Perspectives of an Inadvertent Optimist

The People I Never Thanked - The Red Headed Girl

2011-11-25T02:26:00.000-08:00

Flashback: It is April of 1957, and I am in second grade in East Hartford Connecticut, seated at the lunch table in the school cafeteria. Each lunch table is long enough for the whole class, with benches on each side, like a long picnic table. We are free to arrange ourselves along the table in any order we choose, and we are usually able to sit near a friend. On this particular day, I am sitting next to my new friend. She is fair skinned, with freckles, and bright red hair. She wears bangs, but her hair looks untended, shoulder length, and a little scraggly. To my eye, her clothes seem a little shabby. She, however, doesn't seem to notice. She is always smiling, she is confident, she is fun to be with, and I am glad she is my friend.

Although I sometimes buy my lunch, on this particular day, I have brought lunch. In fact, I am bringing my lunch for the entire week, because it is Passover. As usual, my lunch consists of a sandwich, but during this week, my sandwich is made of Matzah. Matzah, or unleavened bread, is like a large cracker. It is eaten during Passover to represent the unleavened bread that the Israelites ate when they hastily fled Egypt to gain their freedom, without having time for their bread to rise. During this week, the eating of bread, or any product made directly from flour, is forbidden, although the Matzah itself may be crushed into a meal and used for baking.

For lunches, my Mother makes a sort of roll from Matzah Meal and eggs, but I find it indigestible. I prefer to have my sandwiches on Matzah. This is a little problematic for my mother, because a Matzah sandwich needs to be made from something that will stick to the Matzah, not the bologna or tuna fish that my mother usually used for my sandwiches. Although peanut butter and jelly would be the perfect combination, I am allergic to peanut butter. Thus, on this particular day, I am happily eating a Matzah and jelly sandwich for my lunch. I am happy because it is Passover (a joyous holiday which I love), because I am sitting with my friend, and because my friend has taken an interest in my special sandwich.

This happiness, however, is abruptly interrupted, as the principal walks by, stops at our table, and harshly says to me, "Why are you eating your dessert before your lunch?" I am stricken with fear and embarrassment. What can I say? He clearly does not know about Matzah, Passover, or the 5,000 years of Jewish history that have led me, a seven year old, to be eating a Matzah sandwich in an East Hartford school in 1957.

In an instant, I picture myself in trouble, in the principal's office, waiting for my parents to come and give the explanation. In an instant, I know that I am in the right, that he is wrong and ignorant, but I am tongue-tied, afraid of this large and powerful man. I am aware that he is tall, with olive skin and dark hair, and I am small and pale. My very blondness makes me feel more frail. I feel no hatred for this man. Having grown up in East Hartford, where the Jewish population is small, I have no expectation that the people around me will be familiar with Judaism. In an instant, however, I feel frustration at a system that would allow a foolish and ignorant man to become the principal. Too much is going through my mind for me to speak, but, in an instant, my friend speaks for me. With her confident smile, she looks at the principal and says, simply, "It's not dessert, it's Matzah." "Oh", he replies, and walks away.

How amazing! My friend is truly an amazing person! She is my champion, and the champion of Jews everywhere, even though she isn't Jewish! She was not even trying to be brave, she simply was brave. I marvel that despite her scraggly hair and shabby clothes, she is so confident with grown-ups. I vow at that instant never again to cower in fear and embarrassment at being Jewish, or at engaging in any Jewish practice. I vow that from that day forward, if anyone questions me on Jewish practice I will simply smile and explain it. I will do this for my entire life, and I will do it in honor of my brave friend.

Flashforward:

It is 2004, and for the last 15 years I have been working in a law firm with roots going back to the mid 1800's. The firm is sometimes referred to as a "white shoe" firm, meaning it has existed since the days, perhaps in the early 1900's, when men wore white shoes. By 2004, I am a partner in the firm. Before preparing the annual calendar for partner's meetings, the managing partner calls me to ask about the dates of Jewish holidays. I give him the information he requires, and any other explanations he may want. I am seen as the firm's resident expert in Judaism. Because of my red headed friend, I have never shied away from explaining what the holidays are about or when they take place. Thank you, my red headed friend, who, by example, gave me a voice that allowed me to be myself in all aspects of American life.

Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful - A Rosh Hashanah Reflection

2011-09-11T12:49:00.000-07:00

The other day an old friend, with whom I was having dinner, told me approvingly that I didn't look like I had Parkinson's disease. She meant well, trying to give me a compliment, I guess, as many others have in the past. But the truth is, it struck me the wrong way. After all, what's wrong with having Parkinson's Disease? Often, if I'm having tremors, or difficulty moving, spilling my soup, or using my cane, I do look like I have Parkinson's disease, but who cares? Not me! And neither, I don't think, does God.

Which brings me to my Rosh Hashanah reflection. Rosh Hashanah is a communal holiday in that the community prays and celebrates together, but it is also a very personal holiday. It's personal in that it's incumbent on us all to reflect on the past year, on what we did wrong, on what we did right, on our blessings, on our sorrows, on how we can begin again, and do our best. In short, we all get a fresh start, a new beginning, a chance to do better. In Hebrew the word "t'shuvah" is used to mean that we can turn around, turn towards a better path. We also pray, metaphorically, for God to inscribe us for a good and a sweet year in the book of life. We recognize that it is up to God to decide who will live and who will die, who will prosper, and who will be poor, who will lie in a bed of pain, and who will get well from an illness. But however harsh God's decree, we acknowledge that it can be tempered by repentance, prayer and charity.

I needed to do a little research to apply these concepts to my current situation. After all, I wanted to know, how can I promise to do better, when I'm often too tired to do much of anything? How can I expect a good year, when my medical prognosis is that I'll get worse. How can I expect a sweet year, when I know I'll often be in pain. How can I repent, when I have an excuse for spending most of my energy on myself. What can I pray for, when the state of my health is a forgone conclusion. How can charity make a difference for me?

The Torah teaches us that God's law is within the reach of us all, not far away up in the heavens where we cannot reach. Sure enough, once I started looking, I found my answers right at my finger tips, on my I-phone. With the help of Google, the wisdom of many Rabbis and thinkers, the wisdom of the ages, was available to me in a few moments. There I found the answers to my questions.

First, as the prayer book says, God does not expect us all to be Moses, only to be the best person we are capable of being. I can do that. Even when I'm feeling stiff and out of sorts, I can try to be a better listener. I can be more loving to my family and friends who have been so wonderful in supporting me. I can try to be less judgmental, and more compassionate to

others. In short, there are lots of ways that I can try to do better that don't require me to move much, or be active, or to give up my afternoon naps.

