It’s been only five days since President Obama took office. In some ways, it seems surreal, impossible. Then again, it seems like he’s been president for months, what with all those pre-pre-pre press conferences. What an amazing celebration, and what an amazing view of W leaving Washington. At last, indeed!
I flipped channels the whole morning, aware of feeling anxious, almost agitated, pacing, fussing, trying to keep busy. I still get nervous for live television events, especially ones with security concerns. It’s a boomer thing. You know, JFK, MLK, RFK, George Wallace, Malcolm X, the Pope, John Lennon, Reagan, Ford. All those assassination memories. Very scary. Yay, PEACE!
I’ve been posting on the skirt.com blog all week, which is fun! They’ve been featuring my stuff on the home page, so I get more readers and maybe some random agent will catch a peek! My writers’ group is submitting and applying and doing readings and getting published, so that’s been a fun boost too. Write On!
Anyway, I couldn’t let the week end without at least acknowledging some inaugural attendees who got my empathy this week, deserved or not. I can't help it. I'm a social worker.
Dick Cheney, for the whole wheelchair thing, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m sure it wasn’t the image he would’ve wanted to project at the End Game
George Bush, for having to sit there and take it, to the extent that he actually listened, which is probably not a lot, come to think of it, nevermind
Hillary Clinton, for whatever moments of “if only” she endured
Barack Obama, for Roberts’s botched oath, OMG that was a mess, couldn’t they have done a runthrough?
Michelle, for the invention of high heels, and for ten long dances to “At Last.” But you sure looked beautiful and so in LOVE!
Sasha and Malia, for all the attention and for subzero privacy for the next eight years
Yo Yo, Itzhak, and the quartet for being criticized . . . I mean, would you bring your Stradivarius out in 20-degree weather?
Aretha, maybe you should've prerecorded too. That was, um, not your best work . . . but the hat was divine, dahling!
And to the millions who walked and waited and shivered and froze—my heart goes out to you and I’m envious of your once-in-a-lifetime experience. Someone called it Woodstock without the fighting and mud. Yeah, baby. Barack On!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Expanding My Horizons
I launched Debfeb's Blog this week at skirt.com and I'm excited to join that community of very cool women blogging about women! It took a few months from inquiry to acceptance, but it's a new and, I must say, groovy forum.
I have no intention of abandoning the Debfeb Diaries, but I have to take stock and figure out what, where, when, how, and why I want to write what, where, when, and how!
Two essays are still under construction: "My Night with Igor," about my experience in a sleep lab; and "Space Invaders," about personal space challenges in public places. So stay tuned!
The Mortified podcast is up! Yup. About halfway through the audio, I'm reading from my 1965 diaries, from when I was 10 and 11. My love for Ricky. My clashes with Mom. My budding body. My romantic dreams. My pubescent take on the world. It's all there, with a live audience sharing the angst!
This coming week, I can't wait to watch the inauguration and the unfolding of history and hope for a new administration. Goodbye, W. I will miss your gaffes on Letterman and The Daily Show, but I will miss absolutely nothing else. Happy brush-clearing. Have a nice life.
Now, let's get down to business, Barack! Well, go ahead and enjoy the festivities first. But by Wednesday, I expect you to fix the world. OK?
So, there's more to come verrrrrry soon! But right now I have to get to the gym before my muscles go on strike!
I have no intention of abandoning the Debfeb Diaries, but I have to take stock and figure out what, where, when, how, and why I want to write what, where, when, and how!
Two essays are still under construction: "My Night with Igor," about my experience in a sleep lab; and "Space Invaders," about personal space challenges in public places. So stay tuned!
The Mortified podcast is up! Yup. About halfway through the audio, I'm reading from my 1965 diaries, from when I was 10 and 11. My love for Ricky. My clashes with Mom. My budding body. My romantic dreams. My pubescent take on the world. It's all there, with a live audience sharing the angst!
This coming week, I can't wait to watch the inauguration and the unfolding of history and hope for a new administration. Goodbye, W. I will miss your gaffes on Letterman and The Daily Show, but I will miss absolutely nothing else. Happy brush-clearing. Have a nice life.
Now, let's get down to business, Barack! Well, go ahead and enjoy the festivities first. But by Wednesday, I expect you to fix the world. OK?
So, there's more to come verrrrrry soon! But right now I have to get to the gym before my muscles go on strike!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Peace at Last
We buried my uncle Addy last Sunday in a plot that my grandfather bought decades ago, a plot that I will also occupy when my days on earth are over. It was brilliantly clear and bundle-up cold but not bitter on the hillside of Sharon Gardens, an idyllic setting a few miles from where my parents live. That’s where they will be buried too, not now, not soon, but someday.
