Today, my blogging community welcomes my little faith-based blog into their personal worlds, and what better way to celebrate than by singing the praises of a woman who shines brighter than any launch party sparkler – my dear friend, Camille (or Ethel, as I, the Lucy to her Ethel, know her!).
Photograph in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Camille, where do I even begin? Life has thrown you some hefty curveballs, the kind that would leave most people curled up, defeated. But that’s not you, Ethel. You’re the epitome of grit, a true warrior.
We connected after you lost your son, Robert, my son Marshall’s best friend in 2011. He was your sunshine, and you were his unwavering rock. And when the world tilted on its axis for me over eight years later after I lost Marsh, you, Ethel, were there with a steady hand and a fierce “Mamma Bear” spirit that chased away my shadows and ignited my faith.
I remember your kindness, the quiet gestures, the shared tears, the unspoken understanding that only two mothers who’ve walked through that fiery furnace can truly share.
But oh, Ethel, to me, you’re so much more than just sorrow-shared. You’re a firecracker, a laugh that spills just when you need it during a dry spell and an insight like no other; actually an insight that duplicate’s your intuitive son’s. You’re fiercely loyal, with a heart that could hold a universe of compassion. You’re the life of the party, even when all you want to do is crawl under a rock.You are who you are. You wear your scars like badges of honor, proof of battles fought and won and, yes, lost too.
And yes, Ethel, you can be a pain in the Lucy! We wouldn’t be Lucy and Ethel without our little spats and quirks. But even then, I know, deep down, that your fire comes from a place of love, a relentless desire to protect those in your orbit.
So, on this day, as our little community welcomes my little blog, I celebrate you, Ethel. I celebrate your birth, your life, your love, your unyielding spirit. You are an inspiration, a testament to the human capacity to not only endure, but connect deeply.
Photo by PhotoMIX Company on Pexels.com
May your birthday be filled with laughter, sunshine, and sweet cake. And may the year ahead be your brightest yet, paved with joy, renewed hope, and the unwavering knowledge that you, Ethel, are loved beyond measure. Happy birthday, my friend!
Remembering Mom: October 10, 1925 to December 29, 2015
My mother was a constant traveler, but not in the traditional sense. All day long, she traveled from her stove to her refrigerator to her sink, and then back again.
“Stove-refrigerator-sink,” she once described her three-step life to me matter-of-factly. She loved the normalcy, the predictability and the routine — most of the time. But sometimes, when she was irritated with her children, her husband, or a church parishioner, she would break her sour mood and look afar, her eyes penetrating the kitchen walls. Her longing gaze belonged to someone standing on a community theater stage, hungry for a Carnegie Hall audience.
I didn’t pay much attention, if any at all, because her expression was too painful. The reality of her life washed out any grandeur dreams she had, such as crunching numbers in an accountant firm, one of her long-standing dreams.
That was the thing with my mom: her frustrations, disappointments and inner pain often led her to be emotionally wound up, but if you could step back and let her unravel, she would eventually find her equilibrium. It took me a long time to figure out her usual modus operandi, but when I finally did, I was able to love her fully.
Before I gained a wider, wiser perspective, adolescence was particularly rough. I had yearned for a different mother, one who wore dainty tennis skirts and crisp white sneakers, and who had a feminine sway in her hips. A mother who would come to pick me up from middle school in her shiny Ford Mustang, instead of the one kid whose mother was never there.
My mom (or dad) never stepped inside my middle school until my graduation day. (Grammar school was another matter, but that’s another story.) When I saw them, I hid behind a corner in the hallway, trying to catch my breath outside the suffocating layers of shame that had been dumped on me like stinky sludge.
Even though my dad blended in with the crowd, all I could see from my vantage point was my mom, standing there in her multi-colored dress, a tent-like garb that concealed her petite body and was as baggy as a beekeeper’s protective suit.
Her kitty heels, straight out of a 50s black-and-white TV show, clicked on the tiled floor as she paced nervously back and forth.
A hairnet captured her dark, old-fashioned ringlets, like bait worms. Her face was an expressionless doll with vacant eyes.
“Is your family here?”
“No.”
“Without family,” I felt different growing up. But I learned that while Hollywood love may be custom-made, ordinary love is not.
As I mentioned earlier, my love for my mother matured with me — especially after my young children taught me how genuinely unique and fun she was. It was then that I also fully understood why my mom rarely spoke to “Americans,” silenced by the embarrassment of her own foreign accent and awkwardness.