Second, I can have a good and sweet year by opening my heart to the beauty and joy that surrounds us. Judaism teaches us to recite a blessing for every occurrence, even difficult ones. There are blessings for various times of day, for various types of food, for beholding natural beauty, and just for waking up in the morning. In fact, there is even a blessing to recite upon seeing a deformed or handicapped person, "Blessed art thou, Oh Lord our God, who creates diversity." So I guess its okay to see myself as just another of God's wonders, cane, tremors and all. (Or, as my husband says "Parkinson's, Proud and Powerful"). More importantly, it's important for me to open up my eyes and my heart to see the wonders all around me: our beautiful earth, the delicious and plentiful food we enjoy, the care and affection I receive from my beloved family and friends. That's an awful lot of goodness, and even sweetness, for me to enjoy, despite a few aches and pains and inconveniences.

Third, to the extent that I may be subject in the upcoming year to a little bit of harshness, I can make it better by repentance prayer and charity. I can make my life better by repenting in the true sense of "t'shuvah", by changing course, by being thankful for my many blessings instead of focusing on my problems. Prayer can remind me to do this. The Jewish prayer book is full of praise and blessings for God's many wonders. By praying, I can remind myself of the splendor of the universe and the joy one can get from a lovely day or a pretty flower, or the sweetness of a child's kiss. Charity can help me get my mind off myself, by reaching out to those with bigger problems than I have. Even with the problems I have reaching, I can still reach as far as my checkbook, and that can help a lot of people in need.

So I guess I've got my work cut out for me this High Holiday Season, as always, but with the same opportunities as everyone else to make this a meaningful time of reflection, and to make the next year better than the last.

Wishing all of you and your families a Good and Sweet Year, and may you all be be inscribed for blessing in the Book of Life.

Reflections on 40 Years of Marriage

2011-03-31T13:43:00.000-07:00

I hated to let our fortieth anniversary pass without writing about it -- but I've had writer's block. Finally, I read through years of old journal entries, and I realized why.

The reason that I find it hard to write about forty years of marriage is that I don't have a lot to say. Our story is amazingly simple. We fell in love, we stayed in love. In short, we were lucky.

I have no secrets about how to have a happy marriage. If you asked the experts, we probably did everything wrong. Sometimes we yelled, got mad about stupid little things, took out our frustrations on each other.

We never stayed mad for an entire 24 hours, but that was not by design. It was just that neither of us could stand it when the other was angry. If we left the house angry in the morning, we would each go into our office, close the door, call the other and make up.

In fact, most of our fights centered around one of us acting angry or inattentive, taking the other for granted, or, God forbid, seeming not to need or want the other around. Maybe we were always a little immature, but we somehow believed that if we fought about it enough, we could make our love perfect. I could never accept being together just because we fell in love once a long time ago. I wanted us to fall in love again, and again, and again...and we did.

For no particular reason, John always made me happy. Don't get me wrong, John is a wonderful person, and many people have told me so. But there are a lot of other wonderful people in the world. There is no explanation for why John's particular voice, particular smile, particular touch, make me so happy. I have stopped looking for the reason.

Now that we're older, we actually get along better. We have enough money, no young children to raise, and we've finally each learned to trust our judgment that marrying each other was a good idea. We've gotten past the idea that just because we married young, it would never work out. That was our parents' idea -- I sometimes feel that they went to their graves still waiting for our marriage to fail.

We haven't actually ever accepted the fact that we aren't still young, and, as long as we are together, we never need to. We adore being grandparents, but have simply adjusted our perspective, believing that we are young, our children are barely grown, and our grandchildren are babies.

We fell in love in what was then a faraway place, Rouen, France, when we were studying abroad. We never had a chance to show anyone in the family where our budding romance occurred... until this year. We had hoped to return with our whole family, but our daughter Rachel, her husband Jon, and their twenty month old twins had just relocated to Arkansas and were happily settling in. Our son Marc, his wife Cheryl and their two children, Hannah (7) and Max (3), were, however, able to accompany us to Paris, with a day planned for a trip to Rouen.

When we got to Rouen, it was gray and rainy. The streets looked smaller than I remembered, the pedestrian mall was deserted. I was telling myself to accept the fact we could never really share the magic, when, walking down the street holding Hannah's hand, she asked me how Grandpa and I knew were were in love.

It was, in fact, the street John and I were walking on, discussing an F.Scott Fitzgerald book, when he first proposed. At the time, I was so excited, I considered myself a veritable Zelda while she was still full of life and excitement.

When precious little Hannah asked me that question, I knew at once that she was the right person for the job of eldest grandchild. She was naturally intuitive, and would be a wonderful keeper of the flame. Suddenly the rain was beautiful, perfect really, and I felt as happy as I had on the day John had proposed. Maybe happier. The dreams we had dreamed so long ago and so far away had come true. In fact, life had exceeded our dreams, for we had made our way back to this place not only with a child, as we had dreamed, but with grandchildren too.

It took me a moment to answer Hannah's question. Then, I knew the answer was clear. "I just wanted to be with him all the time, " I said. And you know what? I still do.

Top 10 Reasons its lucky to have a Chronic Degenerative Disease

2011-03-18T05:09:00.000-07:00

10. You learn to be a good actor, telling people you "love retirement", and "never really wanted to go on that trip anyway"...

9. You improve your math and organizational skills sorting medications and keeping track of doctors' appointments.

8. You get to use a stylish cane (walker, wheelchair...).

7. You get a lot of nice views of the backs of your friends and relatives as they walk ahead of you, leave you resting on a bench...

6. You finally have a good excuse not to try out for the Olympics.

5. You have an opportunity to actually understand Medicare, so at least you know why your prescriptions aren't covered.

4. You have a chance to be on a first name basis with your pharmacist.

3. You have time to see all the reruns of "Golden Girls", "Gunsmoke", and "Leave it to Beaver".

2. You have hours every day to sing out loud, with no one around to complain.

1. You have plenty of time to sit around composing stupid top ten lists!

Finding Myself --- Again

2010-12-09T01:38:00.000-08:00

Flashback: The year is 1981, it is evening, and I am walking on the streets of New York alone, on my was to see the movie, "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I have been sent by my new employer, the State of Connecticut Banking Department, to New York to attend a conference. In the evening between the two days of the conference I go to the movie. I am so excited. My new legal career has been launched, and I am managing as a working Mom. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is.

