Thursday, September 28, 2017
For Wayne and his Beth
Prerequisite
Good grief: an oxymoron come to life
from pages drawn and quartered, inked and dyed,
where readers sought themselves and, laughing, sighed
as their frustrations, phobias, and strife
played out in miniature before their eyes.
Can grief be other than completely bad?
Can that which sears the heart from all it had
be partly good? There is no compromise.
There is, however, one redeeming grace,
a balm to place upon the sorest spot,
one truth pain cannot weave into its knot.
When mourning comes, it stands upon this base:
Endearment is our bedrock, our relief.
Only those who love are granted grief.
SLJ
Friday, September 15, 2017
Lee, part III
Luckily for me, Corinne Conti is a relatively unusual name. Had her name been something like Kathy Smith, a whole chapter would be missing from my story. I started with Googling, of course. I didn't have to do any more than that because Google brought a bunch of hits. One of them--for Blaine Conti--came with a phone number in Washington state. I figured Blaine might be Corinne's husband's name, but no. It was her name, her legal name.
I called, and she couldn't have been nicer. She sympathized with my plight. She hadn't been in contact with Lee for years, and she felt bad about that. Corinne had a young voice filled with warmth and enthusiasm, and I didn't realize until she told me that she was 85 years old. Her age, coupled with recent heart surgery, explained why she repeated questions several times. She suggested I contact the police and ask them to make a welfare check on Lee. I was reluctant to do this, knowing Lee's feelings about privacy. Corinne said she was quite familiar with Lee's feelings about privacy, and understood why I said I'd leave that option for last. But I realized the only address I had for Lee was a rented mailbox in a storefront. I asked Corinne if she knew Lee's physical address. No, but she knew the street Lee lived on. If only she could remember it.
A day or so later she did remember it, and called to tell me. With some creative Googling I got the name of another tenant in Lee's apartment building. A little more digging revealed that he worked in a restaurant--so one morning I called the restaurant. What a thoroughly nice guy! It turned out he no longer lived in Lee's building, but his brother did. He would ask his brother about Lee, and one of them would get back to me.
By this time my son had jokingly called me a stalker. It does make you think about how easily we (and our neighbors) can be found.
Lee's upstairs neighbor emailed me to say he and his wife had knocked on her door, but she didn't respond. However, he said another neighbor noticed Lee's car going out regularly. So she must still be working. I felt enormous relief, as this was not the news I'd expected to hear. But after a few days the relief was tinged with hurt, puzzlement, and even a bit of anger. How could my dear friend, who knows me so well, who means so much to me and always said she felt the same, ignore my pleas and leave me hanging like this?
An answer--the only one I'm going to get--came weeks later, when Lee's therapist called to tell me she had died. She said as Lee's cancer had progressed and she had to quit her job she withdrew more and more, shunning contact with anyone. Her car had been used by the caretaker she'd hired.
I've always said if I were sick in the hospital I wouldn't want visitors other than my family. One might say Lee took this to extremes, but then her need for privacy was always somewhat beyond the norm. If we'd talked, we would have talked about her illness. We'd have had to. She was probably tired of talking about it, tired of thinking about it, tired of trying to accept the inevitable end. But would she not have drawn any comfort from me? Have I been through so much that I used up all my comfort on myself? I always made Lee laugh. Does that not count at some point?
In the end, I was able to do one thing: I wrote Lee's obituary. I was glad no one else wanted to take it on because I wanted to do this for her, and I knew I could do it well. In the process, she and I connected with every word.
I called, and she couldn't have been nicer. She sympathized with my plight. She hadn't been in contact with Lee for years, and she felt bad about that. Corinne had a young voice filled with warmth and enthusiasm, and I didn't realize until she told me that she was 85 years old. Her age, coupled with recent heart surgery, explained why she repeated questions several times. She suggested I contact the police and ask them to make a welfare check on Lee. I was reluctant to do this, knowing Lee's feelings about privacy. Corinne said she was quite familiar with Lee's feelings about privacy, and understood why I said I'd leave that option for last. But I realized the only address I had for Lee was a rented mailbox in a storefront. I asked Corinne if she knew Lee's physical address. No, but she knew the street Lee lived on. If only she could remember it.
A day or so later she did remember it, and called to tell me. With some creative Googling I got the name of another tenant in Lee's apartment building. A little more digging revealed that he worked in a restaurant--so one morning I called the restaurant. What a thoroughly nice guy! It turned out he no longer lived in Lee's building, but his brother did. He would ask his brother about Lee, and one of them would get back to me.
By this time my son had jokingly called me a stalker. It does make you think about how easily we (and our neighbors) can be found.
Lee's upstairs neighbor emailed me to say he and his wife had knocked on her door, but she didn't respond. However, he said another neighbor noticed Lee's car going out regularly. So she must still be working. I felt enormous relief, as this was not the news I'd expected to hear. But after a few days the relief was tinged with hurt, puzzlement, and even a bit of anger. How could my dear friend, who knows me so well, who means so much to me and always said she felt the same, ignore my pleas and leave me hanging like this?
An answer--the only one I'm going to get--came weeks later, when Lee's therapist called to tell me she had died. She said as Lee's cancer had progressed and she had to quit her job she withdrew more and more, shunning contact with anyone. Her car had been used by the caretaker she'd hired.
I've always said if I were sick in the hospital I wouldn't want visitors other than my family. One might say Lee took this to extremes, but then her need for privacy was always somewhat beyond the norm. If we'd talked, we would have talked about her illness. We'd have had to. She was probably tired of talking about it, tired of thinking about it, tired of trying to accept the inevitable end. But would she not have drawn any comfort from me? Have I been through so much that I used up all my comfort on myself? I always made Lee laugh. Does that not count at some point?
In the end, I was able to do one thing: I wrote Lee's obituary. I was glad no one else wanted to take it on because I wanted to do this for her, and I knew I could do it well. In the process, she and I connected with every word.
Wednesday, September 06, 2017
Lee, part II
I eventually located Lee, and left the phone message that made her cry. And then we picked up where we left off. There was some serious catching up to do. She had to absorb the news that my husband and daughter Gillian had died, and I learned about her bout with breast cancer.
We were no longer Manhattanites working in the rarefied atmosphere of Lincoln Center: Lee was a psych nurse in Alaska, and I was home in rural Pennsylvania. But our connection remained the same. We had much to share, much we needed to share. I changed my phone plan to give me unlimited minutes. We also emailed a lot.
As we got older, the topic of our health came up more frequently. We were both rather compulsive researchers, and learned quite a bit as we compared notes. We had our DNA tested at the same time. We got into genealogy and shared our discoveries. We read books together and discussed them.
Then Lee's cancer came back. That was scary, but it became less frightening as Lee's doctor assured her she could continue working and could even go to Europe, which she'd been thinking of doing. Soon after the diagnosis she had another scary experience: skidding on ice and crashing her pickup truck, totaling it. She bought a new Jeep, but after the accident she felt as though the other shoe was bound to drop.
In April 2016 she emailed that she was scheduled for another PET scan. She was depressed about that, but said Alaska was beautiful in spring and she hoped Mother Nature would work some magic on her. She ended the email with, "Thanks for hanging in with me. You are always in my heart. Love, Lee."
I emailed back, and at some point called her as usual, and then called again. Emailed again. But she didn't return my calls, and the emails had stopped with that one in April. I persisted, asking--later begging--for even just a line to let me know she was all right. Nothing. This went on for months. At Christmas I sent her a card and a letter. As with other letters I'd mailed, they were not returned to me. I felt that was good. But Lee's mailing address was a UPS mailbox, and for all I knew they could have been throwing them out.
A few years earlier we had talked about the possibility of something happening--illness or death--and I said she knew how to get in touch with my kids, but I didn't have the name of anyone I could contact if I were worried about her. Lee said, "I guess you could call Corinne Conti." I wrote the name down on a Rolodex card. It felt like half ace in the hole, half last resort. But of course I had no idea who Corinne Conti was, or where she was.
To be continued (last time) . . .
We were no longer Manhattanites working in the rarefied atmosphere of Lincoln Center: Lee was a psych nurse in Alaska, and I was home in rural Pennsylvania. But our connection remained the same. We had much to share, much we needed to share. I changed my phone plan to give me unlimited minutes. We also emailed a lot.
As we got older, the topic of our health came up more frequently. We were both rather compulsive researchers, and learned quite a bit as we compared notes. We had our DNA tested at the same time. We got into genealogy and shared our discoveries. We read books together and discussed them.
