LIFE…

goes on. The wedding planning continues. Less than six months away. My daughter’s eyes sparkle every time she unveils the new countdown. “One hundred seventy days!” she exclaimed the other night, “Honey, we’re getting MARRIED!!” She giggles in a high-pitched voice, reaching out for Scott.

It’s the first day of spring today, leaving behind one of the most stonyhearted winters of my life. The weather has been perfect the last several days in the aftermath of damage from storm after storm. The sun seemed to have disappeared during those dark weather days; not today, though, as I sit in my kitchen and feel its brilliance settle on me, reassuringly.

Life goes on.

We have endured ups and downs, elation and disappointment, relief and worry. We can also say it in reverse- downs and ups, disappointment and elation, worry and relief. I have always felt a bit hesitant to fully experience happiness, since I was a child. I never knew why, possibly because I’m an old soul who realizes the impermanence of things. There’s a Taoist story that I’ve come across a couple of times and that other authors have referred to that illustrates this concept. It’s titled “Maybe” and it goes like this…

An old farmer had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. When his neighbors heard the news, they came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Maybe,” the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing three other wild horses. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man. The following day, his son tried to ride on one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.

Many “maybes” have come and gone these past few months. The deal on the house that Lindsay and Scott are buying almost fell through a number of times. They had to renegotiate. Right now, things are looking better. I still hold my breath until they have the key in their hands, until they sign the last of the countless number of signatures they will write at the closing.

Two nights ago we met the florist, Christina, at the hall to preview the flower arrangements for the wedding. My daughter amazes me sometimes in her attention to the very last detail of everything she wants. I have to pause, in awe of her, as she describes each facet of the table centerpieces, the cake, the bouquets, using her tiny delicate hands to articulate the significance of the colors, shapes, and sizes and of course, sparkle effect of each element. Vicky, the caterer, was there, as sparkly, herself, as ever. She was working with another couple but had to come out to express her approval of the centerpieces with her usual enthusiasm and humor. Vicky was born to do this- plan weddings. She always lifts my spirits. She even commented on my new red hair color. And she continues to refer to Lindsay and Scott as the “Lobster Couple.”

The lobster couple, despite their intense attention to detail and elegance, still have that cute little simple side to them. They could get just as excited over lobster as Taco Bell, which is what we all had for dinner last night. This is what I love about them- their fervor in everything they do. I hope they never lose that beautiful spirit, that zest for life. And then, it could be just their youth. Have I somehow lost that in my middle-aged frame of mind? And if I have, can it be reborn, somehow?

A cluster of colorful exotic flowers, from the sample centerpiece Christina created for us, sits in a vase as I enter my house now. I used to always buy fresh flowers every time I did my food shopping. Kimberly once asked me about this and then kept my response as a quote on her Facebook page: “Flowers are important. They remind us we’re alive.”

Recently, I stopped buying flowers even though I swore I never would. I switched to a plant with a flower blossom, in its place. Then, I’m even embarrassed to say, I supplanted that with wooden roses- faux flowers- shameful. It was because I was weary from constantly throwing out the dead or dying flowers. I should have respected their short lifespan, instead of avoiding their inevitable demise. So today, as a tribute to the first day of spring, I bought bright, yellow, fragrant daffodils in Trader Joes. Two bunches, $1.49 each.

Thank goodness for spring. If I were to link the seasons to life, spring- you would be birth. Summer would be youth, autumn would be age and winter would be death. The life cycle. Simple and profound all at once. I think that makes sense.

Anyway, I am so ready for spring.

Life goes on.

Life begins. Again.

Coming Home…

has been very difficult this week, very. Leaving home has been easier, though. It’s a new response to the comings and goings in our house, without our sweet, faithful, furry Coco there to greet us as we return or keep vigil when we left. It was her home more than anyone’s, actually, because she was always in it. A constant. A predictable certainty in our lives.

