Decades

This morning the snow fell silently and swiftly outside my kitchen window blanketing my front and back yards. Pure, virgin snow. A blank slate; a perfect way to end the old year, begin the new one and the new decade. It was so tranquil in my house; everyone was gone the whole day leaving me alone with just the dog. I had time to relax and reflect and watch daytime TV- three luxuries I rarely have the occasion to engage in, given my hectic lifestyle.

Yesterday I went out to lunch with three friends from elementary school. We hadn’t seen each other in over 40 years- 4 decades. We shared our life stories and then reminisced about old times. There’s something about reacquainting yourself to your childhood that, to me, is more powerful than any other time in your life. Even seeing old high school or college friends cannot compete with the people who knew you when you were a child. Those are the ones who ground you to that place where endless possibilities and dreams still exist. Those are the ones who knew you as that singular individual being. We are all tied to other lives now- spouses, children and grandchildren even. But that excitement of recalling our simple, uncomplicated youth will never dissolve.

This morning, on daytime TV, the shows were all about remembering the first decade of 2000. Yesterday, I could easily recollect 40 years ago. The past decade flew by so fast, I had to stop and think a long time about those ten years and the milestones that happened as I ushered my children from adolescence to adulthood, myself from semi-middle aged to full fledged card-carrying AARP member.

Ten years ago, Lindsay was graduating high school; one of her high school photos has “2000” boldly displayed behind her smiling 17 year old face. Kimberly was graduating junior high school. It was a very emotional time, one girl at the beginning of an era, while another was ending it and starting a new one. I remember that was the year when Lindsay officially had her heart broken the first time. There is nothing more painful than watching your child hurting. I told her that one day this pain would mean nothing to her because she will meet someone who will love her as much as she loves him. Of course I didn’t know that for sure but I had hoped and I was right- ten years later. At that time, ten years seemed like an eternity to a 17 year old girl, but looking back, those ten years are a flicker.

Milestones. Watching and guiding my lively little girls to become lovely young woman. Seeing their bodies blossom, while mine droops. I look in the mirror now and say to myself, “Where did my body go, the one that belonged to that youthful perky young girl who once looked back at me in the mirror?” And then one of my daughters walks by and I say quietly, “There it is.” Milestones. Graduations from high schools and colleges. Dolls and tea sets replaced with lipstick and perfume. Toys and bikes replaced by cars and traffic tickets and fender-benders. Memories of laughter and tears; joy and pain; hopes and dreams; failures and successes; deaths and births; accomplishments and disappointments; crushes and broken hearts. This is what makes a decade. We repeat again and again, “Happy New Year” and wish happiness, health and wealth, but we know that in the balance of life there can be sadness as much as gladness.

I reflect on the most recent and exciting highlight of this decade for Lindsay- meeting Scott, falling in love and getting engaged, beginning the year’s journey that will lead us to a new decade with a wedding as a milestone. Hopes and promises as delicate and graceful as the fresh fallen snow or an ivory white wedding dress.

I can remember falling asleep at night, decades ago, thinking to myself, as probably all girls do, who will I marry and what will my children be like? Life went by so fast that I barely noticed I got the answer to my question. My questions when I fall asleep now are more about my children’s future than mine; perhaps that is when you really surrender your childhood. I think of Lindsay and Scott, swooning in each other’s presence or giggling and being ridiculously silly as young lovers do. And then I consider Kimberly, so sweet and pretty, my reluctant “butterfly”. What will the decade hold for her? I can tell her that one day she will meet someone who will love her as much as she loves him and hope that I will be right again and most likely I will. What I truly want for her, as well as for Lindsay, is to always remember that child who lives within and to never lose sight of her dreams. And most of all, what I hope for my children, Scott included now, is that in the balance of life through the decades, may their happiness outweigh everything else.

Happy New Year….Happy New Decade…..

The Mother of the Bride Goes to the Hospital

It all began with the snowfall on the last day of autumn, December 20th. It started in the afternoon, on Saturday, and snowed through the night. Blizzard conditions. When Mark opened the door on Sunday morning, right at the threshold was a pile of snow that reached just below my knees.