Then Lee's cancer came back. That was scary, but it became less frightening as Lee's doctor assured her she could continue working and could even go to Europe, which she'd been thinking of doing. Soon after the diagnosis she had another scary experience: skidding on ice and crashing her pickup truck, totaling it. She bought a new Jeep, but after the accident she felt as though the other shoe was bound to drop.
In April 2016 she emailed that she was scheduled for another PET scan. She was depressed about that, but said Alaska was beautiful in spring and she hoped Mother Nature would work some magic on her. She ended the email with, "Thanks for hanging in with me. You are always in my heart. Love, Lee."
I emailed back, and at some point called her as usual, and then called again. Emailed again. But she didn't return my calls, and the emails had stopped with that one in April. I persisted, asking--later begging--for even just a line to let me know she was all right. Nothing. This went on for months. At Christmas I sent her a card and a letter. As with other letters I'd mailed, they were not returned to me. I felt that was good. But Lee's mailing address was a UPS mailbox, and for all I knew they could have been throwing them out.
A few years earlier we had talked about the possibility of something happening--illness or death--and I said she knew how to get in touch with my kids, but I didn't have the name of anyone I could contact if I were worried about her. Lee said, "I guess you could call Corinne Conti." I wrote the name down on a Rolodex card. It felt like half ace in the hole, half last resort. But of course I had no idea who Corinne Conti was, or where she was.
To be continued (last time) . . .
Friday, June 09, 2017
Lee, part I
I still have her phone number on my night table. With a four-hour time difference between her home and mine, our conversations would often take place at my bedtime. I would have had more energy to talk at other times, would have been less brain-fogged, but I knew I'd get her voice mail.
At bedtime, I often got her voice mail anyway. I never knew if she was out or simply not answering the phone. Because we were such close friends, most of the time I assumed she was out. But it was never the safest assumption.
We met in our twenties, both living in Manhattan and working at one of the most glamorous music venues in the world. It's wonderful when you have a dream job and you're aware of it. I was aware. The atmosphere could be casual (I sometimes brought my dog to work) or beyond sophisticated. I took piano lessons in an office down the hall. My co-workers and I lunched at some of NYC's finest restaurants, and lunch almost always included scotch or a martini. I honestly don't know how we got any work done in the afternoon. Because this was the 1960's, many of the offices, mine included, were filled with cigarette smoke. We had free tickets to just about everything.
On our lunch hours, when we weren't eating and drinking, Lee and I would walk the streets (yes, in our heels), exploring little exotic shops. Sometimes we explored the building in which we worked. Thanks to a shared (if somewhat unbalanced) sense of adventure and my overdeveloped sense of mischief, we went places Lee wouldn't have gone on her own (and neither, perhaps, would I). I don't know if this was good or bad, but we had lots of memorable fun.
I was married and living in midtown. Lee was single and had her own apartment near our jobs. I took a bus to work, and one morning I got off a few blocks before my stop and dropped in on Lee. I knew she'd be just about ready to leave for work, and we could walk together. She was, and we did. But she was clearly thrown by my unexpected appearance, and asked me not to do it again. I would never have predicted that reaction. We were such close friends. Growing up in an apartment building where my best friends lived as well, I had never encountered an intensely private person, and I couldn't relate. I don't think I even heard the word territorial in those days. But I never dropped in on Lee again.
Lee's reaction was all the more surprising given her remarkable intuition and sensitivity in interpreting human behavior. She taught me more than I could ever write about here. Looking back, I was often more than a little dense in comparison. I remember my response when Lee said family patterns tend to repeat through generations: I thought that sounded silly. Silly me.
When Lee got married I was her matron of honor ("female witness" is more accurate), and shortly after that my husband and I left Manhattan and moved to New Jersey, then to our weekend house in Pennsylvania, then to a more permanent home in PA. Lee, whose marriage didn't last long, visited me in all these places before deciding to go back to school to become a nurse. After graduation, she began her journey west. We kept in touch while she worked in several states, but after she sent a post card from Alaska I stopped hearing from her.
"I cried when I heard your voice." Lee was talking about a message I left on her answering machine. By now it was years after she sent that post card, and months after I first started trying to find her. It wasn't easy, but I was like a dog with a bone. I missed my friend and wanted to know how she was. In the process, I found her ex-husband and called him. I scared the poor man, who figured if I was calling him it must be because Lee had died. But no, he didn't know where she was.
To be continued . . .
At bedtime, I often got her voice mail anyway. I never knew if she was out or simply not answering the phone. Because we were such close friends, most of the time I assumed she was out. But it was never the safest assumption.
We met in our twenties, both living in Manhattan and working at one of the most glamorous music venues in the world. It's wonderful when you have a dream job and you're aware of it. I was aware. The atmosphere could be casual (I sometimes brought my dog to work) or beyond sophisticated. I took piano lessons in an office down the hall. My co-workers and I lunched at some of NYC's finest restaurants, and lunch almost always included scotch or a martini. I honestly don't know how we got any work done in the afternoon. Because this was the 1960's, many of the offices, mine included, were filled with cigarette smoke. We had free tickets to just about everything.
On our lunch hours, when we weren't eating and drinking, Lee and I would walk the streets (yes, in our heels), exploring little exotic shops. Sometimes we explored the building in which we worked. Thanks to a shared (if somewhat unbalanced) sense of adventure and my overdeveloped sense of mischief, we went places Lee wouldn't have gone on her own (and neither, perhaps, would I). I don't know if this was good or bad, but we had lots of memorable fun.
I was married and living in midtown. Lee was single and had her own apartment near our jobs. I took a bus to work, and one morning I got off a few blocks before my stop and dropped in on Lee. I knew she'd be just about ready to leave for work, and we could walk together. She was, and we did. But she was clearly thrown by my unexpected appearance, and asked me not to do it again. I would never have predicted that reaction. We were such close friends. Growing up in an apartment building where my best friends lived as well, I had never encountered an intensely private person, and I couldn't relate. I don't think I even heard the word territorial in those days. But I never dropped in on Lee again.
Lee's reaction was all the more surprising given her remarkable intuition and sensitivity in interpreting human behavior. She taught me more than I could ever write about here. Looking back, I was often more than a little dense in comparison. I remember my response when Lee said family patterns tend to repeat through generations: I thought that sounded silly. Silly me.
When Lee got married I was her matron of honor ("female witness" is more accurate), and shortly after that my husband and I left Manhattan and moved to New Jersey, then to our weekend house in Pennsylvania, then to a more permanent home in PA. Lee, whose marriage didn't last long, visited me in all these places before deciding to go back to school to become a nurse. After graduation, she began her journey west. We kept in touch while she worked in several states, but after she sent a post card from Alaska I stopped hearing from her.
"I cried when I heard your voice." Lee was talking about a message I left on her answering machine. By now it was years after she sent that post card, and months after I first started trying to find her. It wasn't easy, but I was like a dog with a bone. I missed my friend and wanted to know how she was. In the process, I found her ex-husband and called him. I scared the poor man, who figured if I was calling him it must be because Lee had died. But no, he didn't know where she was.
To be continued . . .
Friday, November 18, 2016
Anti-Trump People, How's Your Health?
My tension level was high during most of the presidential campaign. Even though I thought Trump wouldn't win, I couldn't believe someone like him could actually run for the office and be taken seriously. It was wildly frustrating to hear people (some of them friends of mine) talk about how he was going to make America great again, while I saw him in a completely different light--someone I wouldn't even want to have dinner with.
Now that he's the President-Elect, my blood pressure is almost as high as my tension level, and the fibromyalgia I've had for decades has kicked into high gear. I was awakened several times last night with hip and knee pain, and it was a tough job persuading myself to get out of bed this morning. It's time to get proactive about my health, even though it seems there isn't much I can do about the White House.
My blog post today comes to you from Dear Prudence, a.k.a. Mallory Ortberg, who writes the advice column for Slate. I hope it's okay to post an excerpt here, crediting both Ortberg (I mean Prudie!) and Slate. I have the feeling lots of us can use her advice right now.
Now that he's the President-Elect, my blood pressure is almost as high as my tension level, and the fibromyalgia I've had for decades has kicked into high gear. I was awakened several times last night with hip and knee pain, and it was a tough job persuading myself to get out of bed this morning. It's time to get proactive about my health, even though it seems there isn't much I can do about the White House.
My blog post today comes to you from Dear Prudence, a.k.a. Mallory Ortberg, who writes the advice column for Slate. I hope it's okay to post an excerpt here, crediting both Ortberg (I mean Prudie!) and Slate. I have the feeling lots of us can use her advice right now.
