. I was an outsider at work, being so young, a New Yorker and Jewish (I wrote about that here and here). My colleagues were married, with children and in a different place in their lives. Though it was fine for work, for the most part, I couldn’t make a connection that went beyond a celebratory drink during the holidays.

We did have a circle of friends from Gary’s class, which included some women. I did become friends with one who was in a similar situation, she worked while her husband went to med school. She was a copy editor at a publishing company. But her life took a major turn when she got pregnant and had a baby during the second year of medical school. We remained friendly, and we socialized as couples, but she, understandably, was preoccupied.

I tried some different things to network and branch out. I joined a group called Women in Community Development and edited their newsletter. I enrolled to get my PhD in Public Administration at the University of Pittsburgh and took a few classes, while working full time. I joined a gym near work. None of those efforts led to the kind of connection I wanted. Looking back, I think my loneliness and sadness were more about my general melancholia, not yet treated with medication.

I muddled through, trying to be as supportive of Gary as possible, while simultaneously leaning on him to fulfill all of my emotional needs (perhaps a contradiction in terms). The third year of medical school brought new and different challenges. Gary began rotations in the hospitals, each one exposing him to another specialty. Most med students, early on, made a choice: medicine or surgery. There were many specialties within each of those two branches, but the two areas called upon different skill sets. Surgeons tended to be action-oriented, take-charge, fix-it kind of people. Internal medicine drew problem-solvers, relationship-focused, detail-oriented folks. There was some trash talk between the two groups, with those choosing medicine disparagingly referred to as ‘fleas.’ I don’t recall a pejorative assigned to surgeons, but the general idea was that they wanted to operate first, ask questions later.

Gary chose medicine, not surprisingly. As a result, the medicine rotation loomed large for him. He was determined to ace it. It was the longest rotation, lasting almost three months, taking him to different hospitals with a long stint at the VA. The hours were brutal. Gary would leave the apartment at 6:00 am and get home around 9:00 pm, if not later, and then he would read/study. I don’t recall him having weekends off, and if he did, they were spent studying. There was just so much to learn.

One night, tired of eating dinner alone and feeling resentful, I asked Gary if he had to keep these hours. “Can’t you cut back a bit? Does everyone do what you’re doing?” Gary carefully explained to me that this was time-limited, the rotation would end. He felt he needed to go all out because it would be important for future choices. If he wanted to get a residency placement of his choosing, the better he did in this rotation, the more options he would have. I didn’t know it then, but this argument would become a recurring theme in the first ten years of our marriage: me questioning whether Gary’s long hours were necessary. This time I told him I understood, and tried to suck it up.

I don’t know how he did it, I barely made it through the ordeal. I have this unfortunate tendency when in a dark period to feel like it will never end. I find it a challenge to see light at the end of the tunnel. Fortunately, that isn’t a quality Gary shares – he certainly wasn’t seeing much light, literally or figuratively. It was the fall, he left in the dark and came home in the dark and spent most of his time in the dim fluorescent light of hospital wards.

Finally, the rotation came to an end. I arrived home from work and found Gary already in the apartment. This was a major step forward, he was never home before me. I hung up my coat, went to the bathroom and came out to greet him. He was standing by the kitchen sink, taking a glass of water, but looking quizzically at me.

“What?” I asked, feeling like I must’ve missed something. Turned out I had.

“Did you go into the bathroom?”

“Yes, why?”

“Go in there again.”

I was perplexed but I did as he asked. I looked up and taped to the mirror was a piece of paper. I don’t know how I missed it the first time, though I do try to avoid mirrors. I recognized the format – it was the end of rotation evaluation. Gary got honors in Medicine! I screeched and jumped up and down. I threw my arms around him. We danced around the apartment. I later learned that Gary was one of only four students (out of 140) to achieve that distinction. Gary was well on his way to leaving his ‘imposter syndrome’ behind, and hopefully getting a choice residency when he graduated.

