Tag Archives: Aging

Tattoos

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I hate tattoos. I think they mar an absolutely amazing work of evolution — the human body. It also must hurt. And, ink in the skin can’t be a good thing. But, tattoos are everywhere, even on 60-something people who didn’t get them in the military.

So, now I try to look at them instead of looking away. What do they say about the person? They must be clues to a person’s identity or life story. Or am I giving people too much credit?

I must read up on this because if there is meaning in these tattoos, then there is a whole new level to people watching.

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Losing my mother — 6.5 years later

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Dear Mom:

Tomorrow is your grandson’s 7th birthday.  You died one day shy of his being six months old.  That means today is 6 and 1/2 years since you died.  I can’t believe it. There is no “moving on” after your death; there is only “moving with” your memory and wishing you were here. Next to the computer is a picture of you holding him after his bris and I am sitting with you on your left. The person on your right (unseen in the photo) said something tremendously stupid because I can see it in your eyes. But I know that look — you were measuring your response to an inane statement. In fact, I have that same look on my face in the picture. Genes are amazing things, except you would have responded with something perfectly diplomatic but to the point. I would have responded like Larry King did when he interviewed Jean Harris (who killed the Scarsdale diet doctor), “so, you’re a murderer”.

You live in me and as I age I look more and more like you. This comforts me. But I need for your grandson to know you or know about you, so he can appreciate the remarkable person who was his grandmother.

I tell him about you all the time.  I use those Yiddish phrases that you used with us when you cupped our punims adoringly.  Sometimes, I tell him what Grandma would have said if she were alive because I want him to have a sense of you. So if he does something funny or wonderful or if he needs comforting, I tell him what you would have said to him if you were alive.

A few months ago, we were all in a cab after visiting Dad.  I buckled up and put your grandson on my lap and “strapped him in” with my arms forming the “Grandma grip” (which he knows comes from your legendary strong grip on your children’s arms when crossing streets).  The cab stopped short and everyone else went flying (though, thank G-d, no one was hurt).  Your grandson was safe in the Grandma grip.  That is the image of you I want him to carry with him — the strong, protective love that endures even though you are in Heaven.

I wonder if you would like my blog and would send the link to all of your friends. I wonder if you would comment. You would probably send me direct tweets that said, “be nice” in that slightly chastising way you have. You would worry about Sarah Palin’s daughter being so young to have had a child and tell me to be gentle about that. But, you needn’t worry. I, too, feel that the world is too much upon her. It is her mother who makes me crazy(ier).

Mom, this is not getting easier. And I know you would say to me, “my poor little tsatskele, if I could have this sadness for you, I would.” And that’s the catch: so much more to mourn.

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turn the positive into negatives — or vice versa — whatever

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My fabulous college friends without whom life would not be as rich and fulfilling, came up with the TNP principle. Turn Negative into Positive. In order to get my friends to read my blog, I need to focus not on the peculiarities of human existence but on the good of the human condition. So I shall (for a moment and then discard in favor of the usual cynicism). I have noticed a politeness on NY’s subways that I hadn’t notice before the economic crisis (maybe people are starting to believe that karma is in fact a boomerang — stop, I am being cynical again). On at least three occasions since March or so, young people have offered to give up their seats on the train if I wanted to sit down. I gently and appreciatively declined all offers because contrary to my obviously enfeebled looking state, I AM a ROBUST 45 year-old who can play a very physical game of invasion of the aliens with her 7 year-old. (Note to self: consider hair painting — the new name for highlights — to cover the gray, or as my college friends endorse, take a brown Sharpie to my hair and voila!) Ok maybe this is not what my friends thought of as TNP. I’m trying. Change is a 12-step process. (Ok, 11 step because I am asking NO ONE for forgiveness, at least not for my cynicism. There are too many other topics and bad traits for which I need to ask forgiveness.)

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My mother’s wishes and her mother’s honor

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This week is my mother’s mother’s Yahrzeit.  Yahrzeits always remind me of the Days of Awe (10 days including and between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur).
 
 
I am not much into religion since my mom died and given all of the heretical things I say I am waiting for the lightning bolt to strike.
 