Dear Prudence,
Do you have any advice for we who opposed a Trump presidency? Now that we fear seeing Roe v. Wade overturned, worsening climate change, hatred and bigotry stirred up? Discovering that our neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances voted for this racist, xenophobic madman? How can we cope, and what can we do in our own small part to resist this? I for one feel gobsmacked. Do you have any suggestions for taking back our power? (Please don’t say, “Just give him a chance”—because we don’t want him to get a chance to implement all his vitriol.)
Do you have any advice for we who opposed a Trump presidency? Now that we fear seeing Roe v. Wade overturned, worsening climate change, hatred and bigotry stirred up? Discovering that our neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances voted for this racist, xenophobic madman? How can we cope, and what can we do in our own small part to resist this? I for one feel gobsmacked. Do you have any suggestions for taking back our power? (Please don’t say, “Just give him a chance”—because we don’t want him to get a chance to implement all his vitriol.)
—How to Cope in the Post-Trump World
I do not think “give Donald Trump a chance” is a useful piece of advice, although plenty of people who ought to know better have suggested it over the last week. I think Donald Trump has had a more than adequate chance to demonstrate his values over the decades of his life as a public figure; we have all the information we need to make an informed assessment of his character. I think he did not initially disavow his endorsement by David Duke and other white nationalists because he did not wish to, because his very political existence depends upon their support, and to suggest otherwise is disingenuous. I think he chose a running mate who supports LGBT conversion therapy because he does not care about the safety or well-being of queer people, and I think he called for a national database of Muslim people because he doesn’t care about religious freedom and is happy to profit from Islamophobia. I think he mocked a disabled reporter because he doesn’t care about people with disabilities. I think he is exactly the person he has presented himself as. I think there is no reason to expect him to suddenly display restraint after being given presidential power.
As for what you can do as an individual right now, a few suggestions:
Donate whatever time or money you have available to organizations like the ACLU, the NAACP, Planned Parenthood, Emily’s List, the Southern Poverty Law Center, Campaign Zero, the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles, the Trevor Project, the Young Center for Immigrant Children’s Rights, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund. Contact your local mosque or Muslim Community Center and offer your services as a volunteer and tell them you support them. Contact your congressperson/representative/state legislators and offer specific calls to action, whether that be that they vote for or against a proposed legislation, whether you want them to sponsor a bill, or make a public statement. (In many locations, representative’s offices are required to read all physical mail; consider calling or writing an old-fashioned letter before sending an email.) Offer support to the people in your life whose safety and well-being are particularly threatened by this white nationalist wave. Challenge racism and obfuscation of motives when you see it (“I’m so economically anxious I had no choice but to vote for a misogynist bigot”); do not use euphemisms and gentler language for the sake of comity to describe the ugly things you know to be true.
Monday, October 17, 2016
The Information Age Sucks.
If you know me, you know I've embraced parts of cyberspace with enthusiasm. I enjoyed CompuServe back in the 1980s. I've been on Facebook for some years (thank you, Maureen) and have posted many hundreds of my dad's photographs and my own. I don't text often, but email is my favorite form of communication. I've been in online writing groups, and I'm a devotee of GardenWeb (now Houzz). And on and on. But I wish we'd never been given any of it.
When I was growing up in the 1940s and 50s, we had Democrats and Republicans as we do today, but there the resemblance ends. I remember when no one had television, and I remember when we got our first one. (My dad gave me a choice of a TV or a puppy. I chose the puppy, but somehow he morphed the dog into a 12" Admiral console.) The news was broadcast on TV, but most people got their news from the newspapers.
My dad read one paper in the subway on his way to work in the morning, and another (the New York Herald Tribume) in the evening on his way home. People communicated with each other in person, or on the phone, or by letter. This is how we got our information. All of these methods allow for error, of course. Newspapers have never been 100% accurate 100% of the time, and as for talking to each other, do you remember the children's game "Telephone"? We all have our internal filters, some more . . . um . . . interesting than others, and what goes in doesn't always come out the same way.
But most of the time informational errors back then were relatively minor ones, and differences were subtle. The contrast with today is dramatic. And disturbing.
Today we are swamped with information, and depending on who you are, a great deal of it may be completely untrue. Crazy fiction. Dangerous stuff. We've heard quite a bit of it in recent months, but the fact is even in non-election years the emails go round and round, spreading stories most of my friends would never believe, but there are people who believe every word. President Obama wants to change the National Anthem to "Kumbaya"? Syrians punish their children by pouring boiling water on them? I read both of those things in forwarded-many-times emails sent to a friend.
And then there are the websites. NPR interviewed a woman who used to run a website devoted to challenging the "conspiracy theory" websites and their like, but she gave it up when she could no longer keep up with the huge number of them.
People pick up what they read on these websites, what they get in forwarded emails, what they hear on "hate radio," and they post it on social media, where it goes "viral." Wonderful. Never in the history of the world have we experienced this. Where it will lead, I have no idea. But I'm not optimistic. On "All Things Considered" this afternoon, there was a feature on an organization that talks to people around the country about Islam. We heard one of their speakers address a group in Montana. He spoke like a reasonable person, but the NPR reporter had to point out over and over that what he was saying about Islam wasn't true. Building on what the speaker said, a woman in his audience stated with conviction that Muslim refugees want to come here to convert us or kill us. Others in the audience agreed with her.
When I was growing up in the 1940s and 50s, we had Democrats and Republicans as we do today, but there the resemblance ends. I remember when no one had television, and I remember when we got our first one. (My dad gave me a choice of a TV or a puppy. I chose the puppy, but somehow he morphed the dog into a 12" Admiral console.) The news was broadcast on TV, but most people got their news from the newspapers.
My dad read one paper in the subway on his way to work in the morning, and another (the New York Herald Tribume) in the evening on his way home. People communicated with each other in person, or on the phone, or by letter. This is how we got our information. All of these methods allow for error, of course. Newspapers have never been 100% accurate 100% of the time, and as for talking to each other, do you remember the children's game "Telephone"? We all have our internal filters, some more . . . um . . . interesting than others, and what goes in doesn't always come out the same way.
But most of the time informational errors back then were relatively minor ones, and differences were subtle. The contrast with today is dramatic. And disturbing.
Today we are swamped with information, and depending on who you are, a great deal of it may be completely untrue. Crazy fiction. Dangerous stuff. We've heard quite a bit of it in recent months, but the fact is even in non-election years the emails go round and round, spreading stories most of my friends would never believe, but there are people who believe every word. President Obama wants to change the National Anthem to "Kumbaya"? Syrians punish their children by pouring boiling water on them? I read both of those things in forwarded-many-times emails sent to a friend.
And then there are the websites. NPR interviewed a woman who used to run a website devoted to challenging the "conspiracy theory" websites and their like, but she gave it up when she could no longer keep up with the huge number of them.
People pick up what they read on these websites, what they get in forwarded emails, what they hear on "hate radio," and they post it on social media, where it goes "viral." Wonderful. Never in the history of the world have we experienced this. Where it will lead, I have no idea. But I'm not optimistic. On "All Things Considered" this afternoon, there was a feature on an organization that talks to people around the country about Islam. We heard one of their speakers address a group in Montana. He spoke like a reasonable person, but the NPR reporter had to point out over and over that what he was saying about Islam wasn't true. Building on what the speaker said, a woman in his audience stated with conviction that Muslim refugees want to come here to convert us or kill us. Others in the audience agreed with her.
Monday, June 06, 2016
I Need a New Relationship
I broke up with Doxycycline last night. We'd been together nearly four months—this time. We've had an on-and-off relationship for years. He swore he could help me get over my painful experience with Lyme, and for a while it seemed that he did. But he was so controlling . . . dictating what I could eat and when . . . and abusive too! My gut bacteria hasn't been the same since we met.
So last night I decided that I'd had it with him. (He took it surprisingly well.) But you know me . . . I'm not about to sit home alone with only Lyme, Babesiosis and Bartonella for company. I'm going to get in touch with Herb. Actually Herbs, plural. (Why settle for just one?) And that handsome hunk, Homeopathy. He's been good to me in the past.
So last night I decided that I'd had it with him. (He took it surprisingly well.) But you know me . . . I'm not about to sit home alone with only Lyme, Babesiosis and Bartonella for company. I'm going to get in touch with Herb. Actually Herbs, plural. (Why settle for just one?) And that handsome hunk, Homeopathy. He's been good to me in the past.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Balls (said the Queen, "If I had 'em I'd be King.")
It was a rite of spring in the Queens neighborhood where I grew up—and in every other NYC neighborhood, I suspect: The annual trip to the corner store to get a pink Spalding (often pronounced "Spaldeen") Hi-Bounce rubber ball.
