Brain Fart. March 13,2022

"A temporary mental lapse or failure to reason correctly"

What an inelegant phrase. I never ever thought it could or would pertain to me. Even "panic attack" is not any way I have ever thought of myself. At the risk of sounding arrogant, at 83 I do not feel I have ever felt so out of control as I did yesterday. Except of course, for my infamous trip to club Med in Martinique when I was recently divorced and 32. At that time, a fellow shared his hashish with me. I watched him open a cigarette after removing the filter, mixing the tobacco with the other brown material and rolling the same paper again and lighting it with his lighter, before offering it to me.

Actually that was the second time I was given an hallucenogenic substance after which I became so fearful and paranoid that I slept, in a communal room on a pallet at Su Casa in the Catskills, holding my shoe to protect myself from imagined perpetrators.

But neither of those experiences approached what I felt yesterday.

All of a sudden, I couldn't remember  simple responses to the question "What time are you being the docent at the ASU library tomorrow?"

My gym instructor was planning to listen to me discuss Father Patrick DuBois' investigations into the deaths of whole towns of Jewish residents by Nazi firing squads in Eastern Europe during WWII.

I checked my phone, finding the correct information, but the calendar felt alien to me. I didn't understand that it was March, not that it was Saturday. 

I said nothing and I walked, kind of dazed, to the elevator with a woman who had taken the class with me. She asked what floor I lived on and I had to struggle to find the appropriate answer. She pushed the elevator button for her floor and mine and I  exited first.

I had to orient myself in space to get tenuously, to my space, but I did.

I went to my tablet and reviewed the day. It was shortly after 2 PM. I was trying to program my phone's calendar to match what my synagogue's programming said I had participated in that morning, but I had difficlty translating EST into MT. Did I wake at 6 to get to the discussion by 7, or was it 8AM?

I couldn't figure it out. I asked my phone to clarify it for me. Next, I decided I must be hungry, so I made myself an English muffin with melted mozzarella cheese, spead both halves with tuna salad, set the table, poured myself some V-8, but sat instead on my sofa, feeling shaky.  I had no further plans for this sunny, brisk Arizona day, but I could not relax.

I was no longer hungry; I felt I did not want to be alone. I called my son Steve, I explained how I was feeling and asked him to keep me company for the afternoon. He said he understood I was feeling scared. I began to cry.

I knew it would take him at least a half hour to get himself together to come  with Chipper, "our" dog, who Steve was at that time walking in the park.

Meanwhile, I planned out all the horrible scenarios of Alzheimer's disease I had experienced with my husband. I reviewed in my head the trust agreement I had signed and the apartment transfer in New York which I had not yet signed, worrying that I would no longer be able to accomplish these end of life goals.

As I was waiting, I remembered that I have the availability of an on call nurse from my Blue Cross/Blue Shield Federal health insurance plan, whom I could call for advice. I had done so once before, when my husband had fallen out of bed in the middle of the night and I knew calling 911 would be so disorienting for him, I could not expose him to tha trauma.

The nurse advised me not to eat the lunch I  had prepared, in case I needed some emergency treatment; she asked for my address. I could not remember it. I went to this trusty tablet and looked it up, quite aware that a good part of me was functioning normally, but that my 

memory was failing me. After listening to me, she called  911 and put me on the phone with them.

I intended to sit until they arrived, but I got my belongings together if I had to go to  the hospital with them. I unlocked the door for them; I saw the white fire truck pull up in front of the entrance to the building. I also transferred the load of clothing from the washer to the dryer, having a great deal of difficulty figuring out which cycle, which duration, which button was the "on."

Meanwhile I am beginning to shake as I write this; I feel I am reexperiencing the panic.

Five handsome black-clad young men arrive, masked for Covid .They are well coordiniated. As one guy asked questions, another took my blood pressure, one pricked my finger for a blood sample . All this happened while one of them was listening to my story.

They then asked if I wanted them to call an ambulance or if I wanted to wait for my son to take me. I hesitated; Steve would be very upset to see me get taken anywhere by ambulance. I decided to wait for Steve and to go by car.

One guy said, "You know, we wouldn't give you the choice if we felt you were having a stroke or a heart attack, right?"

I kind of woke up at that moment. I was not going to be incapacitated yet. We could figure this out at leisure. I was actually ok.

Self-Centered?

Self centered, narcissistic, ego-driven, full of hubris are all negative connotations about a person expressed and diagnosed and seen from outside the person and usually these are derogative words.

How do we think about ourselves? How do these words, thoughts and ideas reflect the actual thoughts and feelings we have about our selves during the course of our  lives?  How can I write about my feelings today compared with my thoughts and feelings, like when  was four years old?

For I have discovered similarities. I had already decided about right and wrong when I was three and my mother's tiny strawberry plants wandered onto our neighbor's yard. I thought they were ours.  The neighbor thought otherwise. I knew I was capable of walking to the park next to my mother and the baby carriage without having to hold on to the handle. My mother had even told me her dog Toddie, whom she had to leave in Frankfurt, Germany, knew how to walk to the end of the block and not go into the street when she walked with  her ten pre-school children. I was at least as smart as her dog. My mother thought otherwise.