Addy died peacefully at 6:15 p.m. on New Year’s Day. Joyce and Bobby and Nancy held him and watched him breathe his last breath. In the past, when I’ve heard people say about their lost loved ones, “At least he’s at peace,” “Thank God she’s not suffering anymore,” or “He’s in a better place,” the words felt empty, as if rationalizing the trauma would dampen its impact.
But Addy was suffering, the chemo having failed, ultimately, to reverse the cancer; the medications having failed to shield him from pain; the onslaught of time and disease and what I gather is the natural order of life having impaired his eyesight and speech and physical strength. He was ready. Before he slipped away, he began to write his obituary with Joyce. It was his time.
When we celebrated his 85th birthday in early December, he was with it. Weak but with it. It was what a celebration should be—to his life, his friendships, his loving family. We sang skit songs, read poems, gave tributes, and remembered the happier times. We didn’t know how long he’d be around, but we knew it didn’t look good. The hugs were more precious, the jokes funnier, the appreciations more heartfelt. He knew. He took it in. He cried and laughed. We all did. It seemed the natural thing to do.
At his funeral service, people talked about Addy’s sweetness, his creativity, his musicality, and his even temper. My parents each reflected with humor and caring. I’d forgotten how active the four of them were, and the trips and cruises and bridge games they'd shared. My mind kept flashing forward, wondering who would be eulogizing my parents when their turn comes. No, don’t go there. Deep breathing grounded me back in the present and I cried for Addy. It wasn’t meant to be. But it was. What is the alternative? It’s the natural order of things.
Bobby spoke softly and lovingly, holding back tears with his sweet, sad smile. He had bathed and dressed and lifted and tended to Addy in his final weeks. When Nancy had joined the vigil, the three of them talked with Addy for as long as he could talk, sang with Addy for as long as he could sing, and shared their strength with one another. Joyce wasn’t ready. How can one ever be ready?
I wanted to share a eulogy, but I didn’t know what to say. So I convened a chorus instead. My brother Don, his wife Jo, their son Nick, and my friend Susan and I offered Gerald Cohen’s “Adonai Ro’i,” a sublime setting of the 23rd psalm, “The Lord Is My Shepherd.” Singing is the deepest expression of love and soul and comfort. Addy heard us. Or so I’d like to believe.
Last July, when my fellow Zamir singer Jody died, I wrote about the electric spark I experienced at her funeral. Carpe diem. Life is not a dress rehearsal. I felt freed up and intensely alive, no more wasting time, no more inertia or passivity. Life is short! Act now!
But at the cemetery, standing beside Addy’s grave, seeing his wooden casket with its carved Star of David already in the ground, I felt empty. Among the parent generation, Addy was the first to go. Now Joyce was a widow. What will happen next? We huddled together, family and friends, as the young cantor spoke kindly and prayed and chanted, including “Adonai Ro’i” and the traditional memorial prayer, “El Maley Rachamim,” or “God full of compassion.”
Just then, we saw Jeanne and her newborn baby, swaddled in pink, walking toward the site. I hadn’t seen Jo’s sister since she gave birth in October. A passing train whistled. The sun cast shadows across the snowy landscape. It was almost too poetic. The circle of birth and death, the inevitability of time and passage and life and loss.
We shoveled dirt onto the casket, one by one, tucking Addy in with a blanket of earth, as the cantor suggested. “OK, kid, here ya go,” said Joyce. The dirt smelled rich and deep and warm.
Life goes on. And with it, certain death. But when and how? With suffering or suddenness? No one knows. But I know Addy is at peace at last. God bless you, my dearest uncle. I love you very much.
Addy died peacefully at 6:15 p.m. on New Year’s Day. Joyce and Bobby and Nancy held him and watched him breathe his last breath. In the past, when I’ve heard people say about their lost loved ones, “At least he’s at peace,” “Thank God she’s not suffering anymore,” or “He’s in a better place,” the words felt empty, as if rationalizing the trauma would dampen its impact.
But Addy was suffering, the chemo having failed, ultimately, to reverse the cancer; the medications having failed to shield him from pain; the onslaught of time and disease and what I gather is the natural order of life having impaired his eyesight and speech and physical strength. He was ready. Before he slipped away, he began to write his obituary with Joyce. It was his time.