The upshot of the realization was that I walked tall next to her, my head held high, despite her size 4 Barbie body hidden in size 12 dresses, the unconcealed sheets of tissues lining her shoes, and the stale bread slices stashed in her purse’s side pockets (in case the food chain failed!).
My bulletproof mother didn’t believe in illness, and her passing from a stroke on December 29, 2015, showed me the perfect irony of life: we’re not in control after all.
When my mom fell ill in the spring and early summer of 2015, I felt bewildered and flummoxed (love that word!). In the process of her deterioration, I did the “next right thing,” as my program had taught me to do many years prior. Her gradual decline was a roller coaster that I became so used to and for nearly seven months, it felt like tying my shoe in the morning. But the exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced, even when I got eight or ten hours of sleep. I was groggy, walking a foot behind everything that moved in my world.
When my mom landed in a nursing home, a feeding tube had been inserted into her, and it was clear she would never return to her three-step appliance shuffle, but the regular rhythms of our lives, like playing rock-paper-scissors, remained in my memory, like the whiff of Pond’s cream on her face that warmed my childhood particularly on bitter cold evenings. She had taught me well, and I went on with my old life, with familiar music playing in the background.
Three weeks before Christmas, my own “rock-paper-scissors” household routine escalated. I was a single mom and had to work, write and send holiday cards, purchase and package holiday gifts, not to mention cook and clean. I rationalized that since she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t notice the stretch of time since I had last seen her. I certainly planned to visit after the holiday. Of course, after the holidays seemed just as frantic too, and I was driving my daughter to Massachusetts to visit a prospective graduate school. I figured once we accomplished our mission, I’d definitely see Mom again, the first week of the new year.
Unfortunately, Mom never lived to see 2016. But on December 28, in Massachusetts, my daughter and I had a terrible time finding appropriate lodging, since the first hotel room we had reserved was a dump. Luckily, we found mediocre accommodations just in time, because a terrible ice storm had made the outdoors look frozen in time.
That night, two weary travelers collapsed into bed and slumber found us easily. I opened my eyes at 5 a.m. to see the digital clock glowing in the dark room. I also knew without doubt: Mom had passed.
Her presence filled the room, every bit of her, including her lingering scent of Ponds face cream. I realized that instead of my visiting her, she had come to visit us one last time to let us know that she was okay.
Sure enough, I woke up to hear the news over the phone.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can say. You taught me about faith, love, and even the power of love to transcend time and space. I’m grateful for the gift of your life.
My therapist Louis has taught me that when you take something out of your life, you need to replace it. In my case, I had to give up my 12-step support group due to PTSD, but I found a new support system in my blog community.
I’ve been blogging for over 10 years, and it’s become a lifeline for me. When I’m feeling down, I can always count on my readers to offer words of encouragement and support. They’ve helped me to feel less alone and more connected, and they’ve given me the courage to share my story in a safe space.
My birthday last week was a tough one, but your messages (& Judy — thanks for your email!) really helped me get through it. I’m so grateful for your kindness and support. Thank you for filling in the colors of faith into the empty lines. You make it possible.
As midnight approached last Saturday night, I felt like a broken-down, aging Cinderella. Instead of a pumpkin coach carriage, I reclined inside a rickshaw, glowing with strung neon blue glitter lights, a “Good Vibes” sign fluttering behind my wind-swept hair.
My Unplanned Rickshaw Ride
The familiar discomania tune “Stayin’ Alive” blasted on a continuous reel as the lean but powerful driver pedaled, snaking and snarling through the prism-lit, panoramic nighttime streets from the west side to our destination, Grand Central Terminal in New York City.
If you know me personally, you know two things: 1. I’m always reading a book of fiction. 2. I’m always mentally plotting a work of fiction. This past Saturday night, I felt like the unfolding scene created its own book of fiction.
Along our route, the driver expertly avoided a few near-collisions, including a head-on accident with a cab driver when he made a U-turn to drop me off right in front of Grand Central.
Stayin’ Alive was also the theme song of the day as the driver helped me power through a very unfortunate set of circumstances. It all started that morning with last-minute plans to stay overnight in New Jersey, where I had arrived by train from Connecticut. However, after a series of misunderstandings and mix-ups, by 9:30 pm, I had nixed those plans and, without another plan, boarded a train that I nicknamed “Tipsy Tracks” to Penn Station in New York City. I was exhausted when I arrived at Penn Station. I didn’t want to deal with the subway, so I tried to flag a taxi. I had a fairly new phone and had never gotten around to downloading the Uber app, and I was too tired to think straight enough to download it at the time.