I had much to learn about living in society, about the rules and obligations I had and my parents had, to keep us all safe.

I debated with my math teacher in eighth grade about labelling the multiplier and not the multiplicand. Of course I had to label my work the way the teacher wanted, after I had my say.

I had some successes when I spoke up for myself, voicing my opinions, which disagreeed with what was told to me. I convinced the Foreign language department head in my high school that if I passed the German 1 exam at the end of the year, without sitting through the classes, they would have to enroll me in German 2 for the next semester, and they did.

Gererally, I was successfully socialized. My life has been defined by my dedication to the service of others, to my husband, children and grandchildren, to my students, then to my patients. I am a good listener and I like to think of myself as a good friend. I donate money to charities I believe are worthwhile, I protest the unfairness of abortion and immigration policies that I know are unfair and should be unlawful.

The question now arises,  who am I to myself? In general, my obligations to others in my personal sphere are greatly diminished and I have the luxury to decide both my present and my future for myself. And I am at a loss. This I have not been taught.

A Grateful Morning 4/23/21

I am awake, but I have not yet opened my eyes. I must have slept in. I feel the morning light through my eyelids. I feel my head resting in the crook of my left arm. I am so delighted my wrist is not paining me. I try hard not to sleep on it. And my left shoulder, too. It only likes certain positions ever since I fell on it in February 2019. Before the lockdown. My left   hip rests across my right one as if I was planning to get out of bed  before I was even awake. I remove my arm from under my head and I sink further into my old comfy feather pillow. This pillow has cradled me since childhood. I took it from my bed when I went off to Vassar in 1955  and it has cushioned me forever. I smell its comfort, slightly reminiscent of my shampoo. I do not like detergent that has its own scent. My all cotton sheets are soft and scentless. Those commercials advertising sun=dred sheets that smell like flowers only make me sneeze. My right hand cups my left breast, hugging me.

I caress my body in amazement . Nothing hurts, no stiff muscles, no charley horse in my calves. I begin to stretch , slowly, examining fingers and ankles and reveling in this wonderful feeling.

I straighten myself beneath the covers, inhaling the absolute quiet around me. It is still early, but I hear less than others, which in early morning is another blessing.

Let's see, I think. What day is this? I'll have to check the weather to see when it will be a good time to take my walk. Ah, it's Friday. What shall I prepare for Shabbat dinner tonight? Eva, Steve and I have so few of these Shabbat evenings together left. She will go East for her brother's unveiling next week, and the following week I will go west to my great nephew's bar-mitzvah. Then Grant's high school graduation and it will be time to pack  up, store my furniture and move back to New York.

Macroeconomics March, 2021

When  I was a young, divorced mother of three in the early 1970's, my young family was reduced to lower middle class standing, from the solid  middle class which was the level of the community in which we lived.

I had left my teaching job when my youngest was born. When my husband left us, my youngest child was not yet three years old.I was only able to get part=time work as a supplemental instructor. My parents helped me achieve a master's degree in Psychology by babysitting and by lending me money, which I had a monthly obligation to repay. I found  a job as a member of the school based support team in a nearby school system.

I dropped the children off at their schools, drove to my work, picked them up, took them to religious education, to swim  and dance classes, and we survived.

What saved me all those lean years, was the ability to shop sales.

By waiting until after Columbus Day, we were able to purchase school clothing and winter coats on sale. 

In January, I was able to stock up on sheets and towels and to replenish what my husband had removed from our home.

By the end of the decade, I was earning enough money to live our lives more comfortably, but we always shopped the sales.

Now I see that option is greatly reduced.

Stores no longer have large amounts of stock to sell off-season. Technology helps predict how much of a product they will need. If they need more, they order it as needed. Shipment is almost immediate. No storage issues, no need for sales.

Consumers pay what is asked by Amazon, charge cards increase their balances again and families cannot save for future needs.

Ft Myers Beach

I wake up to pefect quiet, no neon light blinking the time or merely announcing its electronic presence. The sunshine is peeking through the slats of the shuttered windows. My bed, with palm-printed sheets is swaying slightly, yet there is no breeze. Even the ceiling fan is off.
The dunes are fifty feet west and the Gulf another fifty feet beyond with its gentle waves approaching the shore and the waiting birds, quietly.

I have never lived in a house raised on stilts before and at first the swaying baffled me and my adult son who is spending this glorious week with me. The town is empty this last week in August; we see few people as I walk with my son to the shops for ice cream or homemade fudge, or on the beach in the mornings. At least five different species of birds line the shore awaiting fresh cocinas as the huge pelicans dive bomb beak first into the water and rise, visibly swallowing the small fish.

One morning as I walk with my son, we see a father and his teenage son throwing a round net into the sea to catch the small fish they might later use for bait. There are a few paddleboarders lazily making their way north and a small boy on his tummy in the sand, legs raised behind him as he drives his small car along his imagined route.

