Another lesson learned

In order to understand this blog, you need to look at http://40andoverblog.com/?p=5720 for the back story. Suffice it to say that I avoided replacing one of Dad’s aides for one year because I didn’t think that personality issues should decide whether a person has a job.  Especially in this economy.  But there were other issues.  And when push came to shove, I had to choose Dad’s comfort above all.

We committed to pay for her kids’ immigration processes.  We overlooked so much.  But with a heavy heart, I made a decision after one year of wishing the problem away.

Not too long after the agency promised me that the aide would be re-assigned, I received this text from the aide:

“Seasons greetings to you and your family.IT was my pleasure working with you dad for over ayear.I am sure you had a wonder ful xmas with your family. I do not have money, or know anyone of influence that can take a persons job and by doing so take bread out of their family’s mouth, what I do have is my truth, honesty,and integrity. I have endured seven(7) months bulling, harassment and spitefullness at the hands of [the aide whom Dad adores]. Anyway goodluck with the Wolf in sheep clothing Re [aide whom Dad adores]. WITH time you will see the truth.All the best to you and family.with love [fired aide]”

It is over a month since I received this email and it remains a dagger in my heart.

What I did was right but not fair or moral to everyone.  And I have to be good with that.

There, but for the grace of G-d, go I

About a week ago, SOS asked me, “why don’t we give to people who ask for money on the street?”

Oh, no, time for a lesson in cynicism.

“Well, buddy, we don’t know if they really need money and, if they do, are they using the money to buy drugs or food?  I used to give to everyone and then I realized the hard lesson that some people are not being truthful.”

My answer did not sit well with me at all.  I kept thinking that children will heal the world unless their parents interfere and fill their minds with cynicism.

We were doing errands yesterday.

“Hey, bud.  Remember the conversation that we had about giving to people on the streets?  Well, I want to talk more about it.  We give to charities that help these people.  We are willing to pay more in taxes for social programs and we go door to door to help get out the vote for people who will institute these programs.  But it doesn’t mean that a particular person will be helped, just that we will make inroads in resolving the problem.”

“Ok,” was SOS’s non-committal answer.

Sometimes, kids ask those questions that make you think about all the juicy rationalizations that make your life livable with a more-or-less clear conscience.

And my easy, arm chair liberal answers didn’t sit well with me either.

I should have said, “I don’t have time to get down and dirty with strangers.  I can’t get involved and take on every person’s broken life.  And Darwin is right.”

There.  I said it. (to you and not to my son)

Last night, I could not sleep.  As crazy as it sounds, I kept thinking about Rabbi Hillel: if I am only for myself, who will be for me?

Being homeless is my number 1 neurotic fear.  And yet I told my son that it was ok to look away when you see the homeless.

During my sleepless night, all the things that I should have done, shouldn’t have done, did, and didn’t do, haunted me.

Tonight, the three of us had an early sushi dinner. We picked the closest Japanese restaurant because it is beyond cold outside.

We were on our way back from eating lots of sushi and dropping a lot of money on dinner.

As we crossed onto our block, I saw a mother with an elementary school-aged child taking recyclables out of the trash cans.  They had a cart like the homeless.  To be honest, I have never seen homeless Asians.  It was 7pm and that child should be home.

I told POB and SOS to go ahead up to the house.  I had to go back.  I needed to make sure the girl had a warm coat, gloves and a hat (she did) and that they weren’t going to spend the night outside.  I went over to the mother, “do you have a place to stay tonight?”  She didn’t understand and was a little afraid.  I must have been very earnest in my question.  “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”  I repeated.  I would have given them money for the night, if only because it would mean strength to fight another day and rest for a child before a school day.

Pause.  She smiled.  “Yes. Yes. Yes.  We have a home.  Thank you.  Happy new year!!”

I smiled and walked away.  And I wondered, was she telling me the truth or protecting her pride?

I won’t ever know.

What I do know is that my child pushed me to be more than I was yesterday.

God bless the child.

Temple of Treyf

BOB came for a visit this weekend.  Dad and SOS were beyond excited.  SOB and I were consumed by logistics (but happy).

I was running late on Friday so I asked BOB (who, contrary to apocryphal legend, was, in fact, born and raised in NYC) to take care of ordering dinner.

I walked into Dad’s house, even later than I estimated.  All gathered were waiting for me to make decisions about the dinner menu.  Clearly, I have made life too easy on those assembled.

“[BOB] and [SOS], go and figure out what we are eating from this menu!”

SIDEBARI rummaged through the menus and handed one to BOB. Seriously, I could have phoned this in.

SIDEBAR:  Cuisine? You need to ask?  Chinese, of course.  After all, it is the Sabbath and we are Jews.