Although all the taxis seemed off-duty or unavailable, a dirty brown mid-sized SUV suddenly zoomed out of the traffic and stopped directly in front of my rather dejected body, as the shadow of another birthday loomed three days ahead.
“Want a ride to Grand Central?” asked the rather innocent-looking man in his mid-40s, angling his body toward the passenger seat. He had clearly overheard me flagging down taxis.
I was exhausted and my legs were starting to ache, so I was tempted to just jump in his backseat. But then I remembered an ominous book I had read a few months ago, and the scene felt vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Uber,” he said.
“Uber? I don’t have the app. I didn’t call you,” I replied.
“I’m off duty. I’ll take you to Grand Central for cash.”
I felt a glimmer of hope. I was tired and getting older, and I was ready for an easy way out. I felt as if I were a half person as I had written about in my last blog.
But then I remembered the name of the novel: Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips.
The book begins with two young girls accepting a ride home from a stranger and then going missing.
I wasn’t a girl, but I was still vulnerable, an easy target.
The next vehicle that came by was a rickshaw with a couple in the backseat. My spirits fell, thinking that maybe I had to have a reservation to ride in one, since I had never ridden in a rickshaw in NYC or anywhere else. That was when I spotted another one that resembled a floating disco ball with a vacant seat.
“Excuse me …” I hollered to the driver, “Can you take me to Grand Central …”
Once the driver and I bargained and agreed on a rate (even in the midst of stress, I still hold tight to my frugal nature), the adventure began.
The ride was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. The driver, as I mentioned, took some pretty crazy shortcuts, but he got me to the train station safe and sound. If I had accepted the ride earlier from the stranger in the SUV, by the time my birthday rolled away, I might have been one of the many missing people, hacked up and buried underneath some rural Pennsylvania soil.
I thanked him for helping me “stay alive” and wished him well, especially considering his daredevil pedaling.
“Hope you stay alive too!” I called out sarcastically to him before I ran into the station and managed to grab a train home to Connecticut. My dear friend Camille, whom I called earlier, was waiting for my 1:45 a.m. arrival at the station. (A true friend is someone who is always there for you, no matter what, especially in the wee hours of the morning!)
Interestingly, today is the big day, but it really means nothing to me anymore. However, Bryan’s comment made me think twice about the blog I wrote last week. He said, “I often wonder if the reason I feel halved is because I moved away from what I found meaningless.”
Although I identify as a half person for other reasons, this made me widen my perspective and think that maybe I have found a new meaning in life after all. And maybe this meaning doesn’t need a meaning because it just is. It’s like being in a rickshaw at a climactic point in your novel of life, not knowing what’s coming around the bend.
As I plan to meet Brother Paul later today and then my dear daughter and her boyfriend, the kids’ godmother, and possibly a few others, I can’t help but smile, knowing that I’ve received my wish: a very low-key birthday after all.
So, as I mark my birthday today, I am grateful for the people who have loved and supported me along the way, including all my fellow bloggers. They have been my neon-lit rickshaws through those saturnine nights that cast a pall over my world, making it seem like a lonely place of ghosts and shadows.
I know that I am not alone in experiencing these dark times. But I also know that we can all find light, hope, and faith, even in the darkest of places. We can find community and connection, as well as developing the strength to pedal through as long as we trust our gut and don’t get into just any stranger’s vehicle.
Smart. Cute. Not-so-cute. We all have inner self-identifiers.
We all have ways of defining ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously. We might think of ourselves as smart, funny, kind or brave. We might also think of ourselves as less than perfect, with flaws and limitations.
A few weeks ago, I started to understand all on my own that I am now a “half person” as opposed to the whole person I once was before our family tragedy. For me, I find it very empowering to define myself in this manner.
I used to be afraid of my limitations. I thought they made me weak and inadequate. But now I see them as a source of strength. They’ve taught me to be more realistic about my expectations and to appreciate the things I can do.
Looking back, I appreciate even more the time I spent watching the aging process of my parents. As they grew older, they became acutely aware of their limitations. For instance, after my dad’s retirement at 70, he used to be able to work about eight hours a day in the garden. But as he grew older, he cut his gardening back to a daily hour or two. My dad would come into the house after gardening, his face, the color of the beets he grew in the rich soil, and dripping from sweat, and announce with conviction, “I’m not so good anymore.”
There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in his tone. Instead, it sounded as if he had landed at a new place in life, and he opened his arms wide with acceptance. He left me with a poignant picture of what it means “to age gracefully.”
That place parallels with how I feel about being a half person. I’ve retired from my Atlas position of holding up the world, and now I just lean into it.
