Kink

Two weeks ago on a Thursday after work I went with Lindsay to look for a headpiece and veil. There was a trunk show at the store where she bought her wedding gown. She put on a sample of her dress to match it up to the veil. Mary Lou, the salesperson that sold it to her, was there. Lindsay had weighed almost 90 pounds on that night; she had put on some much needed weight after having pancreatitis. It took two hours to decide that the first headpiece she tried on was the one she wanted and to find a veil reaching her fingertips with enough “bling”. Bling should be Lindsay’s other middle name. Bling is in the description of everything that Lindsay has ordered to plan this wedding. “It has to have bling,” she says, with a sparkle in her brown eyes and a nod of her head. Even the invitations, which didn’t come with bling, had bling inserted onto them. A tiny luminous Swarovski crystal was carefully glued onto the middle of each motif at the top of every invitation, over 100 of them. There was an intense discussion beforehand about whether to put one crystal or three. Too much bling can be tacky while just the right amount of bling is elegant.

The headpiece and veil were blingy and elegant, with a price tag that defied my imagination. I had no idea toile, which weighs next to nothing, can be so expensive. Both the headpiece and veil cost more than half the price of what I paid for the dress. I nearly fell off the fancy little cushioned stool I was sitting on when Mary Lou brought me the sales ticket. I suddenly realized that the phrase “What price range are you looking in?” was never stated. Exhausted and in a small state of shock, I just handed over my credit card, which Mary Lou had to release from my tense grip. I regretted that moment dearly. But how could I say no after we had invested two hours of our time deciding? However, two days later, my practicality triumphed when I explained to Lindsay that it was just outrageous to spend so much, without looking into other options. She had heard about a lady, Adi, who sells headpieces and veils from her home. We cancelled the order and made an appointment with Adi for the following Friday night. Then came the kink.

The kink was revealed on Wednesday night. Lindsay had to go back for the procedure to remove both stents that the doctor had put in her to repair her twisted pancreatic duct and bile duct. The stent from her pancreatic duct was supposed to pass naturally, but didn’t. It had to be removed with the same procedure that he did to place it in there. So, he decided, why go back to remove the other one and have to go through anesthesia again? Let’s just remove everything. The appointment was set for Wednesday morning and Mark was going to go with her because I had to work in Stamford, Connecticut that day. I was really not happy about not being there for the procedure, but Lindsay would not change the appointment. I left my cell phone on while I was doing my workshop to keep in contact with Mark. At about 11:30, he called to tell me that recovery did not go so well. They suspected she had to be admitted into the hospital again. I was 50 miles away. I left Stamford, Connecticut, flying down the rain-slicked I-95; I do not think the wheels of my car hit the pavement at all. I was not aware of the speed I was travelling, but I do remember the constant hum inside the car as I defied time to get to my daughter. If you listen carefully, you can hear panic; it envelops you in a vacuum. It forces you to focus on every uncomfortable millisecond that passes. It is callous and insensitive.

When I arrived at the hospital, Lindsay was being admitted to a different unit this time, a private room in the “M” wing. She was still in a drowsy state from the anesthesia, but it was clear she was in a lot of pain again. Her amylase level was 2003; lipase was 8232. Higher than the last time. Pancreatitis, round two. Dr. Stark explained the problem. A kink. There was a kink in her bile duct, like a kink in a hose. The cause for the kink was a choledochal cyst, which is a congenital deformity. It occurs during the first 45 days of fetal development. It was my fault, after all, I felt. What did I do during those first vital days? I had to do something wrong- take an aspirin, perhaps, or twist in the wrong direction. It’s silly to blame myself, I know, but nevertheless, I do. What’s so cruel is that this has revealed itself during what is supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives. I take a deep breath. It is not a sigh of relief. It is a sigh of anticipation. For now, the doctor had to put in a new stent, one with pig-tails that rotates and will hopefully correct the kink. If that doesn’t work, he will try a different stent. If that doesn’t work-surgery- very invasive, complicated surgery. One day at a time; I say; we will take it one day at a time. And hope for the best.

