Category Archives: The Sandwich Generation

Serenity and Renewal

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My professional coach (not CAFOB) had sent me a New Year’s greeting card which I finally got around to opening at a computer (as opposed to a blackberry).  It was warm and wonderful and direct.  Wishing me the usual for the new year, but also renewal and serenity.

Eureka!!!  (My coach is awesome, but not as awesome as CAFOB who is my friend for 30 years.  If you need a coach, I can give you two people who are amazing.)

Renewal.  Not a theme of the Jewish new year (which has more of a return to G-d and atone theme).  More a Passover theme (spring time, rebirth and renewal of the covenant with G-d).  Nevertheless, I have been feeling the weight of creating business generating opportunities in a terrible economy.

I was so exhausted in August that when it came time for our family week in Montauk, I told the COB (colleague of blogger) that I would not be checking my blackberry and that all calls had to go through POB (partner of blogger).  Originally, POB told me there was no wifi where we were staying and only POB’s phone would work.  As it turned out, there was wifi and my blackberry worked.  If POB lied to me, well, then I love her more for realizing that I needed a blackberry-free zone.  Only twice did work intrude on the week.

When the world is in chaos, it is still navigable but it takes so much more energy that I often feel — well — spent.

My family re-charges me.  POB and SOS (our son, source of sanity) are my mainstays, but SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) and Cousin Gentle help hold me up.  They are daily miracles in my life.  Even DOB (father of blogger) with all his eccentricities grounds me.  And CB (Cousin Birder) links me to my mother’s family and he is such a wonderful guy. (I wish that CB only realized how awesome he is.  I lectured him about this on Rosh Ha-Shanah — of course I did.)

And there are my goddaughters.  They don’t have to love me because of family connection.  We created that connection together.  These relationships are among the most important in my life.

By their presence in my life, all of these people feed my soul, lessen my burden and give meaning to life.  They are my agents of emotional and psychological renewal.  I hope that I provide for them even a fraction of what they provide for me.

Serenity. Acceptance.  Roll-with-it.  What will be, will be.  Take it as it comes.  Don’t worry forward.  Be in the moment.

Discussion:  compare and contrast blogger’s personality with the above themes.  (Hint: no common ground, as in blogger is the antonym of each of these themes.  Don’t believe me?  Read Wikipedia (right after I send in my comments).)

Ok, clap your hands if you’ve heard this before:  someone has business in this economy, someone is figuring it out, someone is benefiting from all the problems!

Ok, if you have heard this, clap if you heard:  “An A minus?  What’s wrong with an A?  Did someone get an A?”

Whoa, I hear a round of applause throughout the blogo-sphere.

This serenity thing is a hard one.  But I did laugh these last two days when I looked at the wild ride of the stock market and how our retirement is now effectively pushed out to age 113.  I will be the dead, yet-propped up greeter at Walmart’s.  The company will love me because it won’t have to pay overtime (how will I know? I’ll be dead), and I won’t mind being in the freezer section.

At least I laughed.  Ok, gallows humor, but, hey, it IS a start.  I am trying to focus on the things that renew me because they also provide the building blocks of serenity — love, constancy and laughter.

*     *    *    *    *   *    *   *   *   *   *    *   *  *   *

But renewal and serenity are sooooooo much easier in a bull market and a roaring economy.  Just sayin’.

My coach knows me well.  This is the start of a journey for me — to allow time for renewal and to allow a sense of serenity in a chaotic world.

Really, email me if you want a lifeline (or two).

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The Sum of our Lives

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Don’t ask why I had reason today to meditate on the meaning of life and death, legacy and detritus.  For the purposes of this entry, please just accept that I did.

Much of the meditation happened today on the Cross Island Expressway, the Long Island Express Way, the Throgs Neck, the Northern Parkway and any number of other main arteries in and out of New York City.  Given the timing and the traffic, there was much time to ponder (and outrage that the tolls got to be so expensive).  Another story for another day when I am musing about driving as a contact sport.

After the mourning, and the tearful yet loving remembrances, comes the task of disposing of a deceased person’s worldly possessions.   Remember that bumper sticker, popular in 1980s or 90s, that adorned really expensive cars, “He who dies with the most toys, wins”?  Did the people in those cars think that they would be buried with the stuff?