Flashforward: It is December 8, 2010, the last night of Chanukah. I am sitting in my favorite lounge chair, surrounded by diet ginger ale, used kleenex, and empty pill containers. I have taken all my medications for the day, including my pre-bedtime dose of medication for my bronchitis and my middle of the night dose of Parkinson's Disease medicine. I've had a nice day, out with friends to a museum trip and luncheon, out with John for one last night of latkes, and a nice long chat with my sister. All this topped off with a phone call from my daughter Rachel saying that she and her husband Jon will accept my offer to accompany them on their move to Arkansas, and to stay for a week or so to help watch the kids while they settle in. John has said that maybe he can come on the weekend.

John went to bed a couple of hours ago, but I needed to unwind. Just for fun, I have just watched an old romantic movie from 1989 called "Chances Are". It's hard to watch without feeling a little sad about how good Robert Downey, Jr. used to be. During the movie, I am feeling excited, thinking about the trip to Arkansas, and our upcoming trip to Paris with Marc and Cheryl and their children. I am wondering if I can pull it all off, or will be felled by more bronchitis. But, reminding myself that both Paris and Arkansas are warmer in the winter than Connecticut, I feel optimistic. Besides, antibiotics are available both in Arkansas and Paris, just in case.

As I am about to go to bed, the television announcer states that the next movie is "The French Lieutenant's Woman". I make the motions of staying up to watch it, but knowing that I will fall asleep, I hit the DVR button so I can see the rest in the morning. I settle back in my lounge chair, and happily begin to watch the movie. I love the movie beyond all proportion to how good it is. It is a sign: my new career, as traveling Grandma, is being launched.

As life goes on, and things change, moving forward for me has not been so much a process of reinventing myself, but of finding myself again in the new surroundings. I realize now that it wasn't being a lawyer that defined me, it was being enthusiastic, and excited about what I was doing that defined me. In "The French Lieutenant's Woman" the characters are movie stars who glide back and forth between the roles they play as 19th century Londoners, and their real lives, but the story is eerily similar in both settings, and the ending uncertain. Perhaps that is why I have always loved that movie, it is a story of self transcending setting. It is also a reminder to me that there are times in life when joy happens, when difficulties only appear to be challenges, and when new doors open when we least expect it.

Do I love "The French Lieutenant's Woman" beyond proportion to how good it is? Do I love life beyond proportion to how good it is? Maybe -- or maybe sometimes, a movie, or a day, is really just that good.

Joy and Solemnity

2010-03-19T02:47:00.000-07:00

Flashback: It is 1959, and I have been awarded a menorah as a prize for the best essay in our Sunday school class on my favorite holiday. Of course, I have written about Passover. I not only loved Passover, but was so proud of my parents for the wonderful seders they made. My father led the seder, and my mother cooked, but they both did their jobs perfectly. Every year, my father introduced a new fact about Passover, which he personally researched. He would lead us through the seder with a mix of joy and solemnity that captured the essence of the holiday.

Flashforward: It is 2010, and 18 people are around our seder table. Well, not entirely around the table. My daughter-in-law Cheryl, who is awaiting back surgery, in lying on the couch. She has made the journey from Newton to Newington, almost two hours of agony in the car, just so she and my son and grandchildren could be with us. My sister Melinda is sitting on the other couch, afraid to move. She was taken to the emergency room in an ambulance from our home the night before due to an extreme attack of vertigo, one of many she has had recently. My 10 month old grandchildren Nathaniel and Evelyn are sitting in high chairs for most of the ceremony, although my daughter Rachel and Evelyn join the group in the living room when Evelyn gets restless. My grandson Max, almost 2 and one half, is making himself at home wandering from one end of the table to the next, his own version of being around the table. Fortunately, in our home we have had to extend the tables into the living room to fit everyone in, so the ceremony is fully visible to those not exactly around the table. I have tried to find comfortable chairs for my Aunt Beryl and my friend Maxanne, both of whom are also experiencing back pain. I myself have been banned from helping to serve the Matzah Ball soup, because the tremors from my Parkinson's Disease have become sufficiently frequent that I am considered by one and all to be a danger around hot liquids. Besides that, I have not successfully fought off my cold, despite three days of bed rest, and I know that the with all of this activity I am risking another round of bronchitis.

Despite this, we are all here. As the time for the seder approaches, everyone is dressed up, and chatting gaily, watching the babies' antics, and listening to our 6 year old granddaughter Hannah report that she is prepared to do the first of the four questions in Hebrew as a solo this year. I call everyone to the table and we begin.

As the matriarch of the family, we ask our Aunt Beryl, now 81, to kindle the holiday lights. She does the English reading, and we all join in on the Hebrew prayer. My husband John leads the seder. Each year he uses the large reader's volume of the Haggadah, which was part of a gift to my parents along with the original set of eight Haggadot that my brothers and sister and I gave to my parents many years ago (as childen, we used the Maxwell House haggadot). At first, maybe we felt like John was channeling my father through that big book, with my father's penciled annotations, which John refuses to erase. Now, however, John has developed his own style, which moves me. He goes through each ritual, reads loudly enough for all to hear, but gently, and pauses enough to let me jump in with a suggestion of where to continue or what to chant in Hebrew. He smiles graciously throughout the service. As an adult convert to Judaism, John leads the basic Hebrew blessings, but where we opt to add more Hebrew chanting, John graciously turns it over to others. Thus we ask Marc, our son who had majored in Jewish and Near Eastern studies in college, to chant the kiddush, and to lead us in the Birkat Hamazon after the service. I sometimes kick of the singing of the other songs, as does our son-in-law Jon, who is good at keeping on the right page and keeping us moving along.

Soon, we are all participating in the ceremonies. It doesn't matter that some of us are not Jewish, (my sister-in-law Kathy, wife of my brother Andy, and my nephew Matt are Catholic), we all join in. My Uncle Yale, who takes pride in considering himself not to be religious, participates fully. Hannah chants the introduction to the four questions and the first of the four questions beautifully in her clear, sweet 6 year old voice. When John discusses the Matzah, the poor man's bread, Max exhibits the toy Matzah with a gleeful cry "Matzah", and we know he is paying attention. He joins in the loud and joyful choruses of Dayenu, and Nate smiles gaily and bangs his hand on the high chair tray in tune to the music. Nate is so excited that he sits in his high chair through the whole pre-meal part of the service, and, his father reports to us later, tries every dish (cut up in small pieces on the high chair tray). Evie spends some of the time reclining on her Mother's lap, but drinks it all in and stays awake for the whole pre-meal portion of the service. Hannah masterfully steals and hides the Afikomen, to be ransomed back later.

I know that my nephew Dan, who has come from New York, and makes a point of joining us whenever he can, will remember the many Seders shared with us, as part of his own history, as will my own children. Will the grandchildren? Will this be a vague memory, spoken of when cousins reunite at weddings and Bar Mitzvahs (remember when we were little and we had the Seder at Grandma and Grandpa's house), or will it only be the type of vague memory that lets them know that not a year when by without a seder?