The stent has to stay in for at least three months. That is three weeks before the wedding. It is too risky to remove it then because every time he does the procedure, there’s a great chance that she will get pancreatitis again. So, Dr. Stark says he will wait until after the wedding. The stent walks down the aisle with Lindsay. In sickness and in health….with or without stents. The honeymoon has to be postponed because there is risk of infection. She can take antibiotics with her, but I say no- I am not letting her go to St. Lucia with a stent and a pill. She will have to wait. One day at a time. And hope for the best.

I returned to work last Monday. Thursday I went to my office. I sleep deeply on the Long Island Railroad, now. As I walk through Penn Station, I carry a heavy burden on my shoulders, blending in with the frenetic hustle of the crowds of people. Sometimes, there is a man who plays an organ, right before the entrance to the “2” subway. He was there this Thursday. He is in his eighties, I think, with silvery white hair and leathery brown skin. He must have osteoporosis, because his head hangs down over his slumped neck. Maybe he has a kink, too. A mechanical monkey claps its cymbals right beside the baskets where people drop their money in for his music. He plays the same song all the time. I always stop, no matter how hurried I am, and find some coins or a dollar to place in one of the baskets. And every time I do, without fail, he lifts his heavy head, and waves his hand to thank me. His smile is broad and sincere. It is in that moment, I am almost certain of the presence of G-d. It is the organ-player’s smile that lifts the burden from my shoulders.

This time, Lindsay was in the hospital for five days. She is now 87.9 pounds. We went to Adi, the veil lady’s house yesterday. We found a veil with bling that costs $250 less than the veil in the store. She will make a similar headpiece for $200 less. We continue with our wedding planning, even with a kink in the journey. One day at a time. And whenever I feel the weight of the kink I think of my organ playing man lifting his head and smiling. And I hope for the best.

This is blog #36. 36 is double chai. Chai in Hebrew means 18 and life....a good sign.

Palindrome

Mom. The word mom is a palindrome. A palindrome is a word or phrase, which reads the same in both directions. It is derived from the Greek palindromos, meaning running back again. Didn’t the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding say that the root of every word is Greek? I guess he was right.

It makes sense that mom is a palindrome; it should be the example- the mother of all palindromes, don’t you think?

Mom begins life and life begins mom. That’s a palindrome sentence. It’s also a true statement.

My Mom-

Sweet Sylvia. Funny lady, my mom. My main gal. The one who’s always there for me, anywhere, anytime. Sylvia started “late in life” getting married and having children. Of course, what was considered late in life in 1952 was 28 years old. Lindsay will be almost 28 when she gets married, but in 2010, that’s considered just about right. Funny how things change.

Sylvia was told by her doctor, sometime in 1953, that she probably wouldn’t be able to have any children, after unsuccessfully trying to get pregnant. She went home, dejected, and decided with George (my dad) that they would just go on and make a life without kids. Doctors can be wrong, though, and in April 1954, Sylvia had Marjorie, a strawberry blonde, green- eyed little girl, inheriting my father’s fair features. Then in April 1956, she had me- dark like her- black hair, dark brown eyes. Claire was born on my birthday (never forgave her) in 1958. Three girls in a row; the April girls.

Genevieve, our next-door neighbor and mom’s good friend, had four kids. When her youngest was born, I begged my mother to have another baby. I remember it well. I was by the stove while Mom was cooking, pleading with her to have a baby. “No,” she told me, “three is enough.” The next thing I recall was being in the car with my parents, returning from the doctor and trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Mom was upset, but I sort of got the gist. “Are you having another baby?” I asked, excitedly. “Yes,” she said impatiently, while she was deeply embroiled in the discussion with my dad. I was elated. I kind of got that Mom was not. That’s because she was scared. She was pregnant, but also had a tumor, which she carried along with the baby for nine months. In April 1962, my brother, Martin, Sylvia’s miracle boy, was born. He was over eight pounds; the tumor was the size of a grapefruit. But all was well. And my dad smiled from ear to ear. I could touch that smile; it is so vivid in my memory.

Four kids and my mom; we were her life. I knew that. And through most of it, she had her mom, Grandma Fanny, living with us. She took care of her mom and us. Her life began with us- the life she always wanted- to be a mother. It was her job- basically her only job. She will tell us stories, new stories all the time about her life before us. They are wonderful stories- but to me- my mom will always be my mom and that is where her life began for me. Mom begins life.