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The form that was taped to the mirror.

Medical School Begins

One challenge in writing this blog is that it is disjointed. I’ve jumped around quite a bit, while still trying to follow some threads in a coherent way. I appreciate you readers taking the journey with me. Hopefully it hasn’t been too confusing!

In preparing to write this piece, I reread a bunch of posts to remind myself what I had covered. I don’t want to repeat myself, but I also want to make sure that each essay stands on its own. Please feel free to comment or message me if you have questions or if I’ve lost you! I welcome the feedback.

I’ve written about the ‘tense conversation’ (read here) Gary and I had about his applying to medical school. With all that went into the application, and all the pressure he felt, medical school presented quite a test – to Gary, to me and to our relationship.

Gary sailed through high school with minimal effort. He needed only a bit more energy to get through college. He began medical school not knowing how smart he was and without well-developed study skills. I think to some degree he had ‘impostor syndrome,’ he didn’t know if he belonged or deserved to be there.

Plus, he had his father’s hopes and dreams (and money for tuition!) riding on his success. Not too much pressure! Fortunately, Gary rose to the challenge. He not only met it, but he excelled. He set a brutal work pace for himself to achieve it.

As I wrote previously, Gary and I drove a U-Haul from Queens to Pittsburgh in August of 1982. We parked the truck in front of Ruskin Hall in Oakland, the neighborhood which the University of Pittsburgh occupies, and got the keys and went up to the apartment.

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Ruskin Hall – photo from University of Pittsburgh website

Gary and his parents had traveled to Pittsburgh earlier in the summer to select the apartment, this was my first time seeing it. I was pleasantly surprised, and a bit overwhelmed. Tears welled as I looked at the high ceilings, huge windows, hardwood floors and spacious bedroom and living room. It reminded me of an upper west side of New York City pre-war apartment and I hadn’t expected something so nice. I couldn’t believe this was going to be Gary and my first home together. I wasn’t actually moving in with him at that point, I was going to join him later, but I knew it would be ours. I wanted to get at least six months in my new job before moving on, and Gary needed to get acclimated to medical school on his own. I knew I would be joining him in the not too distant future and I had no expectation that we would have such a nice apartment.

We moved the furniture in, which wasn’t much, but he had the essentials. We went to the nearest mall and bought some other items, including a phone. One of those new-fangled portable models that we plugged in and didn’t think anything more of it. After finding a grocery store and stocking the pantry and refrigerator with things he could easily prepare, I took a cab to the airport and flew home. I was sad to say goodbye, but fortunately airfare from New York to Pittsburgh was $29, thanks to PeopleExpress and US Air. We planned that I would visit once a month. We also planned to talk on the phone every few days and set our first phone date for  Tuesday evening at 8:00, two days from then.

I went back to work on that Monday and pined for Gary. I couldn’t wait to talk to him. The appointed hour couldn’t come fast enough. At 7:59 on Tuesday evening, I picked up the phone in Canarsie and dialed Gary’s new number in Pittsburgh. The phone rang and rang. I counted 20 times. I hung up and dialed again and let it ring another 20 times. I was worried (was something wrong? Was he sick?). I was angry (how could he forget that we had a phone date?) I was confused (what should I do? There was no one to call to check on him). I kept trying. Eventually, he answered and he had a story to tell.

Gary was in the apartment, waiting for my call, keeping himself busy by refinishing a wooden desk that he had brought from home. He heard a chirping sound. Perplexed, he walked around the apartment trying to locate the source. It was a persistent, annoying sound and he wanted it to stop. He determined that it was coming from the smoke detector (also a new-fangled device in those days). He took the step ladder and tried to reach it to disconnect it (the downside of those high ceilings). No luck. The sound stopped, but then resumed. He got the broom and took the stick and pummeled the smoke detector. It fell to the floor, but the sound began again. It finally dawned on him that it wasn’t the smoke detector, but rather it was the new telephone. In the two days that he had been in the apartment it hadn’t rung once, so he had no idea what it sounded like. We were all used to the sound of the classic bell that our phones at home used when they jingled. This phone sounded more like a bird tweeting in a high pitched insistent tone. Meanwhile, back in Canarsie, I was in a panic. I was ready to be furious, until I heard his story. Then we started laughing. Though he had mangled the smoke detector, he was fine and would have the sound of that phone chirping imprinted on his brain forever.

