Stories

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!

Aging with Grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go Back to Poland!” Really??!!??

Reading that there were chants of “Go back to Poland” at the pro-Palestinian encampments at Columbia University stopped me in my tracks. Weeks later my attempts to ignore it are not working. It is just too painful to try to pretend it didn’t happen.

The stunning ignorance and cruelty that this demonstrates is hard to swallow. Do they not understand what happened to Jews in Poland? This is personal to me. That statement could apply to American Jews, not just Israelis, after all we are hardly indigenous to the Americas. As an American Jew if I was forced to go back to Poland the only remnant of my family would be a monument to the 2500 people murdered in Halbow, Poland in 1942. My paternal grandfather’s parents and sister are buried underneath that monument in a mass grave. Luckily for my family, my grandfather went to America alone in 1921, long before World War II was on the horizon and before the thrall of Nazism. My grandfather was seeking his fortune and Jews were still permitted to immigrate. Millions of Jews in Poland were not so adventurous or prescient.

In addition to my family’s experience, we have the horrors my in-laws endured. They too lived in Poland, though today it is actually Ukraine or Belarus, which introduces another problem with their simplistic chant. Some of the Bakst family did indeed go to Israel after the war. Even if Ukraine or Belarus opened their arms to receive them today, it is not a viable alternative, or is the reason for that not obvious to those protesters?

I wrote about what happened to my father-in-law when he did go back to Iwie in 1944, while the war was still on but his town had been liberated by the Soviet army. I hope you will take the time to read my blog post about that here.

For purposes of this essay, I will summarize. David Bakst was granted leave for his heroism in a battle with the German army. At this point David was in the Soviet army who were unaware that he was Jewish. He was given leave to visit what was left of his family, his father and sister, who were in Lida, about 40 kilometers from his hometown. David pined for his home. He had warm memories of family gatherings and the love he felt among his extended family. The house was a relatively modern one, built in 1929. I think, even though it was unrealistic, he hoped in his heart to reclaim it.

They arrived at their home, which withstood bombing by Germany. A Polish family was living there. Though David was allowed to come into the house when he explained his connection to it, the reception was not warm. He was told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t his anymore. Upon seeing the interior, with his family’s things rearranged, and seeing his parent’s bed, knowing his mother and younger sister had already been murdered, he collapsed in tears. His father and sister comforted him, they told him there was nothing in Iwie for them anymore, they needed to look to the future, and that is what they did.

David spoke fondly of that house for the rest of his life. But, whatever bitterness he may have harbored did not interfere with his making a new life in a new country.

Clearly the protesters at Columbia, at other college campuses and in the Middle East either don’t know this history or don’t care. If they don’t know it, they have a responsibility to learn it. The latter possibility is even worse. To be aware of the pain that is carried by our family and by millions of other Jewish families, and still chant “Go back to Poland,” is beyond cruel. It would be evidence of pernicious antisemitism, not of a liberation movement. It is also extraordinarily, epically ironic given that the basis of their protest is that Palestinians were forcibly evicted from their homes.

Another problem with this situation is that the media coverage of this has been quite limited. I have not seen stories that explain the problem with the suggestion that Jews go back to Poland. Those who are ignorant have not been enlightened by the coverage; they can continue to live in their deluded world. Does the media assume that people understand? If they understand, they should be called out for their inhumanity. While one might argue that the journalist’s role is not to take sides that is not what is called for here. It is a matter of giving context, explain some history and that is the role of a journalist. Giving that context doesn’t even necessarily mean folks would change their mind about the Palestinian cause, but it might help bring some nuance to the discussion. At the very least, hopefully that disgusting chant would be cast aside. I would not hope for apology, that is probably too much to ask, but it would be appropriate.

We can argue until the end of time about who the indigenous people of the Middle East are. Frankly, I don’t care beyond understanding the history of the region as best we can. We can argue who is in diaspora – aren’t both peoples? Not to mention other displaced persons who have been forced to leave their homes whether it is in Africa, Asia, or Central America because of war, gang violence, natural disasters, climate change, power struggles, genocides. Are these encampments for them too? Is there a point to arguing who is a refugee? Where does the argument get us? Yes, it is essential that we understand and acknowledge the generational trauma that Palestinians and Jews carry, but that is a two-way street. Chanting “Go back to Poland” is absurd and suggests that they are not serious about finding a solution.