Because of the snow, we missed the annual holiday party Saturday night at my brother and sister in-laws’. We didn’t want to chance driving on the “treacherous roadways” according to the weather report. Instead, Mark made a fire and fell asleep lying next to the fireplace with his arm around the dog, while I surfed the net on my laptop looking at the new collections of mother of the bride dresses. I now had to change my color of the dress because I had just transformed my hair color to the reddish tones. I went on a very cool website that has a “dressing room” for you to save the dresses you like after you register. Now all I have to do when I want to find a dress I was interested in on that website is sign in and go into my “dressing room”. Of course they all look beautiful because beautiful, tall thin woman are wearing them. And they’re all standing in a position that I have never stood in, with one of their hips tilted up and one leg in front at an angle that looks extremely uncomfortable, not to mention how far their shoulders are pulled back. They also have the most amazing perfect arms and armpits. These are mother of the bride dresses. It’s very unrealistic because most mothers of the brides I know do not have arms like that nor can they stand in these positions. It’s very disheartening when you go to the store and find those dresses and try them on; it doesn’t even resemble what you see on the website. When I do go to try on dresses next time I am going to figure out how to stand in those positions, though.

Sunday was devoted to shoveling snow. Mark had this “brilliant” idea that we should park the cars on the street during the snowfall, not the driveway, so he could use the snow blower to clear the driveway and then move the cars onto it. Needless to say this brilliant idea turned into the biggest mistake, which we all paid for. Or quite possibly, this could have been a dumb idea turned lucky because its consequences led me find out that I had a little heart problem.

Snow enveloped our two cars on the street. And then the snowplows came by and added to that. There was a blanket of snow on our long driveway. I decided to help Mark by shoveling the snow around the cars. I had this enormous burst of energy and stylish, yet practical new rain/snow boots with removable fleece liners. I even thought the shoveling might be the exercise that could get my arms in shape. I was superwoman out there; determined. Also, my annoyance at Mark and myself for listening to his bright idea of not parking the cars on the driveway fueled my energy. I dug out both cars, daring any more snowplows to return and deter me. I was quite proud of myself. I even felt fine. Fine. I forgot I’m 53. I’d like to forget I’m 53. My body remembers I’m 53; mind thinks I’m 23. It’s an issue of mind over matter. My grandma Fanny, who was 89 years old when she died, used to say, in her European accent, “Even though your body gets old, your mind still feels the same as when you were 18.” I’ll never forget that. My body and my mind are two separate entities, sometimes; two separate forces existing together. I stayed up too late that night, full of false energy.

I woke up Monday morning after less than five hours of sleep. It was going to be a long day but one I was really looking forward to. I was doing a new workshop that I had planned for and was very excited about and then at 4:00 pm; I was having a little reunion/holiday party with some former colleagues. One of them was Rebeca, who had moved to San Francisco. I hadn’t seen her in over a year. I even bought a cute little black dress for this occasion, one, which covered my arms and my new rain/snow boots complimented nicely. I was stylishly dressed for the cold weather, ready to tackle any pile of snow that stood in my way on the tiny streets of the Wall Street area. Another thing Grandma Fanny used to say, in Yiddish, was “We make plans and G-d laughs.” My Grandma Fanny, she was a genius.