In this ritual, you didn't just pick up a ball and pay for it; you had to test them first. Trying several, we'd bounce them on the wood floor of the store to see which one bounced the highest. Some of us tested them by dropping two of them at the same time from the same height. The judging criteria was always the same: highest is best. Once that was determined, we'd plunk down our 25¢, and spring would begin.
I still think think about this, maybe even every year, although it's been a very long time since I ventured out to buy myself a pink rubber ball. I went looking for one today though. My older grandson is four, and I am itching to play catch with him. The way I see it, he will reap the rewards of all the ball games I played as a kid. I hope he'll see it that way too. Thanks mostly to my dad, I love having a ball in my hands.
Because of age and the damage done to my shoulder from pulling a lawnmower cord, I can no longer attempt the perfect football spirals of my youth, or indeed any overhand pitch, but I can lob a gentle underhand to a 4-year-old. And I can still pluck balls out of the air a fair percentage of the time.
My shopping expedition was limited to Walmart and Dollartree this morning, and there was not a Spalding to be found. Walmart had a couple of glitzy looking supercharged balls, infused with helium in some fashion, guaranteed to travel farther by kick and higher by bounce, confirming that "simple and basic" just doesn't appeal to the masses anymore. Or at least the marketing geniuses don't think so.
Dollartree had a Spalding wannabe called Pinky Hi-Bounce. I bought one for a dollar, but it doesn't have the same feel. And it doesn't have the same smell. We always sniffed our brand-new Spaldings. It was the only time they would have their distinctive smell—no surprise when you consider how often we bounced them on the city sidewalks, gutters, and vacant lots.
When I got home I looked online and found that Amazon sells the Spaldings for $6.20 apiece. One of the commenters said they cost 25¢ back when he was a kid in his NYC neighborhood. Someone else said they're available in sporting goods and toy stores for a lot less than Amazon's price. I see a trip to Dick's and Toys R Us in my future.
In this ritual, you didn't just pick up a ball and pay for it; you had to test them first. Trying several, we'd bounce them on the wood floor of the store to see which one bounced the highest. Some of us tested them by dropping two of them at the same time from the same height. The judging criteria was always the same: highest is best. Once that was determined, we'd plunk down our 25¢, and spring would begin.
I still think think about this, maybe even every year, although it's been a very long time since I ventured out to buy myself a pink rubber ball. I went looking for one today though. My older grandson is four, and I am itching to play catch with him. The way I see it, he will reap the rewards of all the ball games I played as a kid. I hope he'll see it that way too. Thanks mostly to my dad, I love having a ball in my hands.
Because of age and the damage done to my shoulder from pulling a lawnmower cord, I can no longer attempt the perfect football spirals of my youth, or indeed any overhand pitch, but I can lob a gentle underhand to a 4-year-old. And I can still pluck balls out of the air a fair percentage of the time.
My shopping expedition was limited to Walmart and Dollartree this morning, and there was not a Spalding to be found. Walmart had a couple of glitzy looking supercharged balls, infused with helium in some fashion, guaranteed to travel farther by kick and higher by bounce, confirming that "simple and basic" just doesn't appeal to the masses anymore. Or at least the marketing geniuses don't think so.
Dollartree had a Spalding wannabe called Pinky Hi-Bounce. I bought one for a dollar, but it doesn't have the same feel. And it doesn't have the same smell. We always sniffed our brand-new Spaldings. It was the only time they would have their distinctive smell—no surprise when you consider how often we bounced them on the city sidewalks, gutters, and vacant lots.
When I got home I looked online and found that Amazon sells the Spaldings for $6.20 apiece. One of the commenters said they cost 25¢ back when he was a kid in his NYC neighborhood. Someone else said they're available in sporting goods and toy stores for a lot less than Amazon's price. I see a trip to Dick's and Toys R Us in my future.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Tick Tock . . .
I just scanned this slide of me (I'm the big one) with my cousins today and my first thought was, the good old days, when we didn't have any ticks to worry about. Then I saw an article about a study reported in the New England Journal of Medicine this morning. It found that long-term (12 weeks) antibiotic therapy doesn't help Lyme symptoms. I can't say I'm surprised, as so few people on Lyme message boards ever seem to get completely well. The study concluded:
"On one side of the schism stands the evidence, which grows stronger by the day, that persistent symptoms attributed to Lyme disease are not amenable to longer antibiotic therapy; and on the other, there is a multitude of patients suffering from debiliating neurologic, cognitive, musculoskeletal or even multisystemic symptoms. Standing witness at the tug of war between these two sides, we still do not have an answer."
I'm on long-term antibiotics, and I hate it. They mess with my good bacteria, despite taking probiotics, and deplete my serotonin, draining my energy and enthusiasm. No fun. And I haven't noticed any improvement in my symptoms, which are mostly neurological (thanks to being bitten in the back of my neck). So I won't be sorry to stop, but I wish there were an answer to "Now what?"
The outdoors has always called to me this time of year. I love living close to nature, and I love growing things. But after six bites last year, despite all sorts of precautions, and numerous bites in previous years, my beautiful property no longer welcomes me. It has become a threat.
Monday, March 14, 2016
Two Days at the Dodge, 14 Years Ago
In 2002 I spent two days at the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival in New Jersey. Two years earlier I attended for all four days, but this time I was distracted by my flooded basement. I carried a notebook in 2002, and jotted down notes. Here they are:
New Jersey : More near misses on the highways in two days
than I had in the past five years. Fast
food restaurants that ask, “Cash or credit?”
Waiting in the middle of a line of 12 cars at a Wendy’s drive-through at
midnight .
Trying to estimate how many bales of hay it took to cover
all the acres of mud.
Moans from new arrivals as they read that Billy Collins is
absent.
Sharon Olds radiant as she described the “beautiful, healthy
spiders” that thrive on Duke Farms, and calling the main tent “a temple to
Ariadne.”
Shuttled 10 minutes to our parked cars. Getting off the shuttle bus, and then getting
back on when we realize we have no idea which parking lot our car is in, but
this one isn’t it.
An attractive middle-aged woman, normal enough in her jeans,
sporting a black cardboard mustache.
The annoying reality that in every panel discussion there
will be those in the audience who use the occasion to mount a soapbox of their
own, taking up valuable time—usually to describe an epiphany we experienced 20
years ago.
Ceclia Vicuña’s accent so strong, and her voice so soft, that it is many minutes before we realize she is saying, “Clit, clit. Growing.”
The food tent: $8.00
for a little package of eight sushi.
A drink at the Marriott:
One pinot noir and a Virgin Mary = $18.00.
A massive undertaking:
the basement/foundation for a Duke mansion that was never built. Room after subterranean room. A maze, really. And then the owner died. Covered now with mud and moss, and the
remains of trees that fell in. I stare
and stare, unable to turn away.
Staring, too, at the simultaneous readout of the poets’
words in the main tent. It is there for
the hearing impaired, but I am fascinated by its creativity. It must be done with a voice recognition program,
monitored by someone scrambling to correct its mistakes. When Vicuña speaks of mist being “the semen
of the mountain,” it comes out seaman.
“Burlap” is burr lap. My dog sometimes has a burr lap. A mother with a burr lap would have unhappy
children.
Franz
Wright giving new meaning to insufferable, Pulitzer or no
Pulitzer.
Two “church ladies” clutching each other for support as they scuttle out of the “Sacred and Profane” panel discussion, faces rigid with the realization that Mark Doty is reading a blow job poem.
Big soft dog asleep in the grass next to our workshop tent
on the river. Sun glinting on the
water. Sun soaking into the long, golden
brown fur of the dog.
Sharon Olds saying she had a desire to give everyone in the
room a cookie. C. K. Williams quipping,
“Give ‘em a car.”
Port-a-Potties that flush and sport mini-sinks with
foot-pumped running water.
Being blown away by a poet we’d never heard of (Aahron
Shabtai). Telling him later, “You must
have a very happy wife.”
Marilyn Chin reading a poem about a bad date, explaining
that displaying the mangled sword of Hirohito is not a strategically good thing
to do if you want to impress your Chinese girlfriend.
Two blind men with their dogs.
Friends raving about Jane Hirschfield, whom we didn’t hear.
Yusef Komunyakaa reading his poem about the mice that died
of fright at the sight of an owl: “…the
shadow of its wings was like a god passing over the grass.”
Mark Doty reading his poem, “Migratory:” “Only animals make me believe in God now…so
little between spirit and skin.”
The long, long line at the coffee concession.
The even longer lines at the book signing tent, spilling out
the door onto the grounds.
Komunyakaa softly saying if a poem contains too much
information “the passion of participation is denied.”
