Wednesday, November 1, 2023

The neighbor

Nine years ago, we were asked to leave our first apartment in Israel. Our landlord's son had just moved back to Israel with his fiance, and after living with them for a few weeks she asked us to vacate the rental so that she could give it to them because she did not care for he daughter in law to be. 

The cost of our inconvenience would be for our landlord to pay for our move. Since our lease would be up in a few months anyways, we agreed to the terms. Back then, our neighborhood had fewer buildings. Today, it is 20 times the size, but when we had to move out, there were only three apartments for rent. 

We chose the apartment that we live in to this day. To be honest, I've never loved it, but I will be here until the landlord wants it for his annoying daughter in law, the rent is too high, or we leave Israel. The price is right and I hate moving. Besides, nothing is perfect, right? 

My son was born five months after we moved in to this brand new building. It was so new that not all of the elevators were functioning. Immediately, the occupants of the building viewed us with some skepticism. They did not like that we were renters. However, I adopted Lior's life's attitude (that's their problem), and most of them were appeased by my children's beautiful eyes, dimpled cheeks, and the fact that we paid our bills and were not very loud. 

There is always an except to being well liked, and that exception was our neighbors. From the second we moved in, our next door neighbors seemed to despise us. They spoke poorly about us to our babysitters saying things like, "How can you stand those people?" One summer, after my nephew and I had cleaned out the storage closet and left a thin line of dust, she left a note on my door that read in menacing, broken English, "You dirty, dirty woman." There were more threats there. I have that note, but I don't feel like finding it. Life is to short to look through my Google photos.


When Maya was home sick from school one day with Lior, the woman got into a physical altercation with our cleaning woman. The conflict had been brewing for months and climaxed when our cleaning woman called her a "Russian whore." Our neighbor attacked her and she attacked back - all in front of Maya. The police were not called. No injuries were reported. (This is a really nice neighborhood - I swear). We had to, sorry, Lior had to, fire our cleaning woman, who sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. We paid her a hefty severance that one pays in socialized country. I knocked on our neighbor's door to tell her the news. Her response was not one of gratitude but of surprise, "It's so difficult to find someone you trust to clean your home." 

Fast forward several years later to today. I was heading out to the car and there she was at the elevator. (Lior just shuts the door if he sees her waiting there).  I usually stare at my feet avoiding her gaze as she avoids mine. Unexpectedly, she begins a  conversation in Hebrew.

"The elevators move so slowly. Why do they move so slowly?" she asks. 

I hesitate, but say hesitantly, "At least it's better than previous years when only one was working." 

She nods knowingly as if we are friends. The doors to the elevator open. I let allow her to enter first. She asks, "Do you know that I am a nurse?"

"No, I didn't," I say truthfully. "I knew your husband was a doctor." I knew that because she once screamed at me because her husband "a very important physician" was asleep and she said the kids were being too loud.
 
"Yes." she continued. "I work in the ICU at Ichilov Hospital. The 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift. Last night was very difficult with the soldiers. Tonight will also be very difficult." 

I looked at her in the eyes for the first time in nine years and said, "Thank you for all the you do." 


This is Ichilov Hospital. 




Monday, October 30, 2023

Cherry picking from sacred texts will leave you bloodied

In the recent marches against Israel, one of the chants heard is "“Khaybar, Khaybar, oh Jews, the army of Mohammed will return."


I'm in the middle of my Islam unit, and I know the context of this line from the Koran, and these protestors are ignorant and antisemitic.


The prophet Muhammed was cool with the Jews, except for a group that betrayed him. He was also cool with Arabs, except ones that betrayed him. It wasn't about their religion, it was about their betrayal.


The way you deal with betrayal in the 7th century, whether you were Christian, Muslim, or any religion, is to kill your betrayers. Religion had nothing to do with it.


It would be great if they tried chanting this: "Whoever does not judge by what God has sent down (including the Torah), they are indeed unbelievers" (Koran 5:44).


I guess it's not as catchy.


Prime Minister Netanyahu also did some bad cherry picking.


On October 28, he quoted "Remember what Amalek did to you" (Deuteronomy 25:17).


