Sad Tidings

Posted on July 15, 2012 by 40andover

I don’t know exactly where my thoughts will lead me. I have a sense that they will cause me to contort into a pretzel, because when beliefs meet reality, hell, principles are the first casualties.

My friend. No, my little sister. No, not my little sister, really, but someone with whom I have that negative affection thing. Who needed to be at my wedding. Who called me to see if I could come a night early for her wedding that was being canceled by the 2011 hurricane. Who called to say she was pregnant.

The person I watch out for. The person whom, if you cross, you also cross me. The person whose now-husband I had to meet twice. Once to scare (I do that pretty well); the second time, to welcome. There are people in the world that come before everyone except your spouse, your child and your siblings. She is one of them.

She was pregnant. 20 weeks. The baby was lost. Yes, I said, “baby”. I am pro-choice and pro-life (because isn’t everyone?) but I am not anti-abortion. It is a choice. But when the choice is made to carry the fetus, then it is a life. Logical? No. Emotional? Yes. And in my gut, I know I am right.

They named the baby. G-d needs to know that soul’s name. That baby cannot be unaccounted for, unremembered, or part of the masses of souls who enter and leave this world without those to remember them.

That little precious bundle had lineage and a future. That little precious bundle has a different future — with G-d. That baby is not alone, now and forever. He has a past and future and parents who remember him. Always.

Here is where everything collides for me. I don’t believe in G-d, except that I believe that babies who are wanted have souls. I don’t believe in G-d, except when souls leave this world too soon. I don’t believe in G-d who lets young babies, who are desperately wanted by their parents, die. But I pray that G-d forgives my anger and lets this baby’s soul come back as the second child of grieving parents.

I am glad the baby was given a name. Because his name makes him known in this world and the next. May his blessing be for a memory. And may his parents experience joy from the second child who, G-d willing, will out-live his/her parents.

Please, G-d, you have given them the untold joy of a child in the womb and the heart-breaking pain of a child who did not survive. Be kind that the next child shall excite the joy but never cause the depths of pain. May that child outlive his/her parents. So that they never know such pain again.

To my sister-ish friend, you may never read this. (You never read my blogs when I asked for your feedback.) But know that in our house, on this day, each year, we will light a candle for the soul that was and will be again.

Baruch dayan emet.

Of Blessed Memory

Posted on June 6, 2012 by 40andover

Mighty (a Soeur of Blogger) gave me a hankerchief to hold during the wedding ceremony.

I really needed it when the rabbi mentioned our mothers being with us in spirit, and most especially during the reading of the Ketubah. For the wedding contract, it is customary to refer to the betrothed in relation to her parents, as in:

“[Blogger], daughter of [MOB] of blessed memory and [DOB]”.

Of blessed memory. Only here in spirit. Only cosmic tears of joys from MOB on her daughter’s wedding day because she is of blessed memory.

POB didn’t want to have a picture of her mom out during the reception, so I didn’t have one of MOB. But SOB promised to bring the portable shrine to our mother, in case we needed to reflect and weep.

I thought about MOB all day and just knowing that the portable shrine was in the room made me fine without needing to look, touch and feel the pictures of MOB.

Of blessed memory. Gone but never forgotten.

This day in Bloggerville

Posted on May 1, 2012 by 40andover

Forgive me, Joni Mitchell. But it is my birthday and I can’t help but fixate on my mother (z”l) and these ten birthdays since she died, so I made up a verse:

♪ And the seasons, they go ’round and ’round . . .♬ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5HXT0bn7QY

♪Ten birthday cakes and candles come ‘n gone now,

brown hair has turned to gray hair ’round her crown.

She is joyful, even happy ‘though not completely,

’cause Mom won’t see her in her wedding gown.♬

♪ And the seasons, they go ’round and ’round . . .♬

The Blogger family 1966 (I was 2).

Dear Mom:

Ten wishes on ten birthday cakes that will never come true.

Every year on your birthday, SOB recounts what you said on your last one, December 11, 2002: “if only my wish could come true . . . ” I get it. Hope, reined in by reality.

Dad remembered to call (SOB reminded him).

Remember my short-lived practice of sending you a “thank you” note on my birthday? The first year, you thought it was very clever. And then, as you did every year, you launched into the apocryphal story of my noble birth.

