Food Issues Complicate a Difficult Emotional Experience July 2019

 Traveling while lactose intolerant to the point of having to carry exra supplies if I or the chef includes any butter or cheese to any unsuspecting dish, like milk added in with the oatmeal at breakfast time has always made travel irksome for me.

I travel to only the best of places, to only the high rated hotels.  Of course they fry their eggs at the buffet table only in butter and they add milk to the eggs they serve scrambled. Don't you? But I am not in any hotels where the chef would prepare a separate meal for me.

Austin and I use food and restaurants to help us tolerate the emotional toll of tracing our ancestor's path toward the spot where he was murdered.. This morning we are in Zagreb.. The ample table has an assortment of cheeses and pastries that look wonderful, made better with butter of course.I love the local breads and rolls as I settle for a hard boiled egg, as I do most mornings at home. Most mornings, Austin doesn't eat at all,or very little.

My personal restrictions don't end there however, since I don't eat food made from pigs or cows or sheep or goats and baked beans with mushrooms might be delightful for lunch as will any one of the fresh fruits offered, but not breakfast.
For lunch I usually can find a salad in any country we visited. Balsalmic vinegar makes a wonderful dressing when I remember to ask the waiter not to dress my salad. In Frankfurt I was served a Salade Nicoise which came as a do-it-yourself salad. The lettuce leaves were whole, the sliced olives from a can, the tuna also from a can dumped on top with large quarters of tomato and hard-boiled egg halves.
In Frankfurt also I had a real treat called a vegetarian burger which is the  same as the new Impossibe burger I enjoy  at home. I tried a tofuburger for a late supper in a quaint Renaissance style hotel near Rymanov in southern Galicia and lo and behold, it  was the same thing. I was a happy camper! Austin is loving the food; the bratwurst in Frankfurt, the Italian dinner with Hendrik and his parents, the Wiener schnitzel in Vienna, the huge steins of beer, too.
When I ask that a chicken or fish dish have no dairy ingredients, they comply, serving me a dry protein with no flavor. I had chicken schnitzel with vinegar potato salad and once chicken in a tomato sauce with  mashed potato pancakes as a side in Vienna. We have not had green vegetables served often with a meal, but lots of  potatoes.
Last night in Crakow, we ordered pasta outdoors among many other diners at many  charming outdoor tables seemingly set up in the middle of the street or on the square, accompanied by a three piece band playing old American standards from atop a low roof. By eight, when we left the hotel for dinner, the temperature had decreased to 88 degrees which was comfortable. During the day it had soared to 32 C. which is in the 90's somewhere, but who's counting. It was SO hot.
Austin's bolognese was juicy and he reported "delicious." Mine was with seafood with hardly any sauce as if the chef knew it  had butter in it and was treating it sparingly. I did not get sick, so it worked to my benefit and I twirled it down with two glasses of sparkling white  wine.
Today it is raining and will only get to 84 degrees as Austin will drive to the Jasenovac concentration camp on the last part of our journey retracing Grandpa Salaman's journey as he tried to escape.

Gratitude March 30, 2022

I awoke this morning before dawn and watched the sunrise from my bed as it crept in through the large east-facing window, through the closed blinds. The open, screened window let in the crisp night air of springtime.

My previous winter rental faced north and, since Covid forced me to remain in Arizona through two hot summers, I was grateful for the shade provided for me by the building.

I never considered my morning thoughts on awakening as any sort of ritual, but I was reminded yesterday that many people, whether for religious reasons or as part of a sobriety practice, list  thier gratitudes upon awakening every morning. Some even text or otherwise communicate with another person, to share the day's gratitude list.

I have not yet felt the need for that level of support, but I do feel gratitude for my ability to begin each day recognizing the good in my life.

I feel especially good this morning; my family will attend Father Desbois' lecture next Monday on Holocaust by Bullets and my daughter, son, son-in-law and one grandson will listen to me guide them through the  exhibit before the lecture. Since the beginning of this exhibit, I have been acting as a docent on Sunday afternoons,, sharing the material of this horrific time which occurred in my childhood, when my  parents had no  idea  what was happening to their parents in Europe as we sat, worried and safe in the U.S.

My family has shown no particular interest in WWII, although my parents escaped from Hitler's grasp, three of my grandparents survived very traumatizing times during the war and one grandfather was murdered.There was a smattering of interest as I travelled to Europe  before writing my book, and then  they each read the book, but daily life takes precidence, as it needs to do.

This exhibit of Father Desbois' research into the genocide of the Jewish  people has come to my family in Arizona, to the university my younger grandson attends and from which the older one has been graduated.Perhaps their interest will spur  me on to write the next book, the one about my grandfather who was killed by the Ustasi in Zagreb, Coratia where my older grandson and I travelled in 2019 to bear witness. We stood at Pit number one, into  which his shot body was thrown; we gathered thirty-one stones to place nearby, one from each of his living relatives we could think of, as we stood, tears running down our faces and recited the Kaddish.

Follow-Up to Scary Saturday March 19, 2022

Transient Global Amnesia is a real thing. There is a definition and studies with incidences, comorbidities and recurrences.

What

is really interestiing, is how well I look up all ailments my friends and family tell me about, but when it came to researching what happened to me last Saturday , I needed a friend who volunteered that she had had a similar experience before I was ready to explore the internet.

I became so frighteneed, in additon to losing an entire morning, I was frightened of what the future may have held. There is nothing unusual about my response. It is perfectly normal at age 83, to worry about death and disease and disability, with its concommitant dependence on others, loss of control and diminished sense of the furture's possibilities.

Here's what I learned. An event of forgetting, even losing a whole day occurs in adults beetween the ages of 60 and 80. In only 2 to 25 per cent does the same person ever experience another of these episodes.  There is no connection to this transient amnesia to any other neurological illness or disease. It is not a precursor of Alzheimer's or other dementia, ALS, TIA or anything else.

I had a good scare. I aplogize for alarming those who love me. I understand my reaction as of course I have cared for both my mother and my husband degenerating from dementia and Alzheimer's disease. I dread putting my family through the trauma we have already experienced too many times.

We don't know the future. We can only live our lives the best way we can, while we are able, make sure our final wishes are well known and documented and relish the knowledge that in the way we live our lives, others are there for us and wish us well.

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.