Mark Doty describing 99-year-old Stanley Kunitz as
“constantly open to change and transformation.”
Wiping away tears as Joyce Carol Oates read her prose poem
about her mother’s heartbreaking childhood.
Olds quoting Langston Hughes: “To some people, love is given—to others,
only Heaven.”
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Have a pill . . . or not.
It's so widely known now that overuse of antibiotics has created a scary situation. More than one scary situation, actually: Not only has it led to drug-resistant superbugs, but it could permanently destroy a person's good bacteria.
Still, so many doctors keep prescribing them for viral infections--or, more accurately, infections that are far more likely to be viral in nature than bacterial. Antibiotics do nothing for viral infections. Why do they persist in doing this?
The most common excuse I've read is that patients expect a pill, usually an antibiotic. So what? Is there something in the Hippocratic Oath that says "Give 'em what they want?"
Sick all week with a sore throat and sinus infection, and beginning to develop a cough, I woke up feeling so thoroughly infected yesterday morning that I visited an urgent care center to have my lungs listened to and get an opinion on whether or not to go to my daughter's for our family Thanksgiving dinner.
The Physician's Assistant, who looked all of 18 and sounded so cheerful she practically chirped, offered me an antibiotic. If she'd given me a good reason why I should take it, I might have. But she didn't. She said, "Well, you came here, so that means you want to take something, right?" Wrong.
Later, I remembered she was the one who offered me an antibiotic for a rash on my eyelid that turned out to be shingles.
It bothers me that this obviously goes on all the time there, and probably in countless other facilities across the country. Perhaps the only way to stop it, or at least slow it down, is for the medical consumers to speak up. Of course we don't want to turn down antibiotics when we really need them. But when they're offered, it wouldn't hurt to ask why.
Still, so many doctors keep prescribing them for viral infections--or, more accurately, infections that are far more likely to be viral in nature than bacterial. Antibiotics do nothing for viral infections. Why do they persist in doing this?
The most common excuse I've read is that patients expect a pill, usually an antibiotic. So what? Is there something in the Hippocratic Oath that says "Give 'em what they want?"
Sick all week with a sore throat and sinus infection, and beginning to develop a cough, I woke up feeling so thoroughly infected yesterday morning that I visited an urgent care center to have my lungs listened to and get an opinion on whether or not to go to my daughter's for our family Thanksgiving dinner.
The Physician's Assistant, who looked all of 18 and sounded so cheerful she practically chirped, offered me an antibiotic. If she'd given me a good reason why I should take it, I might have. But she didn't. She said, "Well, you came here, so that means you want to take something, right?" Wrong.
Later, I remembered she was the one who offered me an antibiotic for a rash on my eyelid that turned out to be shingles.
It bothers me that this obviously goes on all the time there, and probably in countless other facilities across the country. Perhaps the only way to stop it, or at least slow it down, is for the medical consumers to speak up. Of course we don't want to turn down antibiotics when we really need them. But when they're offered, it wouldn't hurt to ask why.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Is Nothing Ever Simple?
I ordered two items from a website I've used before. Most of their stuff doesn't appeal to me, but they have some good sales occasionally. The two things I ordered were a winter face mask to give as a gift and a pair of slippers for me.
An email acknowledging the order said I was entitled to a free magazine subscription. I've gotten these from them before, and it's a good deal. I usually give away the subscription, and this time I wanted to order a technology magazine for my son. But the website neglected to give me the code necessary to place the order, so I emailed their Customer Service. "Raquel" replied, telling me the code had been sent.
"I never got it, Raquel."
Next, "Jerome" said he'd sent me the code.
"It didn't arrive, Jerome."
We went through this with "Patrick" and "Olivia" before I finally got the code.
The winter face mask arrived without a problem.
I was eager to get the slippers, and happy to see a package in my mailbox yesterday. But instead of dark brown slippers, inside the box was a pair of white plastic Crocs. So I wrote to Customer Service again.
"Nadine" responded immediately. I explained that I wanted the slippers, so I would return the Crocs. She said she had arranged for the return, and attached a label for me to print out. The label said I was returning the winter face mask.
I wrote back. No, I said, the winter face mask was fine. I received a pair of Crocs in error. I want to return them so I can get the slippers I ordered.
That's okay, the reply from "Horace" said. He explained that he had arranged for the return, and attached a label for me to print out. The label said I was returning the slippers.
Politeness be damned. "NO NO NO!!" I wrote. I wrote a few other things, pointing out that it was their mistake that had landed the Crocs in my mailbox instead of the slippers I fervently wanted. (Well, I didn't say fervently. I thought it might be misinterpreted.)
So "Adam" wrote back and said I should use the label Horace sent. He said it would be fine, but added that they couldn't guarantee my slippers were still available.
I printed out the label, which states in bold letters that the slippers are being returned. A photo of the slippers is on the label too. I slapped it on the box containing the Crocs, and sent it on its way.
An email acknowledging the order said I was entitled to a free magazine subscription. I've gotten these from them before, and it's a good deal. I usually give away the subscription, and this time I wanted to order a technology magazine for my son. But the website neglected to give me the code necessary to place the order, so I emailed their Customer Service. "Raquel" replied, telling me the code had been sent.
"I never got it, Raquel."
Next, "Jerome" said he'd sent me the code.
"It didn't arrive, Jerome."
We went through this with "Patrick" and "Olivia" before I finally got the code.
The winter face mask arrived without a problem.
I was eager to get the slippers, and happy to see a package in my mailbox yesterday. But instead of dark brown slippers, inside the box was a pair of white plastic Crocs. So I wrote to Customer Service again.
"Nadine" responded immediately. I explained that I wanted the slippers, so I would return the Crocs. She said she had arranged for the return, and attached a label for me to print out. The label said I was returning the winter face mask.
I wrote back. No, I said, the winter face mask was fine. I received a pair of Crocs in error. I want to return them so I can get the slippers I ordered.
That's okay, the reply from "Horace" said. He explained that he had arranged for the return, and attached a label for me to print out. The label said I was returning the slippers.
Politeness be damned. "NO NO NO!!" I wrote. I wrote a few other things, pointing out that it was their mistake that had landed the Crocs in my mailbox instead of the slippers I fervently wanted. (Well, I didn't say fervently. I thought it might be misinterpreted.)
So "Adam" wrote back and said I should use the label Horace sent. He said it would be fine, but added that they couldn't guarantee my slippers were still available.
I printed out the label, which states in bold letters that the slippers are being returned. A photo of the slippers is on the label too. I slapped it on the box containing the Crocs, and sent it on its way.
Monday, October 19, 2015
A long, hard look at mammograms
I just recently became aware of a 2014 report on a 25-year
study involving almost 90,000 Canadian women to determine the benefits of
mammograms. The researchers wanted to know if there was any advantage to
finding breast cancers when they were too small to feel. The answer was no.
They also found that screening with mammograms can be
harmful. One in five cancers found with mammography was not a threat to a woman’s
health, yet the women received unnecessary chemotherapy, surgery, and/or
radiation.
Approximately half the women were assigned to have regular
breast exams by trained nurses, and half were given regular mammograms in
addition to the breast exams.
At the end of the lengthy study, the number of women who
died from breast cancer was 500 among those who had mammograms, and 505 among
those who did not.
A quote from a NY Times article about the study: “Many cancers, researchers now recognize,
grow slowly, or not at all, and do not require treatment. Some cancers even
shrink or disappear on their own. But once cancer is detected, it is impossible
to know if it is dangerous, so doctors treat them all.”
This reminds me of something I once read about prostate
cancer—that it’s unwise for men to be screened at too early an age because
screening is likely to pick up cancers that will grow so slowly that they’ll
never become a problem.
In Switzerland, the Swiss Medical Board has advised that no
new mammography programs be started, and that those already existing be limited in duration. One member of the Board said mammograms were
not reducing the death rate from the disease, and they led to false positives
and needless biopsies.
Mammograms are big money-makers. In the U.S., about 37 million
mammograms are performed annually at a cost of about $100 per mammogram. I
guess it’s not surprising that although the results of the Canadian study came
out last year, mammograms are still promoted in the U.S. as far as I can tell.
In discussing the potential harm done by mammograms, I have
to mention radiation. My only known risk of breast cancer is from having my
adenoids removed via radiation when I was 6 years old. It has never made sense to me to expose myself
to more of it, so I’ve had only two mammograms in my lifetime.
Another quote, this one from Dr. Russell P. Harris, a screen
expert and professor of medicine at the University of North Carolina at Chapel
Hill: “The decision to have a mammogram
should not be a slam dunk.”