Actually if that kind of acreage weren’t so expensive in this part of the country, that would be a great idea and soooo much easier on the rest of us.  No one would have the task of reducing it all to cash for the benefit of the heirs.

I don’t believe that “stuff” is the sum of our lives.  But it does bog down the survivors in details that make us forget those we mourn and celebrate the lives they lived.

What I learned today:

  • If  you believe that “stuff” is the sum of your life, just ask an auction house what you are worth and the answer will freak you out.

  • Things that carried enormous sentimental value or were mementos of wonderful experiences now become “stuff” to be sold off for distribution in accordance with a last will and testament.

  • If you want someone to have something when you die, give it to them in your lifetime, so you can see them enjoy it.   That someone may not be alive when your executor tries to carry out your wishes.
  • If you love your family and friends you will have only two nickels to rub together at the end of your life, because you will have given the rest away during your life time.  POB (partner of blogger) wants to time it just right, so we have EXACTLY two nickels, lest people say “they didn’t have TWO nickels to rub together!” (What would I do without my own personal reality check?)

 

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Sunday Dinner

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FOPOB (father of POB (partner of blogger)) is a hard guy to pin down.  He doesn’t like to “commit” to coming over for Sunday night dinner when he is in the City (and not at his beach house).  This weekend was no exception: he wasn’t able to say yes or no when asked again yesterday. He’d let us know.  Ok.

In fact, he let us know by coming over at 3:15pm, unannounced.  That’s so early even for MY dad who would come at 9am, if we let him.  That’s ok.  I couldn’t even emerge from the bedroom until 3:45pm.  Then I felt guilty and let POB escape to the kitchen.  At 4:15pm, FOPOB was itching to watch the Giants game.  And in a slightly-passive-but-really-overly-aggressive move, I told SOS (our son, source of sanity) to keep FOPOB company, believing full well that SOS would get bored within 5 minutes and start trying to convince FOPOB to change to either Nature or Discovery channels.  And it would drive FOPOB nuts.

You think that wow I can be awfully mean sometimes.  Yes, yes, I can.

Somehow, despite my best-laid plans, SOS started to get into the game.  (My son:  the child who went from worrying about the euro crisis to watching people gratuitously concuss each other in 48 hours.  I am having whiplash and I will remind him of this indignity until the day I die or the guilt kills him — whatever.)  The Giants versus the Redskins.  The Redskins?  Really?  Do we still have teams with humans (in this case, Native Americans) as mascots?  Haven’t we progressed as a civilization?  Oh, wait, that is my way left-of-center whine.  I am a centrist now.  I digress.

FOPOB was impatient at cocktail hour (6pm) because the Redskins (pause, take a deep breath) were beating the Giants.  And, because HOSOB (husband of SOB (sister of blogger)) and CB (cousin birder) were talking about bird nerd things that even a loving and adoring  sister-in-law and cousin could not possibly abide.  SOB was seeking shelter in the kitchen with POB, leaving me to referee the “boys”.

So I threw out random things, like the blue inner feathers of a mallard and the way hummingbirds make their calls with their feathers, to bring the conversation within normal nerd parameters.  Nothing doing.  DOB (Dad of blogger) rather adeptly tried to steer the conversation away from what could have been mortal boredom (did I mention how much I adore HOSOB and CB?) by musing about the difference in conversations he had when he was our age 20 years ago.  OK, DOB, that was 40 years ago when you were our age, but who is counting.  Yes, it was just after the 60s and you were wearing mustard colored bell bottoms and Mom was wearing floral halter tops, “hostess” pants and Elvira the Vampiress make-up, but I am sure your politics had sound bases. Still, he had a good point.

FOPOB, who had a moment to shine, instead said flatly that the conversation was boring, he’d rather watch his team lose and did anyone realize that Casablanca was on TV tonight?  I poured everyone more wine.  DOB mentioned he liked it and I told him it was NOT Trader Joe’s $3.50 special Merlot.  “Really?”  DOB was genuinely surprised.  I excused myself to the kitchen where POB was hiding out.  I asked POB to kill me before SOS ever had to have this conversation with me.