SOB and HOSOB sent flowers. I am giving SOB the silent treatment because I told her to focus on her re-certification exam tomorrow and that she was excused from familial obligations. If SOB doesn’t realize that I am giving her the silent treatment, I will wait until exactly one minute after her exam to tell her. It is the least I could do for my big sister.

BOB sent me a positively hysterical email:

“Hope you are having a good day. Maybe you are even playing hooky from work, having a leisurely breakfast with [POB], planning to have lunch with [SOS], getting a relaxing workout in or nap after lunch, then go out to a nice sushi dinner and enjoy a nice glass of wine, read with [SOS] at bedtime, and watch an old movie before drifting off to a relaxing night sleep… or NOT. You are probably getting worn out by some asshole lawyer or ungrateful client and worrying about getting paid or getting business. The life of a lawyer.

Seriously, I hope you do get to enjoy your day. We are all looking forward to coming up in a few weeks. Everyone here sends love and hugs.

I love you,

[BOB]by”

BOB nailed it. Very funny and very true tableau of life as a lawyer. But actually I did take the day off, because you and the wedding loom large on my birthday and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.

This is our unique day; we were one, and then we were two. 48 years ago, I emerged from you, cranky and crying. plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. That’s what POB would say if I said this to her. Yep, she’s right.

I blew out one candle for me and lit another (a Yahrzeit candle) for you. Because this is our day.

Now that you are gone, I carry you inside of me. (Just so you know, you are looking slim in our wedding dress.)

I love you,

Blogger

SNOBFOB

Posted on April 18, 2012 by 40andover

On Monday, I was checking my personal email, which I do every other day or so. SNOBFOB sent an email blast late Sunday night that her father had died and the funeral was Tuesday 10 am.

SNOBFOB has lost both parents in a two-year span. Her mother had cancer and her father was in a long decline. She was the child in charge. Painful and stressful on a daily basis. It makes my heart break. I quickly rescheduled things to make the funeral.

This time, the trip to New Jersey was not schlepic; the Never-Lost Lady came through, although when the Never-Lost Lady announces the route or street in New Jersey, there is a pause after which she switches to this crazy-sounding phone-sex voice. No, really, I am not making this up, well, because I am not that creepy.

I walked into the room reserved for family members of the deceased and saw SNOBFOB. We hugged and then she said, “Oh [Blogger], my life has been soooo bloggable these last few days. I will have to tell you.”

Sidebar: Ok, I did NOT see that comment coming. But I do hope that SNOBFOB’s thinking about how her life would appear in print on my blog somehow offered a few moments’ comic relief from the sad realities of life and loss. (And, stay tuned for those bloggable moments in future posts.)

I sat in the chapel, and an elderly — no ancient — woman stopped by my seat and said, more as a statement than a question, “we know each other, don’t we?”

Sidebar: Ok, I did NOT see that comment coming, either. 0 for 2.

After an uncomfortable pause during which I was trying to stand (out of respect), make room for her AND come up with a polite way of saying, “well, no, we have never met,” she continued, “we saw each other at [SNOBFOB’s mother’s] house and, of course, the funeral. So, we shared good times and bad together. And now here we are, sad again. I am glad we know each other.”

All I could do was take her hand and say as meaningfully as I could, “I am, too.” Because by that point, I really wished I knew her. She did not sit with me but preceded toward the front, just behind the family. I was more than a little relieved that I didn’t have to keep up a charade.

SNOBFOB gave a wonderful eulogy of a man who loved his family, did what he thought was right and stood by the people he loved. I thought of the prophet Micah’s imperative, “Do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with thy G-d”. I see where SNOBFOB’s gets her sense of fundamental fairness and parameters of acceptable behavior. Strong genes.

Sidebar: But it wouldn’t be my life without a Seinfeld moment. All I can say is that since I am glad I had a rental car, so those people who followed me back to New York, erroneously thinking I was part of the processional to the graveside, can’t identify me. (And I am REALLY sorry.) OOOoops, I guess they can now.

I wish I could ease my friend’s pain. May her father, Benyomin ben Mordechai, rest in peace and his memory be a blessing.

Memory

Posted on April 10, 2012 by 40andover

My great aunt Fanny has been dead for almost 40 years but sometimes a minor thing, like the posture of a stranger telling a story on a street corner this morning, can trigger a flood of memories.