I realize that this doesn't matter. We have fulfilled the Mitzvah, we have celebrated the Passover. All of the adults present, whether with their own children or children born to others yet raised by us all, have participated in the Mitzvah of passing on the tradition from one generation to the next. We have had our seder, lead with a mixture of joy and solemnity, which captures the essence of the holiday.

Postscript: It is now a little more than two weeks after the seder, and Cheryl has had successful back surgery, Melinda is in treatment for her vertigo, which seems to have been triggered by a virus, and appears to be slowly recovering, and my bout of bronchitis has come and gone.

The Picture

2010-01-28T17:26:00.000-08:00

Flashback: It is the spring of 1999, and 21 year old Rachel is graduating from American University, the last class of the century. She is about to take off to Israel, for a year of volunteer work and study. We have traveled to Washington, D.C. for the occasion with our 24 year old son Marc, and our two mothers. Marc is working in New York and going to graduate school. John and I are fully engrossed in our careers in Connecticut. There is a lot of promise on the horizon.

Flashforward:

It is January 28, 2010 and I am looking at the happy family picture that we just had taken last month. The picture includes Marc and his wife Cheryl with their two children, Max and Hannah; Rachel and her husband Jon with their two children, Nathaniel and Evelyn; and me and John. I wanted to have the picture taken to capture a moment in time when everyone in the family was happy. As I looked over the picture, I realized that while the last decade had brought us to this happy period, it was filled with the multitude of difficulties that life inevitably involves. Still, we had made it through, and grown as a family in numbers and in strength.

I guess that's why the picture was so important to me, to celebrate our collective happiness.

As Rachel put it, the picture represents a moment in time when our dreams, as a family, had come true. Whatever was in the past, whatever is in the future, I will always remember this moment in time with gratitude, and all of the wonderful people in the picture, who shared this moment with me, with love.

New Year 2010

2010-01-04T03:37:00.000-08:00

Flashback:

It is December 31, 1968, and I am a sophomore in college. I have nothing particular to do on New Year's eve. My parents are going out, and need a babysitter for my 10 year old brother. My roommate Vickie comes over, and she and I and my kid brother Jeff have an impromptu party. Jeff plays the cello for us, he has been taking cello lessons. It turns out to be a surprisingly fun way to see in the new year.

Flashforward:

It is almost any New Year's even in the 1980's, and we are celebrating with our friends Bonnie and David. Bonnie and I have been friends since we were 14. Some years we see each other more than others, but we almost always get together on New Year's eve. Sometimes she cooks, sometimes I do, sometimes we both spring for babysitters and go out for dinner. But we always come back to one of our homes or the other for "coffee and..." and to have a glass of champagne as we turn on the TV to watch the ball drop at Times Square at midgnight.

Flashforward:

It is December 2009, a few days before New Years, and I get the urge to call Vicky, whom I haven't spoken to for over 10 years. I find her listed in the telephone book, and I call. She is, of course, surprised to hear from me, but states that her brother is there and they are about to go to the festival of trees at the Wadsworth Anthaeneum in Hartford. I tell her I will call her back, but I haven't yet.

I get another call around that time from Bonnie. We had made plans for New Year's Eve dinner at a restaurant. Because David's mother had just died, however, we decided to skip the champagne and dessert part of the evening. Now Bonnie is letting me know that her father is dying. He dies just before New Year's eve, and we spend New Year's eve afternoon and early evening at his funeral.

I had invited a friend for Shabbat dinner on New Year's day, but I was exhausted, and didn't enjoy myself as much as I had hoped to. My exhaustion was due not only to the funeral, but to the busy week we had had. The week started with Christmas Eve at my Sister-in-law's, then hosting my son Marc and his family overnight. We then babysat for his children, so Marc and his wife Cheryl could get away for a night. They returned before lunch on Saturday, so we could all have a family portrait taken along with my daughter Rachel and her husband Jon and their twin babies. This was my idea, because I wanted to record this moment in time when everyone was happy for a 60th birthday present to myself. Before Marc and his family left on Sunday, we went to my sister's for a belated family Chanukah party, because the party originally scheduled during Chanukah had been cancelled due to in impending snow storm.

Marc was back for dinner on Tuesday to drop off Hannah, his almost 6 year old daughter. We had invited Hannah to come to New York to see Mary Poppins on Broadway as her Chanukah present. Seeing the play with Hannah was wonderful, we all enjoyed the day immensely. But Hannah had been so excited that she woke up and got dressed at 4:30 am, and New York was crowded, so we were all tired by the end of the day.

The next day, John drove as we brought Hannah safely back home, stopping for breakfast on the way. Hannah was relieved that after a good night's sleep, John and I had overcome our crankiness and were back to normal. At breakfast, she reviewed the pictures of the actors on the Mary Poppins program, carefully marking them with the initials of the character each played, which she sounded out for herself. She was anxious to share this with her Mom. For a souvenir, she had bought a snow globe music box, her first, also to help her share the experience with her Mom. I was delighted that she had chosen this, and hoped that she would always keep it to remember our special day together. We dropped her off with her souvenirs, all smiles as she usually was. Then John drove us straight to the funeral, with only a brief stop for lunch.

Although I was not well acquainted with Bonnie's father, I felt as if I knew him from hearing her speak of him all of these years, and I cried throughout the funeral service. After the internment, a Shivah service was held at a small synagogue in Wethersfield, followed by the funeral meal. I was glad we attended because, although there had been a good number of Jewish friends at the service, by evening, most of the remaining people in attendance were not Jewish, and we were needed to make a minion. I was also glad I attended because most of those that stayed for the meal were friends of Bonnie's brother, and I wanted to be there for Bonnie.

Bonnie is my oldest "continuous" friend. I say "continuous" because I have reconnected with another friend from high school, but I had been out of touch with that other friend for about 15 years at one point. I feel bad for Bonnie and David, because when our last parent died (John's mother had died about 18 months earlier), we had two grandchildren, and Rachel was married and hoping to be able to have children soon. Neither of Bonnie's two children are married yet, and I thought it must be hard to officially become the older generation when there is not yet a third generation, nor one on the horizon.