I used to think I had to be strong and capable all the time. I needed to be the Atlas of my family and friends, holding up the world for them too. But now I know I can’t do that. I’m just a half person, and that’s okay.
Given this new state, I am proactive and fiercely protective of myself. I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of me or make me feel bad about myself and how I feel. Walking on egg shells is becoming an impossible feat for me.
For obvious reasons, I steer clear of the real-life nemesis in my life and others who fall into that category. Right now I’m not up to exposure therapy of any form. And just because that particular therapy is not in the cards at the moment, it may be at another time.
Anyway, all this being said, I want to address two things.
First, I recently learned that my eye doctor had faced some serious sexual assault criminal charges in 2020. I’m still processing the information and at the current time, I have no updates about the crimes, which also allegedly included a minor. On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.
Second, my birthday is coming up next Tuesday. I’m really not looking forward to it. I wasn’t too thrilled about my birthday before I became a half person, but now it’s utterly meaningless. I used to be afraid of growing old and becoming wrinkled and frightful, but now I couldn’t care less. So it’s not about growing old and falling out of grace. It’s about staying in grace, which means being true to myself, and, to me, the day symbolizes just another day of the year.
So, here’s what I’m going to do on my birthday. I’m going to be alone. I’m going to minister to my half person. I’m going to be honest with myself and with others, the way I used to be with my son. He would always listen to me without judgment, and he would always say, “That sucks!” I miss that.
My life as a half person has made me surrender so much unnecessary energy. It has also made me realize that nothing has the same meaning as it used to. Everything is vanilla now. But I’m okay with that, too, and vanilla has always been one of my favorite flavor choices.
I do, however, find meaning in other people’s lives and in the joy they find. It fills my empty vessel with hope and faith. I know that I’ve been passed up for a number of invitations over the years because people see me as a walking image of pain. But I don’t take it personally. I’m grateful for the joys I’ve had the opportunity to share in, such as my dear friend Pat’s 85th birthday surprise party in 2020. It was a time of such raw pain, but it was also a time of great joy. I remember Pat’s radiant joy, and I felt her deep connection and compassion for life, however fleeting it was for me. These are the moments that get me through my vanilla life. These are the moments that make it all worth it.
I’m not sure what the future holds for me. I may never find meaning in life again. But I’m okay with that too. I’m content to live my life in vanilla, as long as I have the occasional cherry on top.
About six years ago, when my friend, Richard, a retired art director, celebrated his two-year sobriety milestone, he donned an eye-catching crimson bow tie that juxtaposed his somber expression. The poignant declaration he uttered at that moment has remained ingrained in my memory ever since: “This is not my world anymore.”
Richard was faced with the realization that his marriage of 50 years was not only coming to a close, but also that his children had grown distant from him. In addition, he also needed to reconcile with the reality that he had wasted a considerable amount of his earlier years as an alcoholic who functioned nevertheless.
His faith in what once was, had come crashing down.
Richard’s realization that “This is not my world anymore” is a sentiment that we all may encounter at some point in our lives. It represents the stark (sober) realization of what truly holds significance in life, and conversely, what does not; such as an unfulfilling marriage that has become a matter of convenience and habit rather than one that is rooted in love and admiration.
Over the past two decades, and particularly during the last three years, I have encountered numerous epiphanies that have left me feeling disconnected from my surroundings. These experiences forced me to recognize who my true friends are while accepting that most of them, for various reasons, have vanished from my life. Furthermore, it is clear that the path I had once envisioned for myself will never come to fruition. Each time I catch sight of my age-spotted hands that no longer resemble my own, I can’t escape the fact that before I know it, a significant birthday is just around the corner. In truth, “This is not my world anymore” often morphs into “This is not the world I imagined at 19,” which serves as a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual evolution.
Richard’s and my journey serves as an example to illustrate how life is constantly changing. We may not always be in control of these changes, but we can choose how we respond to them. While conceding that there are numerous occasions when my faith falters and my perseverance wanes, it is evident that I am able to persist through such moments due in large part to inspirational figures, such as Richard.
Richard is not, as far as I know, a religious man. However, he does believe that there is something that is ultimately good and benevolent and, despite all his challenges, Richard never lost faith that things would turn out okay. He faced each obstacle head-on and emerged stronger from it all. Sure, it’s still not “his world” anymore, but he never falters as he adds a colorful array of bow ties to his wardrobe reminiscent of a blooming garden filled with vibrant peonies.