When we celebrated his 85th birthday in early December, he was with it. Weak but with it. It was what a celebration should be—to his life, his friendships, his loving family. We sang skit songs, read poems, gave tributes, and remembered the happier times. We didn’t know how long he’d be around, but we knew it didn’t look good. The hugs were more precious, the jokes funnier, the appreciations more heartfelt. He knew. He took it in. He cried and laughed. We all did. It seemed the natural thing to do.
At his funeral service, people talked about Addy’s sweetness, his creativity, his musicality, and his even temper. My parents each reflected with humor and caring. I’d forgotten how active the four of them were, and the trips and cruises and bridge games they'd shared. My mind kept flashing forward, wondering who would be eulogizing my parents when their turn comes. No, don’t go there. Deep breathing grounded me back in the present and I cried for Addy. It wasn’t meant to be. But it was. What is the alternative? It’s the natural order of things.
Bobby spoke softly and lovingly, holding back tears with his sweet, sad smile. He had bathed and dressed and lifted and tended to Addy in his final weeks. When Nancy had joined the vigil, the three of them talked with Addy for as long as he could talk, sang with Addy for as long as he could sing, and shared their strength with one another. Joyce wasn’t ready. How can one ever be ready?
I wanted to share a eulogy, but I didn’t know what to say. So I convened a chorus instead. My brother Don, his wife Jo, their son Nick, and my friend Susan and I offered Gerald Cohen’s “Adonai Ro’i,” a sublime setting of the 23rd psalm, “The Lord Is My Shepherd.” Singing is the deepest expression of love and soul and comfort. Addy heard us. Or so I’d like to believe.
Last July, when my fellow Zamir singer Jody died, I wrote about the electric spark I experienced at her funeral. Carpe diem. Life is not a dress rehearsal. I felt freed up and intensely alive, no more wasting time, no more inertia or passivity. Life is short! Act now!
But at the cemetery, standing beside Addy’s grave, seeing his wooden casket with its carved Star of David already in the ground, I felt empty. Among the parent generation, Addy was the first to go. Now Joyce was a widow. What will happen next? We huddled together, family and friends, as the young cantor spoke kindly and prayed and chanted, including “Adonai Ro’i” and the traditional memorial prayer, “El Maley Rachamim,” or “God full of compassion.”
Just then, we saw Jeanne and her newborn baby, swaddled in pink, walking toward the site. I hadn’t seen Jo’s sister since she gave birth in October. A passing train whistled. The sun cast shadows across the snowy landscape. It was almost too poetic. The circle of birth and death, the inevitability of time and passage and life and loss.
We shoveled dirt onto the casket, one by one, tucking Addy in with a blanket of earth, as the cantor suggested. “OK, kid, here ya go,” said Joyce. The dirt smelled rich and deep and warm.
Life goes on. And with it, certain death. But when and how? With suffering or suddenness? No one knows. But I know Addy is at peace at last. God bless you, my dearest uncle. I love you very much.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Happy New Year, 1969
In the fall of 1968, I was in ninth grade at Munich International School. Nixon had just been elected president and the Apollo 8 astronauts were about to orbit the moon. I was obsessed with Romeo and Juliet, having just seen Zeffirelli’s movie with Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting. For December break, my family drove to Rome via Florence, Siena, and San Gimignano. Not too shabby as school vacations go.
In these excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion, it's clear some things have changed . . . and some most assuredly have not. Happy New Year, 2009! I hope it is a year of love and peace.
December 27, 1968
(2 months till 15)
Visited Sistine Chapel and the whole bit. It was OK. Fantastic work and realism but TOO much! Sculptures are nice, though. Watched a marvelous and exciting Apollo splashdown and recovery on TV! Wow! The moon!! It’s really a great breakthru!
4 days till 1969. 62 days till my birthday. 9 days till Munich. 10 days till school.
December 29
Went to impressive Baths of Caracalla, with little kiddies running around and to Palazzo Farnese. Nice frescoes. And to these fantastic ruins at Ostia Antica! Wow! Buildings, paintings, bathrooms, tunnels, statues, palaces, theaters, warehouses, stores. A real civilizazione! 100,000 people!! (200-300 AD?)
December 30
Slept latish, took bathio. Visited statue of Moses and San Sebastian mosaic. Walked to Pantheon. Saw USA sailors who “wowed” at me. Wow! Gotta goa toa bedda. Yeah? Bene! Molto bene! Buona sera!