I got on the 6:33 train headed to Penn Station. I should say that the train was headed to Penn Station; whereas, I was headed someplace entirely different. I was reading my book while the man across from me was snoring. I have told the rest of this part of my story countless number of times to just about everyone. I am thoroughly sick of telling this part; but here goes (in literary form). All of a sudden, out of nowhere, as I was reading, a strange sensation came over me. It was as if I had that familiar pins and needles feeling after cutting off the circulation to one of my limbs, only it was in my head. I looked up; my vision was blurred and everything started going out of focus, then my left eye went totally black. My confusion as to what was happening to me turned into panic. Was I passing out and why? Was this a brain aneurysm? A stroke? A heart attack? I forced myself not to pass out. As I did this I had an enormous pain in the back of my head, then palpitations, then nausea. I tried to calm myself by breathing deeply. I started to feel slightly better, only terrified. The man sitting across from me still snored deeply. I noticed a young police officer standing by the train door. I took a deep breath. I’m okay, I told myself. I’m going to go into work. I considered that if I did continue going to work, that would mean that I would have to go to Penn Station and chance possibly having another episode like this or worse, passing out entirely. Fainting at Penn Station would not be a good thing, to say the least. I could just picture myself at the hectic terminal and commuters hurriedly rushing to catch their trains, leaping over or worse, stepping on my unconscious body. It was a chance I didn’t want to take. I needed to see if I had some way to let someone know I was in distress. I decided to send a text message. I knew Lindsay was still at home getting ready for work. I “texted" her- I almost blacked out on the train just now, then- I don’t want to scare you but I don’t feel too well. Her response- Huh? My response- I had a very weird feeling in my chest. My cell phone rang; it was Lindsay. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I answered. I tried to talk very low. I didn’t want anyone else on the train to know what was going on. Believe me, though, no one knew nor cared. This is the Long Island Railroad, not exactly the “love train”. You’re lucky if someone lifts his or her bag off a seat to let you sit down. I told Lindsay I would get off at Jamaica Station and take the next train back home so we could go to the emergency room. She looked up the schedule and the next train was an hour wait. Not good. I called Karen, the woman in charge of the group I was due to present the workshop to. I had to let her know that I probably wasn’t going to make it- make it literally meaning “present the workshop”, but actually, in the back of my mind was “am I going to make it?” I explained what was happening and she asked me who was on the train to help me. I told her about the police officer, who was no more than 6 feet away. She said, “Go over to him and ask for help.” “I really don’t want to do that, Karen.” I replied, “I don’t want to make a scene.” “Jeannie,” Karen said in the calmest voice I ever heard, “just walk over to him and tell him you don’t feel well and you need an ambulance.” “Okay”, I relented. “Call me back, ” she said. I hesitantly walked over to the cop and whispered, “I’m not feeling well. I think I need an ambulance. I almost blacked out.” He looked stunned. That wasn’t a good sign. He was very young. I felt as if I should be telling him what to do. He did take me off the train at Jamaica Station. He called for the ambulance. It was taking a very long time for them to come, it seemed. At first, I was standing on the platform with the cop and my rolling bag; then the cop got the novel idea that maybe I should sit down in the waiting room and he could take my name. Yes, he was really new at this. He decided to go look for the ambulance and left me alone. I called Lindsay to give her the update. She was very anxious to get to me the fastest way possible. Then Karen called. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Waiting for the ambulance,” I told her. “Okay, try not to let them take you to Jamaica Hospital. Tell them you want to go to LIJ,” she insisted. “I’ll try.”

Finally, the EMTs came. They surrounded me. It seemed like there were sixty of them. I started to worry that I might be seeing double now. There was a young girl medic who appeared to be the “lead”. She put me on oxygen, immediately, asked if I was allergic to aspirin and then gave me two baby aspirin to chew on. I realized then that I should always be carrying baby aspirin in case of a heart attack. They asked me what happened and then all kinds of other questions and kept calling me “ma’am”. I hate that. I am not “ma’am.” When they asked me my age and I told them, I said, “You’re supposed to be surprised at how old I am.” They didn’t get it; of course, because they were all in their twenties. I felt so middle-aged at that point. I asked them not to take me to Jamaica Hospital. Naturally, they said that I had to go to Jamaica Hospital. It was so frenetic and I was so worried about my bags. I kept asking one of the sixty medics if they had my bags and they assured me that they did. They put me in a stretcher, sitting up, and proceeded to wheel me through Jamaica Station, yelling at all the oblivious people to kindly get out of the way. I was mortified. I never minded being the center of attention, but not in this way. I felt as it I was floating, almost, the way they zoomed me through the platform and onto the elevator, with other people who were trying not to stare while they were staring. Thank goodness the ambulance ride was short and I arrived quickly at Jamaica Hospital.