After resting thoroughly on Saturday and Sunday, I was feeling pretty cheerful, and I had had an epiphany. I decided to give in to my illness, and to take it easier. If would no longer make the effort to keep up with John, but would send him off to work and to his book club and Torah study, Bar association meetings, and study groups more graciously. I would let him live as a healthy person, and I would live as a sick person. It was a relief to realize that it would be okay to lay down the effort of trying to live more normally. I am still a happy person, and I have realized that there are a lot of quiet activities that I can enjoy. Watching old movies, reflecting on life, finding and cooking new recipes that I can prepare in the morning before I am too tired, reading, babysitting the twins early in the day, visits with friends and family, and attending book and discussion groups that meet in the morning. Among the attendees of these groups are others who are tired, due to age or circumstance, and I can enjoy their company.

That evening, I received a call from yet another old friend with whom I had recently reconnected. She was part of our Junior Year in France group, but had missed our 40th year reunion due to illness. She is extremely ill with cancer that has metasticized to her liver, and has been in a nursing home for over a year. Her children are young (16, 18, and 20), and her marriage is not strong. John and I started visiting occasionally, and had given a luncheon at our home in her honor for local JYA alumni, to cheer her a little. Last night she called with fear in her voice. Today would be the test to see if her tumors were shrinking or at least stable, her youngest child was in the emergency room as we spoke with fever and severe neck pain, and her elderly Mother had fallen the day before. Although the problems of my illness seem small compared to hers, I have been able to bond with sick people since my illness. I felt good that she felt comfortable enough to call me to share her problems. Although we had been out of touch for 40 years, we now relate in a number of ways, such as our shared love of classic movies, and I now genuinely care about what is happening to her.

It has been a bitter sweet New Year, but it has left me feeling calm and happy. I myself am not even sure why. Perhaps it is because this New Year has brought with it the gift of acceptance. I can accept my age and my illness. I can accept that death comes to all, but that only premature death is a tragedy. I can accept laying down the struggle, with the realization that I have had my turn, and I must not interfere with the people in my life who are now living fully to the best of their ability, whether my age or younger. I can accept that for me, life is still beautiful, if a little slower. As I enter 2010, I rejoice in these blessings.

Thanksgiving 2009 - A Sentimental Remembrance

2009-11-23T00:33:00.000-08:00

Flashback:

Pick any Thanksgiving in my childhood, and chances are we are on our way to Aunt Beryl and Uncle Yale's house for Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Beryl is my mother's sister. We shared just about every Thanksgiving and Passover with them. Thanksgiving was usually at her house and Passover was at our house. Thanksgiving was reserved for a day to spend with my mother's side of the family. Beryl and Yale spent the Jewish Hight Holy Days at big family gatherings on Yale's side of the family. We dropped by at my paternal Grandmother's house after services on Rosh Hashonah for Kremslach, and I can still remember seders at her apartment when I was very young. But Thanksgiving will always be associated for me with my mother's family.

My Mother had lost her own mother when she was nineteen and Beryl was 11. After that time, she helped to raise Aunt Beryl, and they were still very close as adults. It didn't occur to me at the time that Thanksgiving might have been a little hard for them as young women. They never had the chance to go to Mom's house for Thanksgiving, showing off their new husbands and the children as they arrived, or to get the favorite family recipes from their mother. If they felt any sadness, they never let us know. For us as children, Thanksgiving was a gala family event.

Thanksgiving at Aunt Beryl's house was more than a meal, it was an all day event. Aunt Beryl and Uncle Yale were and are both great cooks, and the dinner was always delicious. We stayed and visited all afternoon, and at supper time, turkey sandwiches and more pie was always served. I don't remember doing much of anything during those hours, other than watching everyone else. My mother and Aunt Beryl talked all afternoon. My young sister Melinda played with Aunt Beryl's daughter Miriam, who was her age. Shortly after my younger brother Jeff came along, Aunt Beryl had her daughter Lisa, so they were natural playmates. After a while, my older brother Andy started tagging along after Uncle Yale, who probably enjoyed the company. They are still close, and Uncle Yale even introduced my brother Andy to his wife Kathy. As for me, I remember spending the time eavesdropping on the conversations my mother was having with Aunt Beryl, and checking on my father napping in the living room.

When I was young, my maternal grandfather, his sister Great Aunt Nettie, and her husband Uncle Henry, often came to Thanksgiving dinner. Every member of the family had a story. We loved them because of their stories, or in spite of them.

Aunt Nettie's story was that she had been a beautiful young woman who put off marriage so that she could care for her ailing mother until her death. During that time, she worked as a school teacher. By the time her mother died, Aunt Nettie was near 40. She married a curmudgeonly old dentist, Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry said little at family gatherings, until it was time to leave. Then, he would rouse himself and say "Well, Nettie". My siblings and I still sometimes say "Well, Nettie" when we feel like its time to leave a family event. My mother thought that Uncle Henry was a miser, that he and Nettie should have lived in a nicer house and that Nettie should have had a chance to travel. Still, I thought Aunt Nettie loved him. I still remember the look of abject grief that she wore at his funeral.

My grandfather's story was more complex. He had been widowed young. He came by our house often in his big green cadillac. He bought us toys and amused us by balancing grapes in his eyes. We rarely went to his apartment. It was inhabited by the mysterious "French Woman". The "French Woman" never came to our house. It was my grandfather himself who referred to her as the "French Woman", my parents never spoke of her at all. My Grandfather would sometimes mention her, or at least mention that he had to go home because he had something to do with the "French Woman". Occasionally, we ran into them on a hot summer day, at the beach. My grandfather would be in his old fashioned bathing suit, with a top like a man's sleeveless undershirt. He'd come over to our beach umbrella and say hello, but the "French Woman" kept her distance. I only remember going to my Grandfather's apartment once, when my mother and grandfather had some kind of adult appointment. The "French Woman" babysat for me for the afternoon. I was 8 or 9. She found a Shirley Temple movie on TV for me to watch, and brought me snacks. She had dark curly hair, and a slight Canadian French accent. I thought she seemed nice enough. I always thought of her as my Grandfather's cleaning woman with whom he happened to have grown close.

My Grandfather died when I was 10, and I remember how angry my mother was that the "French Woman" thought she was entitled to some of his things. It wasn't until years later that my mother told me that she was his mistress. As a widower, my mother said that there were many respectable Jewish widows whom my Grandfather could have married. Instead he took up with the "French Woman". My mother believed that the "French Woman" was an alcoholic who had insinuated herself into my Grandfather's life, and that he was too weak to make her leave. I had a more romanticized view. My view was that my grandfather loved my grandmother so much, that he could never bring himself to remarry. Still, he had needs, and the "French Woman" was able to accept him on those terms, without the benefit of marriage.