We set up a shrine for her- all her favorite toys, her blanket from my bed, photos of her as a puppy and through all the nine years we had her, her treat container and her collar, silent now- but reminiscent of the jingling it made when she was alive. I could almost hear it, growing more distant as each day goes by. Her fur still remains, not only in the bag they gave us when she died, but also all over the house. She used to bark angrily at me whenever I used any of those sweepers to remove her hair from the couch or the cushion of her window seat. It would make me yell and laugh at her at the same time. I can’t bring myself to do that now. I feel it would affront her absence. Lindsay found a piece of her fur on her pants while she was at work. She meticulously took it off and put it inside her sweater, close to her heart. All we have now is remnants of her fur, this shrine and our memories, which we share frequently- memories that make us a family

My Internet surfing has changed from diagnosing the symptoms of Coco’s illness to chat rooms where people, who recently lost their pets, congregate. That lasted about five minutes; chat rooms are definitely not for me- they’re frenetic and confusing. Then I found a website about grieving and pet loss, written by a veterinarian. The five stages of grief, as applied to mourning the death of your pet-

Denial- my denial appears in the automatic reactions I have when I drop a tissue to quickly pick it up so Coco doesn’t get to it and eat it. She loved to eat tissues. Quickly, I realize I don’t have to do that anymore and the shock grabs at my heart.

Anger (or lashing out)- Yes, definitely did that- to the poor young guy at the counter of CVS photo department. I indignantly blamed his equipment for cutting off one of my pictures of Coco I had printed, only to find out when I came home that the picture was cut off to begin with. I have gone back to the photo department, with my “tale between my legs”, so to speak, to reprint these photos. I think the poor guy is afraid of me- I thought I noticed his hands trembling when I came to the counter. Oh well, it’s not me; it’s the stages of grief- you were, unfortunately, at the receiving end, poor young guy.

Bargaining- I did the bargaining when we found out Coco was terminal. I made a deal with G-d that if s/he made her well I would be the one to take her out first thing every morning. When she died, I constantly went over in my mind the things I could have done differently to prevent this whole thing; for example, did I hit her on the head to scold her when she was naughty and give her the brain tumor? Jewish guilt, a hereditary flaw. My Aunt Dorothy suffers from that, as well. To this day, she thinks she gave my Uncle Fintz a brain tumor from throwing a can of peaches or something at his head when they were children.

Depression- Enough said. Looking at every empty spot she used to lay in depresses me.

Acceptance- We’re getting there. The compassion of others is helping. Our family and friends have been wonderful during this time- sending cards, messages on Facebook, calling to “check” on us. We have even heard from friends I haven’t spoken to in a long time. All this has been an immense source of comfort. Even from strangers. A kind woman and her husband sent me a message on Facebook after she read my blog. They told me they have a Coco, too- a Lab Golden mix. At the end of their note, they said that my Coco is “now closer to the almighty and lending assistance with good deeds for you and your family.” Coincidently, on the day she sent me this message, Lindsay and Scott heard good news- their mortgage was approved on the house they are in contract with. Hooray!!! I looked at the message again that this woman had sent to figure out how she would know me and my blog- and found out we are connected by a mutual friend- Sheri- Scott and Lindsay’s real estate agent. Another coincidence? Or perhaps, not. This mere, yet meaningful event has led me to the “acceptance” stage.

Bad things happen and good things happen, too- the Yin and Yang of life. There is death; there is life. There is sadness; there is happiness. The day after Coco’s death, a week ago, that night at dinner, my mom was with us. She had a glass of wine and before she drank, made a toast “Only good things from now on.” I looked at her and said, “We’d like to have only good things, but bad things do happen and without them, we wouldn’t have the good things, really.” We needed this good thing, now.

And now, Lindsay and Scott have a house. A place to make memories, a place for their love and their lives to grow. A backyard for children to laugh and play and for dogs to run. A place for coming home.

Coco…A Happy Story With a Sad Ending

2/27/10

When I think back on the February of 2010, I will always remember the icy indifference of winter, the precarious beauty of white snow and saying goodbye to our beloved dog, Coco.

