Carry that Weight

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

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?  🎵♩

     🎵♩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. 

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. 

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! 

Teachers teaching about the Holocaust need help - 2022 style

Does anyone have a good pre-reading activities for the book thief or the Holocaust in general? TIA

Looking for an introduction video to the Holocaust that is appropriate for 8th grade. Thank you!
Has anyone taught a Holocaust elective? I would appreciate any materials you're willing to share - pacing, films, readings, etc.

Does anyone have a good visual lesson on the Holocaust that covers more than just Jewish persecution? Maybe some type of image analysis, or video?

School is about to start and #teachertwitter is flying. Many teachers use social media to enhance their professional practice. Often times, teachers request resources planning a Holocaust or Shoah related unit.  Occasionally there is an intellectually challenging request, but typically the questions are of the emergency sort: Help! I have to teach about the Holocaust! Does anyone have any resources? 

In 2019, I wrote an article for EJewish Philanthropy expressing the need for cyber Holocaust educators. The plea was based on educator social media groups where teachers reaching out had little to no knowledge of the Shoah. 

Fast forward several months later and Covid-19 hit; every teacher would become a cyber educator. Our entire craft became virtual, and every social media outlet would be filled with teachers leaning on each other for lessons and ideas. Our vulnerabilities were exposed, and they reflected the same challenge: how do we engage students on unfamiliar platforms during a deadly pandemic while they are experiencing their unprecedented challenges from isolation to trauma with our own families depending on us at home?

Besides addressing that small question, educators also used the era of Covid-19 to openly exchange lesson plans and ask questions about content. Once again I noted that many teachers teach about the Holocaust and know very little about it. I would find myself taking a lot of time to respond to these posts out of a sense of duty.  I still do. However, I am one person in two social media groups, with two children, and a full teaching load. There are so many teachers who could use help, including the teachers that I don’t know about. 

Back to Covid-19 era: In addition, on Twitter, there were parents listening to their children’s lessons and then expressing outrage at their ignorance while teaching Holocaust related lessons. The Tweeters would implore them to call [insert Jewish organization, administrator] and urge them to have the teacher disciplined or fired. When I would read about one of these teachers, I would cringe and wonder if she had posted that week on some teacher group asking, “Can someone help me? I was just brought in to do a maternity leave for a teacher, and I have to teach about the Holocaust.”

Then, in January 2022, my respected colleague, friend, and Holocaust educator and writer, Matt Lebovic, and I came up with a plan. As the founding director of the Holocaust Education Center of StandWithUs, he had shared with me that he successfully Zoomed a lesson with a large public school in Philadelphia, I suggested that I share his offerings with one of my closed history teachers’ group. (The group has several thousand members). After posting, Matt received takers who scheduled him to speak to their classes or referred him to their colleagues who needed his assistance.

Where Matt’s impact could really be felt would be on one of the closed English teachers’ group that has 21,000 members. That post received more than 100 likes, dozens of comments and tags. Matt Zoomed with students from all of the US and Canada.  

I hope that Matt will serve many more teachers and schools. However, I am once again imploring the organizations and museums that educated and inspired me twenty years ago to modernize their outreach to teachers. There are a lot of resources going into the technology of holograms, Tik Tok, and 4D experiences. As much as I admire the innovations, legacy organizations must also focus their energies on outreach to educators who are not Jewish on the platforms in which they are seeking resources. What is the use of excellent content, and there is so much excellent content out there, if those who need it most do not [have or know to] access it? 

While we are all quick to condemn those who are ignorant, we need to be just as fast at offering assistance when it is needed. 

22 Women

As the anniversary of the overturning of Roe v Wade approaches, I thought I'd update an article I wrote a couple of years ago.

I can think of 22 women off of the top of my head who have had abortions. Many of them would be unable to today if they lived in the same states in which they received their original medical care. 

Nine of the women aborted due to fetal anomalies. Of the twenty-two, I know at least three who had to do so during the second trimester because the anomaly developed or was only able to be seen during the second trimester. In one case, the person initially was told, after learning her fetus would not survive (incompatible with life), that she would have to have the abortion out of state. But they found out that they could do an induction early and remain at their home hospital.

Five were teenagers or not in stable relationships and didn't feel ready or interested in having a child.

Three were married but couldn't handle more children.

Three were in bad marriages and couldn't cope with more children and being in a bad marriages.

One was married with two children but was destitute and couldn't afford a third child or the medical expenses involved in prenatal care and recovery from what would be a third c-section.

One was raped. 

For these twenty-two women, abortion was part of their healthcare, both physiological and psychological. It still makes no sense to me why the government is involved in these decisions.

"That woman, that family, might seek spiritual guidance, they may seek medical guidance, but that decision is not going to be made any better medically or morally, because the government is dictating how that decision should be made," answered Pete Buttigieg when he was pressed on Fox News about third trimester abortions, which are extremely rare, when he was running for President.

I understand and respect that for men and women who oppose abortion that this is a deeply religious issue. They really feel that they are doing God's work by banning abortion. A woman's right to healthcare does not supersede that for them. However, they shouldn't be deciding the law of our land.