They took me directly to the Cardiac Care unit. Because it was just days before Christmas, everything looked festive and comforting. I explained what happened to me five more times to five more people. Everyone was so impersonal; until, finally, a wonderful nurse, Nina, introduced herself and told me to put a hospital gown on. Dr. Patel came by next and started the investigation into my mysterious episode. And then the endless poking, prodding and pinching began. I was hooked up to all kinds of monitors that made monotonous, cadenced beeping sounds. The blood pressure machine took my pressure automatically. I called it the invisible nurse. My pressure was a little high. Mark showed up, followed by Lindsay, Scott and Kim. I introduced them all to Nina. Lindsay held up her engagement ring and told her that there are 258 days to their wedding, so they better make me well. Nina asked, “Are they having a cooper?” “A what?” I asked. “Cooper- you know for the ceremony; aren’t you Jewish?” “Yes. Yes. Of Course.” She was saying “Chuppa”- I thought her accent was Spanish; she turned out to be a European Jew.

Dr. Patel informed me that he needed to admit me for observation. He said that even though I shoveled the snow the day before, this could have been the cause because I overexerted myself; in other words, 53 year-old women shouldn’t shovel snow. I’m so glad that Mark was there to witness this. I have never been admitted to a hospital, except for birthing my children. This was an experience I always had from the other end- being the child witnessing my dad being admitted to the hospital or the parent, witnessing Lindsay being admitted to the hospital. I have never been the one sitting on that stretcher with the worried eyes of my family hovering over me. I have always been on the other side of the worried eyes.

While I waited for a room, my friends from work, Dorothea and Stephanie came by to visit. Dorothea gave me my Christmas gift; Stephanie gave me a book to read. It was nice to get the attention; although, I would have much rather been at work and then going to the reunion party. I had arrived at the hospital at about 7:30 am; I got to my room at 3:30 pm. Welcome to the wonderful world of hospitals. The cheerful orderly who wheeled me to my room was very impressed with my boots. Thankfully, my roommate was very nice; her name was Alberta- breast cancer survivor, diabetes, under active thyroid, asthma and congestive heart failure. That’s the way you meet people in the hospital- you exchange diagnoses and ailments before anything else. Alberta was there for six days already. She showed me where the closet was and explained how to get the phone and TV to work. She was good company. I knew this because I could hear some of the other patients down the hall who were the screamers and complainers. Thank goodness for Alberta. I called my mom to let her know what was going on and to reassure her everything was going to be fine. She told me that at 7am that morning, she had a very uneasy feeling and a sudden urge to call me, but she didn’t because she knows I don’t like to talk on the phone while I’m on the train. My mom is a little psychic. I always knew that. I told her, “Daddy put that cop on the train.” That was, I figured "a sign" that he was watching over me. I got myself as comfortable as possible into what would be my bed for the next two nights, and as I was lying down I noticed the view out the window. In the near distance, I could see the Long Island Railroad gliding up and down its tracks.

My hospital stay lasted three whole days. It seemed like an eternity. I had to wear a halter monitor round the clock and any time one of the connectors came undone, a nurse or aide or someone came in to reconnect me. This happened four or five times in the middle of the night. One thing for sure, even though you are in a bed 99% of the time in a hospital, it does not mean you can sleep. I had an x-ray, CAT scan, echocardiogram and continuous blood tests. Another thing that you learn from being in a hospital is that everyone sees you naked; I don’t even know why they bother with the gown that exposes your whole backside anyway. We should just stay naked the whole time while we’re in the hospital because the gown just gets in the way when they perform all those tests. That hospital gown is a nuisance; I can’t believe that with all the new updated state of the art equipment, they can’t come up with a more comfortable, convenient garment for the patients to wear. I had two resident doctors- Layla and Dr. Malaky and one attending (their boss), Dr. Alwani. Lindsay, Kim and I asked Layla what the ranking was according to our reference to Grey’s Anatomy; Layla was Lexi, Dr. Malaky was Meredith and Dr. Alwani was Derek (trust me, he was not McDreamy, though).