I had not wanted a dog, nine years ago. I had never had a dog, even though I always had a natural inclination to love animals, especially canines. However, I didn’t want the responsibility, the commitment and the burden of worrying about another “child”. But a friend of Mark’s at work had a Golden Labrador retriever that was due to have puppies and Mark and Lindsay and Kim’s plans were very different from mine. Coco was born January 7, 2001, the runt of a litter of six pups, the only chocolate one. These two facts already abated my resistance, because I have a weakness for chocolate and one of my favorite characters in a book is Wilbur, the runt of the litter in Charlotte’s Web. We went to meet her. I took my mom with us. She will always talk about that day when she held Coco in the palm of her hand. I was still unsure, though. The three musketeers, my husband and children, begged. I said, “No”. They said, “C’mon, we’ll name her “Truffle”. “Truffle?” I said. “That’s a stupid name. Her name should be…Coco.” Mark’s eyes lit up. “Does that mean we could have her?"“No,” I said, “whoever takes her, tell them her name is Coco.” They begged some more. I said, “No.” And then they bamboozled me and brought her home, anyway. All three pounds of her. Three pounds of chocolate fur, with jade green eyes, wrapped up in the girls ABC baby quilt that I had saved.

One thing I learned- puppies are like infants. All night she cried. When she stopped, I couldn’t find her. She was in Lindsay’s arms, in bed, trembling. All she did was cry and crap, cry and crap and cry. I couldn’t take it. I said, “No. Why don’t you all believe me?” My house was a mess. I started having a tantrum. I made phone calls to anyone who would take a dog. They were all crying, then, Lindsay, Kimberly, Mark and Coco. Coco started to tremble. I picked her up; three pounds of trembling puppy. I held her tight in my arms. She buried her tiny head with the flappy ears inside my elbow. The trembling slowed and then stopped and there I was, holding three pounds of chocolate that melted in my heart. The phone rang. It was a friend I had called. “My boss will take the dog,” she said. “What dog?” I answered. Lindsay hung up the phone. They all looked at me, defeated, by this lovable canine. Then I said, “I can’t believe I have a dog.”

And so it began, our life with Coco, who quickly became a member of our family, and the "child" I spoiled the most. She was such a rambunctious little thing, getting into trouble, constantly, true to her puppy nature. At times, I thought I should have named her “Coocoo”. But, in spite of my initial protests and all the trouble she caused- eating my kitchen wallpaper, chewing our socks, and even once, ripping up twenty-five dollars I had left on the dining room table- I loved her more than words could say. Three pounds turned into 68 pounds of affectionate, boundless energy. She was such a pretty dog, too. I remember once walking her and a van stopped as it turned onto the street. A woman ran out and came over to us. “I just had to come over and meet this beautiful dog!" she exclaimed.

As beautiful as she was, that’s how energetic and happy she was. When people she loved came over, she would jump all over them and eventually wind up trying to sit on their heads. Veterinarians would tell me the jumping would subside, but it never did. My mother would get extra special love from Coco; she would lick her whole face, sometimes sticking her tongue in her mouth. My dad called her “the lesbian dog.”

We have such happy, funny, wonderful memories of her. The best memory I have is how she used to sit on the window seat in the kitchen window and guard the house. We bought the house because of the window seat, honestly. I said, “This will be Coco’s spot.” And it was. As we would drive up she would watch us get out of the car, and start to rise, her tail wagging wildly. I would wave to her, like an idiot. It was my joy every day. No matter what kind of day I had, that was the highlight of it- seeing my Coco happy to see me.

On Wednesday, February 3. I was getting ready to leave for a business trip. As Coco went to jump on her window seat, she fell. It was the first sign to me, of what was to come. I left for California, with an ache in my heart I could not describe. I returned on Saturday morning to Coco, greeting me, as always, at the door. We had to leave her for the day and drive through a blizzard to get to my nephew, Jared’s, bar mitzvah. It was hazardous conditions, but we made it and made it back in time to have Coco welcome us when we arrived home. That night, however, when she slept with us in bed, she was unusually clingy to me. In the middle of the night, she even stood up and looked down on my head as if to tell me something. The next day I was in another room when I heard a strange sound and found her collapsed on the living room floor. She could not get up. We took her to the vet. She had so many things wrong with her, but it all seemed curable and treatable. The last three weeks, she was progressively getting worse, though, and the “essence” of her, her spark, was clearly gone. My friend, Betsy, at work, told me one day, sympathetically, “Jeannie, you need to prepare yourself.” I listened, but thought to myself, how does one “prepare” for this? You joyfully prepare for happy occasions, like babies, parties, birthdays, puppies, and weddings. How do you prepare for loss? Simply, you don’t. I defiantly decided to, instead, hope. I lived by the quote, “In all things, it is better to hope than to despair.”