For five of the six Supreme Court Justices who overturned Roe v. Wade, they weaponized the law to serve their religious dogma. Catastrophically, they created a health care situation that puts the United States way outside the human rights bounds for women living in like-countries (ones in the EU, Israel, Australia, UK, New Zealand, and Canada,).

Women in states with restrictive abortion laws are dealing with cases where doctors are refusing to treat women in distress because they fear that they will be jailed. Idaho's biggest hospital has to fly patients out of state to avoid risking their doctors being prosecuted. 
At 20 weeks, Samantha Casiano found out her fetus would not be compatible with life. Under Texas law, she had to carry the fetus to term, deliver her, and plan her funeral four hours later. 

And this article is awful too. 

It's too bad we can't turn back time and laws couldn't be written by OBGYNs. Perhaps there was room for compromise. Now the laws are based on obtuse jargon that has no place governing a woman's body. 

Whammied by Chase Bank and United

 Do you remember that game show Press Your Luck, where the contestant would yell, "No Whammies?" I was doubled whammied by both United Airlines and Visa-Chase Bank. [The Chase Bank story is the better one, so skip the United Airlines one if you really want to be outraged.] 

The United Airlines story was before Covid had calmed down. All four of us caught it, we had to cancel our tickets to Chicago due to CDC rules, and they wouldn't fully refund our tickets.  

So why didn't you just take the credit? Great question. Well the tickets were extremely expensive, the cost of 2.5 typical tickets. I didn't pay for them myself. And I had already bought tickets for June. Also, I'm a Gold, premier member who purchases tickets four tickets, three times a year. Why couldn't they just cut me a break because 1. it's the law that we couldn't fly and 2. did I mention I buy 12 tickets a year? 

They charged us a total of $960 to cancel the tickets. I appealed the decision and am still waiting to hear back from them. 

Which brings us to Chase Visa. This is one of those stories where I'm thankful that I am a rational person. I could see an irrational person not acting rationally after this. 

After my trip to Chicago in December, I left my Chase Visa credit card there. I immediately called Chase Visa (Thank you for being a valued member, they always say.) to replace it. I've only needed to receive a new credit card or bank card in Israel a couple of times, and it's not a big deal. They send it UPS or DHL, whatever service they are using. 

After the initial call, the card never comes. They give me a UPS tracking number that doesn't work and that I can't use because I'm not a Chase Visa employee. 

Okay, no big deal. These things happen. It's annoying because I only use this one card for the miles, but never mind, everyone is facing employee shortages, I can manage with my bank card. 

I call back and we make sure that they have the correct address, that it's being sent UPS and that it will get here in 7-10 business days. 

7 days pass and I call again. The representative speaks to me a bit too quickly and says it will be there Wednesday. She hangs up the phone. Wednesday passes and no card. (The card goes to my school where there are 24 hours guards there who also kindly take our packages). 

I call again after 10 days and the representative on the phone says that my address was not filled out correctly and it was sent regular mail (on a boat). I laugh bitterly. However, this representative is correcting the mistake. 

Ten days later I get my card. 

But in the meantime, I had spent countless hours and aggravation (more than I wrote about here) on the phone with Chase and I felt I should receive some compensation. On the phone the representative and I came up 19,000 miles. This was based on tickets that I couldn't purchase on my Visa Card. She verified this with her supervisor. I asked her, what if my flight gets canceled? You still get the miles. What if I can rebook them on this card? You still get the miles. This was the agreed upon settlement. I had no reason to believe they would back out because these phone calls are recorded, as well all know.

Ok, great. I'm happy. No harm done,  just hours of my life lost. 

Then, a couple of weeks ago I noticed that the 19,000 miles never appeared on my United Miles. I called Chase Visa and a representative said, "We sent you a letter and you never responded to it."  I asked her why she didn't use the secure mail feature on the app? She said that a great idea and they will try to do that next time. So I waited for the letter. Shockingly it came about a month later in the mail. It read, "Call us about a concern on your account." I called back and this very aggressive woman told me that a committee had found that I was not entitled to the miles because I didn't specify that the card should be sent UPS. 

I told her at no point was I told that there was any question that I would be getting these miles. She said these things always go up for review. I said, even if I had been aware of that, I or the representative use the words UPS and express. She said that's not what the committee found. I asked her to have the committee review the case again. She basically hung up on me. 

So, today I called back and talked to two nicer people. The supervisor was kinder but told me I will be getting no compensation. I asked that all my calls since January be pulled. He said he will do that, but all that will do is train employees to improve Chase Visa's customer service program and that in all honesty I'm never getting those 19,000 miles or any other kind of compensation. 

Have you ever been promised compensation by a company and never received it? I'm at a loss. They have the phone calls where it was promised to me with no threat of investigation. I literally have no recourse except to cut up the credit card. 

And what's interesting is that someone at that corporation said, "You promised her something; we don't want to give her, so make her understand that she doesn't deserve it and she's never getting it and we don't care if she's our customer anymore." 

I know that this isn't a life or death situation. I do feel entitled to be treated in the following ways by these two companies:

• competently
• respectfully
• loyally (as I have been to them)
• honestly: if a promise is made to me, it shouldn't be broken, and gaslighting is never acceptable, even if a company policy has been broken.