For those schooled in the the Hebrew Bible, Jews are commanded not to just fight Amalek, but to wipe out Amalek, which would mean to wipe out the Palestinians, not Hamas. You can say a lot of things about Netanyahu, but he's not stupid. He had to know the meaning of the quote and its significance. There are many, many better Biblical quotes that he could have used like:


“Don’t give me over to the desires of my enemies, because false witnesses and violent accusers have taken their stand against me” (Psalm 27:12) or "Be strong and of a good courage be not afraid neither be thou dismayed for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest" (Joshua 1:9).


During these difficult times, the words and images that are chosen by leaders, by media, and by protestors carry great weight.


This post is dedicated to Shani Louk, who just wanted to dance on October 7, 2023 May her memory be for a blessing.



















Friday, October 27, 2023

Still here

It has been a year since you have been gone, but this week you were with me. 

....



I helped two friends in the same way that you would have. That's all I can say about that. 

Ben scored two goals today. When he scores, he imitates Messi, who takes his fingers to his lips and then to the sky. Benjamin says Messi does that to remember his grandmother.  So Benjamin does the same motion in honor of you. He did it twice and looked back at me with his million dollar smile. You would love seeing him smile. 




I wish you were here for Maya. I feel like I'm not equipped for this next difficult phase of her life. I know you'd tell me to calm down, to not over-parent. I need you to tell me that she will be okay.  We turned out okay, after all. And then you'd laugh and make a joke saying, "maybe not." 

.... 

If you were alive, I wonder if I would be home right now. I wonder if you would have really pressured Lior or me. I wonder if we would have argued. It was very hard to say no to you. You did so much for everyone in the world. How do you say no to Abe Marcus? You would have said "do me this one favor, please." On the other hand, I wonder if you would be proud that I'm here. I haven't stayed because I'm a zealot. I've stayed because it makes the most sense for my family. It's safe where I am. It's stable. It's best for my health. I can be the best teacher possible here. It's best for my family economically. What brought you the most pride was that I had made smart decisions in my life, even though they took me so far away from you, mom and the rest of the family. 

It couldn't have been easy for you when you left your family. In 1961, Indiana was practically Israel for someone from New York State. I never asked you that. I wish I would have...

...

In class today, I was teaching about the Islamic Golden Age. We talked about the Muslims innovations in terms of finance including business partnerships and credit. I asked the class, (17 12th graders half asleep, looking at their phones, or doing other homework on Zoom) who was familiar with the concept of credit, credit cards, and interest. None of them really knew much about it and those who volunteered answers were off in their understanding. 

Obviously, this unit is very important, but so is a 17 or 18 year old knowing the basics of credit. I pleaded with them to listen. "What I'm about to teach you could save you thousands of dollars in the future!" This peaked their interest (great joke, right dad?) So I taught it to them including the importance of building your credit, but paying off your credit card every month so you don't have credit card debt. We looked at the math so they could see it for themselves. I told them that you taught me to pay off my credit card every month, and that maybe, just maybe, this lesson had come up because it was the anniversary of your death. 

For some students, that kind of emotion makes them uncomfortable. For the ones who've known me for a while, they were touched. Teaching in this way is just impossible, dad. I know you would be impatient with my complaining, you'd tell me "that's what you get paid for," but it really is. 

Then I told them that hoped they were okay with me going off topic, but I really felt this was an important lesson for them to learn, and I know that you would have thought so too. 

My Muslim Arab student said it was a perfect lesson because in Islam it is said that you shouldn't spend more money than you have and loaning with interest is frowned upon. 

So today's class had her blessing. 

I hope it had yours too.

I miss you so much Dad. 

.....


Friday, April 14, 2023

Carry that Weight

Beatles Single Cover


I walked up to a very tall Rabbi today in Israel. This might sound like the beginning of a joke. Perhaps it is.

He looked like a young Rabbi, but as I get older, I can no longer discern people's ages, as I still don't see myself being as old as I am. 

We were at this bakery near where I live. It is a bakery that has the worst service, but the best baked goods. I go there to see if the service will ever get better. It never does. The last time I was there, the credit card machine didn't work, and they were appalled that I didn't have cash. Today, they didn't have change, and asked if I had a smaller bill. 

"You have change. You have a million customers in here. I know you have change," I said.  

Sometimes, I initially get treated poorly, condescendingly, I think, because I'm small. Earlier in my teaching career, I was once rejected for a job because of my stature.