On Thursday, Lindsay, worried about Coco’s rapidly deteriorating condition, stayed home from work. Things were not good. We rushed her to the vet and then on Friday, we had an appointment with a neurologist. We drove through another blizzard to get there. She had to have an MRI. Before we left, we said our tearful goodbyes, thinking it was only temporary. I kissed her little head, like I always loved to do, and sobbed deeply into her fur. “Mommy loves you,” I told her. Later on in the day, we got the news, which confirmed the worst of the doctor's suspicions. She had a brain tumor, my poor Coco. We were going to try chemotherapy. We could possibly get another six months to a year. We would not give up our hope or our Coco. Unfortunately, hope gave up on us and we were called at 4:15 on Saturday morning to get to the hospital to say our final goodbye. Thankfully, Scott was there to drive us on the callous icy roads. As we wept beside and hugged Coco, a little poodle in a nearby cage watched us closely and when Coco left this world, he let out a little yelp, as if he knew. Wonderful creatures, dogs are, so perceptive to your feelings. They gave us her fur and made a paw print for us, little pieces of my chocolate puppy that melted my heart nine years ago. In the car ride home, under an eerie sky lit by an enormous full moon, we cried incessantly. I turned to Lindsay and chokingly said, “You nursed her the first day we had her- and the last.” It was bitter consolation, though.

Last night, Phyllis, Scott’s mom, a dog lover, as well, called me and said the best solace I needed to hear. “You gave her a life, just remember that. Without all of you, she would not have had the wonderful life like she did.” This is the only solace I have right now. My mom cried with me this morning and said, “She will be a big void in your lives.” That was what my friend, Betsy, wanted me to prepare for, I guess.

It is 9am on Saturday, February 27, our first day in nine years, without our Coco. Her window seat is vacant. The void my mother mentioned will always be there. But the sun is up, shining brightly in the sky, the first time in three weeks. So strange. A brutal heartless, winter still remains. Our grief is overwhelming-beyond the sun, the moon, the stars. I am empty and vacant as that seat, right now.

Coco, we love you, you will be forever a part of our hearts.

Changes....

It’s come to that point where I could no longer put off looking for a dress, especially when the mother of the groom is anxious to look for hers and she’s respectfully waiting for me to pick mine first. Those are the tacit “rules”, as I am told. I, being the characteristically atypical mother of the bride, really don’t care about the rules or conventions of wedding etiquette. Consequently, I procrastinated for weeks, then months, to start dress shopping. Not to say I didn’t cyber-shop. You can find beautiful dresses that way; however, it’s impractical because we all know you have to try on the dress because it’s always going to look great on the model in a picture.

I distinctly remember the day of my own wedding, almost 32 years ago, my mother was so distraught about her hair; it had been thinning and she was not happy with the hairstyle the hairdresser had done for her. She was almost in tears (in fact, scratch the “almost”) on that day. It was important for her to look beautiful, as well. At 22 years of age, I didn’t “get it”, but that vision remained indelible in my memory. Ego-centric brides in their twenties don’t consider that their moms have to be “number 2” on the scale of beautiful that day, according to my friend, Barbara, at least.

