Category Archives: family

family, friends, fuelos

Day to Day

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Considering that all I want to do is eat cereal out of the box and read novels, I’m doing pretty well. After some searching, I found two shuls with daily minyans so that I can say Kaddish. Neither’s perfect: One is inconvenient and the other is Orthodox. Whatever.

I’ve been going to work and getting things done. I’ve continued showering; I even made it to the gym last night where I ran two and a half miles. I’ve only had one dream where my father was still alive and disappointed in me.

I miss my father. But, anyway.

The whole death thing really knocked me for a loop. Wow, it was fast. As recently as September, my dad was being treated. There was medicine, and where there is medicine there is hope, even if one is poisonous and the other is flimsy. Then, suddenly, he had six months; then merely weeks; then I was in the backyard of the Casey House in Montgomery County, sleep-deprived and tear-glazed, casting a protective shadow over the bed in which my father had managed to open his eyes for the last time. It was a blue-and-yellow afternoon, with hawks circling several layers up from butterflies, and we had decided to roll his bed outside.

Everyone who could come came over his last couple days. We pressed his hand, played his iPod, read to him from Isaiah. The rabbi shook a lulav and an etrog at him, because it was Succot, and then kissed him on the forehead. And that afternoon, twelve hours before his labored breathing faded away, he saw us there. He knew we had gathered, for him, for whatever good it would do. For an hour or so, he managed to stay conscious, my brilliant, generous, lazy, sentimental, anxious-depressive-insomniac, loving, witty father, and then he dipped under again and never woke up.

Then, suddenly, there were things to do. We had to sleep, and write obits, and talk to the funeral home, and plan speeches. We had to break down and get up again. My mother cried; I’ve never seen her look so lost. We had to deal with that. We had to eat, and dress warmly for the funeral, because the day we interred him was a day borrowed from early March. It had everything but crows in it. I think I cried hardest when my father-in-law lifted the shovel to help bury my father.

But my friends, my friends, my friends did everything that is good in this world, everything good people do. At one point at the cemetery three of them had staked out places around me, bolstering me. Later, they came to the house and sat with me on the floor. They came every night and sometimes during the day, too. The experience was, as I said, a plane crash, but it was also a water landing on par with Sully’s, because of my friends and my family’s friends and my family. I can’t thank you enough.

RIP, Tateh.

family

RIP Paul L. Bloom (1939-2009)

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After about forty hours in hospice watching my father die, I am thoroughly and otherwise exhausted. Later I will have more to say about the experience, which was basically a plane crash; but one whose impact was softened by the tangible love of family and friends.

For now, I leave you with a letter to the editor from the NYT in 1981, written by a complete stranger, entitled “God Bless Mr. Bloom!”:

To the Editor:

Paul Bloom’s grand exit from his job as special counsel to the Energy Department in the Carter Administration prods our uncomfortable acceptance of 10-figure oil profits. The mind has almost gotten used to corporate gains in the billions, oil sheiks fresh out of ideas about what to do with their money, petroleum executives living on such a grand scale that it makes the palaces of Pharoah look like the South Bronx.

But not Mr. Bloom’s mind. No weak resignation for him. In one glorious parting act, he distributed $4 million (a mere frivolity by measure of fossil-fuel accounts) to four charities with the promise that all would be spent helping the poor warm their bones at oil burners too expensive for them to run.

Mr. Bloom’s imagination hasn’t failed him or his heart. Yet even more, his wild act of charity reminds us of that line from ”Man of La Mancha,” which Mr. Bloom seems to have taken to heart: ”Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.”

God bless Mr. Bloom! ROBERT H. POPE, Pastor, Pascack Reformed Church, Park Ridge, N.J., Feb. 14, 1981

Mr. Pope, wherever you are, if you’re still there please feel free to come to my father’s funeral, Monday, October 12th, at 10:00 AM in DC. We will save you a seat in the front row.

family

Off (Again)

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My father’s condition has deteriorated more quickly than anyone expected. I am furious and anxious and despondent but mostly I’m numb because how could this have all happened so fast? Almost a year ago he was in Botswana dashing out of the way of stampeding elephants, and in South Africa reuniting with long-lost members of the family. Then he fell down some stairs, came back to the States to get x-rayed, and voila.

I told my Dr. Russian this story, and after pushing a box of tissues over to me, he said, “Well, pancreatic cancer is a fatal disease.”

True, O king!

