Category Archives: Life

Notes from Aboveground

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I am on the Acela from Boston to NY. I came to Boston for a business lunch and am now going home. It is what you do to build business.

You might think that the “Quiet Car” sign is self-explanatory. It is not. I think we’ve diluted the meaning of our words so much that no one believes signs without adjectives. “Free gift”: when was a gift something other than free? Or does “free gift” reflect the cynicism in our society that nothing is without strings? But then why do people fall for too-good-to-be-true scams? But I digress (of course).

Back to the Quiet Car. So maybe we need signs like: “Quiet-like-a-church-mouse Car” or “No kidding: no cell phones or whispering-at-the-top-of-your-lungs Quiet Car”?

Why is ok to expect a call and then leave the Quiet Car as you are yelling, “hello? hello? hello?”

I might have to take a real chill pill to deal. Another reason why it is dangerous to unleash me on the populace.

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A New York moment

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Ok, no one is going to believe this. But I think it is clear already that I attract the bizarre and inane like mosquitoes to carcasses. But POB (partner of blogger) is my witness. (And she agrees that I have a certain magnetism that I might want to have reversed.)

A woman is walking ahead of us on our street on this beautiful spring day. She is shouting into the phone. I look over because my attention is drawn to the noise. At that moment I notice:

that toilet paper is making a paper tail from her pants.

She feels something flying around at just about the same time and looks around as she is grabbing the toilet paper.

Our eyes meet for what seems an eternity. I think of Gilda Radnor doing a 1970s Roseanna Roseannadanna (Saturday Night Live) skit about Princess Lee Radzwill (Jackie O’s sister) with toilet stuck to her shoe. Except in this case, IT WASN’T STUCK TO HER SHOE!!

I am also shell-shocked.

She keeps yelling into the phone as she grabs at the toilet paper and her slightly horrified look dissipates.

Another New York moment.

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The STUPID, STINKING, painted ponies

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In an email with the subject line, “and the painted ponies go up and down,” my college friend told us others of the group that her father is dying.     [reference to Joni Mitchell’s song, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5HXT0bn7QY].

Yep, the carousel of time.  And when someone steps off the carousel, there is no changing it.  No making up for lost time and no more opportunities for mended fences or kumbaya moments.  And when it is the end — contrary to movie moments — the focus is on the person dying and his/her comfort.  And the person is not always lucid or with energy to have those special moments that Hollywood assures us we will have.  And the person doesn’t step out of character for his or her final scene.  And, at the end, there isn’t a whole lot to say.

Forget Hollywood, death is wrenching, messy and doesn’t pause for a commercial break.

I am glad my friend has a big extended family and support network and, of course, she has us — the group of friends from college — although some live far away.

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120 is a stretch, but I won’t accept any less than 90

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My dad is 89 and 5 months.  As with young children, so, too, with the aged, the months matter.  89 is different than 89-1/2 which is different from 90.  The body ages as rapidly at that age as kids develop between the ages of 6 months and 3 years-old.

Today, after seeing my son’s Spring Festival performance, my father experienced chest pains, elevated blood pressure and dizziness and presented with a pallor suggestive of serious heart failure.  He had to be taken by ambulance to my sister’s hospital.  Of course, I knew that it had to be serious in order for my father to expose my son to this episode.  Still, as a mother, I thought, “you couldn’t catch a cab outside?”  Imagine my thinking my father should grip his heart in a state of distress and schlep out to Amsterdam Avenue to go to the hospital lest my 7.5 year-old child be exposed to trauma.  The power of motherhood is that you think these thoughts.  Fortunately, my psychotic moment gave way to remorse and the knowledge that if I didn’t repent, my mother — in Heaven — would send a lightning bolt to warn me to tread carefully.  (Our Seder theme this Passover is “where is there evidence of a loving G-d in the Hebrew Bible?”; however, wrath of G-d or Mom can really keep a person in line.)  Of course, my dad would never subject his grandson to trauma if he could avoid it.

My dad is ok.  I called my son (through his baby sitter’s cell phone) to tell him that Grandpa is okay.  “I was worried about Grandpa, E-Mom,” he told me, “but I really did a good job in the play!!”  I want to cry because my son can accept (and yet not understand) the simple and the complex simultaneously and in the same priority, in a way only children can (as long as they feel safe).

My dad has low thresholds of pain and discomfort so I thought this was one of those false alarms.  Still seething slightly from having my son subjected to an emergency, I kept in “radio-contact” with my sister, the doctor, who was in the ER with Dad, but I didn’t drop everything and run to his side, as I had done so many times before.  Then, all of a sudden, I thought, “I am being selfish and petty and he will die.”  As I was about to run up to the hospital, my sister called to say he was being discharged and it was something, just not a heart attack (even though my father is technically in heart failure).