I am not sure why this happened, but about three years after Mom died, I started getting reminders from my parents’ synagogue about the anniversaries of my grandparents’ deaths — their Yahrzeits.  Maybe the synagogue staff finally got it together to start sending them to me but the staff wouldn’t have known where to send them unless my mother had put me down as the next recipient of these notices.  None of my father, brother and sister receives these notices.   I was overwhelmed that my mother trusted me with the responsibility of remembrance.  After all of the issues, sturm und drang, etc. about my being gay (which all were resolved 15 years ago, thank G-d), my mother trusted me with this, in the end.
 
Remembering is very important in Jewish tradition.  It is said that people live again when remembered.  That does not generally resonate with me.  But when I lit the Yahrzeit candles (Jews light them on the anniversary of the death and on Yom Kippur) this last year for Mom and her parents, I understood why.  In this world of a 3 billion or so people, a person dies every second.  I lit candles to say I remember you and you are not anonymous in this world and your life is not forgotten.  I realized that I don’t know my great-grandparents’ names and no one remembers them.  And so, maybe my son’s grandchildren (should he be so lucky) will not light a candle for me.  Maybe, remembering two generations is more than anyone should have to do, because it dilutes meaning of remembrance if these dead people are strangers.  But this Friday I will remember especially my grandmother on her Yahrzeit.  She was a life force for my mother, a woman who suffered greatly in Europe and was often a prisoner of those memories.  And on Friday, my grandmother will not be an anonymous dead person.  Because I will remember. And, now, I get it.  Remembrance.  A commandment under Jewish law to remember and, by remembering, to honor.  And by honoring, to make sure that your loved one isn’t relegated to a statistics of unknown and unnamed lives and deaths year in and year out.

 

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Remembrances

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I  think about my mother all of the time but most especially around my son’s birthday. She died when he was six months old. My mom was a woman of uncommon strength with a deep concern for humanity. She believed in the American dream — opportunity for all who wanted a better life. She was a product of the American dream. Mom loved a good protest, voter registration drive or a lively dinner time political debate with family and friends. She believed that people could do small acts to heal the world. I remember thinking that I was glad she didn’t live to see the Iraq invasion. And I knew her pride in this country would have soared if she were able to vote in the Clinton-Obama Democratic primary. She, like me, would have been torn by the choice but thrilled that such a choice were even possible. And once Candidate Obama became President Obama, she would have cried at the ability of our nation to see past old prejudices.  And then she would worry about his safety. And then she would want to scold him for smoking. And she would be grateful for the opportunity to set a new course for our nation and the world.

Mom would not “get” blogging or twitter. She would say, “get up from the computer and see the world and do things”. And she would rail against the dangers of typing on those raspberry gadgets while walking on the street. (She was never good at names or idioms). I would say, “BLACKberry, Mom!!” And she would wave me off with a quick retort, “DEEEtails”.

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A Family Pilgrimage

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So, we needed to go to Uncle B’s unveiling one recent Sunday. The previous Thursday, I received a call from cousin B. who wanted a ride because he and his wife want to see Uncle B. I wasn’t sure whether he remembered that Uncle B wasn’t going to be there.

So, on Sunday during the first hour of the trip, my sister and I tried to ascertain whether cousin B was going to freak out that no one told him Uncle B was dead, whether he actually knew but was using shorthand or whether he would start forgetting why he was there. Imagine, my sister’s and my asking questions in that way that people in the Saturday Night Live “Pat” skits tried to ascertain Pat’s gender. (He remembered.) But I digress.

My sister and I spent the day before bracing ourselves for my dad and Cousin B in the same car. Why, you ask? Because Cousin B talks about the intricacies of his bodily functions in such exquisite detail that it is a little disturbing and my father spontaneously breaks into “When Johnny comes marching home again”. No joke. No idea why.

My sister and I devised a counting system: my sister would get a point every time cousin B referred to prune juice as an elixir which he discovered, or how he is sledding downhill on a fast sled on an iced-over mountain. I would get a point every time Dad spontaneously broke into When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, or The Chicken in the Army. What we need to include next time is cousin B’s constant complaining — I ruined his good knee because there was not enough leg room — and Dad’s need to read every sign on the highway and, for fun, putting the emPHAsis on the wrong sylLAble. Total travel time, 3.5 hours each way plus a few hours at Uncle B’s son’s house for the obligatory food orgy.