The tip of my head to the bottom of my toenails hurt and every part in between. Last Wednesday, January 18th, on what would have been my son’s 30th birthday, I needed a lot of love. More than usual. The stillness of the day exemplified how the world has moved on, and I’m still stuck in the quicksand of November 2019.
The people I thought would at very least “check in” must have “checked out,” because I did not hear a word from any of them, and I found myself focusing on the disappointment rather than on the joy I felt from those who DID show up with kind-hearted words, text messages and emails.
My dear friend, Camille, in fact, surprised me with a lovely sunflower bouquet and beautiful greeting card.
In addition, during the last year, I’ve been honored to assist in writing a widow’s grief memoir. The relatively young widow, Michelle, happens to be a dear friend of mine. The book is partly composed of letters she writes to her deceased husband who passed away tragically three months prior to our family’s tragic loss. Last Wednesday, feeling weighed down with grief, I happened to reread one of her letters in which she elaborates on her mother-in-law’s grief of losing a son.
“I know she is as grief-stricken, but she is stronger than I am and loves more because she doesn’t want any of us to be sad for her. She knows we all have our own grief, and she doesn’t want to add to it.”
Miraculously, through the day I channeled this incredible woman, Rita, whom I know only through writing about her, and found myself feeding on her reservoir of love.
“I don’t want anyone to be sad for me.” I repeated, breaking the pronounced silence of the day.
A repeated lesson that I seem to have to relearn constantly is that love is the most powerful emotion in this world. It can change everything ALWAYS. It’s like a ray of sun beaming through the grayest of days. It is a life force; an energy; a mega dose of Vitamin C.
The day ended on a bittersweet note. I hadn’t heard from my 28-year-old daughter all day on Wednesday. I thought she needed the space and privacy, and the solitude to put one foot in front of the other and inch forward.
At around six p.m. that evening, she called, out of breath. I could barely understand her words. “The cemetery is so dark.”
“What?” You got in your car directly after work, jumped into the height of traffic, and you sat on the highway for an hour, just so you could visit your brother in the dark cemetery, even though I do believe it’s supposed to close at sunset? That all sounds kind of risky to me.
I refrained from saying how crazy I felt her actions were, especially since her character is usually driven by pure logic. Though I will say that they were incredibly similar to what I would have done at her age in her situation, working purely from an emotional realm.
Our conversation was filled with love and honesty, and it reaffirmed my faith in the power of love. This is what love looks like when it’s real — when there are tears and laughter and sadness all mixed together in one moment in time. In the end, all that matters is not a perfect public facade that masks our private despair, but the intimate moments of our imperfect hearts.
I’m learning that grief is my price to pay for love. Paradoxically, living through grief has helped me to push, stretch until it feels unbearable, love in an insurmountable way.
Camille’s sunflower bouquet: nearly a week later, but still beautiful
A few seconds after I heard that Lisa Marie Presley, the only child of singer and actor Elvis Presley and actress Priscilla Presley, died at a California hospital last Thursday from a cardiac arrest, I intrinsically knew she died from a broken heart. Ms. Presley lost her only son, Benjamin Keough, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at the age of 27 on July 12, 2020, at his house in Calabasas, California.
After hearing the news about Lisa Marie, my sadness seemed unrelenting, because I had followed every segment of her grief story. Each time she shared a bloody slice of her grief to the world, I grew short of breath. All that came to my mind was the figure of Atlas in Greek mythology. He was a Titan condemned to hold up the world for eternity.
Man, when I visualize Atlas, I can’t stand his back-breaking pose; and, alas, I imagined Lisa Marie’s face instead of his. It was like looking into a metaphorical mirror and seeing my own reflection.
Five months prior to her death, in honor of National Grief Awareness Day, “Lisa Marie Presley penned an emotional essay” about her journey and the lessons she learned after her son died.
In the essay, she writes: “Death is part of life whether we like it or not — and so is grieving. There is so much to learn and understand on the subject, but here’s what I know so far: One is that grief does not stop or go away in any sense, a year, or years after the loss. Grief is something you will have to carry with you for the rest of your life, in spite of what certain people or our culture wants us to believe. You do not “get over it,” you do not “move on,” period.”
Coincidentally, my niece sent my daughter and me a text, “This made me think of you both…” and a copy of the same essay that appeared in People magazine with the headline, “Lisa Marie Presley Said She Was ‘Destroyed’ by Son Benjamin’s Death.”
At the time my niece sent it to me, I couldn’t bear to look at it until days later.