But by far the best part of this idyllic spot is to sit with my son to watch the sunset, to see the lightning and count the seconds to the loud, daily thunder, to see the rain descend straight down in torrents and then be totally absorbed by the sand and the heat a half hour later.

To sit with my son, to prepare meals with him, to share memories with him, to enjoy his company and be in this lovely spot in glorious riotous sunshine, nothing can surpass this experience.

Strength Restored and Zeal Renewed

Strength restored and Zeal renewed https://doctorphyl-heartofpalm.blogspot.com/2019/07/strength-restored-and-zeal-renewed.html

Strength restored and Zeal renewed July 1, 2019

I try to begin each day strong and healthy, emotionally in tune. But some days that's not so easy. Like today in fact. It is the fourth  anniversary of Bob's death and it is long enough ago for me to analyze what I felt that day.

I woke to a desire to find a photo of my husband to post on Facebook, to get my friends and family to check in with me with some love and support. I am feeling so alone today.
All the photos in my  gallery show him ill and I decide I can't use any of them. I choose instead to take a photo of a framed picture of both of us. The photo is old; we both look so young. Meanwhile I miss my exercise class, but I am determined and I get to the later class.
I have made no plans for today except for fortifying myself with whitefishsalad and a mini everything bagel from Zabars. I do try.

It was a Wednesday. Bob had not eaten or drunk liquids for the past three days. His lips were wiped with cold wet q tips. I told Steven he could go home at four o'clock. At 4:45 Bob took his last breath and I was told he was gone. I was numb. I felt so alone as if half of me was missing and I couldn't find the part that was me. The mortuary phoned  me and informed me they couldn't get Bob to New York until Friday. Then comes Shabbat, so the funeral can't be until Sunday. My first reaction was that the time would permit Bob's brother to fly up from Florida; my second was that this is the way Christian spouses I knew from the Alzheimer's group waited as a matter of routine.. How did they get through  those days in between?
How would I?
At my synagogue, the rabbi had resigned and was unavailable; the new rabbi won't start until August first. The cantor was comforting another grieving family. Would I meet with the education director whom I had never met? She's an ordained rabbi, Lori Feldstein Gardner. Sure. I met with her on Friday; she had the flu. I was so impressed she got out of a sickbed to help me. I had been so quiet for two days, I spoke at her for two and a half hours, telling her everything that is in the book! She used a whole box of Kleenex as she listened attentively and spoke very little.
I told her that Bob had never spoken of his last wishes when he was healthy, except that he purchased two additional plots in the same cemetery where his first wife is buried. He told me he wanted to be buried with me. But after the diagnosis,  in  the early part of his illness, we had attended his Aunt Frances' funeral. As we sat in the chapel listening to her nieces and nephews laud her praises, Bob turned to me and said, "I don't want that."
When the service concluded, I asked him, "What do you want?"
"I want the Jewish War Veterans to play Taps and I want a graveside service."
When we arrived at the cemetery, Bob looked at the American flag draping Aunt Frances' coffin and said "Just like that."
I phoned the Jewish War Veterans, Dover, NJ chapter, but I was informed they don't have any veterans left who could provide that service. But the US Army did. I phoned the cemetery committee in Chester, New Jersey and we scheduled the service for eleven o'clock. I phoned Bob's favorite diner and asked if we could reserve lunch for about thirty guests. I was busy making arrangements, calling relatives. Bob's  son couldn't believe his father had told me, not him, what his wishes were and said his wishes didn't need to be followed since he was already ill when he made them known.
I invited all who attended the funeral in New Jersey for lunch at the diner and we sat shiva after lunch and for  the next three days in our apartment in New York.
The caring committee of the synagogue took care of everything, from sending a huge food platter to bringing extra chairs and seventeen people to the Shiva service at seven o'clock each evening. I remember feeling such gratitude because all of the people who arrived, knew me, liked me and were fond of Bob and knew him as well. We had been members for the past thirteen years, but much of the time we were in Arizona.
What I remember not feeling was sad. Relief that he was at peace came first. Relief that our long ordeal was over came second. Gratitude for my son Steve who supported me all through Bob's illness is the first feeling that overwhelms me today and I miss that he is not with me now. We have spent this day visiting the cemetery together each year before this one. Bob's best friend Elliot and his wife Ronnie came with us, but now Elliot is gone too.
Many have reminded me today to remember the good times. I don't need a special day to do that. I tire my friends out with stories about our times together every chance I get. We shared so much ; we traveled and experienced so much together. We watched and helped my daughter and each of Bob's three children when our grandchildren were born. We spent two weeks with each  of the children, cooking and helping care for newborns.
By five o'clock I knew I had to do somethng to ease the melancholy, so I walked to the river. As soon as I saw the water and heard the small waves dashing the stones at  the water's edge, I knew I had made the right choice. When I saw they now restrict the path to walkers and the cyclists have a different path, I was so pleased. I didn't have to attend to my safety. I walked to the pier, I watched the boats and the barges on the river and now, after a lobster roll at the pier cafe, I feel peaceful.