Last weekend, he could barely move around the apartment by himself. This weekend, I have no idea what I will find.

anxiety, distractions, family

Cheer!

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My DVD player / VCR conked out while I was cooking. It gagged on and then tried to spit out a video of the Apartment. One thread of film got stuck in its teeth while the rest lolled out like a great black tongue. I guess I should snip the thread and try to extricate the carcass, but what’s the point? For now the movie continues to hang there, suspended from the broken mouth of the VCR, and serve as a fabulous metaphor for life these days.

Over and over again, I pick up a book only to discover it’s about death and have to put it down. Finally, in frustration, I decided to reread the first Harry Potter. HEY, GUESS WHAT THAT’S ABOUT?

I can’t win. Authors, weren’t either of your parents ever seriously ill? Didn’t you ever need solace, comfort, humor, diversion? There are only so many Jane Austen books to reread.

Can anyone recommend something cheerful but still intelligent, please? I was hitting myself in my sleep last night; I woke up sore and sad. And this is just the beginning of what looks like a very difficult fall. My friends have been wonderful, as has Mr. Ben. Now I just need some support from art.

birfday, family, life in new york, movies, our sarah

Lovin the Leos

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Apparently I love Leos. I just can’t get enough! Roughly sixteen of my closest friends were ejected into this world between late July and late August, along with my mother, my little brother, and of course the one to whom I pledged my troth (in August, natch).

Having been hatched on July 19th, I narrowly missed being a Leo myself, for which I can only thank the vagaries of fate, cuz have you noticed what strong and often clashing personalities you Leos tend to have? I’ll take my Cancer oversensitivity any day.

On behalf of Leos and their special days, I have gone bowling, at which I played two games without breaking 50 either time. I did manage to drop the ball twice though while trying to aim! I have gone eating, I have gone drinking (without drinking), I have tried to go to Jon Stewart. Though I reserved the tickets eight months ago, that plan worked about as well as the bowling, thanks to circumstances beyond my control; I missed a banner episode, too. Oh well. I have traveled and I have stayed put. I have exhausted myself trying to think of semi-original things to write on Facebook walls.

But birthdays go round every year. Why does this August seem so intense? Usually there isn’t news, at least not beyond Hey Look, Cute Kitten! stories, or anything worth seeing in the theater. This year, we’ve had to contend with heroics from mayors, idiocy from former mayors (Death Panels!!), Democrats actually having to respond to “Death Panels”, the Middle East cracking down on women, pirates, clunkers, and lots of revelations of the obvious: Bernie Madoff was short where it counted; the Bush administration politicized national security.

Julie and Julia, District 9, and Ponyo are all out now, competing for my attention. Coming soon, to make matters worse: Inglourious Basterds! WTF, August? Will you let me breathe and process the fact that my dad is not getting better and my book is not getting published and —

Actually, you know what, maybe I’m okay with not having time to think. More birthday cake for everyone!

books, family, life in new york

So long, America!

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After four long months of trying to sell my first book, my supportive and encouraging literary agent has conceded defeat. Well, partial defeat, I should say: there’s still the rest of the English speaking world to be tried. Perhaps I’ll be a Canadian cross-over smash, like Alanis Morisette or Wayne Gretzky! How’s the economy in Australia these days? How do Kiwis feel about ambitious religious and political satire?

As dandy as it would be to do publicity tours through Stonehenge and Bath, I’m not counting on that happening. Failure is not falling down but staying down, right? Just gotta keep writing — and try not to tackle something huge this time. I’ll put out that pseudo-autobiographical novel everyone expects of twenty-somethings, and if it sells, then maybe it’ll be possible to get the real book out there.

For the most part I’m doing well, though I lost it a bit last night when Mr. Ben came home with flowers. It has helped to remember that: a) I’m only 27; b) I loved the challenge of doing something difficult and creative; c) the book got me an agent; d) the agent got my book read by numerous editors I admire, and those editors now know my name.

Going home this weekend to see my dad will help keep my minor life setbacks in perspective. This is not to say that the taboo on asking about my dad is lifted, by the way — he’s still in bad shape, and he’s fighting. But I come bearing gifts from Russ and Daughters, which will work their magic on everyone’s spirits, if not my ego.

Okay, a new rule: you can ask about my book; you can ask about my dad. But please don’t do both at once.

family

Estates

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I’ve been in DC for a while, being with and, to the extent possible, taking care of my father. He was hospitalized with pneumonia and sepsis last week, which, on top of the maybe-inoperable pancreatic cancer, seems like overkill. So to speak. He was released and sent home finally but remained very weak.