December 31
Well, this is it! The end of another year. So what? It’s just 366 days gone by with 365 more to come! But it’s traditional to make a big thing. So I will. Today we saw some church, which was lovely, and the Catacombs—ancient and smelly but interesting.
News: Triumph of Apollo 8; release of Pueblo crew; Israel and the Arabs clashing; Paris peace talks moving along. I hope 1969 brings more peace to earth, although I doubt it.
Resolutions? Let’s see:
1) Resist smoking. (Build feminine willpower.)
2) Try to establish better relations at home, especially with mother (be less close?).
3) Work hard in school.
4) Grow, damnit!
5) Quit swearing so much!
6) Ultra-femina: looks, attitude, actions
7) Continue interest in world.
8) Write a book.
We’re heading off now for a New Year’s party. I’ll see you next year! Arrivederci!
January 1, 1969
2:07 a.m. after really boring, wild, icky New Year’s party at Dover Hotel with a bunch yucks and fakes and icks. Last word I said in 1968 = LOVE. First word I said in 1969 = LOVE. I hope it is a year of love and peace.
Later: 11:15 p.m. after a long day. Visited San Pietro and saw Pope Paul VI and got “blessed.” Beautiful church! Climbed to top (ugh)—utterly fantastic view! Beautiful sunny chilly day and just perfect! Saw Oliver. I’m still determined to act/sing.
Back at 10. Sang songs and fooled around. At 11, I started to wash, and out from under the towel crawled a HUGE hairy spider! UGH! SHIVER! UGH!!! Donnie shivered too so Daddy (my hero) killed it! Ugh Ugh YUKH!! I itch all over.
Song from Oliver:
Where is love?
Does it come from skies above?
Is it underneath the willow tree that I’ve been dreaming of?
Where is he who I close my eyes to see?
Will I ever know the sweet hello that’s meant for only me?
Who can see where he may hide?
Must I travel far and wide
Till I am beside the someone who I can mean something to?
Where is love?
Fantastic song! It not only means so much but it fits me perfectly. Goodnite, goodnite. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnite till it be morrow! Romeo and Juliet is fantastic! Will that ever happen to me?
In these excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion, it's clear some things have changed . . . and some most assuredly have not. Happy New Year, 2009! I hope it is a year of love and peace.
December 27, 1968
(2 months till 15)
Visited Sistine Chapel and the whole bit. It was OK. Fantastic work and realism but TOO much! Sculptures are nice, though. Watched a marvelous and exciting Apollo splashdown and recovery on TV! Wow! The moon!! It’s really a great breakthru!
4 days till 1969. 62 days till my birthday. 9 days till Munich. 10 days till school.
December 29
Went to impressive Baths of Caracalla, with little kiddies running around and to Palazzo Farnese. Nice frescoes. And to these fantastic ruins at Ostia Antica! Wow! Buildings, paintings, bathrooms, tunnels, statues, palaces, theaters, warehouses, stores. A real civilizazione! 100,000 people!! (200-300 AD?)
December 30
Slept latish, took bathio. Visited statue of Moses and San Sebastian mosaic. Walked to Pantheon. Saw USA sailors who “wowed” at me. Wow! Gotta goa toa bedda. Yeah? Bene! Molto bene! Buona sera!
December 31
Well, this is it! The end of another year. So what? It’s just 366 days gone by with 365 more to come! But it’s traditional to make a big thing. So I will. Today we saw some church, which was lovely, and the Catacombs—ancient and smelly but interesting.
News: Triumph of Apollo 8; release of Pueblo crew; Israel and the Arabs clashing; Paris peace talks moving along. I hope 1969 brings more peace to earth, although I doubt it.
Resolutions? Let’s see:
1) Resist smoking. (Build feminine willpower.)
2) Try to establish better relations at home, especially with mother (be less close?).
3) Work hard in school.
4) Grow, damnit!
5) Quit swearing so much!
6) Ultra-femina: looks, attitude, actions
7) Continue interest in world.
8) Write a book.
We’re heading off now for a New Year’s party. I’ll see you next year! Arrivederci!
January 1, 1969
2:07 a.m. after really boring, wild, icky New Year’s party at Dover Hotel with a bunch yucks and fakes and icks. Last word I said in 1968 = LOVE. First word I said in 1969 = LOVE. I hope it is a year of love and peace.
Later: 11:15 p.m. after a long day. Visited San Pietro and saw Pope Paul VI and got “blessed.” Beautiful church! Climbed to top (ugh)—utterly fantastic view! Beautiful sunny chilly day and just perfect! Saw Oliver. I’m still determined to act/sing.