"Your lesson was good, but, and I'm saying this off the record,  you're just too small. They won't respect you," one of the teachers sent to interview me said. 

I didn't respond. I didn't challenge her five additional inches and 25 pounds. Her narrative was set. I had no chance at getting the job. She was wrong, by the way. I can handle anything and anyone. That's why I got the job I have now.  You think I can't handle a teenager having a meltdown. When I was 22 years old I interviewed Coach Bob Knight. He yelled at me five times during that interview. I didn't blink.

My mom has always told me that being short was beneficial - people were nicer when you were petite. I've learned in life that I don't really need people to only be nice to me; I need them to be fair and honest. When my dad died I realized the loss was so immense not just because he was my father, but because there was one less fair and honest person in the world. 

...

The very tall, also friendly, Rabbi was buying a lot of food at the, also, overpriced bakery with bad service. 

"Do you have a club membership?" the barista asked the Rabbi. 

"Should I?" he asked rhetorically.

"You actually save a lot of money," I said, regretfully. Since moving to Israel, I've adopted a trait of inserting myself into other people's business. Okay, I've always had this trait, but it's accepted here, so it's emboldened an already questionable practice. 

"But what do I lose?" the Rabbi asked. 

This was an interesting question, I believe, about privacy. However, the Rabbi had talked and given his contact information to at least twenty strangers since I had entered the bakery, so I was unsure why he was concerned about privacy. He was telling people that he had started a new congregation. No, there hadn't been any kind of bad blood with the other congregation. There was just a lot of people in the neighborhood and room for another synagogue. This one he would be speaking to the congregants in English. There were already 200 people who were attending each shabbos. 

The right kind of kippa. 

"You save 8% on every purchase. That's a lot of shabbos challas*" I said. 

Normally, I would not talk to an Orthodox Rabbi, but he was wearing the right kind of kippa, the kind of kippa that told me as a woman it was okay to talk to him. The Chabad Rabbi in my building, I don't speak to, even though he's supposedly the nicest guy in Israel because he wears a black hat. His wife is very nice. One of his daughters, about age 11, recently helped me get my groceries in to the elevator. Let me tell you, that was extremely nice. I told her mother, the Rebbetzin about it when I saw her in the elevator. She then asked me if I was new to the building. I told her I had lived there for 8 years. She looked at me like it was not possible. 

...

"Wow, that is a lot and I come here every week, thanks!" the tall, friendly Rabbi said. 

"No problem. Rabbi, may I ask you a question," I asked.

You could see he was not expecting this. I was wearing my standard non-teaching gear: yoga pants from 20 pounds ago, a school t-shirt, and tennis shoes. I led him outside as the bakery was very loud. 

"You see, my dad passed away in October. And I would like to go to a minyan to say kaddish for him. I grew up going to an Orthodox day school and a Conservative synagogue. I would understand how to do this in the US. I don't want to stand up for the kaddish prayer and make people uncomfortable in an Orthodox synagogue or to be made uncomfortable, especially during this period of mourning. At your synagogue, will women be able to say kaddish?" 

The Rabbi waved to five more people and answered, "Well actually women do not say kaddish. Women do not need to say time bound prayers like men because they are more spiritual and," 

"Yes, I'm educated in Judaism and respectful and..."

"Eclectic..."

"Huh? No, I'm not eclectic. I was just wondering."

"You know, there's a web site where you can give tsedaka and someone will take on the mitzvah of saying kaddish for your father," he suggested.

"That's not good enough for me," I told him as he waved to more people. I wondered if his hand tired from waving and mouth from smiling. "Besides, my brother is saying kaddish for my dad." 

"Well, that's great!" he exclaimed. "The mitzvah is fulfilled. Your brother is carrying the weight."

At that moment, a man approached the Rabbi who had been on the United flight back with me, Lior and the kids after we returned from shiva.

It was almost like a message from my dad, "Forget it, Ranee, he doesn't get it.  Besides, you're not waking up for shacharis anyways." 

I couldn't remember his name, but his kids and my kids play at the park frequently. He is in his early 50s and has three young boys. We greeted each other as people do who don't know each other's names but should after years of sitting next to each other on a park bench.  

This is a real thing. 

"Look" the Rabbi said. "Everyone in the neighborhood knows each other." 