Yesterday, he called for me from his favorite chair and when I went in, he didn’t need me to fix the TV or get him another Vitamin Water. He wanted to talk about his estate.

The only thing worse than thinking about death is thinking about the intersection of death and money.

Pots, books, jewelry, art. What did I want? What are things worth? How should they be sold? I started welling up almost immediately so he couldn’t really look at me while he gave instructions.

“I’m sorry to make you sad,” he said.

“I’m not crying,” I retorted. “I’ve got heavenly dust in my eyes.”

On Sunday, my mom heard from another woman in the building that there was a garage sale of sorts going on downstairs. She and I and Mr. Ben, who had come down for the weekend, all trooped to the fifth floor, where we found a tall, tired man selling his mother’s things. “She was very smart,” he told anyone who asked, while they picked up pillows or kitchenware. “PhD in Chemistry. Fluent in French.”

The neighbors said, “She didn’t suffer, God forbid?”

He said, “No. No, she didn’t suffer.”

I discovered I loved her jewelry. None of it was valuable, but it was eye-catching and funky. The rings fit me perfectly. Looking around, I could almost conjure up an image of this little Egyptian doctor, puttering around an apartment filled with rugs and tablecloths, books and colorful dishes. All three of us left with our arms full and our hearts overflowing for a man who had to spend Mother’s Day watching strangers bear his mother’s life away.

My father has always been morbid, so it is hard to know whether when he says he has “months” he can be trusted. The word blasted through me regardless. There is space between the words “sick” and “dying,” important space, space I want to curl up in for the next decade at least. With a puppy, if I can arrange it, and maybe a child. The idea of losing a parent makes me irrational. I want the book published, a beautiful baby born, a bank account full of money to display, all to say, See? You don’t need to worry. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. You’ve given me all I need already.

Instead of sleeping last night, I re-read Little Women and cried so hard this morning I had a nosebleed. But I’m okay. I’m trying to be okay. Please don’t ask me how my father is.

family, holidays, passover

Green beans at the seder

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As a hostess, my mother is conscientious, even, you might say, fastidious. Mr. Ben learned this his very first Passover with us back in 2001, an experience so scarring it is no surprise it took him six years to propose. His reaction could probably be summed up by a friend at this Passover who leaned over to me and remarked, “There are so many rules!” Uh, yeah. But what would Judaism be without rules?*

I don’t mind rules. I’m used to them. Don’t stack the china. Don’t mix patterns. Don’t fetch something out of the kitchen yourself. Don’t eat dairy with the meat meal (even if you’re a vegetarian). Don’t break anything. My mother has her own version of Leviticus and even though it isn’t written down, she thinks the rules are self-evident and she doesn’t quite understand why some people don’t immediately get it.

She also puts on a beautiful Seder.

This year however she made one mistake. Green beans. That’s right, friends. Green beans are not technically kosher for Passover and she served them at BOTH SEDERS. Oh the shame.

Green beans fall under a category of food called “kitniyot,” which are permitted for Sephardic Jews, i.e., those from Spain and the Arab world, and not for Ashenazic Jews, i.e., most of us. This is because Jews in Spain & the Arab world had more freedom under Islam than Jews in Europe did under various tight-ass Popes and Czars. So while Sephardic Jews got to throw parties, write poetry, and generally have a good time in good weather, Ashkenazic Jews were stuck in dour shtetls, looking over their shoulders for Cossacks, and inventing new laws to make life even more difficult for themselves.

Well, I reject this tradition of suffering for the sake of suffering. Sure, much of my lineage is based in Lithuania and the Pale of Settlement (Russia/Poland, depending on the year). But my father’s family originally hailed from Turkey. The fun-loving Jews! Those are my real spiritual ancestors, and they eat rice on Passover; rice, yes, and green beans too, and soybeans, and corn. There is no end to their wild ways.

My 96-year-old maternal grandmother seems to have absorbed some of this hedonism, even though she is descended from those drab, staid Eastern Europeans. When my brother and I were arguing back and forth about whether soybeans were permissible to eat, my grandmother interrupted us. “Do you know what I ate today?” she said. “A piece of bread.”

Now that left us speechless in awe.

Happy Passover everyone! Happier still: only a few days left.