Thank G-d Cousin Gentle arrived.  And time to eat.  FOPOB wanted to take dinner-to-go but we locked the door.  SOB had to take a call from the hospital.  SOS wanted to run back and forth from the dinner table to the TV in our room to watch the football game.  I considered Crazy Glue to keep him in his chair but I settled on the Evil Eye of Doom and Despair that I inherited from my mother that kept us in line.  It is amazing how a few moves of the facial muscles can subdue a child.  It worked. Luckily, I also still have the brute strength in my arsenal, if necessary.  But only for a little time more.

At the beginning of the meal, we toasted the many sides of the family that were present.  We toasted our good fortune in being together.  We remembered the victims of the attack on our Nation 10 years ago.

At some point in the conversation, we started talking about the different sources of the Bible and how women may have been writers.  HOSOB asked what I knew about this.  So, of course, I held forth, but with a caveat.  I started with, “Unencumbered as I am with fact or knowledge about the subject matter . . . .”  Cousin Gentle was impressed that I said this.  I was shocked.  I thought this was an implied caveat in any conversation in our family history because clearly Uncle Loud, Cousin Gentle’s father and DOB, would have otherwise been mute for most of their lives.

After that, someone complained that the chicken was salty.  Someone wondered about having added marjoram (a spice I still don’t understand) to the quinoa dish.  FOPOB wanted to take dessert to go (keep trying, dude) in order to watch Casablanca at home on his ginormous TV.

So, we were deep, we were shallow, we were loving, we were honest. .  .and in so doing, we gave meaning to the statement:

WE ARE A FAMILY.

I love you all.

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Conversations with my father

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DOB (father of blogger) came over for dinner. Just DOB.  No others to redirect the conversation when it, as it invariably does, turns to scatological matters.  And with my having an endoscopy on Friday, we would need the conversational fortitude of all family members to keep the subject, shall we say, appetitive.

I became a little desperate when I realized that the “regulars” for Sunday dinner were unavailable and it was just DOB and the three of us:  POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince) and me.

The excuses:

  • SOB (sister of blogger) was working this weekend at the hospital,
  • therefore, HOSOB (husband of SOB) had to stay home to feed SOB, and
  • Cousin Gentle and CB (Cousin Birder) were separately out of town.

All reasonable excuses; however, in the aggregate, totally unacceptable.

And POB, always a little afraid of what someone from my side of the family might say, stays in the kitchen and cooks.  She can hear everything and I can tell her displeasure by the increased numbers of needlessly dirty pots and pans that are left for me to clean.  Oooops. I digress.

For the record, DOB is a perfectly lovely man and he was a wonderful father. Now, let’s get to it.

He asked how I was feeling after the endoscopy.  Not waiting for an answer, he told me how lucky I was not to have a colonoscopy.  He has had over ten.  I mentioned that I am glad that he no longer has them (he is near 91) because I understand that the preparation for a colonoscopy is rough.  He started discussing all the things that could go wrong in the procedure, like a puncture of the bowel or whatever (at this point, I am not listening because I am deciding whether or not to lunge out of the window).

POB walks in because she felt an intervention was necessary.  She almost texted SOB at the hospital to rush over to run a Code Green (as in POB was turning green from the conversation) and save us from ourselves.  POB, G-d bless her, tried.  And failed.

DOB paused politely while POB tried to maneuver us away toward more common pre-dinner conversation.

Then DOB started to tell me that he thinks he needs a colonoscopy because — I tried to stop him there.  I don’t need the details. But his hearing isn’t so good, so he didn’t hear me plead for him to stop. Instead he alluded to discomfort, waiting for me to ask for more information.  I didn’t ask because if he tells me, I will surely lose my mind. He made more allusions but I wouldn’t take the bait.  This is a battle for my sanity.  If DOB realized the stakes involved, he wouldn’t push it (he is after all a lovely man and good father).  He would have walked into the kitchen and grossed out POB.

He moved on to the procedure he might have.  Sanity preserved — for now.

Of course, he said that if the doctors found anything, that given his age, he wouldn’t want any invasive treatment. Ok, ok, ok, ok.  You want to have a risky procedure at your age just as an information gathering exercise?  And torture your daughters, who will go with you and take care of you afterwards?

In my head, I am screaming, “SO, WHY ARE WE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION AND WHY DO I KNOW DETAILS ABOUT BOWEL MOVEMENTS THAT I NEVER, EVER, NEEDED TO KNOW??”