"I see her more on a plane than in person," the man said and I walked away

"What's your name?" the Rabbi shouted.

I told him, continued home, and began to cry.

....

As a mourner who lives so far away from my family, I mourn in isolation with the love and support of my husband and children. There is no one here who knew my dad. There's no place for me to go that will really give me comfort, so the weight of my emotions fall, as much as I will let them, which isn't much, on my husband and a couple close friends. 

When I interact with people here outside of school, people who've spent time with me, often know very little about me or assume I know little about anything. I can tell them I'm a teacher. I can tell them my background. I can tell them what I teach. It does not matter. My students treat me well. They appreciate my knowledge and how well I teach, and so do their parents. They are who matter. But there are times when I wish someone could scan my brain and then start speaking to me. Although that could prove problematic for other reasons. 

And then I think of my brother, Eric, who is carrying that weight ...

and my dad ... who did for so many people for so many years when he went to synagogue every day. 

And then I think of the Beatles: 

Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight

Once there was a way, to get back homeward
Once there was a way, to get back home
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles await you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Once there was a way, to get back homeward
Once there was a way, to get back home
Sleep pretty darling, don't you cry
I'll sing a lullaby

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles await you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling, do not cry
I will sing a lullaby

Boy, you're gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time

I never give you my pillow
I only send you my invitations
And in the middle of the celebrations
I break down

Boy, you're gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time


*Glossary

shabbos challos: sabbath bread in the Ashkenazi accent the Rabbi was speaking in
kippa: head covering observant Jews wear
Chabad: an outreach movement to connect Jews to Orthodox Judaism
minyan: a quorum of ten men in Orthodox Judaism; 10 men or women in Reform or Conservative Judaism
kaddish: in this case, the mourner's prayer said 2 or 3 times daily
shacharis: morning prayer in the Ashkenazi accent my dad said Jewish words in
tsedaka: charity





Monday, April 10, 2023

A Conversation with my Dad - May His Memory Be for a Blessing

    What's with you? 

    Hey, Dad. 

    Well...

    What? 

    I hear you cry all the time. You cried after a great work event your club had. You cried when your students performed Mama Mia. You couldn't muster a smile or follow along at your in-laws seder. You just cried now in the shower. What's with you? 

  Well, you know, you died, and it's been hard on me. 

    I thought that might be it. I knew it would hard on you. But Mama Mia? Dancing queen? And all that food at the seder? 

    Well...

    You should have gone to Chicago and South Bend for Passover. 

    What? 

    You would have been happier. 

    I don't know. The flights were outrageous. The entire trip would have cost about $13,000. It made no sense. And it just feels like extortion by the airlines.

    Are you having money problems?

    No.

    Are you paying off your credit card every month?

    Yes.

    Are you?

    Yes, Dad. Geeze. 

    You can ask your mother for money, if you need to. 

    I don't need money, Dad. 

    Why didn't your mom go to a seder? 

    She said she wasn't feeling well.

    If I had been there she would have gone. 

    Maybe, maybe not. 

    Goddamnit, I should have been there. 

    Nothing you can do about it. 

    Do you talk to her enough? 

    Probably not enough, but we Facetime and she Facetimes. 

    She can't hear the Goddamn Ipad. 

    She's okay, Dad. You'd be proud of her. 

    When are you going home? 

    When school gets out in June. 

    Are you going to help Eric? 

    If he lets me. He's like you - not a great delegator. 

    He and Caryn are so goddamn busy. 

    Did you hear about Lila? 

    Yes, how about that? I told her she'd get in. Those girls are something, aren't they? 

    I'm glad they saw you before you died. They really loved you. 

    You know why Ava loved me. Because she's smart. 

    Did you hear about Adam?

    I know about the job. Something else?

    He got a hole in one. 

    No kidding! 

   And R-Jay and Robin?

    Loving Phoenix. They get back a lot. They just saw Mom. 

    I'm so glad they moved there. Oh, nice job on the thank you notes. Not perfect, but better than your wedding and with your kids. They could have been more individualized, but at least they were well written. Too bad the Zoom got screwed up for my funeral. 

     How's Talia? 

    She's vacationing in Florida living it up. 

    My favorite employed granddaughter. Hey, nice try. 

    What?

    You changed the conversation. So, what's with you? 