After all the test results came back, they determined that I had mitral valve prolapse in the moderate stage with regurgitation- in simple terms- a leaky valve. This could have caused my syncope- in simple terms- fainting spell. Dr. Alwani could not release me until I saw the cardiologist. He said I could go but I had to sign a form that it was against the doctor’s advice. I called my malpractice attorney sister-in-law and she said that means, in simple terms, “Don’t leave.” All I had to do was wait for the cardiologist to talk to me and so I waited and waited and waited. Mark waited and waited and waited with me. He was more impatient than I was, maybe because he wasn’t the patient to begin with. During that time, Alberta happily went home after eight long days at the hospital. The sun set peacefully outside my window as the Long Island Railroad went up and down its tracks. They told me that the cardiologist would be there to see me between 10 and 3. It’s like when you wait for a repairmen at your home- they give you a time frame and it’s almost always never at the lesser end, and in many cases, it’s beyond that time frame. In my case, it was not until 5pm that Dr. Jane, the cardiologist finally came; coincidentally, right after Lindsay called the hospital twice to scream at the poor souls who answered her belligerent phone calls. After Dr. Jane explained my condition, I asked if I would make it to September 6, 2010 (the day after the wedding). He looked at me with a weird expression after my question. Mark said, “Don’t mind her; my daughter’s getting married on September 5^th. My wife has a strange sense of humor.” I was released (odd that it’s the same term they use when they let you out of prison) at 5:35pm. Luckily, this was in the knick of time because my new roommate arrived, who was a screamer. The orderly said goodbye and commented again on how much he liked my boots.

I am at home, now. I have to be on metoprolol and baby aspirin for the rest of my life and follow up with a cardiologist on a regular basis so I can be monitored. I also have to learn to pronounce metroprolol (baby aspirin, I have down pat.) My wonderful brother brought my mom to visit me at home. The best medicine of all was a hug from her. I think we both felt that way. Almost everyone who calls me tells me they also have mitral valve prolapse. It’s a common condition that runs in my family, as well. Lindsay has it, too. I have an appointment with my new cardiologist on Monday. Lindsay and Kim are taking me and then I think we’ll go look for a dress for me for the wedding- might as well, I’ll be on the Miracle Mile, where we began looking for wedding dresses. I will practice my poses that they do on the website.

Uncle Milty called me this morning, to make sure I was okay. He asked, rhetorically, "Did my nephew put you in the hospital?" I told him the whole story. Uncle Milty is on metroprolol, too, although, he hasn’t learned to pronounce it yet. We talked about the wedding and how he can’t wait to be there. He told me to have his nephew, Mark, who was sleeping at the time, to call him back so he can tell him what to do with his shovel.

We are all going to our dear friends, Cathy and Steve’s today, a tradition we keep every Christmas. Cathy is a physician’s assistant and pharmacist. If I have another episode like on Monday morning, I’ll be in a good place. Although, I would hate to disrupt Cathy’s cooking for her to resuscitate me, god forbid.

It’s Christmas morning; bless us all.

A Song in My Heart

Friends, relatives, colleagues are always asking me how are the wedding plans? I give them the latest updates. We just ordered the flowers; beautiful, tropical flowers, with crystals because there’s got to be “bling” everywhere according to the bride. Sometimes, though, we do run into little obstacles. The quandary we are facing now is the song. One song. The one that Lindsay will walk down the aisle to. It should be a pretty simple decision to make, especially for one who has over 5,000 songs on her ipod. How does one even manage to accumulate 5,000 songs? I don’t even think I know 5,000 songs. I have one tenth of that amount on my ipod. The funny thing is that when I do decide to use my ipod, which is no longer a novelty, I usually can’t find a song that I want to listen to. Still, music is very important to me. Every Sunday morning my ritual with Mark is to read the Sunday Times while 104.3 is tuned to Breakfast with the Beatles. I also happen to come from a musical family. I grew up having seven uncles who were all very well known musicians. Music was always the backdrop of my life. I can remember playing my music, either my 45’s or albums on my record player, that ancient machine that you were able to place a stack of records onto. If I close my eyes I could hear the first album plop down on the turntable and the needle sizzling before the song began to play. I would lie on my multi-colored shag carpet and listen to “Let it Be” ten times, sometimes; over and over again. I couldn’t get enough of it. Eventually I turned to my Elton John albums, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell; and then in my “dark” period, I played Laura Nyro. Name a year and I could probably name a song for it. For example- 1968, MacArthur Park- one of the longest songs in history. I was in sixth grade. We were into boy/girl parties. MacArthur Park was for slow dancing. And if you happen to be dancing with a boy you didn’t like while MacArthur Park was playing, it felt like that song would never end. Although there were the songs that you never wanted to end. I remember, in Jr. High, going to my friend, Estelle’s house and listening to Carol King’s I Feel the Earth Move repeatedly. It seems like anytime I like a song, I become obsessed with it. Even when I played the piano and learned The Rainbow Connection, it became the only song I played.