Back at 10. Sang songs and fooled around. At 11, I started to wash, and out from under the towel crawled a HUGE hairy spider! UGH! SHIVER! UGH!!! Donnie shivered too so Daddy (my hero) killed it! Ugh Ugh YUKH!! I itch all over.
Song from Oliver:
Where is love?
Does it come from skies above?
Is it underneath the willow tree that I’ve been dreaming of?
Where is he who I close my eyes to see?
Will I ever know the sweet hello that’s meant for only me?
Who can see where he may hide?
Must I travel far and wide
Till I am beside the someone who I can mean something to?
Where is love?
Fantastic song! It not only means so much but it fits me perfectly. Goodnite, goodnite. Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnite till it be morrow! Romeo and Juliet is fantastic! Will that ever happen to me?
Friday, December 19, 2008
Wishful Thinking
When my cable provider switched over to digital last summer, I thought I’d never get used to a whole new channel lineup and an imposing remote with 59 buttons. Now I click up, down, left, right without even looking: 311 for MSNBC and 305 for CNN, or 221 for TV Land and 117 for Comedy Central (to escape the depressing effects of the first two).
However, even with the fancy gadgetry, I can still tape only one show at a time, which requires my actually remembering to leave the TV on the channel I want to record before I go to work. No DVR. No Tivo. Maybe Santa will surprise me this year. Ho ho ho.
My ritual is recording the final few minutes of Deal or No Deal, followed by Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! That’s Channel 11 here. Shouldn’t be too hard to forget. Same time, same channel, Monday through Friday, at least when I’m out, which is most weeknights. As I unwind, stretch, and get ready for bed, I love zipping through my shows.
On Wednesday, I got home around ten, changed into my fleece pajamas, fed Sophia and Sascha, and hit the rewind button, eagerly awaiting my nightly game-show fix. PLAY. The screen displayed a green-and-white announcement: Due to power outages in your area, there is no service on this channel at this time. We regret any inconvenience. New Hampshire Public TV, Channel 9.
Channel 9? No! I meant to leave it on Channel 11! FAST FORWARD. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just a glitch. I continued to fast forward through what must’ve been a half-hour’s worth of the same green-and-white message. Was I expecting the channel to have changed itself while I was out? Kind of like when I thought my dust-spewing vacuum cleaner would’ve repaired itself after three untouched months in the closet?
Nope. No Deal or Wheel or Jeopardy! tonight. I felt bereft. The empty, sad, pit-of-the-stomach-type feeling that comes when you know that what you wished for simply will not happen. No matter how hard I pressed the button, no matter how hard I wanted it, it wasn’t meant to be.
I lingered in the feeling, trying to understand it. It felt familiar and utterly unwanted. In the space of three or four minutes, I’d gone from a sense of fun anticipation to frantic denial to mournful acceptance. Over TV. But it wasn’t the content of the loss, it was the feeling of being helpless to change the reality. There was nothing I could do. What’s done is done.
Three years ago, on a regular Sunday morning, I woke up and headed outside to retrieve my Boston Globe. I saw my kitty, Jolie, lying on the living room rug, all stretched out. “Allo, Jolia! Good morning!” I said. I stepped closer. She didn’t move. She’s sleeping, I thought. Funny. Usually she greets me, nuzzling, head-butting. I walked past her and bam, it hit me, a fierce punch in the stomach, a rush of adrenaline and nausea and truth.
No. No. It can’t be. I approached. Her eyes were fixed in a stare and her tongue slightly extended from her mouth. Next to her was some food she'd vomited. Maybe she was choking! Maybe I could revive her. I knelt beside her and touched her. Her body was cold. I tried to pry her mouth open to give her an airway. Her body was stiff. Untrained in CPR, I tried to apply kitty-size compressions to her calico chest, at regular intervals. I tried to blow in her mouth, very softly.
No, Jolie, no. I didn’t want to know, but I knew. And yet I didn’t. I called my vet and left a message for the on-call doc. After a few silent minutes, I called Angell Animal Hospital and said, “I think my cat might be dead!” I asked about kitty CPR. I asked about opening her airway. The woman listened and said quietly, “She’s gone.”
“But . . . how? How? She’s only five. She wasn’t sick!”
She said, very kindly, as did my own vet who called later, that sometimes cats die suddenly, same as people. Aneurysm, cardiac arrest, stroke, random act of God. She was gone.