Wednesday, October 07, 2015
Trash Talk
For our first 39 years in this house, only one garbage service was available. They offered 1-, 2-, and 4-can service, and you had to supply your own cans. Recycling was not part of the deal.
In recent years I started taking my recycling, as well as recycling from my son and his family, to a single-stream recycling center 25 miles away. I could have brought it to a township 5 miles away, but that would have meant separating everything: different metals, different colored glass, etc. And I'd have to bundle the newspapers with twine and probably do other things I've forgotten. Plus only one kind of plastic was acceptable. They were very picky.
It always bothered me that recycling wasn't made more convenient for people. I feel strongly about plastic in particular. With the typical "out of sight, out of mind" mentality, we've been filling up our oceans with plastic (among other things), and marine life is suffering the consequences. So are we, probably. And yet people in my rural area had to make an effort if they wanted to recycle. That was okay, but there were so many people unwilling to make the effort. We needed to make recycling easy (or mandatory) so everyone would do it.
This year I learned that single-stream pick-up had become available on my road. The service provides two very sturdy rolling receptacles, one for trash and one for recycling, and everything can go in the recycling bin, from cardboard and junk mail to plastics of all kinds. The monthly fee was $1 less than the non-recycling service. Still, judging by the trash cans I see alongside the road, most residents still use the non-recycling service.
Before I signed up for recycling pickup, I called the non-recycling service to make sure I hadn't misunderstood what they offered.
"Do you pick up recycling?" I asked.
"Yes, we do."
"You do?" I was surprised, to say the least. "Where do I put it?"
"You put it in the cans with your regular garbage."
"I do?" I was starting to feel a little slow on the uptake.
"Yes, it all goes together," she said.
"Then how do you separate it?"
"Oh, we don't," she said. "We put it all in the landfill."
In recent years I started taking my recycling, as well as recycling from my son and his family, to a single-stream recycling center 25 miles away. I could have brought it to a township 5 miles away, but that would have meant separating everything: different metals, different colored glass, etc. And I'd have to bundle the newspapers with twine and probably do other things I've forgotten. Plus only one kind of plastic was acceptable. They were very picky.
It always bothered me that recycling wasn't made more convenient for people. I feel strongly about plastic in particular. With the typical "out of sight, out of mind" mentality, we've been filling up our oceans with plastic (among other things), and marine life is suffering the consequences. So are we, probably. And yet people in my rural area had to make an effort if they wanted to recycle. That was okay, but there were so many people unwilling to make the effort. We needed to make recycling easy (or mandatory) so everyone would do it.
This year I learned that single-stream pick-up had become available on my road. The service provides two very sturdy rolling receptacles, one for trash and one for recycling, and everything can go in the recycling bin, from cardboard and junk mail to plastics of all kinds. The monthly fee was $1 less than the non-recycling service. Still, judging by the trash cans I see alongside the road, most residents still use the non-recycling service.
Before I signed up for recycling pickup, I called the non-recycling service to make sure I hadn't misunderstood what they offered.
"Do you pick up recycling?" I asked.
"Yes, we do."
"You do?" I was surprised, to say the least. "Where do I put it?"
"You put it in the cans with your regular garbage."
"I do?" I was starting to feel a little slow on the uptake.
"Yes, it all goes together," she said.
"Then how do you separate it?"
"Oh, we don't," she said. "We put it all in the landfill."
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Hat, Mr Finger!
One of my European cousins posted something in German on Facebook, and I clicked Translate. Now I'm remembering why I don't do that very often. No doubt this was a serious issue, so I hope I don't get karma demerits for laughing, but sometimes translations create comedy where none existed before. Here goes:
We congratulate mr finger, for his commitment of mr
gross will be awarded. Mr finger had to pay for this honour difficult. He was
mayor of lion and Councilman Karl Brock,
tortured and director on janitor downgraded, "as writing a book, not in
the contract of employment was allowed". He was treated as in gdr-times;
it is unbelievable that something like this can happen today and not by the
district will be combated. Hat, Mr finger!
To Karl Brock, we prefer to say nothing, except that he
should resign his mandate. If he's guests in the castle as a "pig
piglets" response and out throws (present was a cryford type-journalist)
because they are, however, that he is a stasi-in as a city council and mayoral
election-committee votes, and the city councils to try it on lawyers Ban it,
that is, an informed he has in the castle Creedmore nothing to look for it. Now
know mr gauck where Mr Brock Lives-in a city where the city council not
it considers to be necessary, to be audited. Mr Gross should ask themselves
why. Now support you, dear Mr Gross City Council, please.
Monday, August 10, 2015
1953: I've got mail.
From a letter my dad wrote to me when I was 10. It was the summer after my mom died, and I was staying with our cousin Peggy in Monterey, Massachusetts, while he was home in Queens. I think this first part of the letter is so funny. His mother (my grandmother "Lucky") had been an opera singer, and one of her favorite songs was the Joyce Kilmer poem set to music.
Dear Susie, Mother and I got home Saturday at 12:30 p.m. We had a lovely trip, all except Mother and her "Trees." "Only God can make a tree." And then to make matters worse, she began to sing about the trees. I was praying for the time we'd reach the parkway where trees were not so numerous.
Dear Susie, Mother and I got home Saturday at 12:30 p.m. We had a lovely trip, all except Mother and her "Trees." "Only God can make a tree." And then to make matters worse, she began to sing about the trees. I was praying for the time we'd reach the parkway where trees were not so numerous.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
1982: Two Poems by My Daughter Gillian, Age 7
Thears a green mommey
I said to myself
and there's a red mommey
and there's a purple mommey
and there's a tan mommey
and there is a my mommey
I gave her the first line, "I'll never tell you," and this is what she wrote:
I'll never tell you
wate I have not even
when you are bad
not even when you are good
So do not beg me
I said to myself
and there's a red mommey
and there's a purple mommey
and there's a tan mommey
and there is a my mommey
I gave her the first line, "I'll never tell you," and this is what she wrote:
I'll never tell you
wate I have not even
when you are bad
not even when you are good
So do not beg me
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Trivia Night
My library had another Trivia Night last week. This is a team competition, held every two or three months. I'm the captain of our team, which consisted of four people the first two times we competed. This time one of our members couldn't make it, so we did some recruiting and got up to six people.
The contest consists of 10 questions in each of 5 categories. When I saw the list of categories, I thought we were doomed:
Candy
Railroads
National Parks
Math
Superheroes
One of our members owns a health food store . . . how much could we possibly know about candy? An embarrassingly large amount, as it turned out.
Railroads? National Parks? A member is an editor of a children's magazine, and another member is retired from a similar job. As you might imagine, they've picked up lots of useful facts—useful on Trivia Night, anyway. And I was startled at how many National Parks answers I pulled out of thin air. I have no idea how I knew them. I didn't know beans about railroads though.
I was hoping for some math problems (the not-terribly-difficult variety), but the questions in that category were about the history of math. One of our members is a college student, and another remembers her education. (What a concept.) We did well.
As for superheroes, my grandson keeps me up to date on Batman, and the others took care of some of the rest. It was our worst category, but still not bad. We came in a close second. But I award us my own personal Grand Prize for sustained hilarity.
The contest consists of 10 questions in each of 5 categories. When I saw the list of categories, I thought we were doomed:
Candy
Railroads
National Parks
Math
Superheroes
One of our members owns a health food store . . . how much could we possibly know about candy? An embarrassingly large amount, as it turned out.
Railroads? National Parks? A member is an editor of a children's magazine, and another member is retired from a similar job. As you might imagine, they've picked up lots of useful facts—useful on Trivia Night, anyway. And I was startled at how many National Parks answers I pulled out of thin air. I have no idea how I knew them. I didn't know beans about railroads though.
I was hoping for some math problems (the not-terribly-difficult variety), but the questions in that category were about the history of math. One of our members is a college student, and another remembers her education. (What a concept.) We did well.
As for superheroes, my grandson keeps me up to date on Batman, and the others took care of some of the rest. It was our worst category, but still not bad. We came in a close second. But I award us my own personal Grand Prize for sustained hilarity.
Sunday, June 07, 2015
Advice to the Grieving
Sheryl Sandberg's beautiful post about mourning her husband, posted on Facebook last week, reminded me of something I've been meaning to write. This won't be beautiful, but it might be useful.
When my beloved daughter Gillian died in 2001, I had to ask a friend to come to the house to dress my husband for the memorial service because I had reached the limit of my tolerance for anything, even picking out a tie. It didn't matter one way or another to my husband; in the throes of dementia, he thought he lived in a hotel and I was the concierge. To him, my friend was just one more employee. So yes, I know a thing or two about grief. Here are some of the things I learned in the process.