Just then, SOB called, as if she knew I was about to lose my mind.

“So how’s it going over there?” she asked.  I imagine that her head was already in her hands as she was awaiting my answer.

“Dad’s having some elimination issues.”

“OOOOooooh.  I am really sorry I couldn’t be there tonight.“

SOB knows my sanity is on the line and she is my protector.  But there are sick patients in ICU.  There are just crazy people in my home.

“Dinner!!!” POB calls.  My salvation.

 


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A Day at the Refuge

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Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge is a world away from New York City. Imagine a place so quiet that you can hear the bird calls and Canada geese walk right past you as calmly as if you belonged.

 

Except the refuge is actually IN New York City (see faint red arrow pointing to Empire State Building).

Seemed like another world, except for this sign:

 

But, then again, in this country, that sign could be anywhere.  But in a wildlife refuge?  Really?

Yesterday, POB (partner of blogger), TLP (our son, the little prince), SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of SOB), DOB (Dad of blogger) and CB (newly rediscovered cousin who is a birder) had an outing there.  TLP had binoculars, HOSOB and CB had those AND these crazy telescopes on tripods.

I thought we would be stared at for all the bird nerd equipment. I was soooo wrong. People there had all manner of paraphernalia to observe birds. And these people are serious. No jocularity allowed. Apparently, lawyers who are new to bird-nerding are the most opinionated (and most often wrong). In fact, we came upon a heated discussion among the nerdiest of the nerds about the kind of tern that was on the beach ahead.  CB being a low-key but über-knowledgeable nerd tried to help and consulted the various field guides handed to him. It was getting so heated that we had to leave as did the neophyte lawyer nerder who had made a “wrong tern” identification (as it were). He stomped off, taking a “left tern” and we opted to take a “right tern”.  Okayyyyy, no more tern jokes.

Actually, we did see some extraordinary things through the nerd scopes.

But then when the boys — HOSOB, CB and TLP — started debating whether a bird was a mature, immature or juvenile sub-species of something (I know two birds; pigeon and yellow belly sap sucker, the latter may be a made-up cartoon bird), the rest of us needed to rest.

Needless to say, the mature females — SOB, POB and me — along with the eldest male — DOB — enjoyed a lovely walk around the quiet, calm sanctuary. (Ok, except for the near altercation I mentioned.)

A terrific day for nerd and non-nerd alike.

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Twas the day before Passover, and all through the house. . .

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It is really the day before the eve of the holiday (because we celebrate holidays from sunset to sunset) but every creature was stirring. Heck, 15 people are coming over.

POB (partner of blogger) made a vat of chicken soup.  She rendered chicken fat which, if you’ve done it, you know that is a disgusting necessity for light, floating matzo balls.  The whole house smells like a barn.  And while we are talking about matzo balls, I need to note for the record that the Blogger family tradition is that matzo balls sink, not float.  Their intended purpose — so say those in my tribe — is to line your stomach for the coming week of no bread and also give you a reason to complain about intestinal issues, e.g., (in a Yiddish accent) “I ate such a heavy matzo ball that it is cement in my stomach, and boy-oh-boy, have I got troubles getting anything out!!”.  However unpleasant, it is my inheritance.

But MOPOB (mother of POB), may she rest in peace, made floating matzo balls.  And since Passover is all about MOPOB (my mother’s memory is invoked on Thanksgiving), we “sinkers” just sigh and “boing” the matzo balls with our figures, wondering if, with a little push, they might sink.  No such luck these past few years.  So part of our Passover narrative (“and you shall tell your children on that day . . . “) also includes the sinker-floater dichotomy, because as surely as there were Israelites on the shore of the Red Sea, they were also arguing about whose matzo was better.  So, it is just in keeping with the tradition.  So I shall tell my child that “on that day” there were no floaters in the land of Egypt.  Ok, that isn’t fair because there weren’t sinkers either.  There wasn’t matzo ball soup.  But history is written by the conquerors and vanquished loud-mouths.  I can live with being in the latter category on the matzo ball issue.