I called Dad about 45 minutes later.  He was discombobulated; he hung up on me and then when I called back he didn’t realize what had happened.  I called my sister, who called him.  I waited.  I called again.  He was fine and he said, “I just spoke to POB [partner of blogger].  FOPOB [Father of POB] asked me to tell her that [insert random information].”  Ok, all is back to normal.  My Dad is my Dad.

SOB [sister of blogger] is calling BOB [brother of blogger].  Maybe he should come visit sooner rather than later.

When my Mom died in early 2003 at age 76, I made my father promise he would love until 120 (like Moses).  He would just have to make up the difference.  Life is unfair that way.  But I am starting to understand what that entails.  My father always tried to be there for his children, even if it wasn’t always what his children wanted or demanded or expected.  That is the way — we are the parents we always wanted to our children and our children will be the parent they always wanted to their children, and so on and so on.  Neither our parents nor we will be the parents that our children wanted.  That is the human condition.

If I relieve my Dad of his promise, will he think that he is dying?  Will he go more quickly because his promise is forgiven?  How can I tell him it is ok to let go when I really don’t want to lose him?  And it is not time for him to let go.  Life is more constrained than it was, but it is not the end game yet.

So, now I hope he makes it to 90 in good health.  Ok, Dad, just 90.  120 is negotiable.  But less than 90, that is a deal-breaker.  Are we clear?

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The Acupuncturist

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I go to a wonderful acupuncturist.  She knows that I don’t necessarily believe in the power of my “chi” and that I am a western-centric client.  But, I am open to ways to feel better and balance my body.  That’s why my acupuncturist is terrific.  She doesn’t try to change me.  She works with me as I am.  And I have mellowed over time.  I now take vitamins, fish oils, have healthy foods in my office, etc.

When I leave my office for these appointments, I tell my assistant, “I am going to get pricked like a pin-cushion.”  I keep my blackberry out during the sessions — a negotiated concession from my acupuncturist — and, in response to a flurry of anxious emails, I emailed to my colleague, “do you need me to pull out the needles and run back to the office?”   I was perfectly willing to do so because I am a professional first and a pin-cushion second.  And I knew my phrasing would make my colleague queasy and weak-in-the-knees (for which I get a slightly perverse kick).  This colleague asked me once if I believed in the good effects of acupuncture and I responded, “Nah, but it can’t hurt — too much.”

I have gotten to know my acupuncturist some, and so I need to know about her life and if she is happy.  So, I have to ask, “so, are you seeing anyone?”  Her response: “I still haven’t found the right person.”  The use of “person” means (i) she is being politically correct/sensitive to my being gay or (ii) she is intentionally obfuscating whether she is looking for a man or a woman.  But, the vibe is definitely hetero.  Still, I ask, “man or woman or gender irrelevant?” because I might know someone for a shitach (a match) and I want to get the gender right.  And my gaydar has been wrong in the past.

And, once, years ago, I was talking to a “straight,” ultra-religious woman who started a conversation about finding a husband (for her).  In the midst of the conversation, she said to me, “how hetero-centrist of you to think that I am only interested in men!”  “But you are interested in men,” I said as I was thinking something is off because she knew I was gay. “To marry, yes,” she responded.

After about a two-second pause, I realized the implications of the statement and that it was time for me to run, run like the wind.  And I did.  All the way home to my beloved.  I am my beloved’s and she is mine. There are no ooky parentheticals or provisos to that statement.

What did this last story have to do with my acupuncturist?  Nothing, really.  But where I end up is rarely related to where I started, at least when I am not being a lawyer.

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Life – one week later

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Yes, to answer one comment from an everyday reader, there were sufficiently crazy things that happened in this last week, but, in my pledge not to alienate family and friends who read this blog, I must hold back.  Think of a big

CENSORED

where blogs about this last week ought to have been.   Maybe I will write about going to the acupuncturist.  Mañana.

So, we start again with today:

When we were kids, our dad used to take us on more-or-less yearly pilgrimages to Paragon Sports on 18th Street and Broadway to get outfitted for the Spring and warm weather sports (we also did an ancillary run in late June, just before camp, but it was epic in a different way). We all grew over the winter (why do kids grow over winter?) so the prior year’s gear didn’t fit anymore.