I dreamed of becoming a singer- at first, a folk singer. So I took guitar lessons from my uncle Ruby; cut my nails short and let my hair grow long. After folk singing became passé, I abandoned my guitar and concentrated only on my voice. My Uncle Oscar, who played the piano, would help me, accompanying me from time to time. However, he was not as nurturing and adoring as Ruby was. Still, it was a treat to go to Oscar’s house up on the hill in Roslyn, Long Island. I would sing while he played one of his grand pianos, which was in a room designed especially for two grand pianos that sat opposite one another beside floor to ceiling windows overlooking his woodsy backyard. This was a rare treat for a girl from Brooklyn. I could still picture myself singing, feeling hopeful that I could be the next Barbara Streisand (another Brooklyn native), while my very talented uncle played so effortlessly and beautifully. One time, when I finished a song, Uncle Oscar, looked up at me, very dreamily, a smile underneath his enormous grey handlebar mustache and said, “Aren’t I wonderful?” (You can’t make this stuff up.) He was very proud of himself; I never did know how or if he was proud of me, though.

There was a time I ventured outside my family of experts to pursue voice lessons. I studied with an opera singer in Manhattan. However, I was tired of commuting to the city so I found a professional male singer in Brooklyn who performed in the Yiddish Theater, who also believed that good vocalists have to tighten their buttocks in order to hold notes for an extended length of time and he would have to periodically check to make sure that my tush was tight while I sang those long notes. (You can’t make this stuff up.) I naively asked him if my boyfriend could come to watch one of my lessons and he told me that it wasn’t a good idea because he wouldn’t understand about the tightening of the buttocks strategy and it might confuse him when my voice teacher was feeling my ass. I told my parents nothing about this, except that I decided to quit taking singing lessons.

These experiences did not sour my love for music, though, which I passed down to my children who are always singing and dancing. Lindsay followed in my footsteps and is a singer now, as well. She even sang in the double grand piano room in Roslyn, while my cousin, Neil, Oscar’s son accompanied her. This is why it is so important to find that perfect song for her to walk down the aisle to because Mark and I will be walking by her side, which is the Jewish tradition. This is when we “give our little girl away”. This is when we say goodbye to our “child” and acknowledge she’s a woman. This is when we get welled up with emotion because that walk is one of those snapshots in one’s life that takes your breath away, when you reminisce. This is when we have our “Hallmark moment”. Hence, I feel that I should have some influence in choosing the song because it is my moment, too. Naturally, I don’t want to take away from Lindsay and Scott’s thunder. I just wish we could find a song that captures the essence of how everyone feels; one that might bring tears to your eyes, but not gut-wrenching sobs. One which has to be in one of the 5,000 darn songs that Lindsay has on her ipod; not to mention that Scott, who also DJs on the side, most likely has 10,000 songs. Whenever we think we have it, there’s a lyric that vetoes its possibilities. Martina McBride’s There You Are was a strong contender until it mentioned something about an angel and we didn’t want to consider what that might imply. Surely, we will find one. Knowing our history, knowing my uncles- Lindsay’s great uncles, knowing that music runs in our veins. There’s got to be a song that justly accompanies that moment when we give away the girl who grew beneath my heart to the one whom her heart adores. There’s got to be a song…or else,

I might have to write one myself.