It was a minor but amusing misunderstanding. We managed to communicate more successfully through that first semester. Gary wrote me a letter every day (I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that he writes the kids an email every day). I was a faithful correspondent, too. And, we had no further problems with the telephone. That isn’t to say that we didn’t have our struggles during his four years of med school, but more on that next time.

1982: A Year of Change

 

 

Changes were afoot in 1982. It was a big year for the Brody family. Joshua, the first grandchild, born to my brother and sister-in-law, Mark and Pam, arrived February 1st. In April Uncle Terry and Aunt Barbara moved from the upstairs apartment in Canarsie to a large suburban house in Morganville, New Jersey. My parents had their first non-family tenants take their place. I began my job search, as I was in the last semester of my master’s program at Columbia. Gary was waiting to hear about medical school admissions, he was wait-listed at Pittsburgh and Downstate (in Brooklyn).  It was a time of excitement and anxiety.

In the midst of this, and maybe because of it, my parents started looking for a second home. I think my father thought that, since they would truly be empty nesters for the first time, my mom needed a distraction. Financially things were more comfortable than ever before. All three of us kids would be out of the house (two were married), they would have a market-rent-paying tenant, and their own salaries had crept up over the many years of teaching. They could afford to consider getting a country home. Their close friends, Cliff and Muriel, were in a similar position and together they went on weekend jaunts exploring places where they could consider buying.

Cliff was my Dad’s closest friend. He was principal of an elementary school in Brooklyn. Muriel was a home economics teacher.  As couples and individuals they shared many interests: travel, food, wine, books, and, for the men, tennis. Cliff and Muriel shared a unique quality: each had a very distinctive voice. Cliff’s was a gravelly bass rumble. Muriel spoke loud Brooklynese with a shrillness that could be hard on the ears. Fortunately, she was funny and interesting, her voice grew on you as you got to know her.

The two couples took weekend trips to the Catskills and the Poconos. They were looking for modest lakefront homes where they could escape from the stresses and strains of Brooklyn living and working. After checking out a number of areas, they came upon Edgewood Lakes Inn, a rustic hotel outside of Livingston Manor in the Catskills. Private homes were being developed on property adjacent to the hotel. Owners would have access to hotel amenities and to a lake. The two couples took the plunge and put down a deposit. Arrangements were made with a local builder.

Given that my parents were life-long Brooklynites, they entered this project with some trepidation. They had no history of being outdoorsy. I don’t recall them ever hiking or fishing or skiing. They had an appreciation for nature – but at a distance. When we drove through a national park, like Yellowstone, we pulled over at scenic overlooks. There were no hiking boots or backpacks involved. If we came across a mouse in our house, we all freaked out. My mother was afraid of all animals. Buying property in the woods, and building a house there, was a bold choice.

Those plans were proceeding while I moved toward graduation. I found a job with the Mayor’s Office of Operations in New York City. Gary continued working at a lab at Columbia Presbyterian, still waiting to hear about medical school.

At the end of June, I started my new job. I was assigned a cubicle in a row of interior cubicles. I was given a standard issue desk, chair and telephone. I called home and gave Mom my number so they could reach me if necessary (this was long before cell phones). I went through some orientation activities in the morning.  I was setting up my desk in the afternoon when the phone on my desk rang. I was quite surprised. I thought, who could possibly be calling? I was even more surprised when I heard Gary’s voice. I hadn’t even given him the number yet. He shared great news; he was accepted at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine! He was very excited and I was, too. But, it was also complicated.