In 1959, my grandfather died just before Thanksgiving. My last few words with him were in a telephone call just before he went into the hospital for surgery. He called for my mother, and when I answered the phone, he told me that he would see me on Thanksgiving, and to be sure to save some turkey for him. This one year, Thanksgiving was going to be at our house, and my Uncle Albert from Pennsylvania was coming up with his family. Instead of being our Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey and fixings sustained us all through the funeral period. I remember wondering what we would have done for food if my mother hadn't had all of the Thanksgiving fixings in the house.

I remember that my Uncle Albert came up first, and then his family flew in. I got to go to the airport to pick them up. When they got off the plane, Aunt Dorothy, Uncle Albert's wife, said that our grandfather had been like a fairy tale grandfather. This stuck in my mind, because I thought it was so untrue. I figured that she must have thought that because they lived so far away and rarely saw him. To me, he was a real man. I remembered how he struggled to learn the Torah blessing for my brother's Bar Mitzvah, and how proud he looked on the Bimah. I remembered how he took us to Chanukah parties at Temple Beth Israel, where they served fried chicken but no latkes, and how he pointed out to me, with admiration, the great Rabbi Feldman, who indeed was an internationally recognized scholar. I remembered that he tended to doze off during services, and that he gave my mother her first clothes drier. I felt bad for my cousins who could only remember him as someone from a fairy tale, and not as a real man, "French Woman" and all.

Flashforward:

It is November 23, 2009, the Monday before Thanksgiving. I am a grandmother of four. Over the weekend my husband John and I had an overnight our daughter's 6 month old twins, and I will see them again today. On Sunday morning, when they woke up, we fed them bottles in our bedroom, then all played together in the bed, all four of us smiling and laughing. I spoke to my son Saturday afternoon, and we began making our plans for a Chanukah visit, followed by a Christmas vacation visit, a visit for his children's January birthdays, and an overnight visit with his children, who are almost 6 and 2. I am sure that visit will involve some early morning tickles and giggling as well. I am fortunate that I see them all often.

This Thanksgiving, however, instead of spending the day with my children and grandchildren, I will again be visiting with "my Mother's side of the family". I am looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of my brother Andy and my sister-in-law, Kathy. Aunt Beryl and Uncle Yale, now 80, will be joining us for dinner. Thankfully, some things never change.

October 19 Blog

2009-11-07T17:58:00.000-08:00

Please note that as of today, November 7, 2009, my latest blog is actually the October 19 blog about being an author (it posted on the day I started the draft, rather than on the day I posted it). Does anybody know how to fix this?

Halloween

2009-11-01T01:52:00.000-07:00

Flashback:

It is October 31, 1958, and I am dressed in my brothers khaki civil air patrol suit, to pose as a soldier for Halloween. I go around the neighborhood with two friends, since our parents feel that 9 year olds are old enough not to need adult supervision. The weather is nice (I am warm enough with a sweater under my costume), and we wander father through the streets of the neighborhood than we ever have before. At one house, the woman invites us in and gives us warm caramel apples. We eat them as we start heading for home. It is the most delicious Halloween treat ever. I marvel that someone went to so much trouble for the trick or treaters. It was a wonderful Halloween.

Flash forward:

It is October 31, 2009, and I awake from a nightmare at 5:00 am.

In the nightmare, we are at a convention. I have lost track of my husband John. He had gotten annoyed when I snapped at him about something inane, and wandered off with an attractive single friend. I am feeling annoyed and jealous and I want to find him. I wander into the front of an auditorium where a program is about to begin, to look for them. The room swims, and my legs ache. I sit on the steps in the front of the crowded auditorium, and a South American dictator enters. Security is tight. I feel nervous, but I notice that my friend Alice, whom I have known since high school, is sitting nearby. I innocently take notes on the program as some children from the South American country testify as to the wonderful medical care they have received. A woman with her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, a military uniform, and a small white earpiece with a white wire in her ear confiscates my notes. I feel afraid and look for my friend Alice, but she has left. I want to leave, but I am afraid to because I move so awkwardly, that I am afraid I will attract attention trying to rise from the steps and exit. I awaken with a start.

I lie there quietly, not wanting to awaken John. If it were a weekday, I would get up, but it is Shabbat, and I am hoping he will awaken and turn to me. I especially don't want to awaken John because I had already kept him awake enough this week. Tuesday, I was cranky when I came home from a day trip with my club. The facilitator decided that a slow luxurious lunch, such as we usually have with these trips, would be a waste of time because we were going to a museum with a lot to see. But after wandering the museum for hours (even though I used my travel cane to lean on) my legs ached and I was exhausted. I felt annoyed that women older than me had a lot more energy for roaming the museum, and no one else used a cane. A woman I did not know had sat next to me on the bus, and talked to me about how she missed her busy life as a state legislator now that she had retired. Without planning to, I tell her that I used to miss my job, but now that my memory is slipping, I have so much trouble just getting through the day that I no long miss it. Then I am annoyed at myself for revealing something so personal, and annoyed even more that this is true. So, I snap at John that evening.

Then, later in the week, I go to the Temple Sisterhood dinner. I sit with friends and enjoy myself, until it is over. Then, exhausted, I get up to leave, and notice that everyone else is bustling around helping with the clean up. I walk out with a woman in her nineties, who seems to be the only other completely exhausted person in the room (it is only 8:00 pm). That night, when John gets up to use the bathroom, I sit up in bed and say "Damn it, Damn it, Damn it!". I punch the pillow in anger. He asks me what is wrong, and I tell him how angry I am at having been exhausted and not able to bustle around like the others. He tries to comfort me, but I am wound up. I decide to go watch TV downstairs, so he can go back to sleep.

The next morning I report to him that I am calm. I spend the morning cooking Shabbat dinner (bread in the bread machine, haricots vert with roasted peppers and onions, and casserole of turkey, mushrooms, onion and barley). I get lost in the tasks and forget my problems. As I cook, the pleasant young woman who cleans for us cleans upstairs. When she comes down, I have not quite finished cooking and we chit chat about Halloween costumes and what I am cooking. She has never heard of barley, and I show her the grain.

By Shabbat morning I am feeling rested, and I decide that if John is not up by 6:00, I will get up. I doze off again, and then John is awake. I tell him my dream, and he comforts me, knowing that I am oddly anxious about him being with other women. I read that this itself is a symptom of Parkinson's Disease. He soothes me, and age and time are now meaningless concepts. Before we rise, he says he will turn on the news, to see if the world is still there.

We have a good day. While I cook French Toast, John sends our son-in-law a Happy Birthday message. I prepare Turkey a la king for dinner. With my sister, we go to services, and rise for the mourner's kaddish because it is my father's yartzheit. We stop for lunch with my sister at a local pizza shop, and then she goes off and John and I go to Real Art Ways, a Hartford Arts and Cinema venue. We see a French film that we had seen in Paris two years ago. We are delighted with the scenes of Paris, and we love the film again.