Numbness followed and flooding tears and, slowly, acceptance. I still think of Jolie, every day. And I thought of her on Wednesday, when, unbidden and unwanted, missing my game shows, of all things, I felt that feeling in my gut that tells me I am helpless to change reality. No matter how mundane or profound.
Every day brings a new sadness, it seems—illnesses, diagnoses, in my family, among my friends, among my friends’ families. And every day brings another reminder of the only lesson that seems to make any sense, at least to me, at least today: Life happens. Death happens. Let go. And breathe.
However, even with the fancy gadgetry, I can still tape only one show at a time, which requires my actually remembering to leave the TV on the channel I want to record before I go to work. No DVR. No Tivo. Maybe Santa will surprise me this year. Ho ho ho.
My ritual is recording the final few minutes of Deal or No Deal, followed by Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy! That’s Channel 11 here. Shouldn’t be too hard to forget. Same time, same channel, Monday through Friday, at least when I’m out, which is most weeknights. As I unwind, stretch, and get ready for bed, I love zipping through my shows.
On Wednesday, I got home around ten, changed into my fleece pajamas, fed Sophia and Sascha, and hit the rewind button, eagerly awaiting my nightly game-show fix. PLAY. The screen displayed a green-and-white announcement: Due to power outages in your area, there is no service on this channel at this time. We regret any inconvenience. New Hampshire Public TV, Channel 9.
Channel 9? No! I meant to leave it on Channel 11! FAST FORWARD. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just a glitch. I continued to fast forward through what must’ve been a half-hour’s worth of the same green-and-white message. Was I expecting the channel to have changed itself while I was out? Kind of like when I thought my dust-spewing vacuum cleaner would’ve repaired itself after three untouched months in the closet?
Nope. No Deal or Wheel or Jeopardy! tonight. I felt bereft. The empty, sad, pit-of-the-stomach-type feeling that comes when you know that what you wished for simply will not happen. No matter how hard I pressed the button, no matter how hard I wanted it, it wasn’t meant to be.
I lingered in the feeling, trying to understand it. It felt familiar and utterly unwanted. In the space of three or four minutes, I’d gone from a sense of fun anticipation to frantic denial to mournful acceptance. Over TV. But it wasn’t the content of the loss, it was the feeling of being helpless to change the reality. There was nothing I could do. What’s done is done.
Three years ago, on a regular Sunday morning, I woke up and headed outside to retrieve my Boston Globe. I saw my kitty, Jolie, lying on the living room rug, all stretched out. “Allo, Jolia! Good morning!” I said. I stepped closer. She didn’t move. She’s sleeping, I thought. Funny. Usually she greets me, nuzzling, head-butting. I walked past her and bam, it hit me, a fierce punch in the stomach, a rush of adrenaline and nausea and truth.
No. No. It can’t be. I approached. Her eyes were fixed in a stare and her tongue slightly extended from her mouth. Next to her was some food she'd vomited. Maybe she was choking! Maybe I could revive her. I knelt beside her and touched her. Her body was cold. I tried to pry her mouth open to give her an airway. Her body was stiff. Untrained in CPR, I tried to apply kitty-size compressions to her calico chest, at regular intervals. I tried to blow in her mouth, very softly.
No, Jolie, no. I didn’t want to know, but I knew. And yet I didn’t. I called my vet and left a message for the on-call doc. After a few silent minutes, I called Angell Animal Hospital and said, “I think my cat might be dead!” I asked about kitty CPR. I asked about opening her airway. The woman listened and said quietly, “She’s gone.”
“But . . . how? How? She’s only five. She wasn’t sick!”
She said, very kindly, as did my own vet who called later, that sometimes cats die suddenly, same as people. Aneurysm, cardiac arrest, stroke, random act of God. She was gone.
Numbness followed and flooding tears and, slowly, acceptance. I still think of Jolie, every day. And I thought of her on Wednesday, when, unbidden and unwanted, missing my game shows, of all things, I felt that feeling in my gut that tells me I am helpless to change reality. No matter how mundane or profound.
Every day brings a new sadness, it seems—illnesses, diagnoses, in my family, among my friends, among my friends’ families. And every day brings another reminder of the only lesson that seems to make any sense, at least to me, at least today: Life happens. Death happens. Let go. And breathe.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Short 'n' Bittersweet
I’m headed to Connecticut in the morning for Uncle Addy’s 85th birthday party. It will be good to see family and friends, but I’m sad because Addy’s struggling with health problems. We will sing skit songs and eat good food and dance and laugh and hug and cry and cherish the time we have together.