For me, this was our family’s official opening day of Spring.  Passover was religious but this was visceral. The promise of warmer, longer days leading into endless summer.  I still hold on to the fantasy even though I am 45 years-old and haven’t had a summer of play in 28 years. I bet my siblings don’t remember this, but I do. My father, in his hat that looked vaguely Russian, with a dress coat and wing-tipped shoes, in a sports mecca.  In fact, I would bet money that my brother doesn’t remember these excursions because he can only remember that Dad dressed him in a Mets outfit at a Mets game (in 1969 when they were the champs).  But you have to remember that my dad wore wing-tipped shoes on the weekends until the mid-80s, so the man did the best he could.

In truth, since my siblings were 3 and 4 years older than me, these outings probably lasted until I was in 8th grade, after which it was impossibly embarrassing to shop with my dad. Maybe in my mind’s eye, these trips loom larger than they really did, although I associate Paragon with Dad.  Also, in the 1970s, to schlep from the upper east side to 18th Street and Broadway with kids in tow was not for the faint-of-heart because Union Square was a needle park and there were many unsavory characters all around.  And in these 28 years, that area transformed, so it is not like going parent-and-child into a combat zone.

Maybe today it felt like a Family Event because my son and I made the trek to Paragon, this time from the Upper West Side.  My son wanted to stay home because it was raining cats-and-dogs (which is one of the stupidest expressions ever) and the wind was howling.  No way we are staying in.  We are going on a pilgrimage, young man.  You have outgrown all of the sports gear you have.  And, now that you are interested in football, hockey, baseball and basketball, we are going to get you the right stuff.  Yes, sir.  You may have two moms, AND you are going to have the right sports gear.   Even if you NEVER use it.

My son is more of an intellectual sports fan.  He likes facts and information and he likes to watch others play.  So, this trip was a little, eensy, bit more about me than him.   Never mind, one of the joys of parenting is that you can thrust your desires upon them and then pay for the years of resulting, required therapy.

We get to Paragon, which has gotten bigger over the years, but it essentially the same store (ok, I have been back over the years, but it is amazing how much the same it is).  A young man, Vladimir, helped us get the right size baseball mitt (I got one, too), basketball, soccer ball and football.  Also a solid, well-made baseball and an air pump.  I inquired about oil for the glove and how long he needs to sleep with the ball in the glove under his pillow to mold the mitt.  My son was browsing the sports jerseys for his favorite teams.  Ok, this really was all about me.

I did not get him hockey gear because there is no way he is playing that insane sport.  Oh, and, football, you ask?  Only two-hand touch, thank-you-very-much.  I did not bring him into this world to watch him go out on a stretcher.

I wanted to play with everything once we got home (even if doing so violated the house rules I set).  He wanted to play Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the computer.   Ah the picture becomes even clearer, you think.

At one point, I worried that I bought all of this gear and didn’t get my son a “cup”.  Then I realized that I am the only one who will be playing with this equipment and I need different protective gear, including some for my ego, my heart and my hopes of playing ball with my son.

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I get it, no one wants to comment on my blog

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Why? because everyone is traceable these days.  Hey if Israeli operative can be photographed prior to an assassination, then our lives are open to the world.

The truth is I am too stupid and I have too much to say that no one would voluntarily listen to, so I need a blog.  Maybe I should call it my Blab or my Blah-Blah.

An option.

Hmmmm.

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Dear Mom

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Recently, I have welcomed some friends to the unfortunate club of children who have lost parents.

The finality of it all.  And the guilt that life must go on.   I remember how hard it was to breathe sometimes.

What I don’t dare tell them is that after 7+ years, the snapshot I hold of you in my mind — white-haired wig, tennis sneakers, slacks, blouse (Dad didn’t like you in turtlenecks) and an Eddie Bauer or J. Crew woolen zip-up sweater — is getting a little vague and dimmed as time goes by.  I have razor-sharp memories of many, many things — throughout the years and especially during the month before your death — but the sound of your voice, Mom, the sound of your voice, exists only in my imitation of what I remember of it. Has that become the memory and is your voice lost to me?

You are still a force in my life. I was recently at a company retreat and there were over 300 people I didn’t know.  I just pretended to be you — the way you would walk into a room and find ways to meet and really talk with — well, up to then — strangers.  My mantra, “just be Mom,” enables me to work the room but never like you, the master.  You had a way (mine is diluted with Dad’s bluntness) of making people feel, as if when talking to you, no one else in the world existed and you had all the time in the world to chat.  And they were right, you remembered everything and you were interested in them and what made them happy or sad and, if they seemed lonely, then — whether they liked it or not — they had to come to every holiday at our house.  I feel that way, too, about people I meet, but sometimes my directness (ok, Dad’s genes again) turns them off.