    I don't know, Dad. They say these things take time. And no one has patience for a griever. And no one knows you here. I live my life in cognitive dissonance. 

    Whatever. How's my two favorite grandchildren in Israel? 

    They are great. We talk about you a lot. 

    Don't overdo it. 

    Okay.

    And Lior. 

    Doing well. He has a big trip coming up. He recently staffed with someone from Purdue. 

    They pissed me off in the tournament. 

    Yeah, IU didn't do much better. 

    Have you and your brothers kept your promises? 

    As many as we could, Dad. As many as we could. 

    I know. I knew you would. But you don't have to be so goddamn sad. I didn't think I was going to die that month, but I wasn't exactly a young kid either. 

    I'll work on it. Give me the 11 months.  I get 11 months. 

    Ranee? 

    Yes, Dad. 

    🎵♩Do you...  

     love me?  🎵♩

     ðŸŽµ♩Yes, I... 

    love you.  🎵♩*



*When I was a kid, my dad and I would just sing those couple lines to each other sometimes in places of good night or goodbye. I remembered it as I was writing this. My dad adopted it from Fiddler on the Roof. 


Friday, December 23, 2022

The Caulker

I was driving my dad the 100-mile journey to get chemotherapy at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Usually, he was driven by close friends, the kind of friendships measured in decades. My dad taught me to drive, the only one of my Bubbie's grandchildren to not be taught by her; a tradition stolen by Parkinson's disease. Dad's driver's academy was located in the rocky parking lot of the now non-existent South Bend Freight Line - a casualty of the policies of union deregulation. The vehicle was a 1988 Toyota Camry. The lessons began when I was 12. He was a tough, but excellent teacher, and I do consider myself a good driver. DNA cannot be discounted, though: I drive like my mom, fearlessly and with some emphasis on the gas.

The only reason he let me drive to Chicago get his "poison," as he called it, is because he had a bunch of business to conduct during the drive. Seventy-eight, transplanted liver, two types of cancer lurking in his body, on chemo, and doing business on the way to Chicago. 

As I merged onto the Toll Road off exit 83, he joined an 8 a.m. Zoom meeting. He was on some committee with the city of South Bend. The agenda was short: he seconded the minutes of the previous meeting's agenda and then it was over. His ring tone - the theme song from Downton Abbey - blared loudly. The caller was from the funeral home that handled most of the Jewish burials in town - the same one that would handle his three months later. They wanted to find out the Jewish observance level of someone who had just died. Why the funeral director called my dad, and not the Rabbi, I'm not sure. But my dad knew the answers right away: "first husband was Jewish, but second isn't. One kid is Orthodox, divorced, many kids; one kid is gay has a Jewish partner, attends the Temple, and one kid is married to a nice Catholic lady." The next phone call was an interview with a female truck driver. My dad encouraged her, but without being saccharine. He gave her the pros and cons of working in the field, especially some of the obstacles she might face being in the business. It turned out she didn't have the right kind of rig, but he said to call him back if she did.

We arrived 30 minutes early to the series of appointments. Fairly quickly the phlebotomist yelled his name. All of the phlebotomists yell. Perhaps many of the patients are hard of hearing. Once he had his blood drawn, he officially transformed from a respected businessman to just another cancer patient. And then we waited. My dad was texting and emailing furiously. I was bored. And then something or someone caught my eye. There was a man, hanging from the 21st floor, caulking the building. In the winter, Chicago is unbearably cold. Hospitals design their buildings with beautiful windows, but if the building is not insulated properly, the heating costs could be enormous, or worse, the heat just wouldn't protect against the cold winds more than 200 feet up.

"What are you looking at?" my dad grumbled.

"Check out that guy, dad" I said.

He didn't look up from his tablet. He was reading a contract.

Suddenly, I had the urge to photograph him. Not my dad, but the caulker. I'm not a great photographer. I used to publish photos to illustrate the police blotter when I was a cub journalist: house fires, car crashes, even a hit and run. As a working journalist, I would never ask permission to photograph someone.

I knocked on the window, softly enough to get his attention, but not loud enough to cause, God forbid, an accident.

I mouthed a few times before he understood, "May I photograph you?"

He mouthed back, "Sure."