New widows and widowers are advised not to make any big decisions, like selling their homes. I would take that a giant step farther: Don't sell anything, or buy anything, without a second opinion from a level-headed person who isn't grieving. I'm from New York and thought I had my share of street smarts, but people took advantage of me with ease.
I got talked into having some property logged, and what a mess that turned out to be. I had no idea the loggers had the worst reputation in the area, but it wouldn't have been all that hard for someone to find out. I gave away our beautiful 19' high-transom power boat to a guy I hardly knew because he said he always wanted to have a boat so he could take his young son fishing. As far as I know, he never took his son out on the boat at all. He sold it. There were other examples of similarly poor decisions.
Accept the fact that you're a little crazy right now. Yes, grief is crazy-making. It's an altered state. In my case, I didn't mow the lawn for a year or two, and I remember my shock at discovering I hadn't cleaned the cats' litter boxes in weeks. The condition of my house and property reflected my state of mind. It took me a long time to dig my way out of that—and in some ways I'm still digging. Two of my friends, after losing truly adored spouses, were alarmingly vulnerable to romance. Other people have bought cars they couldn't afford, added on to their house, gone on cruises, or done other things that were out of character. See paragraph 3, above, and add "trips," "additions," "remarriage" and "an affair" to the list of things that require a second opinion.
There's no right or wrong way to grieve. We have to do it in our own way. If that means you want to talk and cry and talk and cry, that's okay. It's also okay if you want to sit in silence by yourself. Don't let anyone tell you what you need to do.
Grief hurts. I'm talking about physical discomfort. Just as depression hurts, grief can cause all sorts of aches and pains. When pain started to build up, I knew it was time for a no-holds-barred "good cry." Find yourself a safe place, a virtual padded cell, and yell and scream if you want. But don't use your car. The highway is no place to have a meltdown.
Expect to be blindsided. You'll be thinking about something unrelated to tragedy, something completely benign, then suddenly become engulfed in sadness. Almost like skipping stones on water, our minds jump with astonishing speed from A to B, and C—with C for crying. Even after all these years, it still happens to me sometimes.
Don't ask these two questions: "Why me?" and "What if . . . " are useless and will only make you feel worse. "Why me?" has no answer, except perhaps "Why not you?" and if you embark on an endless string of "What ifs," thinking of all the things you could have done to prevent what happened, you'll only add to the crazy-making. If you try to second-guess your decisions anyway, keep in mind that you don't know what might have come next. If I've learned anything in this life, it is this: We have no idea what's ahead of us.
You've heard it before: Live your life the way they would want you to. It's good advice.
A few things that helped me (in no particular order): I had no idea I knew so many people who had lost a child until I lost one of my own. Some I didn't know well—like the clerk in the Post Office of a neighboring town—but they were willing to come forward and tell me their stories, and I deeply appreciated it. There were times when I felt like a freak. Knowing others had outlived one of their children helped with that, and with the inevitable guilt about anything that happens on our watch. And it's all our watch.
Friends . . . A friend brought me a stack of books about losing a child, and parts of them were helpful. The one thing I still remember was that I knew I had been changed forever, and the books didn't try to talk me out of that. A friend told me, "Life is neither fair nor unfair. It just is." I found that oddly comforting. A friend who had survived breast cancer said, "You'll be surprised at who is there for you, and who isn't." She was right, and when I wondered about those few who had disappeared into the woodwork after Jill died, I just blew off those thoughts, remembering what Debbie had said.
I can remember a collage of moments with friends . . . Patsy bringing my husband to the memorial service . . . Lindsay helping me stick photos of Jill on huge pieces of foam core . . . Bill crying with me on the porch . . . Mike, who taught me and both of my daughters, hugging me so hard it imprinted my necklace on my chest . . . Cindy arriving when she heard the news, and just staying . . . Geno at my front door, his arms filled with fruit, the only thing I could eat . . . Jennie and Ray providing a beautiful setting for the service, and the lunch, and not letting me pay for anything . . . Linda nailing Jill's blue ribbons to trees to guide the way to the outdoor service . . . Jessica and Art showing up at the service with extra chairs and other things I hadn't thought of . . . Bob and other members of Jill's band playing a song they'd written for her. And many more. So many.
The one thing that helped me more than anything was the sure knowledge that Jill was still very much around, and I would see her again. In her efforts to get my attention and let me know she's okay, Gillian has proved to be every bit as creative and loving in spirit form as she was on this earth. I'm grateful beyond words for the many signs she has sent me, and I hope every grieving person is open—wide open—to signs of their own.
Many of Jill's signs involved animals and plants, but the first one involved her car. As I drove to town the day after she died, I thought, I had no idea we bought Jill the most popular car in the county. I passed them everywhere—her make, model, year, and color, by then 11 years old. A few days later, as I drove in Scranton, rain fell in small sections. It poured in an area around 20 ft. square, then I'd pass that and see no rain, then I'd come across another area of rain about the same size. This went on for blocks. It was like watching special effects in a movie.
Jill is skilled at this, and apparently I'm a good receiver. So if you don't see anything or talk with anyone in your dreams, please take my experience as all the proof you need: The one you love is okay. You will be together again. I know it.
When my beloved daughter Gillian died in 2001, I had to ask a friend to come to the house to dress my husband for the memorial service because I had reached the limit of my tolerance for anything, even picking out a tie. It didn't matter one way or another to my husband; in the throes of dementia, he thought he lived in a hotel and I was the concierge. To him, my friend was just one more employee. So yes, I know a thing or two about grief. Here are some of the things I learned in the process.
New widows and widowers are advised not to make any big decisions, like selling their homes. I would take that a giant step farther: Don't sell anything, or buy anything, without a second opinion from a level-headed person who isn't grieving. I'm from New York and thought I had my share of street smarts, but people took advantage of me with ease.
I got talked into having some property logged, and what a mess that turned out to be. I had no idea the loggers had the worst reputation in the area, but it wouldn't have been all that hard for someone to find out. I gave away our beautiful 19' high-transom power boat to a guy I hardly knew because he said he always wanted to have a boat so he could take his young son fishing. As far as I know, he never took his son out on the boat at all. He sold it. There were other examples of similarly poor decisions.
Accept the fact that you're a little crazy right now. Yes, grief is crazy-making. It's an altered state. In my case, I didn't mow the lawn for a year or two, and I remember my shock at discovering I hadn't cleaned the cats' litter boxes in weeks. The condition of my house and property reflected my state of mind. It took me a long time to dig my way out of that—and in some ways I'm still digging. Two of my friends, after losing truly adored spouses, were alarmingly vulnerable to romance. Other people have bought cars they couldn't afford, added on to their house, gone on cruises, or done other things that were out of character. See paragraph 3, above, and add "trips," "additions," "remarriage" and "an affair" to the list of things that require a second opinion.
There's no right or wrong way to grieve. We have to do it in our own way. If that means you want to talk and cry and talk and cry, that's okay. It's also okay if you want to sit in silence by yourself. Don't let anyone tell you what you need to do.
Grief hurts. I'm talking about physical discomfort. Just as depression hurts, grief can cause all sorts of aches and pains. When pain started to build up, I knew it was time for a no-holds-barred "good cry." Find yourself a safe place, a virtual padded cell, and yell and scream if you want. But don't use your car. The highway is no place to have a meltdown.
Expect to be blindsided. You'll be thinking about something unrelated to tragedy, something completely benign, then suddenly become engulfed in sadness. Almost like skipping stones on water, our minds jump with astonishing speed from A to B, and C—with C for crying. Even after all these years, it still happens to me sometimes.
Don't ask these two questions: "Why me?" and "What if . . . " are useless and will only make you feel worse. "Why me?" has no answer, except perhaps "Why not you?" and if you embark on an endless string of "What ifs," thinking of all the things you could have done to prevent what happened, you'll only add to the crazy-making. If you try to second-guess your decisions anyway, keep in mind that you don't know what might have come next. If I've learned anything in this life, it is this: We have no idea what's ahead of us.
You've heard it before: Live your life the way they would want you to. It's good advice.
A few things that helped me (in no particular order): I had no idea I knew so many people who had lost a child until I lost one of my own. Some I didn't know well—like the clerk in the Post Office of a neighboring town—but they were willing to come forward and tell me their stories, and I deeply appreciated it. There were times when I felt like a freak. Knowing others had outlived one of their children helped with that, and with the inevitable guilt about anything that happens on our watch. And it's all our watch.