—-
*Christianity.

family, funny, work

The slow clap

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Things aren’t objectively better around here. My dad is in the hospital after turning a toxic shade of yellow — they’re looking at his liver, which was possibly affected by the Tylenol 3 he was taking for the ribs he broke when he fell over a step in South Africa. (Phew!) He likes to pretend he was chased by an elephant, so if you talk to him please claim to admire his bravery.

Meanwhile, the economy remains precarious, which means I am holding onto my job with both hands. That time that I got let go right before Christmas during the Transit Strike — and while I was taking out the trash! — is, as they say, burned in my brain. As I walked home to Brooklyn in the twenty-five-degree cold, I knew I would never take employment through December for granted again.

Despite all this, though, my anxiety levels have actually decreased. Instead of feeling like I’m wobbling on the edge of a black hole all the time, I feel like I’m a safe yard or so away from the black hole. It’s right there, sure, but I’m not in immediate danger of falling in.

In honor of that improvement, here are two things that made me laugh so hard I made a spectacle of myself. First, Carolyn Hax’s annual Holiday Hootenanny, where readers compete to submit their funniest true Christmas horror story. One contender for my favorite:

On Grandmother gifts…: Several years ago, my grandmother gave my husband a welcome statue with frogs on it. The word “welcome” is written on this very elongated mushroom held sideways by the two frogs. The elongated mushroom looks very much like you would think an elongated mushroom would look like, which is to say, like a certain part of the male anatomy. There are even two smaller mushrooms sprouting out of the base. We all laughed about it, and my husband decided we would keep it, since it was so amusing. So the next year he gets… two more of the exact same statue. And last year, another one of the same statue. We have them all sitting out on our patio. And a few years ago, she gave my 6’5 brother a floral muumuu we’re desperately hoping was really intended for someone else. However, it has now become a family tradition to wrap the muumuu up and give it to another male member of the family on Christmas. Makes for some great Christmas pictures.

And, the runner up:

X-mas entertainment: We always saved my uncle’s gifts for last. Over the years they have included:

1) a duck decoy missing its head 2) an ink drawing of a head of lettuce and some celery, with “salad” written in large font underneath 3) a Christmas ornament made out of a lightbulb painted lavender and with sparkles glued on 4) a stuffed plant — as in, made of fabric, stuffed with whatever goes in stuffed animals.

For a while we assumed these gifts were expressions of hostility (in particular, the headless duck) but in fact, I think his taste just runs to the extremely odd. Turns out bathroom is tiled with the image of the Statue of Liberty, and the walkway to his house is lined with bowling pins.

I never had a holiday (or relatives) that crazy. Perhaps Hannukah doesn’t inspire people to go to reach such dizzying heights? Regardless, if that’s not enough giggling, check out this montage of 40 Inspirational Movie Speeches. Witness every heavy-handed cinema cliche knit together into a master quilt!:

Amazingly, it even gets better as it goes along, hitting a peak at “They’ll take our lives but they’ll never take our Independence Day!” It’s also amusing to think of how most of these moments can be traced back to / blamed on Shakespeare, who popularized, if not created, the St. Crispin’s Day speech intended to get soliders’ adrenaline pumping so hard they can’t hear themselves think rational things like “But we don’t *want* to die.”

family, shoes, work

Who Do You Root For?

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The radical Islamist Saudi state or the radical Islamist Somali pirates?

Karl Rove or Deborah Solomon?

Hillary Clinton?

These are tough questions, but we are living in tough times. In trying to do my part for the economy, I spent $115 on clothes on Sunday! That may be a pittance to some of you but my money prefers to stay in the warm safety of my wallet, like a creature that hibernates year-round. Still, for the country’s sake, I’m making an effort, and if I win this contest at work I promised my brother I’d buy these. (They’re on sale!)

That led to a conversation about how I don’t understand the stock market and what’s going to happen now:

Adam: no one does!
kalloo kalay!
literally no one knows
it’s like if you were a caveman kindergartener and you said, “what time is it?” someone would hit you on the head with a wooden club and tell you not to ask stupid questions
because no one KNEW what time it was!

me: 🙂
i like how they wouldn’t have time yet but they would have kindergarten
cuz, of course

Adam: i think maybe kindergarten was all they had — i mean, fingerpainting was the most advanced art form

me: the rules must have been totally different though
they were pro playing with fire

Adam: you could run with scissors but you had to invent them first