I took dozens of photographs of him from different angles. The cancer patients and their caregivers or drivers were either pretending not to look at me or were also delighted by the intricate work of the caulker.

"Glad those two journalism degrees are getting some use," my dad teased. "Make sure you wash your hands after touching the floor."

I tapped on the window one last time and mouthed "thank you." As my dad commanded, I washed my


hands.

The nurse finally called his name, a bit softer this time. The appointment was uneventful at first. The doctor and I played Jewish geography until the big reveal.

I came to know that my dad was taking 22 pills a day.

22.

It was thought that these pills were giving him more time to be a husband to my mom, a dad to us, a Zadie to his grandchildren, serve on boards, make money, give advice to a funeral director, but he was also suffering from a lot of side effects that only those closest to him, especially my mom, knew about. How many people with chronic illnesses suffer silently? Does the smartest person in the room go home at night to neuropathy, fatigue, and the kind of stomach problems that causes you to drop 65 pounds in a year. 

The chemotherapy wasn't caulk; it didn't insulate the building, but brought it down along with the rest of what was to come. 

We walked back to the chemo area. It's a huge expanse where about 50 people were receiving chemotherapy. I wondered how much money Northwestern made in a day off of this production. 

....

That sounds cynical. Northwestern is an incredible hospital. We owe 9 years of my dad's life to Northwestern. It's where he received a liver transplant. But at the end of his life, it felt to me like they dropped him. When he first needed to be brought to the hospital after he contracted Covid and had a fall, their response to the local doctor was "don't bring him to our ER." 

My dad didn't have that much time left in this world - a couple more years at best. And who knows what kind of quality of life he would have had. Probably not great. But that "don't bring him to our ER" still stings. I understand their ER was probably full at that moment. And who knows who answered the phone. But your transplant patient with two types of cancer who is receiving chemo at your hospital should probably be seen at your hospital by your doctors so... 

We all know anger is a stage of grief. 

....

They showed him to his room.

"I've said this already," he said firmly. "I'm not that sick. I don't want a room. A curtain with a chair is fine. Give the room to the sick people."

The nurse found him a non-room room and the chemotherapy began. Jimmy was a traveling nurse from West Virginia. He had been all around the US, but had only been in Chicago for a few weeks. He liked it so far. He was staying at a motel pretty close to my old condo in Lakeview, but was looking for a cheap rental. After Jimmy hung the IV bags, Dad asked me if we should call Eric to help Jimmy find an apartment to rent.

"Dad, Eric doesn't really do rentals so much. He's busy selling houses. Besides, every time you come here, are you going to ask Eric to find a rental for a nurse?"

He didn't hear my pithy response. Dad was asleep. Although he hadn't wanted a bed because he wasn't that sick, he looked pretty ill to me.

...

After the chemo treatment, Dad wanted to drive back to South Bend. I said, "no way." He had just had six hours of chemo. In no world did driving 100 miles after that much chemotherapy sound like a great idea.

"Fine," he lied. “ But watch how you're turning that corner. You're driving too fast for a parking garage."

"Dad, I'm 46 years old. I know how to drive." 

"Fine. I won't say anything. Tell me when you get lost." 

I knew he was angry with me. 

During that visit  last July he was often aggravated and annoyed with me. My last day before returning to Israel, my entire family, Eric's crew, R-Jay's crew, my mom, all went to get frozen yogurt. As I was sitting with my nephew Adam, my dad said, "I'm sorry for the way that I treated you the last two weeks, but a lot of times you deserved to be treated that way." 

I thought I was going to cry. I wasn't expecting an apology, but this was not what I wanted either. So I retorted, "I'm sorry that you don't know how to apologize." 

And then he looked at me. My dad had the most beautiful hazel eyes. And he looked at me with his beautiful hazel eyes, almost bewildered, and said,  "Sharna, it's the pills. It's the goddamn pills. I just don't know who I am anymore with these pills." 

"I know, Dad. I know. It's fine. It's fine."

...

The three days I had with my dad in October, before he was incoherent and passed away, he was no longer affected by that chemo mania. He was in some ways more himself, although obviously not 100 percent because he was dying. On those days, when I assured him everything would be fine, it wasn't a platitude, it was true. I was reassuring him that my mom, my brothers, that I would be fine.

And we are fine. But I'd give anything for another driving lesson. 