To be fair to Dad, life in the fast-paced world of corporate law (and its diminishing economic rewards) make bluntness a relevant and useful tool.  I try to do it á la Larry King (I know, I know, you stopped watching him once he started interviewing headline catchers and hangers-on), with a directness that is a little self-effacing but gets the point across.  You see, Mom, I realize that since you died at an age a full 25 years younger than when your parents died, that I cannot rely on the fullness of time for people to come around.  In truth, that is a cop-out.  I am not as patient as you.  And although I believe in the goodness of people and their senses of fundamental fairness, I have a more cynical streak.  Since you died before the invasion of Iraq, you are just going to have to trust me that some Republicans and those who are leaders of the military-industrial complex are beyond redemption.

But then again you missed the heady days following Barack Hussein Obama’s election as the 44th President of the United States of America.  That would have lifted your soul.  The sheer promise of America in those moments would have made your eyes well with tears.  He has been attacked and stymied at every turn, but, Mom, he is a transformational leader for our country and our generation.  When I see the political machinations going on, I have to dig deep and believe as you that what is true and right will prevail.

Wow, after all of this, I guess you’re not so fuzzy after all.  Even though the picture of you is getting fuzzy, you live on in my mind, my heart and my soul.

I really appreciate this talk.  And I appreciate your stopping by in my dreams.  When I am sick, could you remember to say, “my poor tsakele, if I could have it for you I would”?  That always helped.  Even your grandson needs to hear me say it “just like Grandma would’ve” when he is sick.  And I totally get it.  You never want your child to hurt even the teensiest bit.  Maybe that is why you hang around, to ease our pain.

Ok, I am not ready to dive in the with the “G-d thing” but I believe that your life force abides.  That’s as far as I am willing to go on the “everlasting” subject.  You are going to have to win me over on that one.  This is going to test your patience.  (I was never the easy child.)

I love you.  Now I am remembering that you did have a few cashmere turtlenecks, notwithstanding Dad’s preference otherwise, under your sweaters.  (We still wear them.)

Love,

Me

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The most universal of tragedies

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Life is a journey.  From birth to inescapable, uncheatable, death.  We accept this cycle of life and the orderly progression from youth to elderly to . . . nothingness or life everlasting, depending on one’s view and religion.

But what breaks a person’s (my) heart is knowing — however tangentially — parents who must bury their children, and grandparents unable to comprehend or comfort their own grieving children.  Since the 1950s, the death of a child breaks social and religious compacts, both having evolved from greater longevity and higher standards of living.  Not long ago, parents buried children in this country all too often.  Still, as a parent, I cannot imagine the pain and grief of those parents, just as I cannot imagine the pain and grief of parents of a girl recently found dead in her dorm room at college.

A life and future snuffed out and a family in tatters.  And, depending on the cause of death, other young lives guilty for not preventing the loss or complicit in causing the loss.  I look back on my college years and wonder how I survived the colossally stupid things I did.  I think about the way I cavalierly put my life and limb at risk in crazy, drunken escapades in the snowy mountains of New Hampshire. And, yet, I survived.  Why?

There is no rhyme or reason to who lives and who dies, who is born into riches and who is mired in poverty and who is blessed and who cursed.  Yes, biblical and epic struggles between humans and G-d are unleashed again in times of gut-wrenching sadness.

It is part of the human condition, I believe, to become inured to the death tolls in far-away Iraq and the famine in parts of far-away Africa, but be heart-sick at the death of a child barely considered “kin”.  Maybe because I am a parent.  Maybe because it didn’t happen in a faraway place or under circumstances outside my experiences.  Maybe because in the America of my hopes and dreams — and those of my parents and grandparents — things like this don’t happen.  The “shining beacon to the world” (if that is still true) is a little dimmed by each such senseless death.

There are many riffs on this — political, sociological, religious — but the fact remains that a young life is lost.  And that is just too much.  And, maybe we ought to think about every life this way.  But for right now, I am thinking locally not globally.

I only hope that the family of this young girl find some form of peace in their lifetimes.

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Privacy, please

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It is funny how people give away private information about their kids without even knowing it.

I was at a meeting and we were talking about kids and dating and a colleague from the midwest said that her early-teens son was very friendly with girls but hadn’t decided on a girlfriend.  Fine so far.  Then she added, “but he is always out with them.  If there are seven girls going to the movies, he’s the only guy.”  Ok, ok, ok.

The difference between a New Yorker and a midwesterner is that we New Yorkers would know the implications of that fact pattern and would leave it to the son — and to time — to unravel the mysteries therein.

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