In the same essay she wrote the excerpt below:
” … grief is incredibly lonely. Despite people coming in the heat of the moment to be there for you right after the loss takes place, they soon disappear and go on with their own lives and they kind of expect for you to do the same, especially after some time has passed. This includes “family” as well. If you’re incredibly lucky, less than a handful will remain in contact with you after the first month or so. Unfortunately, that is a cold hard truth for most. So, if you know someone who lost a loved one, regardless of how long it’s been, please call them to see how they are doing. Go visit them. They will really really appreciate it, more than you know ….”
Lisa Marie was on point. Loss can feel like a whirlwind, leaving nothing behind but destruction. It can be difficult to pick up the pieces and start rebuilding, especially when you are doing it alone, ditched by the rest of the world.
Her final, personal lesson is below.
” … particularly if the loss was premature, unnatural, or tragic, you will become a pariah in a sense. You can feel stigmatized and perhaps judged in some way as to why the tragic loss took place. This becomes magnetized by a million if you are the parent of a child who passed. No matter how old they were. No matter the circumstances.”
Again, everything she concludes is absolutely true and not an understatement. Frankly, while processing the news of her demise from a “broken heart,” I also felt relief for Lisa Marie. Atlas’ weight was, at last, removed. I shared with my niece how completely saddened I was by her loss.
In response, she wrote,”Nothing wrong with finding a kindred spirit, no matter how it manifests.”
Marshall’s 27th on January 18, 2020 that I, my daughter and the children’s Godmother “celebrated”
Today, I regret not contacting Lisa Marie back in 2020 after she had lost her son by suicide. I simply did not make the time. (Saying, “I didn’t have the time,” is incorrect since I am one hundred percent responsible for ME and MY actions.)
During last week, I spent a good deal of time reflecting on her death, pacing around my office where I have two calendars, one on the wall and one on the desk. Both of them have stick-it notes on them, smack center, covering up the January 17th block, the day I was so freaking sure my son would be born and covering up the 18th block, his actual birthday. Sometimes, with the world on your back, doing everything you possibly can to press forward, “blackouts” are the best weapon to tackle the challenge.
For this week’s blog post, every single piece of me is on fire with guilt, regret, pain and remorse, and my son’s voice from long-ago, stating, “I won’t make it to 30.” I really didn’t want to sit my inflamed body down to hurt it more and think of the unthinkable, but I was so moved by what Lisa Maria and her family endured.
Now, my heart goes out to the survivors of Lisa Marie, and I honor and acknowledge the grief of her family. In return, I am afforded the strength to honor and acknowledge my own grief.
The way I look at it is if we take a leap of faith and open ourselves up to love, we open ourselves up to the risk of experiencing grief. It begins with love and ends with love. If life surpasses death, then love is what will guide us through the infinite journey.
For Lisa Marie, Benjamin, and Marshall, I hope they are now liberated from their back-breaking duties on Earth. Whether it involves physical burdens or mental obstacles, I also hope they are no longer crushed by the weight of life and, instead, free to catapult and soar to new heights.
Year after year, since my daughter was born, whenever my mom called or said my daughter’s name, Alexandra! (always with the sound of an exclamation point at the end), she squealed as if she were waking from a dream come true: her youngest granddaughter really did carry on her name.
“Alexandra! Alexandra!”
She was grateful for everything, but she especially relished in the notion that she had left a legacy that she was privileged enough to experience while she was still alive: hearing her real name said out loud. You see, this wasn’t always the case in her youth.
Many people experience hardships, but my mom fell into the group of survivors who lived through enormous tragedy and in doing so, life took on a completely different meaning for her. I thought I did, but I never did, understand what living through tragedy meant, until I lived through one of my own.
And so on what would have marked your 97th birthday yesterday — this blog post is for you, Ma! It’s in memory of the long ago little, dark-haired girl who, like a perfectly tuned violin, had a soprano voice that could melt steel. When she sang in concerts, it certainly did melt audiences’ hearts in her beloved European city of Minsk. Her father, my grandfather, Nicholi, a merchant, as well as a part-time bootlegger, recognized and supported his young daughter’s talent by hiring a voice teacher to train her professionally.
For a number of years, my mom made the weekly trek on foot to the voice teacher’s house to study with her. My mom’s own mother passed away when she was still a toddler and even though her dad had remarried a “nice enough” woman, as my mother referred to her, her beloved voice teacher, whom she endearingly called “Cho-Cha,“ meaning “Aunt” had become her surrogate mother.
Cho-Cha went beyond helping my mom with her vocal range. She became a trusted mentor, built her up with compassion and wisdom and as World War II broke out, became an increasingly important anchor.