And we need to laugh. So for this week I’m posting a short diary entry from the extraterrestrial world of fifth grade, Milton School, Rye, New York. All names have been changed to protect the formerly pubescent. I’ll be presenting a longer piece that includes this entry at MORTIFIED BOSTON on January 8, 2009. Check out www.getmortified.com. Details to come!
And we need to laugh. So for this week I’m posting a short diary entry from the extraterrestrial world of fifth grade, Milton School, Rye, New York. All names have been changed to protect the formerly pubescent. I’ll be presenting a longer piece that includes this entry at MORTIFIED BOSTON on January 8, 2009. Check out www.getmortified.com. Details to come!
January 6, 1965
Linda admitted that she loved Ricky. Vice versa. They said they’d kiss each other. Darn Ricky chickened out. What a double crosser. I called up Ricky and he said, Hello. I said, How could you? Now Linda hates your guts. He said, Good. I said, You love her, why don’t you kiss her? He said, Why don’t you hang up? I said, Make me. He said, Okay, I’ll hang up. I said, Go ahead, I don’t care. He did. I love him.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Flickering Innocence: JFK Remembered
It’s been 45 years since John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Today I reflect on that day with an essay that appeared in the (Westchester, NY) Journal News on November 22, 2003.
Memories and images of JFK and Camelot are everywhere as we anticipate a White House again filled with youth and “vig-ah,” hope and optimism, intellect and passion, and the brilliant smile of a brilliant man and his shining family.
I sat alone on the floor at the foot of my parents’ bed, staring up at the flickering black-and-white images. The TV was a 12-inch RCA with a green plastic exterior. I loved watching TV, but that Friday my stomach felt upside-down and inside-out. Everything felt different, as if things would never be the same.
November 22, 1963, was a special day for the fourth-grade class at Milton School in Rye, New York. Our teacher, Miss Drury, was getting married the next day and we were throwing a surprise party! Sally Lamb and I had collected nearly 14 dollars to buy a yellow-flowered casserole dish, which the white-haired saleslady wrapped in spangly gold paper.
Miss Drury never suspected a thing. We’d asked Mr. Rogers, the principal, to call her to his office. While she was gone, we brought out a cake and Hawaiian Punch and put the gift box on top of her big wooden desk so she’d see it right away. We were about to burst with excitement.
Clickety-click—here she comes! She entered, gasped, and broke into a smile shiny enough to light up the whole school. I thought she was beautiful—tall and thin, with short brown hair and dark eyes. She was 24. A real lady.
After the party, the girls jumped into our one-piece royal-blue gym uniforms. We were having square dancing and couldn’t wait! Something was funny, though, because Mr. Drago was just sitting on a stool, two fingers twisting the whistle around his neck, a real serious look on his face. He looked up and said softly, “The president was shot.”
“President Kennedy?”
“Yes. He was shot in Dallas, Texas. I just heard it on the radio.”
Nobody moved. More girls ran in squealing but quickly stopped when they heard the news. We went back to class, but the boys didn’t know yet. “Aw, neat!” said Eric Tillman, punching his right fist into his left palm. “Where’d he get shot?!”
Miss Drury told us to be quiet and pray. Sally Lamb sniffled and the boys thought that was pretty funny. Miss Drury dabbed her tears with a lacy handkerchief. No one knew what to do. The whole room felt eerie.
“Attention, attention, teachers and children,” Mr. Rogers announced over the P.A. “I have very sad news to tell you. President Kennedy just died. He was shot about an hour ago while driving in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. They are trying to find the person who killed him. You will be dismissed at 2:30. Right now, please come to the playground while we lower the flag to half-mast.”
At home, all I could do was watch TV. The flag-draped coffin rolling through Washington on an open carriage. The rhythmic beat of the snare drum tapping TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM ta TUM.
I was numb. Staring at the TV, hour after hour. Watching Jackie and Caroline kneel in the rotunda, hearing about the capture of that evil man Lee Harvey Oswald. The Texas School Book Depository. The policeman who got shot too. Suddenly nothing made sense. Suddenly scary things happened and you had to try to figure them out the best you could.
Then some man Jack Ruby walked up to Oswald in the jail—he just stepped through a crowd of people and shot him in the stomach! I watched that replay at least a million times—Oswald’s twisted face, the tall sheriff with the cowboy hat lunging after Ruby, the confusion, the shouting.