Friends . . . A friend brought me a stack of books about losing a child, and parts of them were helpful. The one thing I still remember was that I knew I had been changed forever, and the books didn't try to talk me out of that. A friend told me, "Life is neither fair nor unfair. It just is." I found that oddly comforting. A friend who had survived breast cancer said, "You'll be surprised at who is there for you, and who isn't." She was right, and when I wondered about those few who had disappeared into the woodwork after Jill died, I just blew off those thoughts, remembering what Debbie had said.
I can remember a collage of moments with friends . . . Patsy bringing my husband to the memorial service . . . Lindsay helping me stick photos of Jill on huge pieces of foam core . . . Bill crying with me on the porch . . . Mike, who taught me and both of my daughters, hugging me so hard it imprinted my necklace on my chest . . . Cindy arriving when she heard the news, and just staying . . . Geno at my front door, his arms filled with fruit, the only thing I could eat . . . Jennie and Ray providing a beautiful setting for the service, and the lunch, and not letting me pay for anything . . . Linda nailing Jill's blue ribbons to trees to guide the way to the outdoor service . . . Jessica and Art showing up at the service with extra chairs and other things I hadn't thought of . . . Bob and other members of Jill's band playing a song they'd written for her. And many more. So many.
The one thing that helped me more than anything was the sure knowledge that Jill was still very much around, and I would see her again. In her efforts to get my attention and let me know she's okay, Gillian has proved to be every bit as creative and loving in spirit form as she was on this earth. I'm grateful beyond words for the many signs she has sent me, and I hope every grieving person is open—wide open—to signs of their own.
Many of Jill's signs involved animals and plants, but the first one involved her car. As I drove to town the day after she died, I thought, I had no idea we bought Jill the most popular car in the county. I passed them everywhere—her make, model, year, and color, by then 11 years old. A few days later, as I drove in Scranton, rain fell in small sections. It poured in an area around 20 ft. square, then I'd pass that and see no rain, then I'd come across another area of rain about the same size. This went on for blocks. It was like watching special effects in a movie.
Jill is skilled at this, and apparently I'm a good receiver. So if you don't see anything or talk with anyone in your dreams, please take my experience as all the proof you need: The one you love is okay. You will be together again. I know it.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Wine Parings (yes, I meant parings)
I'm a restaurant server's worst nightmare. Over the years I've had to eliminate so many foods from my diet that my doctor jokes I'll end up dying of starvation. If anyone's interested in knowing about all the things I can't eat, and why, I'll be happy to share some time. But for now, I want to tell you about Tuesday night.
Every year a friend invites me to a fundraising dinner at an iconic jazz club. This is the friend who, a long time ago, taught me to enjoy good red wine. This year it seemed particularly appropriate to attend because instead of the usual upscale buffet, the event would pair five Italian wines with small plates. But when I heard that, I groaned. Not only am I not particularly fond of Italian wines, which always taste somewhat tart and tannin-heavy to me, but I couldn't imagine many of those small plates would hold dishes I'd be able to eat. "I'll be sure not to arrive hungry," I said.
Because of a mix-up in scheduling, we were the first to arrive. While waiting for the event to get underway, we ordered from the bar: a beer for him and a glass of Argentinian malbec for me. Forty-five minutes later, the first course was served: chicken liver pate along with red peppers, the latter dressed in chocolate balsamic vinegar. It was paired with a dry sparkling white. The pate wasn't something I could eat, and I don't care much for champagne. I would have liked to have tasted the chocolate balsamic, but peppers are a no-no. So I gently moved plate and glass to the left, toward my companion.
The next course paired a chardonnay with a sparse selection of vegetables: a couple of slivers of celery, half of a small potato, more red peppers, two very small button mushrooms, and half-inch chunks of something pink. Lots of white space on the small plate. I asked the server to ID the pink chunks, and she said they were pickled garlic. The four of us at our table were amazed. "This doesn't taste anything like garlic," I said. The others agreed. "The texture doesn't even seem like garlic," one of us said. The rest agreed. We also agreed it was very good. Then someone remembered the emcee mentioning radishes. Aha! Suddenly the pink chunks tasted exactly like pickled radishes, which is what they turned out to be.
The potato half and the peppers were moved to my friend's plate, and the chardonnay followed. I did enjoy the two celery slivers, two embryonic mushrooms, and spoonful of radish chunks while they lasted (about 90 seconds).
All the wines, by the way, were in the $60 to $85 range. The next course featured a 15-year-old red, paired with veal cheeks. Veal cheeks? Looking around at the other tables, it was apparent no one else was on PETA's mailing list. I refuse to support the cruel veal industry. And the aged wine with an orangey cast tasted to me as though someone had squeezed a lemon into the bottle. Both were moved to the left.
An amarone, the star of the evening, appeared in the next course, along with two small raviolis made with chestnut flour and covered with a thick mushroom sauce. I actually ate these, and they were delicious. I tried to avoid the sauce, but managed to eat most of the mushrooms. As for the amarone, it was pretty good. But with an alcohol content of 16%, and considering that I was the designated driver with very little food in my stomach, it was quickly shifted to my left.
The last pairing was dessert: zabaglione topped with raspberries and melon, served with a rock-hard biscotti and paired with a sweet, syrupy wine the color of dark apricots. The wine was delicious, but remembering the alcohol content of sherry and port, I inched it over to my left. We were encouraged to dip the biscotti into the wine, which probably would have made it chewable, but that too, made the clockwise trip. So did the zabaglione.
Before it left, I plucked my dessert—the fruit—off the top. I noticed that while everyone else's custard was accompanied by four or five raspberries, I was given only two. A little passive-aggression, perhaps? Like I said, I'm a server's worst nightmare.
Every year a friend invites me to a fundraising dinner at an iconic jazz club. This is the friend who, a long time ago, taught me to enjoy good red wine. This year it seemed particularly appropriate to attend because instead of the usual upscale buffet, the event would pair five Italian wines with small plates. But when I heard that, I groaned. Not only am I not particularly fond of Italian wines, which always taste somewhat tart and tannin-heavy to me, but I couldn't imagine many of those small plates would hold dishes I'd be able to eat. "I'll be sure not to arrive hungry," I said.
Because of a mix-up in scheduling, we were the first to arrive. While waiting for the event to get underway, we ordered from the bar: a beer for him and a glass of Argentinian malbec for me. Forty-five minutes later, the first course was served: chicken liver pate along with red peppers, the latter dressed in chocolate balsamic vinegar. It was paired with a dry sparkling white. The pate wasn't something I could eat, and I don't care much for champagne. I would have liked to have tasted the chocolate balsamic, but peppers are a no-no. So I gently moved plate and glass to the left, toward my companion.
The next course paired a chardonnay with a sparse selection of vegetables: a couple of slivers of celery, half of a small potato, more red peppers, two very small button mushrooms, and half-inch chunks of something pink. Lots of white space on the small plate. I asked the server to ID the pink chunks, and she said they were pickled garlic. The four of us at our table were amazed. "This doesn't taste anything like garlic," I said. The others agreed. "The texture doesn't even seem like garlic," one of us said. The rest agreed. We also agreed it was very good. Then someone remembered the emcee mentioning radishes. Aha! Suddenly the pink chunks tasted exactly like pickled radishes, which is what they turned out to be.
The potato half and the peppers were moved to my friend's plate, and the chardonnay followed. I did enjoy the two celery slivers, two embryonic mushrooms, and spoonful of radish chunks while they lasted (about 90 seconds).
All the wines, by the way, were in the $60 to $85 range. The next course featured a 15-year-old red, paired with veal cheeks. Veal cheeks? Looking around at the other tables, it was apparent no one else was on PETA's mailing list. I refuse to support the cruel veal industry. And the aged wine with an orangey cast tasted to me as though someone had squeezed a lemon into the bottle. Both were moved to the left.
An amarone, the star of the evening, appeared in the next course, along with two small raviolis made with chestnut flour and covered with a thick mushroom sauce. I actually ate these, and they were delicious. I tried to avoid the sauce, but managed to eat most of the mushrooms. As for the amarone, it was pretty good. But with an alcohol content of 16%, and considering that I was the designated driver with very little food in my stomach, it was quickly shifted to my left.
The last pairing was dessert: zabaglione topped with raspberries and melon, served with a rock-hard biscotti and paired with a sweet, syrupy wine the color of dark apricots. The wine was delicious, but remembering the alcohol content of sherry and port, I inched it over to my left. We were encouraged to dip the biscotti into the wine, which probably would have made it chewable, but that too, made the clockwise trip. So did the zabaglione.
Before it left, I plucked my dessert—the fruit—off the top. I noticed that while everyone else's custard was accompanied by four or five raspberries, I was given only two. A little passive-aggression, perhaps? Like I said, I'm a server's worst nightmare.
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