When we were young, Aunt Fanny would often accompany her sister, my grandmother, on visits to our house. (I think she desperately wanted grandchildren.) They would eat cottage cheese with cling peaches in heavy syrup in glass bowls for lunch, because that was the only possible kosher meal my mother could muster. They would sit at the kitchen table, talking and eating (simultaneously) so I could see the cottage cheese move around in their mouths and creep into the corners and invade the lipstick on their lips. They wore stockings knotted below the knees, because who needed to do the whole garter thing if it was just family.

Aunt Fanny used to buy my sister and me matching little girls’ polyester underwear on sale at some discount place somewhere in the bowels of Brooklyn. She referred to them as panties (eeewww) and danced them around to show everyone. I felt soooo violated. I longed for cotton even before I knew what that was. She would also play a game of smelling our feet and shrieking, “Pewwwww!!” It wasn’t that much fun. Kinda gross.

Still, Aunt Fanny would play checkers with us, dance with us and always make Grandma laugh. And Grandma wasn’t a very happy person, so that was a real, as we say, mitzvah.

Sometimes Uncle Lou came along. He blew up balloons (in the days when it wasn’t scary for little babies to play with them) and taught us the finer points of poker (in addition to some card tricks).

Not long after Uncle Lou died, Aunt Fanny remarried. We all visited her new apartment with the twin beds in the bedroom. Someone must have asked, “why twin beds?” because I saw her roll her eyes and heard her respond something like, “he needs the exercise”. I had no idea what the adults were talking about. Only now, in this flood of memories, do I think that she was saying, “my new husband is a good companion but he is not much to look at.”

Aunt Fanny was Grandma’s much younger sister and she died young-ish for those days (in her 60s). I think it might have been the first time I went to a funeral home. I remember Grandma’s uncontrollable sobbing. She had lost her sister and her best friend.

Memories of Aunt Fanny come in snippets unbidden, in no apparent order, without story to tell or even a point to prove.

Geraldo, I wear a hoodie, too.

Posted on March 24, 2012 by 40andover

A friend told me recently that he enjoys my blog because I write about things on the micro-scale, even though the world (the macro-scale) is going to hell in a hand basket (sidebar: whence that phrase?). The truth, I told him, is that our problems are so large, so scary and the politics of them are so venal, that if I wrote about that I fear I will slip irretrievably into the abyss.

But I can’t continue to blog about the wedding without taking time out to meditate on the killing of one unarmed young man by some self-appointed and armed neighborhood watchman.

And the police didn’t even arrest the shooter or bring him in for questioning. It is a moral outrage.

The final straw was the statement by Geraldo Rivera, that young Trayvon Martin should not have been wearing a hoodie.

(Sidebar: Geraldo, the man who never quite recovered from finding nothing in Al Capone underground safe.)

Is Geraldo saying that a plausible defense is that “the hoodie did it?”

Geraldo, I am a white, Jewish, middle-aged, lesbian and I wear a hoodie when I go to the gym. Of course, you would not suggest that my hoodie would somehow be the reason for an assault on me.

Geraldo, you know that you meant that young black men should know better: if Trayvon Martin don’t want to get killed, he should have dressed like a model straight from the Brooks Brothers catalog. You seem very comfortable with acknowledging and codifying this undercurrent of deadly racism.

Are you kidding me?

People don’t carry guns unless they are ready to use them. So, the shooter is responsible every time that gun is fired. But, if I follow your logic (I can’t really get my head that far up my rectum), Trayvon practically put the gun in the shooter’s hand and begged him to pull the trigger.

Shame on you and all of the other people on that TV show who let you spew this stupidity and insanity without challenge.

I am a mother and my heart is breaking for Trayvon’s parents and all parents who have lost children to this kind of insanity.

Our Greatest Generation Losing the Race with Time

Posted on February 19, 2012 by 40andover

Once there were five brothers standing tall. A photo of them hung on my parents’ wall.

Dad had four brothers and (more than) four sisters-in-law. They were our greatest generation. Not because they were all wonderful people (not all were in fact good people). But because they had the resilience, grit and determination to make it in 1940s and 1950s America and survive and thrive in the upheavals of the 1960s though the 1980s.