We stop to buy pretzels for Halloween treats, and watch "The Cat Women", and "The Return of the Cat Women" as we eat our suppers and hand out the treats. By 8:00 the treats have all been distributed, and the street is quiet. We turn out the lights.

I check facebook and find happy messages from the kids. Our son-in-law enjoyed his birthday, and compliments our daughter on the delicious dinner she cooked. Our daughter has commented on the Halloween costumes of the neighborhood kids who are dressed like popular children's entertainers. Our daughter-in-law chimes in because she knows about all of the popular kids' entertainers from our five year old granddaughter. Our daughter-in-law has also posted a reminder that this is the tenth anniversary of their first date, and my son responds happily and mentions that he has posted their first date picture. I remember that our son had come home for our 50th birthday Halloween costume party, and had borrowed the car the next day to drive to Boston. At 9:39 my daughter calls to report on the day's events and that her baby twins looked cute in their costumes but didn't like them. She tells me that she has posted to my Facebook wall that she is glad I am her Mom, and to John's wall that she is glad he is her Dad. I tell her that I too am glad I am her Mom, and marvel that she would go to the trouble to make these posts.

I am warmed by memories of my father, and the Halloweens when he marched through the neighborhood with me. I feel contented by the nice day I have had, and happy to know that the kids and grandkids all had a nice day too. It was a wonderful Halloween.

Sixty Years of Memories

2009-10-20T11:08:00.000-07:00

Flashback:

Pick any year between 1950 and today, and undoubtedly on October 20 I would have been celebrating my birthday. I remember the birthday parties and the orange halloween cakes. I remember the presents from the kids, friends and family; the cards, good wishes and cakes; the years of candles blown out. I remember that when I turned 18, my parents drove up to UConn to take me to dinner at the Altneveigh Inn. I remember that my first date with John was on my 20th birthday in Paris, and that I got engaged to John on my 21st birthday. I remember that on our 50th birthdays we threw a halloween party, complete with costumes, and that Rachel missed it because she was in Israel then, and Marc had his first date with Cheryl the next day.

Flash forward:

Today I turned 60. I am glad to be alive, and to have lived to see my children married and with families of their own. I was glad to go with John to Paris to celebrate, and deeply grateful for the generosity of friends and relatives who are treating me to assorted invitations, cards, good wishes, and gifts. Although I am filled with an overwhelming variety of emotions, the predominate one is gratitude for all that I have experienced during the past sixty years, and all of the people I have known.

To me, birthday celebrations have been important. They have helped me to mark the time, and created lasting memories of the people who have been in my life. They have focused my reflections, and prompted me to pause to appreciate my life. In the next couple of months, I will be attending a 90th birthday party and a one year birthday party -- celebrating a life well lived, and the promise of young life. So to us all, whatever age we may be -- L'Chaim - To Life!

Oh to be an author!

2009-10-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

Flashback:

The year is 1967, and I am surreptitiously carving quotes from John Kerouac's On the Road into the school desk while the teacher drones on. Many things have been carved into the desk before, but not by me. It is, however, the end of my senior year, and it is now or never. Now or never not just for carving words into the desk, but for breaking away, for going On the Road, for defying convention, for being a writer. But how can I write, without writing about sex and longing, feelings and hating, loneliness, and passion? And how can I write about those things, knowing that my parents will read them? No, I think, I don't have the guts. I will never be a writer. I will just go home, and eat scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Flash forward:

I have just had my sixtieth birthday, and I am now writing a blog. Judging by the reactions of my readers (friends and family), I'm not that good at getting my point across. Maybe not becoming a writer was a good decision after all. Still, I'm convinced that there is some universality to what I am trying to say, and that the story of my life is not so different from other people's stories. I want to talk about my view of what the things are that are really important and what the things are that matter.

Thus the blog about shoes wasn't really about shoes, it was about these things: that feeling happy about something doesn't depend on whether or not it is expensive (t-shirt vs. expensive shoes) or whether you are old or young (flashback vs. flash forward) but on your attitude that the particular thing is a treat, or a good buy, or a luxury, or just something that you wanted. It's also about making the best of a bad situation (wearing hand-me-downs or needing to wear orthodics) to the point where you see it as a good situation. So it's about relativity, but also about longing, and longing fulfilled (the nice shoes), and longing that will never be fulfilled (wearing high heels again).

The blog about Halloween may have sounded like a lot of venting, and in a way maybe it was, but it was also about this: that even when you feel low and discouraged, you can suddenly feel again that kind of pure happiness that you felt in childhood. I tried to honestly describe my low not to get pity, but to try to make the point stronger that you can be feeling pretty low and discouraged, but still experience that pleasure of just feeling happy. It's harder, in a way, to describe the happiness. Do I flash forward to fireworks as a symbol for passion? Do I come out and say that I know a thousand things may be going wrong in my life, and I understand that a thousand things may be going wrong in your life, but let's all try to get past that and just feel good when we get the chance, and try to appreciate each other? Do I just come out and say that rather than trying to say it through a story?

What do you do if you can't write like F. Scott Fitzgerald? How do you describe the fact that incredible pain and incredible happiness sometimes go hand in hand. How do you say that sometimes something that might be viewed as sorrowful isn't all that bad, and that something that society seems to view as a good thing isn't so good for you.

My view of life may be naive, because I've never lived through a sorrow that was so horrific that it crushed my very soul. Yet, my observation of knowing people who have lived through such sorrow is that they survived by actively seeking out and appreciating what remained in their lives that was good and beautiful in the truest sense. My Grandmother grew up in poverty, fled persecution, worked in sweatshops, was widowed at 46, and then lost a 23 year old son in World War II. Yet she was truly happy being with her family or good friends. She loved having her grandchildren visit. She was always ready with a cake in the freezer in case company dropped in.

It follows that my Dad lost his Dad as a teenager, and his brother shortly after that. My mother also lost her mother when she was a teenager. Both of my parents grew up in poverty. Yet their smiles when we went on a picnic, or a day at the beach, were filled with joy. They appreciated the prosperity that let them have a comfortable home, clothes, plenty to eat, now and then a day or a week at the beach, and bicycles for the kids. My mom loved to swim. My Dad played catch with us in the back yard. They had lived through a lot, but their love of life, and their joy in their family gave them so much.