Prior to the bombing and total destruction of her beloved home in her native Minsk, the Capital of Belarus, and the surrounding area, there were insidious occurrences that transpired, such as my mom’s neighbors mysteriously disappearing. without further investigation. Nazi troops, too, grew and ballooned throughout the city.
For me, two books helped widen my perspective of how war can be a slow build —just enough to be noticed, but unremarkable enough to be conveniently denied.
In spite of the fact that World War II was moving in on my mom’s own personal world, she was about 15, and was walking to Cho-Cha’s house for her weekly vocal lessons. I imagine she was warming up by singing.
Suddenly, as she retold the story, the sky turned into an evil pitch of darkness. Rounds of machine gun fire sounded in the distance. She immediately took cover, hiding alongside the city’s buildings. She did not, however, turn back. Eventually, she snaked forward, toward her Cho-Cha’s residence.
When she moved closer to the voice teacher’s house, the gun fire subsided. At first, she said she thought it was a hallucination. But then, the piercing reality hit her in front of her young eyes as her song books unleashed into the brittle dirt of the pathway. There, on the sidewalk, laid her beloved Cho-Cha in a pool of her own blood. It was obvious that Cho-Cha had unsuccessfully tried to run for her life. Her only offense was being born a Jew. My mom’s devotion and loyalty propelled her to run into the center of the scene, gunfire still in the distance. She flung her young body over Cho-Cha’s and draped her corpse with her own distressed body — my mom’s love spilled over Cho-Cha like her mentor’s blood had spilled out of her.
“Cho-Cha! Cho-Cha!” My mother cried, losing what felt like her mother for a second time, as she weeped and bawled into the night without consolation.
Some war narratives have no endings, such as this one. I don’t know why the Nazis did not shoot my mother dead too. I don’t know if, as I would think, someone finally picked my mother off Cho-Cha’s lifeless body and then hauled the corpse away.
I do know, either days or months later, as I’ve written before, the Nazis snatched my mom up from the street where she was roaming and kidnapped her to Germany. She eventually became “forced labor” for a German family. In actuality, the appropriate term was “slave labor.”
The Germans also changed my mom’s name from “Alexandra,” as she was called, to “Lysa,” pronounced in German as “Leeza.”
And now, you understand why her real name meant so much to her, Alexandra; Alex, for short. How she lit up every time someone mentioned her name, especially in relation to my daughter, Alexandra. (Their birthdays are also a mere 12 days apart!)
The point is, the Nazis stripped my mom’s name away from her, but only temporarily. Then the honor of identity was bestowed on my mother, not once, but twice!
But that’s not the end of this story, and this story still pertains to the effects of war, but it does have a clear end, sort of.
Mom did sing again after she immigrated with my dad and two older brothers to America. When I was growing up, I heard her sing in church, and every part of my body and soul would rise to the steeple when I heard her euphonious voice. Then, without the slightest indication, she’d stop abruptly and cry. Cry! It made no sense to me, but, as a child, I was publicly mortified. (Fortunately, everyone in church pretended they didn’t notice.) When I was an adolescent, to my relief, she ceased singing all together — at least in public.
Once in a while, though, I’d overhear her in her bedroom singing and then wailing. I never understood and finally asked her very irritated.
“Why do you have to cry, Ma? Why? Why can’t you just sing like everybody else?”
“Because happiness always brings sadness.”
Well, after that, I didn’t broach the obviously difficult subject too often. Then, a few months ago, I was revisiting the two books I mentioned, thinking about tragedy, real, honest-to-God tragedy where God, or any sort of higher power, has vanished and faith is zapped in an electric chair of fear.
All at once, I realized for the first time ever that the Nazis had stolen my mother’s name only temporarily and then stole her voice almost permanently when they murdered her voice teacher. The long and the short of it is she still sang, regardless of how she couldn’t get past a few lyrics, she still sang!
Best of all, my memory of her singing voice has become the breath of life for me! When I am particularly struggling amid the realities of life, I ask her in my mind to, Sing, Ma! Sing! And I hear her flawless musical talent as natural and flowing as the doves’ wings that visit my garden.
Sing, Ma! Sing! As if there were never wars. Sing, Ma! Sing! As if life were a birdsong without sad tears, only happy melodies. Sing, Ma! Sing! I say, and go forth through the darkness in a backdrop of her high notes, and the music helps strengthen my diaphragm and fills my lungs beyond a capacity of unimaginable proportions.
Sing, Ma! Sing! This song is for you, Ma! Happy Birthday, Ma! My love for you is an endless melody!
