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.

Transition from Arizona to New York

Transitions become more difficult as I age.  I get that. My body is less flexible and my mind is also a bit less agile. I try to keep my daily life to a healthy exercise, food and sleep routine, punctuated by interesting events and people. I am stressed beyond belief by the news on a daily basis. I limit my exposure to early morning and early evening news reports in order to keep my sanity. I write to my congress people, I donate money and I march for women's rights and action on climate change when I can.
 As I write this, the transition in my life is from Arizona to New York which I am indeed lucky to experience each year in the springtime.
When I arrived last week, it was rainy, but walking  in Central Park I was overwhelmed by the lush green of the grass, the fully open leaves on the trees, the last of the cherry blossoms.
In April I was delighted by the flowering cacti and other mostly yellow flowering plants.
This is the first year I am not running away from Arizona to a temporary haven in New York. This year I leave Arizona reluctantly as I have great relationships with my family and friends which make me feel sad to leave them. I slip less easily from one place to the other and I wonder if this transition is more difficult for me due to aging since I am not being motivated by negative emotions.

Statistics

At the gym, it  takes twenty-two laps to walk around the track for two miles. Counting backward this morning, I decided to record for myself the most significant event in my life for each of those years.

At twenty-two, I bet my husband we would conceive a child with one unprotected lovemaking session or I would not "bother" him about a second child for another year. On October 31, our daughter Linda was born.

At twenty-one, I voted for the first time, for John F. Kennedy and it was the first time my choice for a candidate for president won the election.

At twenty, I gave birth to my firstborn son just nine months after we were married. That's how I knew I'd win the bet! Folks were counting; I wore more and more safety pins strung together to keep my jeans closed. My son wore my mortar and tassel at age three months!

At nineteen, I was married after a year's courtship and engagement. Without birth control, we married early. 

At eighteen, I switched colleges due to a business downturn in the economy and my refusal to accept a scholarship. I could not tolerate the pressure and I had learned how to study.

At seventeen, I traveled to Germany for the summer after winning an essay contest my mother encouraged me to write. She wanted me to be her eyes and ears, to see what was left of the country she so loved before the advent of Hitler.Then, my first month at college, the girls locked me in a bathroom stall and held the door closed until I learned to insert a tampon.

At sixteen I held my first summer job. I was a gopher in a law office in the city, as in Go For coffee, go to the Hall of Records, deliver packages from one law firm to the other.

At fifteen we moved from the city to the suburbs, where I had my own bedroom for  the first time and traded in my babyLouis heels for black and white oxfords and pleated skirts.

At fourteen I traveled to school each day by public transportation as the local elementary school went to eighth grade and the high school began in tenth.

At thirteen I fought with my mother to let me wear stockings and those  babyLouis heels.

At twelve, I learned about the birds and bees and my mother handed me a box of Modess and a belt and said "You know what to do with these, right?"

At eleven, I asked the rabbi if I could lead junior congregation services as I knew the liturgy as well as any of the boys. I was told I might be unclean and was therefore excused from that obligation.

At ten, I went by bus to a large Conservative hebrew school where we delighted in the birth of Israel, sang Palmach songs and raised money to plant trees in the desert. My Grandma Rosa and my Uncle Julius arrived from Switzerland where they had spent the war years, having been rescued by my Aunt Friedl. They were only permitted to remain in that country for two years after the war ended.

At nine, I took the bus with my Oma and Opa who arrived from Germany six months before, to get their First Papers to becoming American citizens and they discovered I understood what they had been saying in German since their arrival.

At eight, I began religious aftershool and I learned to recite the Four Questions at the Seder table three months after my mother was reunited with her parents who had survived the war.

I also had a second sister to walk around the block with until she fell asleep in her carriage and I could park her near my mother's open window.

At seven I had eye surgery twice to correct amblyopia which the doctors had tried to correct by having me wear a pirate patch over one eye.And then we banged pot lids together to  make a lot of noise because the war was finally over. My mother finally was contacted by HIAS that her parents were alive.

At six, my Uncle Joey who was a soldier on leave from the war went with us to the seashore and won a large doll who I  named Linda.

At five I was afraid. The police stopped my father from sending small pieces of paper up the kitestring, assuming he was sending messages to u-boats off the coast.

At four, my sister was born and my mother tried to  interest me in a doll, but all I wanted was the real baby.

At three, we moved to an apartment where I held the clothespins while my mother hung out the wash. I also helped her collect the small strawberries she planted in our victory garden in the back yard.

At two, my mother's brother and his wife arrived from Palestine and lived with us until my uncle was accepted into the Army where he could go back to Germany and help fight the war against Hitler.

And at one, I listened and learned German nursery rhymes and stories while my mother was alone with me and my father went to work. She missed her old life and her dog Toddie who she had to leave behind when they moved here to run away from the Nazis.