You need to listen to Cousin Gentle’s ballad of The Family. Our greatest generation fought in the war that America won, left the cramped apartment of their immigrant parents, and lived the American dream. They cemented our family’s place in America.

Dad and AG (Aunt Glue) are who remain of the greatest generation. AG hosted every Rosh Ha-Shana of my childhood at their big house in the suburbs. She introduced my parents. She soothed her husband’s scars of life as an American POW in a WWII Nazi concentration camp. She raised three sons, and buried one of them. AG forced the blue grass band to play Hava Nagilah at BOB’s not-so-Jewish wedding in Texas. While the band knew the music, they couldn’t pronounce the words, so they sang “Have a Tequila” instead. She danced and qvelled at my sister’s wedding, and soothed the sadness of our own mother’s not being alive to see it.

AG is the venerated matriarch — the last surviving mother — of our generation. Our generation’s ages range from 48 to near 70 years old; still, as old as we get, we never outgrow the need for a mother figure. Her presence at our life cycle events is the seal of approval of the generation whose voices are mostly in our heads and hearts.

She will not make it to my wedding. The trajectory of her recently diagnosed disease makes that clear. It is so shocking because just 8 months ago she was able to travel by plane and negotiate some arduous travel.

On Saturday, Dad, Cousin Gentle, SOB, POB, SOS, BOB and I drove 3 hours each way to see her, near her new home. BOB flew half-way across the country to make this trip. Because we know too well the finality of death and the torment of missing what might be that last visit.

On the drive up everyone was subdued. Dad didn’t even break out with “When the Saints Go Marching In” or “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again,” two of his favorite car ride tunes. SOB and I didn’t even have the emotional energy to make our usual million dollar bets on these things. (As a result, I am still $2 million in debt since January 1.)

And Dad was having his own crazy senior moments — from confusing family with friends to eating with serving forks — so it really added to the gestalt of the day. He has known AG for 70 years and I think he was reacting to the situation but unable to express it.

Sidebar: I, of course, was hungry (because sad things make me hungry) and, after a three hour car ride and visiting for an hour, I finally said to my cousin, “Look, I know we were rude not to bring house gift, but we are really starving and I would like to help you put out lunch.” She said she was so glad that I was honest because she would have kept talking. And then she did. So, I asked, “Cousin, is it ok if I open your refrigerator and start taking out food??” Because in our family, the strong eat the weak or, in this case, corned beef and knishes.

Sidebar on the Sidebar: Corned beef, on rye with coleslaw and sliced pickles and a little mustard, is, as Mom would say “a little bit of Heaven”, with her eyes half-closed as if imagining Elysian Fields.

AG is very diminished physically (less so mentally); even when she forgets, her personality is still in tact. She is at peace and grateful for the time she has left.

Yesterday, we were witness to the spirit of the greatest generation, facing down the darkest hours and the biggest tests, with a quiet determination and “we will handle what comes when it comes” attitude.

So much more is the profound loss when our greatest generation is no more.

One Less Among the Living

Posted on November 30, 2011 by 40andover

SOB (sister of blogger) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) just got back Monday night from Oregon where they were visiting HOSOB’s ill parents. HOSOB’s father, Mr. HOSOB, was in very bad shape. On Tuesday morning, SOB emailed that Mr. HOSOB died during the night.

My first thought was “Thank G-d HOSOB was there over the weekend.” Of course, it is one of those anecdotal truisms, that a person waits for the family to gather. A final blessing from the dying one to his/her loved ones.

My second thought was “Shiva?” HOSOB and Mr. and Mrs. HOSOB are not Jewish, although HOSOB has effectively converted by osmosis. Culturally, that is. HOSOB and Mr. HOSOB were, are, and remain, conscientious objectors when it comes to the existence of G-d. Still, SOB thought it was a fine idea for Blogger family to come over before HOSOB and SOB go back to Oregon for the cremation. POB (partner of blogger) and I went to their house tonight for, let’s say, a Christian Shiva. Or “chriva,” maybe.

So, what to bring to a chriva? Rugelach and a chocolate bobka, of course. You have to be born into the Jewish tribe to stomach an offering of gefilte fish. But I say, “what’s not to like about rugelach and bobka? Chocolate in cake-like creations. Something, any chriva-goer would enjoy.” Even, HOSOB shrugged and threw his head back, in that Jewish way, when he repeated my words in even mimicking a slightly high-pitched voice. So, maybe, he’s Jewish already.