Now, I realize that I will be the exact age that my mother was when I was getting married. And, just as my mom was in 1978, I am going through my “changes”. Ahhh….the beauty of menopause; the time in a woman’s life when she always feels hot and that’s in the literal sense, not figurative, unfortunately. Besides for those emotional and internal physical transformations that are occurring, there are the external physical changes that seem to appear out of nowhere. One of my favorite books I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron, expertly illustrates what middle-aged woman experience at this time of their lives. I am certainly not of the writerly caliber of Nora, but I will try to explain. Let’s start at the beginning-or rather at the middle, the middle part of your body, your waistline, or more specifically the disappearance of it. Nice. The neck I could hide because scarves are the new fashion accessories. But the waist and what’s below it becomes another accessory I could certainly do without. “Loss of estrogen,” my older sister explained it. Well, let me add that to my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday pillbox. But no, my gynecologist prescribes Paxil. “Isn’t that for people who are depressed?” I ask. “Trust me,” my gynecologist tells me, “women are saying it stops the hot flashes.” So, my hot flashes cease and all of a sudden, I notice an even thicker middle. My friend Roselee tells me, “My doctor said Paxil makes you gain weight.” Wonderful. So I have to make a choice- be hot or a size 12. I chose hot. Goodbye Paxil. Hello, gym. Planet Fitness. The only thing is that I notice when I start to do the weight machines is that the pictures on them that tell you what part of the body you are working on are illustrated on the male anatomy. Gender bias alert! I consider writing a letter to Planet Fitness. Then I finally come to a machine with a female picture; of course, it’s one that firms your buttocks and thighs. We don’t want to talk about what happens to those. Hanging, sagging, rippling, bulging, dimpling- the “ings” of middle ag-ing. Not a beautiful th-ing.

I was having a discussion about this with my best friend, Meryl. She decided that whoever designed our bodies got it wrong. For instance, the teeth- why do we lose the first ones at 6 to be replaced by the “permanent” ones? If Meryl were our creator, she would have us lose our first teeth at 40 and get our replacements then. Makes sense, right? Of course, this would put my dentist out of business. But, for once, I would like to go to the Bahamas instead of sending him and his wife there.

Back to the dress…

The truth is, no matter what, make up and black camouflage everything. The problem is, the bride refuses to let me wear black, or anything really dark. I thought of wearing a pair of Spanx, but when I wear that, I feel like I’m suffocating. I considered those dresses that have layers of crinoline under them to minimize me. However, I was never a crinoline girl; besides, I don’t want to have to carry my dress around and those dresses are like having another appendage. I am not a beige person, either. It washes me out. I decided to forget about color for the moment and focus on style. I wanted simple, yet elegant, sexy, yet sophisticated, flowy chiffon, with a bit of sparkle. I wanted to look like Daisy from The Great Gatsby, graceful and artistic. You know the bathing suits that are called miracle suits that make you look ten pounds slimmer? I needed a miracle dress, or one that makes me look ten years younger. If Meryl and I ruled the world, she would be our creator and I would be a clothing designer for middle-aged women. This way we’d have great teeth and look good in whatever we wore.

It happened when I least expected it; I was out shopping with Kim, sister of the bride, and we were right across from a trendy dress boutique. We went in. I tried on dress after dress after dress. Some were flowy, but didn’t have enough sparkle, and then some sparkled, but were stiff and matronly. It was confirmed that beige is definitely not my color. And suddenly, Leslie, the saleslady, brought it over. Immediately, I fell in love. It was a slate blue with a hint of silverish purple, not black, dark enough, but not really dark. It was sparkly on the top, chiffon on the bottom. It even looked like Daisy Buchanan would wear it. It was draped at the middle part, though. “Will this make me look fat?” I suspiciously asked Leslie. “Oh no,” she responded, insistently, “just the opposite-it is very slenderizing.” Hmmm.. It looked great on the hanger. I tried it on. “This is YOUR dress,” Leslie stated, as sure as anything. But she was a saleslady. I looked at Kim. She smiled, “I love it,” she said.

Luckily, the bride was only ten minutes away; heaven forbid I would buy a dress without her participation. She got there in five minutes because she drives like her father. She approved…sigh of relief. “Write it up,” I told Leslie. Two seconds later, she called her future mother-in-law. “My mother bought the dress, you could start shopping.” Everyone’s happy.

It’s getting closer. No more dress shopping. Back to Planet Fitness. Two hundred seven days to work against gravity and the other consequences of menopause. Things are going to change, yes, but for the better.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday

My pillbox. That’s how I begin and end each day now. I’m considering graduating to an AM/PM Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday pillbox. It’s official. I am my mother. I even take one of the same pills she takes. It’s the PM one. And I have the same amount of doctor specialists, as well. A colleague and friend of mine, Liz, from Kentucky, used to say to me, “Gettin’ old ain’t for sissies.” Boy was she ever right.