Those of you who aren’t Jewish may not appreciate that importance of this.  This is a divide that can splinter families.  We are talking about our grandmothers’ and great grandmothers’ recipes.  We are talking about the overbearing, tyrannical beings that, upon death, miraculously turned into angels in everyone’s memories.  We are talking about tradition.  [Start singing from Fiddler on the Roof.]  This is big.

But MOPOB’s traditions must prevail.  She was terminally ill at our first Seder in our home in 2006.  She pronounced herself satisfied with the celebration — a high compliment and tantamount to a blessing on our home and us — and then, within 36 hours was hospitalized and soon died.  You can’t mess with that heavy trip.

I needed chairs and an extra table from my Dad.   We had lunch and then went down to the storage bins in his apartment building.  Dad is looking great these days, although slower since his fall two weeks ago.  Still he grabbed the hand truck at the entrance to this scary storage room in the bowels of his apartment building.  Only one light worked.  He and I were feeling around in the dark for his folding table and chairs.  We found them and managed not to fall or otherwise hurt either of us.  Every year we go through this ritual and I make a note to self to remind the doorman about the lighting.  Every year, Dad and I forget.  Every year, we grope in the dark until we find what we need.  So far, it has worked for us.  Tradition.

Tradition.

Tradition.

 

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Carpe Diem

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Tonight SOB (sister of blogger) and I had dinner with our uncle.  He is 81 years-old.  He has been in a slow decline in the last two or so years but able to dance (his life-long passion) and go about his life.

Unfortunately, he has aged rather dramatically in the last month.  So, SOB and I needed to convince him to let us help.  Just when we were bracing ourselves for the image we had, when he walked into the restaurant, the even further downward trajectory was so profound that it was hard not to cry.

He has our aunt, his partner of 60+ years, and he has SOB and me.  There is no one else close by.  (And our aunt has her own medical issues.)

He always said he lived every day as he wanted.  He said he hated going to sleep because he never wanted to end a day.

But living life on his terms and according to his muses often meant that he didn’t show up for his family (his parents or my mother — his sister) in their times of need.

I guess carpe diem means different things to different people.

As SOB and I helped him into our aunt’s apartment building (they have always lived separately), he lurched for the elevator and forgot to look back or kiss us goodbye.

Life on his terms.

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The world is too much with me today

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I have been close to many in my life who did not have children.  They were/are blood relatives or relatives-by-love.

Now, another set needs SOB’s (sister of blogger’s) and my help.  These two people were the heroes of our youth, the fun and youthful aunt and uncle.  They had lives in theater, dance, and the arts.  They knew interesting people and were “mod” when “mod” was cool.  They lived life on their terms and expanded our imaginations behind where our parents tried to direct our paths.

They are old now and much diminished.  A generation slipping through our fingers, as we try to make the twilight comfortable and the darkness not so scary.  They once were kings and queens of their destiny and audaciously bohemian in their lifestyles.

And now their nieces, a doctor and a lawyer exactly as their parents had planned, must introduce — gently, very gently — the calculable reality.

Because even free spirits need grounded guides through the indignities of aging.  But we have to learn their terms and conditions for aging.  There is no room for hubris in thinking we know what they want.  We have to ask and we have to listen.

When Mom died, we knew what she wanted — we had talked about it for years, as the cancer began to win — and it was easier to do what needed to be done.  It was excruciating but the details and the path forward were clear.  How ironic.

And yet I am concerned and sad, but not “down” because we are trying to do what must be done in the gentlest, most honest way possible.

Wish us luck.

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Life as seen by Blogger, Part 2

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My Dad is healing from his fight with a New York City sidewalk.  Thank G-d, he was able to get up from his fall.

Of course, as the family archivist, I had to take pictures throughout the course of the healing process.  Dad still looks horrible, but at least his right eye is open and there is but a hairline fracture above his eye.

He came to the office on Wednesday and people were aghast (he comes for coffee at least once a week, and the staff has adopted him as a favorite visitor to the firm).  He looked like he had been in the fight of his life.  And to some degree, a fight with a cement sidewalk at his age is the fight of his life.  My father thanked everyone for their concern and, added as he stood up straight with his shoulders back, “you should have seen the other guy!!”