Me, a Mom?

I remember the day that I told my mom that I would probably not ever have children. I said to her “looking at young girls wheeling babies in carriages depresses me.” I could just picture the puzzled expression on her face. But she didn’t dissuade me; she just said, “Okay. Whatever you want. Just make sure you finish college and are able to support yourself- whether you have children or not.” Best advice she ever gave me. She always listened carefully, never really told me what to do; just planted seeds. She was a seed-planting mom.

Well the rest is history. I met Mark, fell in love, got married and my life began again when I found out I was pregnant. Three months later, I began to bleed heavily and thought for sure I had miscarried. I went to the doctor and after the examination he told me that the pregnancy was probably terminated. He sent me for a sonogram to check further. In 1982 you had to wait to go for a sonogram, which was usually done in the hospital. I had to wait two long days. In those two days, my pants wouldn’t close and on the night before the sonogram, I felt a strange sensation in my stomach, like butterflies. But I still believed what the doctor told me- there was no baby anymore. Doctors can be wrong, though. And while the technician was doing the sonogram, she said, perfunctorily, “there’s the baby’s heart, beating.” “What baby?” I said, shocked. “Your baby,” she laughed. Life begins mom.

On September 19, 1982, my life began as a mom to Lindsay and on August 1, 1986, my life began as a mom to Kimberly. I had a life before. It was a good life. This one is better. I am blessed.

I found the first Mother’s Day card I ever got that was hand-made by Lindsay. It said “Happy Mother’s Day” on the front. She put dots on the bottom of all the letters to make the print fancier and glued on colored glitter in the shape of hearts. Inside it said:

Thank for…giving me what I really need and that’s a hug I love you

To: Mom

and for…buying what I need

and for…giving me love and care.

and for….helping me with my homework.

and for….kissing my boo-boo

and for…Taking me to school from: Lindsay

Lindsay and Kimberly…thank you for giving me a life as your mom. And Mom, thank you for giving me a life.

Mom begins life and life begins mom. A very special palindrome.

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new. ~Rajneesh

Happy Mother’s Day.

Flashback, Flash Forward

No matter how much I try to remain in the present, my mind takes over and I have either a flashback or flash forward. Of course, there are times that I’m just having a hot flash and disconsolately in the present for that. It is May, already. April came and went in a flash. The day of my birthday, the 22^nd, was uneventful, a day of work like any other; until I was surprised at home when Mark, Lindsay, Scott and Kim hid Sonny from me and then brought him out, golden fur, decorated with a red bow. I got my first “mother-in-law” birthday card from Scott, which I will treasure always. And then Phil and Phyllis- Scott’s parents- yes, I chuckle every time I say their names together, too- came over to join in singing me happy birthday while I blew out the candles on a fancy cake.

126 days left of this journey. Thursday, at last, Scott and Lindsay officially closed on their house. That was a journey in itself, with the typical back and forth of uncertainties and frustrations of buying a home and getting a mortgage. Even up to the day before the closing, there was a problem and they were unsure that the deal was going to go through. A roller-coaster ride, just like most anything in life. I kept telling them, “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” And, luckily, I was right; my daughter and future son-in-law will reside in a lovely little cape five minutes away from us, four if there’s light traffic on Jerusalem for a left-turn and I make the light on Hempstead Turnpike. When people ask me how far it is and I tell them this, I add- “it’s as far as the umbilical cord will stretch." It’s also five minutes away from Phyllis’ and Phil’s house- equidistant to both sets of parents- one set to the north and one set to the south. I flashback to the days when Mark and I got our first apartment- a stone’s throw away from each of our parents. Friday night dinner at my parent's house, Sunday night dinner at Mark’s.

And now the work begins- breaking down old walls, putting up new walls- demolishing, building and making it their own. I came home from work early on Thursday and Kim and I decided to go over to Scott and Lindsay's house to congratulate them. Before we did, I called my best friend, Meryl, in Florida to find out what the traditional things to bring to a new home were. She told me sugar, salt, bread, a candlestick and matches. Although she couldn’t really explain what each one stands for. My mom, as always had most of the answers; sugar is for a sweet life, salt is for a little spice, bread- so they should always “have what to eat”. She never heard of the candlestick and matches. I brought them birthday candles and decided that it meant they should celebrate a lot of birthdays there. Who knows; it sounded good. The sugar, salt, bread, birthday candles and matches went in a large red gift bag and of course, I also bought them one of those sappy little plaques with a sappy little saying about a home. Kimberly bought them a beautiful azalea, bursting with pink buds.