Sunday, I had a hair appointment. I had to let Teresa, my hairdresser, know all the medication I’m on. Before I told her, she knew something was up. She took one look at my faded hair and said, “What’s going on?” She made all the necessary adjustments to mixing my new hair dye. It seems highlighting and certain prescription drugs don’t mix. Consequently, now I’m a copper redhead. Mark likes it; although he says I change my hair color as often as Lady Gaga changes her costumes. I think I have to change the picture on my driver’s license now because it doesn’t look like me at all.

Pills, pills, pills; pink and white, morning and night. What I don’t understand about taking all this medication is that the potential side effects can be the same as the symptoms of the conditions you take them for. For example, I have dizzy spells and palpitations. So, I take metoprolol- possible side effects: dizzy spells and palpitations. So now, how am I supposed to know if the medication is helping me? And, sometimes, the side effects of these medications can be worse than the symptoms of the condition you have. I don’t get it.

Aside from the pills, I have to go for all these tests. The last test I took was an MRI/MRA. The technician gave me earplugs and watched me put them in my ears to make sure I did it right. Then, he covered my ears with this foam around my head, as well. He told me it was going to be “noisy”. Noisy? How about “DEAFENING”. How about deafening with a side of vibrations? How about sitting inside of a drill hammer? For 45 minutes? And the results- I have to wait all day for. It was kind of funny, too, because when the doctor did finally call on my cell phone, the connection was poor. So, I asked him to call my direct line at my office. I sit in a large, open cubicle at work. Everyone was anxious to find out what was wrong with me. After I finished speaking to the doctor, I turned around to find an audience of about seven of my colleagues looking at me, concerned, saying in unison, “Well??”

Well, everything’s okay, but not that okay. There’s always a little something wrong, enough to get another pill added to the pill box and another test I have to schedule an appointment for. I have continually been poked, prodded, shook, and even had a tube shoved down my throat to take a picture of my heart. Life is good, though. I have 230 days and 690 pills to go until Lindsay and Scott’s wedding. That’s if the specialists don’t add or take away any more medication. And now I have my two daughters and my future son-in-law who watch everything I put near my mouth like hawks and then check to see if it has too much cholesterol.

I started to see a nutritionist. Well, she’s actually my friend, Betsy, at work; but she is a nutritionist. She’s helping me with the epidemiology of all my ailments. She’s extremely thorough. One of the first things she asked me is if I feel stressed. Then she answered, “Of course you feel stressed; your daughter is getting married. You’re making a wedding. Who wouldn’t feel stressed in this situation?” I guess Betsy is right. I must be stressed. She made me realize how much I feel I have to be there for everyone, in my work life and my personal life. She told me I have to take care of myself; otherwise, how could I be helpful to anyone else? I guess I’m an enabler; maybe I’ve allowed everyone to depend on me too much.

Today when I met with Betsy to start on my nutritional plan, she pressed the issue of stress again. And I said something very strange to her- It’s not so easy to lose a daughter. My reaction to what I said immediately registered in Betsy’s expression. Did I just say “lose a daughter”? I asked, startled at myself. I tried to backtrack. I didn’t really mean it that way. That was a terrible way to put it. Betsy did not respond. She just let me talk, her eyes and upturned brows saying just what she was thinking. I guess I do feel like that in a way; I mean my little girl is a woman now, ready to start her own life. It’s funny that last night I dreamt about holding babies. Maybe it’s a little bittersweet. Not that I’m not thrilled she’s getting married. And I’m not losing a daughter; I’m gaining a son. I couldn’t ask for a better son either; one who is sweet and practical and makes sure to kiss me on the cheek every time he sees me. One who reminds me of one of the best men in my life- my dad. One who I know will make the most wonderful husband to my daughter. I’m ecstatic about this. I told Betsy. Inside I told myself- It’s just that it seems like it all went so fast, from diapers, to spinning skirts, to sweet sixteens, to prom dresses, to wedding dresses and now I’m on drugs to make sure I don’t have a stroke.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays come and go. The future bride and groom are doing very well with their wedding planning. They hired the limousines; they picked out the flowers; they did the cake tasting; they ordered the invitations; they booked the hotel rooms for the out of town guests; they even found and met with the rabbi. They are pretty close to their budget. They did all this without the mother of the bride. All I have to do now is pick out a dress. I wish I knew what color my hair will be, though.

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.