I had visions of spending my birthday yesterday dug deep in the latest book I am reading by one of my favorite authors. Snacking on reduced-fat cheese doodles, listening to the yelping contest between the two tiny mutts that live in the big colonial behind us.
As a prologue of things to unwrap, three days before the “Big Day,” my dear blogger friend Alec had remembered about my upcoming birthday and sent sweet greetings.
“Alec,” I wanted to reply, “thanks for remembering, but I’m trying to forget.”
It’s not that I did not appreciate his reaching out. It’s that I’ve always experienced conflicting feelings about my birthdays. When I was young, the date emphasized my state of detached reality. “Ungraceful aging” became the theme as time marched on. Nearly three years ago, of course, my birthday signaled hot rods of pain, loss and the idea of “unhappy endings” trumping “happily ever after.” It was the time that I temporarily deactivated my Facebook page because the “Fakebook” well-wishers only exasperated the grief.
What’s remained consistent is the two twins I recalled every year that were in my grammar school, Terry and Jerry. Out of 32 kids in our classroom, our trio was excluded from birthday celebrations during the school year. My birthday was August 22 and their birthday was August 23. As luck would have it, all the other students’ birthdays fell within, or close enough, to the school year to celebrate. Each month we watched sad-eyed on the sidelines as a classmate celebrated a birthday during a particular week and delighted in song, praise and the biggest slice of cake out of the class, topped off with a spanking brand-new pencil to bring home.
These last few years, in fact, as my birthday approaches, it feels like the alarm goes off when my mind remembers Terry and Jerry’s longing eyes. The image kicks me into an impending feeling of despair. It helps, though, when I bring to mind one of my dearest friends, Michelle, a relatively young, quite recent widow, who always made it a point to say that the “big dates” that grievers anticipate on the calendar end up to be much more manageable and right-sized once the actual day unfolds.
The Saturday before the big day, my memory became ripe with regrets and remorse. Early in the week, Brother Paul insisted he and my sister-in-law, Diane, take me and my daughter out for dinner on Sunday and, even though I told him countless times that I wanted to “keep a low profile,” I acquiesced to their invitation.
“I’m reading a wonderful book. I really don’t have the time.” I didn’t think my excuse would fly and did not try and renege on the date.
Sunday afternoon rolled around and we gathered at a privately owned Italian restaurant. Three hours later, we peeled ourselves from our seats. In other words, I can’t remember a better time I’ve shared in an awful long time. I don’t think it was anything in particular about the conversation. It was more about being in sync and in the present moment. It was a bite into a slice of zen, a delightful, full-bodied flavor. It was the kind of meal that left you full, satisfied and met your needs beyond your belly.
Yesterday, wouldn’t you know it, my daughter took the entire day off from work. If I had known, I would have stopped her. To backtrack, my birthday morning started with my gastroenterologist’s (the word rolls off your tongue as part of the aging process) office calling to change my October appointment.
After a few seconds on the phone, the doctor’s administrator announced, “There’s a picture of a birthday cake in front of your name in the chart. Happy birthday!”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“Happy birthday!” the woman said louder.
“Thank you!” I replied, mirroring her sharp ding.
Then I received an IM birthday greeting from a random woman I barely know who always signs up for get-rich-schemes and tries to get me on board (without avail). I was amazed she reached out without trying to sell me something. The next IM birthday greetings came from relatives in Ukraine.
When I checked my email, I was flooded with free computer screen downloads from the Pillsbury Doughboy who sent them to me as a birthday gift. I also received a flood of birthday coupons from retail stores and fast food chains. Too bad the Boston Market near us recently went out of business.
My friend, Camille, dropped by with fresh yellow roses and a beautiful card. My roomie gifted me a lovely blouse and another sentimental card that was added to the other make-you-cry-happy tears collection from my brother, daughter, niece and her husband. I also received a string of text messages from my fiance and the rest of the fam in Jersey.
Last night, I sat in my fave restaurant with my daughter and roomie and the minute I whispered, “I just really wanted to keep a low profile,” the waiter and the restaurant staff appeared with a blazing sparkler that was so fierce, it scared me, and I almost slipped off my chair. Afterwards, we dug into homemade cake and desserts.
Four hours we nested at the restaurant, together doing another helping of zen and life and digging into the moment, because that’s all we had in front of us. The best part about the experience was that it was uncurated. Instead, it flowed natural, unrefined without GMOs, in the purest form, and if this isn’t the recipe for faith, then I don’t know what is. After all, the plate in front of me carried the clear signature of a Great Chef.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 