Lindsay greeted us at the door, holding a large Ziploc bag filled with ice on her head. “What happened?” I asked, a little panicky. “I got hit by a hammer,” she responded. “Your future son-in-law lost the grip to the hammer because his hands were all sweaty. It went flying…and landed right onto the top of my head. He said it was like it was happening in slow motion and I told him it couldn’t have been that slow, because I had no time to move away from the flying hammer.” Always a little drama when it comes to Lindsay. It makes sense that she’s an actress.

I looked around at Scott and Lindsay’s future home; presently the floors are filled with torn sheet rock and nails. Lindsay led us around, explaining how the furniture will be placed and how they will rearrange the kitchen. I tried to flash forward beyond the demolition to picture what it will look like. My mind got carried away as I walked to the backyard and I could almost hear my future grandchildren giggling and playing in the grass. I shook myself back to reality, when I noticed how overgrown and weedy the grass was and the monstrous, diseased tree, smack in the middle, that must, unfortunately be cut down.

It’s a lot of work that needs to be done. But they are young and strong and have handy, wonderful friends to help them, besides for Mark, who is excited to be part of this project. When I got home later, I noticed Lindsay and Scott’s boxes, still piled by the wall of my dining room. “Another few weeks,” I tell the boxes, “and you’ll be out of here.” I am happy and a bit sad all at once.

By the time we returned home, it was too late to make dinner. Mark and Kim and I decided to go to our favorite diner. We were sitting next to two older couples, who caught my eye for some reason. As they left, the older of the two gentlemen, slowly and carefully got up from his seat. I could tell this was difficult for him. He was bent over, his spine circling towards the floor. His wife, looking much younger and better than he, helped him put his jacket on. And that’s when it clicked. I realized that the older man was my former boss, the one I worked for when I was getting married. He and his wife were even at our wedding. I saw perhaps a glimmer of recognition in her expression, but I chose not to say anything to them. I whispered, excitedly to Mark, “You know who that was- Al- my old boss. Look how old he got.”

Then the flashbacks began, as a comfort, at first. Mark and I had both worked in the store where I worked for Al- at the jewelry concession. Mark had worked in the small appliance department, before I got the job. It’s where we met. I had bought a tape recorder from Mark and he called me to find out how I liked it and then he asked me out. The rest is history, as they say. It’s also where I met Meryl; we worked together. Mark and I started reminiscing about all the people, who worked with us, telling Kim the stories from the past. There was Bebe, the alcoholic, who worked in the jewelry department, too, who fell asleep one night smoking a cigarette and set her apartment on fire. She wanted to get a face-lift because her skin was so wrinkled from the booze and cigarettes, but she was too chicken to do it, so she sent her husband first, as the guinea pig. He ended up getting the face-lift and looked 20 years younger than she did; she never got up the courage to do it herself. Then there was Fran, tall skinny, nutty Fran, with her huge boobs that entered any room two minutes before she did. We laughed, remembering the time she was rushing past Meryl who was pregnant with Matthew then. Her boobs literally knocked Meryl into the garbage pail. I could just picture Meryl, sitting in that pail, with her enormous belly sticking up and her feet dangling on either side. We were laughing so hard that we couldn’t get her out of the pail. Flashbacks.

That night, after all the memories faded, as I was lying beside Mark in bed, I thought of Al and how old he got. He had to be younger than we were now when we got married. Maybe he was close to 80 now. 32 years. The flash forward started to come over me. “Mark,” I said, with angst, “He got so old.” “Who?” he answered, trying to sleep. “Al. He got so old. It’s only 32 years. Just think, that will be us in 32 years. We’ll be old like that. Maybe even bent over, like Al. It’s so depressing. And that’s if we even make it another 32 years.”

“Go to sleep, Jeannie,” Mark sighed, “Let’s just get through tomorrow.”