My Aunt Nettie never had financial problems, but she married late, and never had children. She had been a teacher, and she loved children, and she must have longed for a family of her own. Instead, she took that love and she spread it around to all of her nieces and her nephews. She came for visits, and I though of her as the maternal Grandmother I had never met. When she was gone, and I was an adult, I met an adult from our congregation that at best would be categorized as "slow", though I never knew the real diagnosis. She told me that my Aunt Nettie had befriended their family, and had given her a confirmation present. In tribute to Aunt Nettie I befriended her too.

Her name was Emily, and she inspired me. She was slow, and annoyed people, she needed social workers, and suffered from paranoia. Despite that, or maybe because of it, she appreciated any little kindness that anyone showed her. At first, we drove her to the bus so she could have a day at the beach. Then, when that bus stopped, we took her to the beach now and then. Finally, we took her once a year to Elizabeth Park, had her over for some holidays, and drove her now and then to services. She wrote a thank you note for every ride and every outing, no matter how small. She never forgot a hostess gift. She enjoyed life whenever she had the chance, as narrow as her life was.

I feel humbled to have known such courageous people. They were not rich or famous, well-educated or well-known. But, in my opinion, they lived life brilliantly. They knew who they were, and what mattered to them. They never apologized for who they were or for who they weren't. They appreciated sunshine and fresh air, being with friends and playing with children, praying and celebrating. They complained, they got angry, they had frustrations, they mourned. But in the end, to me, their overriding quality was an unabashed love of life.

I once thought that you could only write about life if you could somehow write simultaneously in a thousand different colors, to capture the richness and the nuance in every situation. I want to try to write like that. I am now sixty, if I am going to do it ever, I must do it now.

I think I will continue to blog. I am, at last, an author.

Wardrobe Delights

2009-10-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

Flashback:

The year is 1955, and I am playing in the neighborhood in the early summer, wearing my new sneakers and my new Davy Crockett T-Shirt. The sneakers were a yearly occurrence, but always a welcome one, freeing our feet from the oxford shoes worn by children during the school year.

The T-shirt, though, was really special. Best of all, my brother had an identical Davy Crockett T-shirt. That meant that, not only could we dress as twins now, but when my brother outgrew his, I could wear that one when mine got too small. I sure felt lucky to be the little sister. It was a real two for one deal!

Flash Forward:

It is late summer 2009, and I am perusing the "name Brand" section of the Nordstrom's shoe department. Because of my orthodics, and other issues with walking, the stylish high heels and sandals are out of the question. Fortunately for me, however, this has lead me to the belief that it is not inappropriate to splurge if I find a pair of comfortable shoes that will accommodate my orthodics, and still look stylish. This might sound like a tall task for some, but in the Nordstrom's brand name shoe department, nothing is impossible.

Then I see them! Suede Stuart Weitzman loafers for half price! Red and black. Black and red. Everyone who knows me knows that I have a thing for red shoes, but the black are more practical. Red or black? Black or red? Finally it hits me, maybe I should buy them both. After all, I can't go around embarrassing my husband by wearing orthopedic shoes before I am 60! I make the purchase, and go gleefully home.

Still I wonder, were they really half-price? I go back to the mall the next week when the sale is over, and there they are, at double the price I paid. I sure feel lucky to have spotted them while the sale was on. It was a real two for one deal!

The Fragility of Life

2009-10-11T02:00:00.000-07:00

Flashback:

The year is 1969, and I am lying on the bed in my dorm after dinner, barely breathing. Some of the other students in the dorm found me wandering the halls, gasping for breath. A nursing student guides me to my bed, and tells me to tip my head back, to clear my air passages. I follow her instructions, and put all of my energy into breathing. I hear other students saying that they called the infirmary and were told that it is probably menstrual cramps, so they are going to get the house mother. I want to tell them to find my roommate, who is my best friend, but I can't speak.

As I lie there, it becomes increasingly difficult to breathe. I think: it would be so much easier just to stop, but then I would be dead. I think: it wouldn't be so bad to die, it feels peaceful, and I don't feel afraid, but I will try to breathe a little longer.

Men rush into the room and immediately place an oxygen mask on my face. It becomes easier to breathe. One of the men lifts my hand and examines my fingers. He says: she doesn't look quite as blue. With the oxygen mask on my face, they lift me onto a stretcher, and take me to the infirmary with the sirens blaring.

In the infirmary, the doctor looks to me to be annoyed to have been disturbed. He immediately diagnoses an allergic reaction, and gives me a shot of adrenalin. Almost instantly, I am breathing easier. They keep me overnight, but send me back to the dorm for breakfast the next morning. My dorm is on the other side of the campus, and I feel light headed and unwell as I walk along, annoyed that they didn't allow me to rest longer.

But for the first time, I understand the fragility of life.

Flash Forward:

I am about to celebrate my sixtieth birthday, and I have lived fully.

Because of my early brush with death, I plunged forward in life, without regard to convention. Less than two years after the incident, and before I had finished college, I was married. Three and one half years after that I was nine months pregnant, and attending my Law School orientation, with my husband waiting in the library in case labor began. By the time I was thirty, I had two children, a full time job as a law clerk, and a husband who was working full time and going to law school nights as well.

Those busy, rapid, giddy, joyful, years proved to be a blessing. By the time I was 34, I had had a hysterectomy, after suffering for years with acute pain from large, but thankfully benign, tumors. Thank God I had had my children before the pain began! At 56, I was forced to retire due to chronic illness, but I was grateful for the long career I had had up to that point.

I am not by nature, a perpetually cheerful person. I kvetch, I complain, I argue, I yell. I try to see my life in melodramatic terms: after struggling to build a career in a male dominated firm, I am felled in my prime by chronic degenerative illness. But to be honest, it's not that bad.

The truth is, the office politics were getting very aggravating, and the long hours were keeping me from taking vacations. I had a great disability policy (thanks to the firm), so the early retirement was not a financial burden. Thanks to a bevy of brilliant and compassionate doctors, I keep going with a concoction of prescriptions, obviously created by another bevy of brilliant and compassionate doctors and scientists. My family and friends have been loving and supportive, my husband is still the love of my life, and my kids grew up to be amazingly kind and accomplished adults.

I still complain, I even complain a lot, but happy surprises interrupt my gloom. My children-in-law are both such nice people that I would be proud to have them as friends even if they weren't married to my children. The biggest surprise is the sheer joy that being a grandparent brings. Somehow, it brings you back to a time in your life when life was full of wonder and joy. As the babies are delighted by a sunbeam, you remember to enjoy the delights of sunlight. As a child is excited by a museum display, you remember the joy of learning.

I have now stepped into the role as family elder, a little more tired, a little more warn, but perhaps, if I am lucky, a little more wise. Despite my best efforts to be gloomy, I find my self looking forward to what the next stage of my life will bring. That's me, the inadvertent optimist.