My Dad and TLP (the little prince) have a very special relationship.  So, Dad was very concerned that we prepare TLP for the discoloration and bruising on Dad’s face.  “I don’t want to scare him,” Dad admonished.  And Dad preferred that we have Sunday brunch at his house instead of Sunday night dinner at ours.  He just doesn’t like the attention from strangers that his injuries draw.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I individually explained to TLP that Grandpa had a terrible fall and that he was ok, even though the bruising and swelling were hard to look at.  TLP pronounced himself ready to handle it.  And he understood that Sunday night dinner — which is more important to TLP than he will let on  — needed to be re-scheduled.

TLP hugged Grandpa and said, “it isn’t so bad!”  TLP was totally non-plussed about the bruising and swelling that is unbearable to me as Dad’s daughter.

As we sat down to brunch at Dad’s house today, TLP offered the toast, “to a fast recovery so you don’t miss Sunday night dinner next week!”

TLP loves and needs Dad and Dad loves and needs TLP.  And I thought, in that moment, POB and I have — so far — done the right things to bring together the generations of our family through love.  I don’t think we did anything other than to provide a forum for TLP and Dad to bond.  I am grateful to be the conduit.  It will enrich TLP’s life and extend Dad’s years.

And that is a blessing for all of us.

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Life as seen by blogger

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Maybe you will understand a little more about the inner-working of my psyche after you read the following:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I planned to meet at the gym this evening, where we would silently and companionably exercise on adjacent machines, with me perspiring and her, not so much.  Per the plan, she would hand off some necessary documents to wind up my mother’s estate, thereby completing a highly-charged emotional task in the middle of sweating, grunting people.  Precisely the juxtaposition that would humor Mom z”l.

Then a received a message at the office from my secretary. “[SOB] called.  Nothing urgent.”

I called her back, thinking she was calling to bail on the gym part and set up another rendezvous of the document transfer.

She answered, “Hello?”

I gave my usual “Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooo” response.

Pause. “I’m here with Dad.” Pause.

Already, I am having visions of the ER and heart trauma, because SOB doesn’t just drop by Dad’s in the middle of her ICU work day.  My heart sank.  So this is what she means by nothing urgent?

“He looks ok.  He fell on the street and landed on the right side of his face.  But he’ll be fine.” In fact, my dad at 90.5 years-old is agile and still has some awesome Fred Astaire moves.  But still, he FELL.

She handed the phone to Dad.

“Dad, are you ok? Are you still at the ER?  Did you get stitches?”

“No stitches.  [SOB] thinks I look ok.”

“Dad, give the phone back to [SOB].”

“You mean a real doctor didn’t look at him?” I asked SOB.

“Oh, you mean like a juris doctor, like you?” Ok ok ok ok ok ok.  She had a point.

Dad was checked out and he is fine.  He just has one really bad bruised, swollen eye, made worse by his heart medication that thins the blood.   He fell but he got back up which is the best part.

SOB has a way of sugar-coating things, so as not to unduly alarm people.  But, SOB and I are a team and we need to deal with family issues together.

“Really, don’t come,” SOB continued, “Dad made me take a picture so you would feel like you were here.”

“Wait, Dad wants to tell you something.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“How much do you pay for your eye glasses?”

“why?”

“Because my $35 glasses didn’t break or cut me and I bet your fancy $400 glasses wouldn’t hold up so well.  Would you like me to pick up a pair at Costco for you?  Just give me your prescription.”

OK, there is nothing wrong with my father.  But I didn’t want to tell him that I spend more than $400 on my frames lest THAT give him a heart attack.

Crisis occurred and resolved in 1 hour.  Priceless.

Later at the gym, SOB whips out her cellphone and shows me a picture of Dad smiling with a huge bruise and swelling around his eye.  “Dad says you’re the family archivist, and this is one ‘for the books,’ so here,” she said.

Dad looked bad — horrible in fact, but he was smiling.  I think he was smiling for a lot of reasons, first among them, he is ok.  Second, he only had to call and help was immediately dispatched (albeit SOB).

But there is more.  He understands that SOB and I have this pact to share the funny, the macabre, the good, and the sad when taking care of our family members.  That way, we stay strong.  And his insisting on the picture was his way of telling us he understands us.  And that he is amused by us, too.

So, bottom line, in two hours, he was fine and glad to be home, resting, with his children nearby.  And we get to archive it, laugh and cry about and, best of all, I get to blog a our it. 

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