Through my final semester in graduate school we wanted to coordinate our plans. We hoped the timing would work out, that I would know where he was going to be for medical school and I could search for a job there. But it didn’t play out that way.  Time was passing, I had to make a choice, so I took the job in the city. On my very first day of work, on June 21, 1982, we learned that Gary would be moving to Pittsburgh at the end of August.

That night Gary picked me up after work and we went to a bar in Sheepshead Bay for a celebratory drink. We sat at a table and raised a glass to toast his good fortune. Then, Gary asked me to marry him. Though Gary and I were planning our future together, we had not formalized it. There had been no proposal. For reasons I couldn’t really understand, Gary needed to know he was accepted to medical school before he would propose. It didn’t matter to me. I knew I wanted to be with him if he was a science teacher, lab tech or doctor. But, he didn’t see it that way. Now that he had the certainty of admission to Pitt, he popped the question. I said yes. He didn’t have a ring yet, he wanted me to shop with him so he would know what I liked.

We had decisions to make – and not just about the ring. I couldn’t see leaving the job I just started. We agreed that it was probably good for Gary to start medical school on his own so he could concentrate fully on his classes and get adjusted to the workload without worrying about me. Our preliminary plan was for me to stay at my job for a year, get married and then join him in Pittsburgh.

We shared all of this with our parents. Years later I learned from my father that they considered backing out of purchasing the house at Livingston Manor because of the looming cost of the wedding. They had not anticipated that we would be getting married that soon. After considering their options, they decided not to change course. Though it would be tight, they thought they could manage it.

The summer of ’82 passed. We planned the wedding. At the end of August, I accompanied Gary on the drive to Pittsburgh. His father rented a small van and we nervously drove it the length of the curvy, foggy Pennsylvania Turnpike. I helped get him settled, then I flew back home.

I came home to an empty house. In New York City the school year, my parent’s work year, didn’t start until after Labor Day which fell on September 6 that year. They were squeezing the last bit of pleasure out of the summer by spending the days leading up to Labor Day at Edgewood Lakes Inn.

My parents called me from there late one afternoon. That day, September 1, Cliff had a massive heart attack and died. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it happened while he was on the tennis court with my father. It was shocking. Cliff was 52, my Dad was 49. I was devastated for my father, actually for everyone. It was hard to take it all in.

Again, my parents faced a decision about going forward with the house. It was starting to feel like it wasn’t meant to be. While I wasn’t privy to all the details, they decided to move forward and Muriel did, too.

When I look back at 1982, it was such a roller coaster for my family. The birth of Josh. The traumatic death of Cliff.  Dad went for a thorough physical afterwards and found out that he had a bundle branch blockage, meaning that two of the three electrical pathways that regulated his heartbeat were blocked. He was told that eventually he might need a pacemaker. He also found out that his cholesterol was very high. Dad made a number of lifestyle changes as a result. It took him some time to get back on the tennis court, but he did.

Gary finished his first semester of medical school very successfully. We decided six months at my new job was enough, rather than a full year, and I moved to Pittsburgh in January of 1983, we got married in July. The house at Livingston Manor was built and was a happy home for my parents for over 20 years. They hiked, they went cross-country skiing, they hosted family and friends, they picked blueberries from the bushes in the woods nearby, they dealt with an invasion of bats. They mourned Cliff’s loss. Life went on in all its bittersweet glory.

Inanimate Objects

Do inanimate objects speak to you? Some of mine do. My bicycle, which sits dusty, tires flat, leaning against the garage wall, has been known to ask: Why don’t you ride me?  I spent a lot of money on that bicycle. I went through a phase where I rode it almost daily, but that was several years ago. I have every intention of riding it again. Not today when it is below zero and windy, but when the weather permits, I intend to hop on (key word: intend) and enjoy the view. For the time being, it sits silent. But, come Spring, it will start talking to me again. And I will feel guilty.