This post is dedicated to Dr. Mark Sandock, Bill Lopatin and Bill Beelaert, my dad's friends who drove him many, many times to Chicago for early morning appointments often returning in the evenings. 


Wednesday, December 14, 2022

Teach your parents well

Today a short post dedicated to my beloved daughter and teacher, Maya. 

Maya didn't look well last night so I arguably prematurely took her to urgent care. My husband is away, and if he were here, there's no way we would have taken her. But after the trauma of losing my dad, I just don't have an equilibrium for a serious cough vs. a not serious cough, and she looked pale and has a history of out of the blue pneumonia. 

After my lovely friend and colleague Sara agreed to watch Ben, Maya and I journeyed to downtown Netanya, which is always an adventure. Several kilometers away, parking is impossible, smoking is the norm, and maybe? because of the night's world cup game, drunk middle aged men were on the street who didn't look like they'd be conscious for the first quarter. The clinic opened at 7:30 p.m. and the frequent visitor to the clinic let us know that we would be third in line. Maya "left" her book in the car and looked at me with her sad, red eyes and asked for my phone. As I prepared my AP Euro test, we were called back. Maya described her illness in her sweet Hebrew. The intake nurse was unimpressed. We were seen by a doctor right away (come early), and he said she sounded good. He gave her Tylenol and prescribed cough syrup, which I googled was the generic for Benadryl. 

She and I were both relieved. The stakes were high. Maya had a a very big role in holiday show at her school. The principal had sent out an email that day to not send sick kids, no matter what, to school sick to be in the holiday show. Maya was so excited for her role.  Maya's grandparents were coming to see her perform for the first time and staying with us during the week! And although it was sad our "American family" couldn't come, she would be wearing one of her cousin Lila's beautiful dresses, so they would be with us in spirit. 

...

This morning when Maya woke up, and I gave her a hug and felt her burning skin, I  swallowed the tear welling in my eye. 

"Maya my love, we have to take your temperature," I said. 

39.2 degrees. 

A decade living here, I still don't know the conversion to Fahrenheit, but I knew she wasn't going to be in that play. 

Her little brother, Ben, looked at the thermometer and whispered, "Oh no! The show." His empathy quickly waned and he started yelling, "No! Saba and Savta. I want them to come here. This ruins everything." 

Maya sent him a death stare and I urged her not to respond. But she did, just not angrily towards him. "It's okay, I'm used to being disappointed."

I gave Maya medicine and rushed to make arrangements for Ben to get to school. He would be leaving 30 minutes earlier than normal, which meant I'd need to rush a pissed off kid and still needed to make his snack. And I needed to call in for a sub. Luckily, I had already asked my colleague Zohar to cover one of my blocks so I could see the morning production of the show, so that was all set. 

After the Tylenol kicked in a bit and Ben was off to school thanks to our neighbor Lulu, I told Maya how sorry I was that she wasn't going to be in the play. 

She looked at me and smiled and said:

"Mommy, it's okay. There will be other plays." 

And this is why Maya is my teacher. Because she's right.

 I have to be honest. There was a millisecond where I considered dosing her to hide that fever so she could be in the play. Who would know? She's had the cough for a month. I tested her for Covid. I would NEVER send her to school with Covid. But a fever. What's a fever? And she's worked so hard. And everyone says she so good in it! But I didn't. I didn't. Because you just don't do that. Because it's an elementary school play and there will be other plays, or there won't, but you don't send your kids to school sick. I was tempted, though. 


Maya taught me this lesson a few weeks ago. For the first time we finally found her a real soccer team to play on. It's a girls soccer team in Netanya. But there's not that many other girls soccer teams in Israel, I guess, so after practicing for months her first games (and maybe only games, I'm not sure) are when we are going to the US. The first one is on the evening we leave for the airport. I said to Maya,

"Maybe we can go the game and then go straight to the airport?"

"Mom, that's crazy," Maya said. "I'll be all sweaty. Then we are traveling for 25 hours. No thank you." 

It's not that Maya's not a dedicated soccer player. She is excellent. She is just reasonable. (Makes me think of my dad.)

There will be other plays. There will be other soccer games. 

But there's only one Maya. 





Professional Photos by https://www.efratsaar.com/

Thank you Mrs. Goldstein for a wonderful musical experience!