After two or three calls to the take-out place, I learned that BOB was a little rusty about ordering etiquette in NYC.  Nevertheless, as soon as he hung up from the last correction, the deliveryman showed up at Dad’s door.

SIDEBAR:  More proof for my hypothesis that someone stirs the wok on the back of the delivery bicycle and, no matter what we order, we get whatever the mobile kitchen whips up.

Let’s just say that this was not our usual selection.  It had a Texas flair.  We were about to eat HOG HEAVEN.  Because pigs died for our meal.

Earlier, BOB was bemoaning WOBOB’s fixation on having a pet pig.  I almost thought BOB’s aversion to a pet pig had something to do with his cultural heritage.  The dinner menu was proof otherwise.

Then, I had sympathy not for BOB, but for the potential pet pig.  Poor pig, thinking that if the family will eat his/her relatives, that the pet pig might be next.

As I have aged (and as life has steamrolled over me) I have become less doctrinaire about most things.  Still, not eating pork or other treyf wasn’t born of religious conviction.

SIDEBAR: treyf means unclean.  It is often used to refer to non-kosher food.

I don’t digest dairy well; I am allergic to most seafood; and Mom and Dad didn’t serve pork in the house.  The last time I remember eating spareribs was before BOB’s Bar Mitzvah, in 1974.

Nevertheless, I was shocked initially at BOB’s order: pork dumplings, spareribs, pork fried rice.  Every vegetable dish had meat in it.  “Part vegetarian” is now a new dish classification in our family.

And, remembering how Grandma ate from kosher plates with her own kosher food even in her beloved daughter’s home made me a little queasy.

Secretly, I have had a yen for spareribs for about 10 years.  I was inwardly delighted at being so close to the forbidden fruit and knowing we were so far away from Gan Eden (the Garden of Eden) that, well, what the hell?

And, bonding with BOB over a sparerib and breaking any number of taboos in my parents’ house were gifts. And, when Dad is the way he is, and Mom is dead, and loved ones in our generation are facing down mortality, eating pork seemed so unimportant, especially in exchange for a shared moment with my big brother.

And we haven’t even discussed what was on the pizzas for Saturday night dinner.  I couldn’t even try it.

Let’s just say, BOB likes him some pork products.

BOB is a loving guy and, I have determined after this weekend, that while he wants to make his family happy, he is just concerned that a pet pig wouldn’t be safe with him.

After eating with him this weekend, I respect that.

 

Just what the doctor ordered

Today is a very snowy day in New York, as it is elsewhere across the country.

After helping my share of elderly up and down the subway stairs —

Sidebar:  REALLY?  Old or infirm navigating the subway stairs that are treacherous for me, an able-bodied (although middle-aged) person?  I thought that’s why we have buses — for the very young and the very old.  I will have to email Mayor DiBlasio.

— I was relieved that Dad was home and safe without any need to go out in this horrible weather.   And, if he needed something, like medicine, his aide would call SOB or me.

I figured today was a slow day for Dad, being cooped up and all, so I called him earlier than my usual 5pm-cocktail hour time slot.

“Hi, Dad, it is [Blogger]”

“[Blogger] sweetheart!! How are you?”

“I am great, Dad.  Some snow, huh?”

Sidebar:  Sometimes, after I have seen Dad for two out of three days’ running, I have to dig deep for conversation.  And, I say things that I never thought I would ever utter: “cold enough for you?” or other, similarly insipid statements-turned-questions.  But, since Dad is not a sportsman, I have never uttered, “how about those Mets?”  G-d bless you, Daddy, for saving my soul and my sanity.

“Oh, yes.  It is crazy out there.  We went out early today.  [Pause. A little background commotion follows.]  Wait, darling, [health aide] wants to talk to you.”

“Hi, [health aide].  Everything ok?”

“We went out before the snow accumulated.  It was safe.  Here is your father.”

Sidebar: Not even a hello?

“So, Dad, where did you go?”

“Well, we were checking our provisions, and it was determined that I was running low on scotch.  And we needed to get more.  So we went up to [a store that is 1.5 miles away] because I like the prices.”

Sidebar:  Since my father now buys wine in a drug store, I am a little afraid of the low-cost scotch that might be going into his system.  But what impressed me was that, clearly, a panel of experts exists in his house to make these medical determinations.  No wonder his health aide felt the need to make sure that I knew there was no ice or snow accumulation because they trekked out in treacherous weather for scotch.

“Dad, would you put [health aide] back on the phone?”

“Yes?” she answered with some trepidation.