Then there is the treadmill sitting in the basement. Whenever I pass it, I hear it saying: do SOMETHING with me! The treadmill doesn’t work properly. We bought it years ago and it worked well for a while, but then it would just stop while you were in mid jog – which was less than optimal and maybe even dangerous. I had a service person come three times – replacing various parts –we even had an electrician put it on its own circuit. It still doesn’t work. I started the process of appealing to the manufacturer, but gave up. I didn’t have the wherewithal to force them to replace it. So, there it sits. A reminder of another thing I haven’t taken care of, left unresolved.

You might sense a theme here, but it isn’t just exercise equipment that speaks to me. The loose photos strewn about the study ask to be organized. My refrigerator screams that it needs a thorough cleaning, which reminds me of a story.

fridge_cleaning
Photo credit: Today’s Little Ditty (blog)

Gary and I were living in Pittsburgh. He had just finished his second year of med school and he finally had a break. I was working full time for the City of Pittsburgh Finance Department. Since he had some time off from school, we had some visitors. First came Gary’s friend, Larry. They hung out for a couple of days, toured the city a bit and I joined them for dinner. Larry left on a Friday morning. Gary’s parents were scheduled to arrive later that same day. I left for work that morning telling Gary, “Please, just make sure you pick up the bedding in the living room before you leave.” Larry had been sleeping on one of our fold out chairs in the living room.

Our apartment was a nice size one bedroom, one bathroom unit, with high ceilings and big windows. It had a large living room that we divided with bookcases to create a spacious dining area. There was a small dining room off the kitchen that we used as a study. When our parents visited, we gave them our bedroom and we slept in the living room on the fold out chairs.

I left for work that morning with Gary asleep in our bed and Larry sleeping in the living room. I hoped Gary would leave enough time to straighten up before going to the airport to meet his parents.

In an unfortunate bit of timing, I came down with a heavy cold later that morning, it came on suddenly.  I was so congested my teeth hurt. I was nervous enough about Gary’s parents visiting, we were married less than a year at this point and they had not been to our apartment yet, without also having to deal with a horrendous cold. I left work early, thinking I could take some decongestant and maybe rest a bit before Paula and David arrived.

I opened the apartment door and took a quick look around. I saw the bedding still on the living room floor and our unmade bed. It looked like a mess.

To say I was in a rage is an understatement. One thing about fury, I forgot about my cold symptoms! I ran around the apartment like a lunatic. I put away the bedding and cleaned up the living room. I changed the linens on our bed and straightened up our room. I did the few dishes in the sink, wondering what the heck had Gary done all morning! It was good that Gary wasn’t home to hear me muttering epithets at him.

I heard the key in the lock and put a smile on my face to greet my in-laws. We gave them the grand tour of the apartment, which didn’t take long. While showing them the kitchen, Gary proudly opened the refrigerator. I have to admit, it was spotless. So that was how he spent his morning! It was true, the refrigerator was cleaner than when we first moved in, but it wasn’t that bad when I left in the morning!  That would not have been my first priority. Later, when I asked him about it, he explained that he spent the entire time cleaning the inside of the refrigerator – it took him hours. He didn’t understand why I was so frustrated with him.

I learned some Important lessons from that experience: Gary is a perfectionist, and his priorities frequently don’t match mine. This continues to happen today, with Gary digging a hole for a new garden when we already have a garden that seems perfectly adequate to me. In addition, if he takes on a project, it will take way longer than one would expect. It will be done very well, I will give him that.

As I was writing this, and given that my refrigerator was calling to be cleaned and I was tired of listening to it, I put down my pen (actually closed my laptop) and did it. I didn’t spend hours and it is not as spotless as if Gary had done it, but it will suffice. And now when I sit at the counter in the kitchen, I only hear the low hum of its motor.