Reset: Retreat and Renewal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s NOT the Economy, Stupid

Maybe it’s just me, but the political narrative that gets presented in the media makes no sense. I’m listening to a podcast where New York Times columnists are talking about the relatively healthy economy and why people are still not optimistic or confident in it. They are hypothesizing about Covid lag, lingering inflation, negative feelings about Joe Biden. Those things may be relevant, but I don’t think that is what is at play in the poll numbers.

I think the reason the polls show negativity is because, though the survey questions may target the economy, people are pessimistic because the world is going to shit. Everywhere you look, it is scary. I think this view applies to Democrats, Republicans and Independents. Personally, I find the divisiveness in our country, whether it is around Trump’s trials, the war in Gaza, global warming or the issues the panelists were talking about (lingering effects of Covid and inflation), call into question whether we will be able to come together to address the problems. I don’t think I am alone in being pessimistic. We are a country famous, maybe even envied, for our optimism. I’m not sure that still applies.

In fact, just the other day I was at a gathering at my daughter’s house. A friend of hers was talking about his lack of hope generally, that it was hard to find things that inspired confidence in the future. He made the point that one of the few bright spots, something he was grateful for, was the young children of his friends. When he looked at them, their innocence and promise, it made him feel better. The man who was expressing this thought is in his mid-thirties.

Ever since that march in Charlottesville in August of 2017, the Unite the Right Rally where folks were marching with tiki torches, and our President couldn’t condemn it, I have been uneasy. I imagine for some that might not have been as seminal a moment as it was for me, but there have been so many things that have happened since then that make me question whether we live in the same reality. That event hit me hard. I thought I was watching something that happened fifty years ago, not a protest in an enlightened college town. And things have only gotten worse. The chasm has widened.

There is the possibility that we have always been this divided, but we just didn’t know it. People’s ugliest thoughts weren’t broadcast on social media. If someone stood on a soap box in a town square, even Union Square in New York City, and proclaimed that (insert your favorite scapegoats) were the devil, it was likely to fall on deaf ears. Now that person gets support from people across the globe who share a similar warped world view and the idea gets momentum. It also gets overrepresented in the social media narrative because it generates clicks – controversy or outrageousness always does. It is hard to get a handle on how many believers there really are when you have bots and trolls and foreign and domestic agents who benefit from the chaos.

If you ask me that classic question, “Are you better off today than four years ago?” I don’t know how to answer that. My economic situation is about the same, maybe better, but the precariousness of the health of the world, in every sense, affects my response. My feeling has little to do with Joe Biden or his policies. To me it feels like he is working to hold back a tsunami of terrible things – trying to preserve women’s reproductive rights, slowing climate change, bolstering the economy, minimizing inflation, reducing tensions in the Middle East, addressing crime, the list can go on. Some would include the southern border as a crisis. In some ways it is, but in other ways it is a manufactured panic. There are real problems with our immigration system, but some politicians are invested in keeping it a problem rather than making it better. I think Biden is doing a reasonable job against staggering obstacles. He has not created these problems.

No matter how good a job he does, though, it pales in comparison to the challenges. And it is done in the setting of unprecedented division.

I see footage of what is going on at Columbia University and other college campuses where backers of Palestinians have set up encampments to protest United States support of Israel and the universities’ investment in Israel and/or our defense industry that aids Israel. Separate and apart from the rightness or wrongness of the protesters’ positions (a topic for another essay), there is a way to get your message across effectively. If the idea is to win people over to your side, persuade them of the righteousness of your position, it isn’t by shutting down traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge or harassing Jewish students or impeding folks from getting to their calculus class. In most cities, (perhaps all cities – I am not a lawyer) you need a permit to stage a protest or march. There is good reason for this. It goes back to the balancing of different legitimate interests: the protesters and other citizens going about their lives. It is fine to disrupt the routine, to a degree. But you can’t purposely jeopardize public safety. I’ve attended any number of rallies for causes. I believe in showing up to voice my opinion on public policy, but there is a way to do it. Chanting hateful slogans doesn’t help either.

We live in confusing times. I think the polls reflect people’s general uneasiness, not a judgment of the economy. I wish Biden was more effective at communicating his vision for the future of our country. I do fault him for not showing clarity of purpose and leadership, but I don’t hold him responsible for the sorry state of our union. I believe we are suffering the effects of the cynicism, greed and fear that has become the stock and trade of the Republican party, along with the poisonous influence of social media over the last decade. Add in natural disasters which are increasingly frequent with climate change, seemingly endless wars across the globe and it feels overwhelming. I don’t know what the solution is, but we need to understand and acknowledge what we are dealing with before we can find answers. Polls are not shedding light on the issue. We need to be asking different questions.

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.