“We trust you implicitly so we know Dad is safe.  And, you had to get his medicine.  Because medicine is medicine, no matter who prescribes it.  Would you put Dad back on?”

Dad comes back on.

“Okay, Daddy, enjoy the rest of the day.  I love you and, remember, drink the scotch only as prescribed.”

 

 

ME time

Michele Obama looks great.  She works out.  She tends her garden (someone else weeds it).  She is involved in important social issues and is making a marked impact on our culture.

The counterpoints are that she has to live in a spot light that she never wanted and she has any number of duties and obligations because of her husband’s job.

But her husband, known to many as — well — “Michele’s husband”, has a really hard job.  While she is looking better every day, he is aging a decade each year.

Her secret is that she safeguards her “me time”.  Her most recent “me time” was an extra week alone in a Hawaiian paradise while her family jetted back to Washington — the kids had to go back to school and her husband had to save the free world, or at least rein in the NSA.

I don’t know about Michele Obama’s life and challenges.  And, of course, what we read is the approved version that bespeaks an incredibly evolved person.

So I can only go on what I read.  Compared to Michele, I am not an incredibly evolved person.  (But my arms are in pretty good shape.)  I have really bad days and sometimes I feel like a caged animal.   I have to do lots of things I don’t want to do.

So I am thinking that I need an entire “me DECADE“.

Aloha.

Life and Loss

I often think I am special (ok ok ok, “NO SHIT,” says the Greek chorus).

But this weekend was a reality check for the things that humans share — love and loss (and, a little gossip, but for another blog).

On Friday night, in synagogue, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.  My mom is dead and her name would be read among the so many dead.  Nothing special.  But Mom is special. 

And then SOB pointed out that Anne, who lost her mother one year ago, was there.  That wound is so fresh.  And her mom was special (indeed, she was an incredible person).

I discommoded some random individual as I made my way to Anne’s pew.  I reintroduced myself and we embraced.  I beckoned SOB, who didn’t want to start a commotion (tish, tosh) and pulled up the velvet rope to let her in through the main aisle of the sanctuary.  The usher glared at me.  I motioned “as if I care!”

SIDEBAR:  I later apologized to the usher and explained that we had all lost our mothers and this was their Yahrzeits.  She asked the names of our mothers and when I told her, she said, “I would break any rule for them.”  I decided I loved this usher like family.

It was perfect timing.  It was time to sing Sholom Aleichem, which involves joining hands and swaying in the Kumbaya sort of way.  I am glad that Anne and SOB were together in that moment.

SOB’s tears were more than I could handle during the service.  I think SOB was crying for many things, especially that Mom was not there to comfort her in the scariest moments of her life. I did not cry during the service; I cried before.  My eyes were on Dad and SOB.  Dad was happy for the company and the service.

SOB has a gentle spirit.  She wishes Mom were here; I am unforgiving.  I am mad at Mom for not being here, when her children are facing problems that no one can kiss away.

But, as the evening went on, I was humbled so many times.

First, the Yahrzeit list was filled with friends of Mom and Dad.  Sam Brodsky was also on the list.

Second, Mickie and Carolyn were there because Mickie lost his sister.

SIDEBAR: Mom, I refer to Mickie and Carolyn by their first names ONLY for anonymity, so Mom, please don’t send a lightning bolt down because I did not call them Mr. and Mrs. B—–.  I swear I was polite when talking to them. Just like you taught us.

Third, when we got home, Mimi called because it was Mom’s Yahrzeit and her husband Danny’s first Yahrzeit.  I had to prep Dad for the phone call so he would say the right things.

People remembered Mom; SOB and I were happy to hear them talk about her. But there are so many others to remember, so many people whom we loved and so many we never knew. 

And my pain and loss continue to feel acute and extraordinary, but — forgive the oxymoron — it is not different from the pain and loss that others feel.

Yes, I have learned that.  Finally, after all of these years.

Oh, no!! Another “Dear Mom”

Ok, snuggle in for some navel gazing.  If you hold your iPad low enough you can gaze at yours while you read about mine.

Dear Mom:

Tomorrow at 4:23pm, it will be 11 years since you died.

I have learned so much since then.

I have learned that your life was cut too short for your family, but it was long enough when compared to younger lives lost.  Your mission was unfinished but close enough; others never got to start theirs or, if started, they may only receive posthumous accolades.

You had a good life; you said so before you died.  You had more life in those years than many who outlived you.  And as Cousin Ricky said, life is not linear.

Still, I need you even more now than when you died.

Because life is so complicated.

And no one can replace you.

Still, I do have some perspective, I guess.

POB says I should be a type of doula — you know the person who is like a baby nurse but doesn’t let you get sleep or really do anything other than coach you through it.