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Perspective

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So, I decided to run to the office today because there are no clients expected in the office and I had already spoken to a few clients early in the morning (G-d bless blackberries and cell phones notwithstanding my prior entries) and I knew no one would get back to me until later in the afternoon. I ran by the Hudson River, listening to music that makes you want to fling yourself out of a window and feeling sorry for myself. I saw all of these people sunbathing and reading the paper and I thought, “don’t you know our whole financial system is teetering on the edge?” They did not look like they were laid off because they didn’t have that I-am-on-an-IV-drip-of-Ativan look. They were calm. I ramped up the fling-yourself-out-the-window (FYOTW) music with Carly Simon’s songs about losing her mother and Tracy Chapman’s songs about doing everything for unworthy lovers. Then, I past the Sanitation Department site and thought wow this is worse than working as a barista in Starbucks when Starbucks was new and clean.  Then I kept running (ok limping) until I turned off the path in the 40s. I saw the most peaceful demonstration across the street from the People Republic of China’s consulate. The demonstration alleged torture and cruelty to members of Falun Gong. Homeless people were entranced by the serenity and silence of the protesters. So was I. Then I past construction workers who didn’t notice me because they are more polite these days (and NOT because I am 45). At a red light, I was privy to an intimate and heart-wrenching tid-bit about a seemingly not-quite-right older woman trying to hold onto her room in an apartment and her mother and sister being very distressed about the situation. Then the light turned green and the smell of Port Authority accosted me. Is this how bus travelers first experience New York? Calling Mayor Bloomberg!!!!!!

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Happy Birthday to me

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I am 45. Wow. My inner child however shines brightly through my outward middle age appearance. I ran (almost) five miles on Friday just to prove I still “had it in me” and then I realized that I am the only one who cares about this nonsense birthday ritual and the only thing I prove is that it takes longer and longer for my body to recover. So I learned another thing: the preservation of one’s inner child does not mean that perfectly good analytical brain cells don’t die unused. Had I those dead cells, I might have thought better of my ritual as well as these ramblings. Well no use crying over gray matter. If I don’t have analytical skills at least I have my memory. If I don’t have analytical skills at least I have my memory. If I don’t have analytical skills at least I have my memory. But I digress.

So we had the family over for dinner on Friday. We ordered in and my sister delegated to my aging father the responsibility of getting the cake — chocolate, because I love chocolate. Dad exercised independent judgment — I thought he was more scared of my sister otherwise he would not have — and got a whipped cream fruit tart that he bought with Skymiles. He thought that more people would like it even though I am the birthday girl and I am graying and middle-aged and all I wanted was a little chocolate on my birthday because well, I am gray, middle aged and too stupid to know better than to run (almost) five miles and if my mom is dead and she can’t look at me with adoring eyes and retell the story of my birth, then those of my siblings, then give me a damn piece of chocolate cake. But that’s my problem. Excuse me while I lie on the couch and pretend you all are high-priced shrinks who charge by the “hmmm”. Ok. Ok. Ok. Ok. Back to well-adjusted me who doesn’t need to play out her childish (I meant childlike) needs on her birthday.

I promise I will become less depressing as time goes on.

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Happy anniversary to me

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Ok, ok, ok, ok.  An inauspicious anniversary.  25 years (give or take) since a construction worker whistled or said something nasty or anatomically impossible to me.  The kinder, gentler view is that construction workers, like all others of our species, have become politically correct, at least on the surface.  But, I know that the cat calls, the “mamitas” are not for me anymore.  Maybe it is the grey.  Maybe it is the general sag of those once perky breast that even a miracle bra can’t cover up that does it.  Maybe I hated it 25 years ago but I yearn for it now.  I am 45.  When I was 43, two men in separate instances, said that I looked great for 47.  (Clearly one is divorced; the other on thin ice.)  So I am not 45 — I am actually 49.  Because if I look great for 49, then that is better than people thinking I am older or believing me when I say I am 45.  I am not 45.  I am 12.

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