DOB (Dad of blogger) also came. He brought Hebrew prayer books in case we really wanted to have a service. “What’s the big deal about a minyan? [Mr. HOSOB] wasn’t Jewish anyway, so we don’t need ten people to say Kaddish.”

STOP.

Logic? NONE.

But DOB loves HOSOB like a son and wants to comfort him in the only way DOB knows how. And it touched all of us. I bet there were ten yarmulkes in DOB’s pocket, if necessary.

We did the usual things that are done at shiva (even though this was a chriva). We got teary-eyed at times and laughed at other times. We toasted Mr. HOSOB’s life and his memory. We told stories and looked at pictures of SOB’s and HOSOB’s wedding, when Mr. HOSOB was still strong and his eyes twinkled with joy.

Eventually, POB and I had to go home and HOSOB, SOB and DOB had to go out for a bite.

DOB, at his age, usually goes to very sad shivas. This was an upbeat chriva (although all of us are heartbroken for HOSOB). So, he was probably very pleased with his first chriva experience. Which misses the point, in that way that old people do, but every death makes us grateful for each elder that abides among us.

To my dearest HOSOB, may your father rest in peace and his memory be a blessing for us all. We will always remember him.

~ Blogger

The conversation turns, updated

Posted on August 11, 2011 by 40andover

My conversations turn, invariably, to how does [insert issue] affect me?

So, as we were remembering Cousin Bernie (see prior blog), SOB (sister of blogger) and I started talking about buying cemetery plots. Actually, we have been talking about it since Cousin Gentle told us (over dinner, of course) about his trip to visit his plot. He even did a video that he showed us. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45bMpw5CByM SOB and I think that this video captures the humor, the eccentricities, the sweet zany-ness and the bonds of our greater Blogger clan. We could easily see ourselves doing this, too.

SOB and I weren’t sure whether the location of our remains mattered much, assuming our souls go to Heaven (or the other place). But we don’t know about the transportation system for souls visiting each other across the vast universe. TLP (my son the little prince) would probably imagine a train system. Ah, I knew Soul Train http://www.televisiontunes.com/Soul_Train.html would find its way back into vogue. What if SOB and I wanted to see Mom or Dad or our grandparents? Would it be a schlep?

So, just in case, we may need to be buried somewhere along the Long Island Expressway (traditionally a Jewish stop on the road to Heaven) to be close to our family and as well as an easy drive-by visit for the living.

This is very complicated. Should we buy a large plot so we have space between us and the neighbors? Or should be huddle together because it could get cold at night. I might bring a sweater under my kittel (funeral gown) just in case.

Also, what with perpetual care? TLP is our perpetual care. Weren’t POB (partner of blogger) and I good mothers? Certainly good enough for him to make sure that the eternal resting places for our bodies are properly maintained. And that goes for Aunt SOB and Uncle HOSOB (husband of SOB), too.

Dear TLP, you may have to give up your day job in order to tend to our graves and show gratitude for all we did for you in our lives. And when you do win that Nobel Prize, you’ll bury near us so we can qvell and brag to the other mothers in our section of the universe. It is the least you could do, my sweet.

Ok, maybe I will get cremated.

The moment of learning

Posted on March 11, 2011 by 40andover

DOB (Dad of blogger) brought more pictures of the family from the 1920s to the 2000s. Quite a span.

I saw two pictures of my Mom attending Cousin Gentle’s Tai Chi class. She still had hair, so it had to be 1996 or 1997. It was part of her regimen to control the pain from cancer. She had such faith in Cousin Gentle, and illness opened her (and the rest of the family) to non-Western medicine. It was the age of humility for our family. We learned that being doctors and lawyers was not the only measure of success and that we needn’t exclude ancient practices when western medicine had no answers.

We learned. We evolved. We opened our minds and our hearts. And we resolved we would not close up again when Mom died. Here are pictures of the turning point of the trajectory of our family:

Together we moved, slowly, in the beat of Tai Chi, to a more open, more humble place. I remember that time, that moment, when we didn’t have the luxury of smugness and hubris. We are better for it, although it was sickness that opened our minds, our hearts and our soul.

40 — oh wait, yikes!! 50 — andoverblog

Aging and living in urban US

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