In 1960, I had shaken President Kennedy’s hand at a campaign rally! He was so tan and handsome, with gleaming eyes. On TV press conferences, he always smiled and told jokes and everyone laughed. His singsong accent sounded strange to my New York ears, but it had a comforting quality. Caroline had a pony named Macaroni. Jackie spoke in a whispery voice I tried to imitate. When my family had visited the White House in 1962, I remember wishing I could move in with the Kennedys. Bright colorful rooms full of dreams and hope.
Four days of watching the flickering black-and-white images of death. It’s as if they extended beyond the screen, into the space at the foot of my parents’ bed. Black-and-white clouds merging into muted gray, a grayness that would return on many days of tragedy to follow. A gray that, right then and there, surrounded my innocence and dimmed it forever.
Memories and images of JFK and Camelot are everywhere as we anticipate a White House again filled with youth and “vig-ah,” hope and optimism, intellect and passion, and the brilliant smile of a brilliant man and his shining family.
I sat alone on the floor at the foot of my parents’ bed, staring up at the flickering black-and-white images. The TV was a 12-inch RCA with a green plastic exterior. I loved watching TV, but that Friday my stomach felt upside-down and inside-out. Everything felt different, as if things would never be the same.
November 22, 1963, was a special day for the fourth-grade class at Milton School in Rye, New York. Our teacher, Miss Drury, was getting married the next day and we were throwing a surprise party! Sally Lamb and I had collected nearly 14 dollars to buy a yellow-flowered casserole dish, which the white-haired saleslady wrapped in spangly gold paper.
Miss Drury never suspected a thing. We’d asked Mr. Rogers, the principal, to call her to his office. While she was gone, we brought out a cake and Hawaiian Punch and put the gift box on top of her big wooden desk so she’d see it right away. We were about to burst with excitement.
Clickety-click—here she comes! She entered, gasped, and broke into a smile shiny enough to light up the whole school. I thought she was beautiful—tall and thin, with short brown hair and dark eyes. She was 24. A real lady.
After the party, the girls jumped into our one-piece royal-blue gym uniforms. We were having square dancing and couldn’t wait! Something was funny, though, because Mr. Drago was just sitting on a stool, two fingers twisting the whistle around his neck, a real serious look on his face. He looked up and said softly, “The president was shot.”
“President Kennedy?”
“Yes. He was shot in Dallas, Texas. I just heard it on the radio.”
Nobody moved. More girls ran in squealing but quickly stopped when they heard the news. We went back to class, but the boys didn’t know yet. “Aw, neat!” said Eric Tillman, punching his right fist into his left palm. “Where’d he get shot?!”
Miss Drury told us to be quiet and pray. Sally Lamb sniffled and the boys thought that was pretty funny. Miss Drury dabbed her tears with a lacy handkerchief. No one knew what to do. The whole room felt eerie.
“Attention, attention, teachers and children,” Mr. Rogers announced over the P.A. “I have very sad news to tell you. President Kennedy just died. He was shot about an hour ago while driving in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. They are trying to find the person who killed him. You will be dismissed at 2:30. Right now, please come to the playground while we lower the flag to half-mast.”
At home, all I could do was watch TV. The flag-draped coffin rolling through Washington on an open carriage. The rhythmic beat of the snare drum tapping TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM TUM tadadada TUM TUM ta TUM.
I was numb. Staring at the TV, hour after hour. Watching Jackie and Caroline kneel in the rotunda, hearing about the capture of that evil man Lee Harvey Oswald. The Texas School Book Depository. The policeman who got shot too. Suddenly nothing made sense. Suddenly scary things happened and you had to try to figure them out the best you could.
Then some man Jack Ruby walked up to Oswald in the jail—he just stepped through a crowd of people and shot him in the stomach! I watched that replay at least a million times—Oswald’s twisted face, the tall sheriff with the cowboy hat lunging after Ruby, the confusion, the shouting.
In 1960, I had shaken President Kennedy’s hand at a campaign rally! He was so tan and handsome, with gleaming eyes. On TV press conferences, he always smiled and told jokes and everyone laughed. His singsong accent sounded strange to my New York ears, but it had a comforting quality. Caroline had a pony named Macaroni. Jackie spoke in a whispery voice I tried to imitate. When my family had visited the White House in 1962, I remember wishing I could move in with the Kennedys. Bright colorful rooms full of dreams and hope.
Four days of watching the flickering black-and-white images of death. It’s as if they extended beyond the screen, into the space at the foot of my parents’ bed. Black-and-white clouds merging into muted gray, a grayness that would return on many days of tragedy to follow. A gray that, right then and there, surrounded my innocence and dimmed it forever.
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