She says I should be a death/illness doula.

Because I have life experience.  I know how to make it in and out of a funeral home in less than two hours, including buying the coffin and burial plot(s).  I know when to tell a mourner to stop eating during shiva because she/he will forever associate the dearly departed with weight gain.  I know when someone is making a stupid decision and I won’t hold back. I have called a bad situation “toxic” and started decontamination procedures.  And I have kept the scary relatives at bay while the mourners are composing themselves.

So, your death, and Cousin Ricky’s and Aunt Betty’s and AROB’s and ULOB’s and Dad’s brain injury, gave me strength to handle bad situations.  Not all of them.  I still turn away sometimes.

In 11 years, so much has changed.   Your grandsons are young men.  Your children are middle-aged.  Your husband is, well, less than he was.

And yet so much is still the same:  Part of me still wonders why my mother was taken away.  And parts of SOB and BOB wonder the same.

I love you, Mom.

~ Blogger

Life with Father

On Friday night, at 11:35pm, the phone rang for the third time in 30 minutes. Everyone else in the house was asleep (or trying to sleep anyway).

The first two times were wrong numbers.  On the second call, I said to the guy, “I am sorry to tell you, but you wrote it down wrong or the woman just gave you the wrong number.”  I felt bad for him and angry at Denise — the woman he was calling.

The third time, I was steamed at the spurned would-be lover.  And I answered the phone with a serious attitude.

Hello!!”  I answered gruffly and angrily.

[Blogger], it’s Dad.”

Uh oh.  This was late for Dad and there was a worried sound in his voice.

I don’t know where Mom is.  She isn’t home yet and I have been waiting for her.  And I don’t know how to reach her.

My heart leapt into my throat.  I knew I could not tell him the truth in stark terms — that Mom is dead almost 11 years, so I opted for:  “Um, Dad, Mom isn’t around anymore.

SIDEBAR:  If I were a member of my grandparents’ generation, I would clear my throat (“achem”) and say in a thick East European accent:  “Vhat-vhat? [Mom] is dead.  Years ago.  Go to sleep alrrrready.  Staying up won’t bring her back.”  So much for the warm and fuzzies.

I don’t understand!” Dad continued.  “No one told me!  What kype [“type” and “kind” mashed together — a Dad signature mashable] of an operation are we running around here?

Ok, so no gentle reminder of Mom’s death was going to snap him back into today’s reality.  I swallowed hard and close my eyes.  The last thing Dad needed at 11:40pm was to relive Mom’s death.

Dad, I meant that Mom isn’t around at home tonight.  Mom and [SOB] are having a mother-daughter sleep-over.  They spent the day together and now Mom is staying over.  But don’t call because [SOB] has to get up early for work and they are already asleep, ok?

Why didn’t anyone tell me?  I have been worried for hours!

Dad, I am sure that you were told.  It is that sometimes, people forget.  And maybe you did, too, at least this time.

I heard the sound of Dad’s displeasure.  A little muttering that he does when he is unhappy or feels he has to worry needlessly.

This is good news to me.

Phew.  That meant he was willing to accept this explanation.  Because this explanation preserved Mom’s existence.

Everyone will call you in the morning, Dad.  I promise everything is ok.  Will you go to sleep now?

I wish someone would let me know what is going on around here.

Daddy, I know.  Please go to sleep and you will see everyone tomorrow.  Good night.  I love you.

I love you, too, darling.  But we have to change things around here so I am included in the plans.

You are so right, Dad.  Good night.

Good night, darling.

Next call is to SOB who was asleep.  I dialed, she answered, and I cut to the important stuff:  “Dad called me looking for Mom.  I told him that she was sleeping over at your house but you had all gone to bed already.  Just in case he calls.  Go back to sleep.

SIDEBAR:  I am closer to my grandparents’ generation than I thought.

This episode is not uncommon for older people at night or in the early morning, after they wake up.  On Saturday morning, he was confused but in a different way.  By Saturday lunch, he was generally ok.  Lunch today (Sunday), SOB reported that, with gentle prodding, he was able to remember that Mom died.  But he repeated something he always says: Mom surrounds him in the apartment and he is happy there [a true love story].  And he is comforted and reassured by talking to his kids.

So, he needs to remain shrouded in his happy memories, in that apartment, until he is reunited with Mom.  And his children must keep him grounded in the present.  Or lie to him, if necessary, until we can be face-to-face until we can gently guide him back.

Next week:  Mom goes on a week-long synagogue retreat for the Sisterhood organization.  And she is rooming with Judy Zimmerman, our former rabbi’s wife.  [Just like she used to.]  Are you listening, SOB and BOB?