Opening Up

Took a too-long blog break -- this has part of my excuse. Just jump there, and jump back -- it'll only take a second. As for the rest, we have a lot of catching up to do.

Meanwhile, here we are again, 24-hour countdown to Yom Kippur, the Gates of Heaven are nearly open, and with all its good timing, the Night-Blooming Cereus is, as well.

Once a year, about nine p.m., it shares its beauty with its nocturnal compatriots, and just three hours previous to this writing, here it is:

(Both photos copyright the family photographer, i.e. That Guy I Married)

Our neighbor L-C was nice enough to give us a call so we wouldn't miss the annual blooming on her front porch.... and by now it has already closed.

(I was impressed at the timing, then did a quick search noted -- with irony -- that a primary association with this flower has something to do with Krishna worship in India. The timing's still pretty cool though, don't you think?)

Just a simple thought, coming into our Day of Repentence. Last week during class break, a fellow student approached me with a question:

Why should I bother fasting again this year? I know that right after Yom Kippur I'm just going back to all the things I usually do -- not keeping Shabbat, and all that. So what good will it do for me to fast?

She is relatively young, in her mid-twenties, and grew up in a religious household, in the religious school system here in Israel. She no longer identifies as a religious person but remains close with her family.

As in keeping with the tradition, I answered her question with a question: What's the connection between not keeping Shabbat next week, and keeping Yom Kippur this week?

I was convinced, without knowing why, that the two are not inherently linked, at least not on every level, but at the time I couldn't explain it in a way that satisfied either of us.

Today, leafing through Al ha-Teshuva, a text based on lectures given by Rabbi Yosef B. Soloveichik, I found a more exact answer. Rav Soloveichik talks a lot about the individual versus the Klal, the collective. While each individual certainly bears responsibility for his or her own actions and atonement process, there is a parallel process that is the jurisdiction the collective, which, according to the Rav, is an entity with an identity in and of itself.

It is up to the individual to consider him or herself a part of Klal Yisrael, and one way to achieve kapara (atonement) on Yom Kippur is to be a part of this collective -- what he calls the "אני קבוצי," "communal I." In his words (my translation):

We identify with the congregation of Israel, are molded and merged into it, we are made one with it -- and through this, we become worthy of the atonement that it [the congregation] is worthy of (p. 77).

He asks whether the atonement of Yom Kippur is that of the individual, or of the collective, and goes on to explain that the answer is, in fact both. The collective gives us a power of atonement, distinct from our individual efforts, and so (as I later wrote my classmate), as long as you consider yourself a part of the community, on whatever level, your fasting along with everyone is still worth something.

גמר חתימה טובה / Gmar Hatima Tova.

May we all be inscribed for life, blessings, health, and new openings leading to new beginnings.

ALN

NOT A HYSTERICAL HEADLINE!

In a few more days we will overstuff our suitcases and head for home.  The kids have been asking, begging, really -- When are we coming home?  They miss their friends, and the ease of access to those friends.  They miss our animals.  So do I.

I am torn.  I want to get back to normalcy, to routine -- not that summer vacation is the time for that, but never mind.  I miss my friends, our neighbors.  Reading all the latest "ideological conversations" (in the words of one neighbor) via community  listserv does not quite satisfy.

There are things here I will miss.

The cool weather, and the rain.  

Public parks, open farmland, trees.  

The convenience of buses, trains, and the Underground.   

People who wait patiently while others disembark from buses, trains and the Underground.  

The Science Museum, the Natural History Museum, the National Gallery.  

Every type of bird in the garden.  Squirrels.

Electric sockets with built-in switches.  

Trees.

What I will not miss:  Histrionic headlines preceding dumb-downed, hyperbolic newspaper pieces that preempt rational analysis and deter all optimism.  

There are real reasons for worry here.  Swine flu is spreading, a few have died.  Thousands are ill but most will recover after a few days and without hospitalization.  Newspaper headlines only inflame the panic. So when a young man gone missing in Katoomba, Australia was found alive and healthy after nearly two weeks in the wilderness, I took that as encouraging, hopeful, a reason for national celebration.   

Yet a Kew station news poster screamed, "DAD CHASTISES SON FOR HIKING ALONE!"  I mean, really. What a lost opportunity.  I see this type of thing posted on mortar boards, morning and evening, and think, Hey, Londoners, why do you do it to yourselves?  The constant cloud cover isn't enough? 

Not much balance there.

ALN 

Meetingplace / Marketplace

The short flight had been uneventful.  As we disembark, Blondie Boy waves a casual Shalom to the two youngish ground crewmen assigned to monitor passenger progression from plane to gate.  I try to focus his awareness to the idea that from now on, for the next few weeks, he must speak English to those around him.  The next day, in the Brent Cross shopping mall, Elder Princeski wonders if we will encounter any Israelis here.   My response -- Just keep your ears open! -- is cut short by a mother speaking Hebrew to her two kids as they cross our path toward the escalator.

Brent Cross is a multicultural hub;  families from everywhere, kids of all skin tones.  Women in robes, dresses, headscarves in a spread of colors both bright and drab.   An endless flow of mother tongues, alongside English delivered in multiple cadences.  And so many Jews, they barely glance at one another in any attempt for recognition.   My own moderate headscarf does not register a perceptible glance from anyone, and I feel a sort of relativity effect, an at-oddness with both the bare-headed, spaghetti strap world on my left, and the thoroughly wrapped opacity on my right.  Neither covering, nor lack of one, exposes the ideas and beliefs within the minds around me.

If I were a white Christian male here, I would feel left out, slightly noteworthy, a minority. Perhaps this rainbow effect now means the white majority no longer feels comfortable coming here.  Perhaps it no longer exists, or never did.

At home I sometimes joke about retail therapy, the occasional -- and temporary -- pick-me-up for an emotional trying day at work.   Abroad, it has already become both a chore, albeit an enjoyable one, and an opportunity.  Elder P taking mental notes on the people around her, asking few questions while, I can assume, sitting tight on others which will surface eventually. She's an observant kid, she knows how to make comparisons, and one day soon knowing the answers will become more urgent.

Meanwhile, my headspace is still lingering back at home, ruminating over its own troubled comparisons.  If, here, those people wearing head coverings are drawing any suspicion, I cannot feel it, although they themselves might.  

The marketplace has always been a meeting place, and no less now than before, among our skylights and window dressings and vast air-conditioned spaces.  Retail as the great commons, or commonality.  I enjoy being here, and even knowing such a place exists, whether I come to purchase, or to find comfort and captivation in the purchasers.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Have the Answers, But Not Telling (At Least For Now...)

HH #221 here at Ima on (and off) the Bima.

ProfK brought us a familiar observation here in her comment.  We, too, have gotten some really doozy-questions aimed our way during car rides, or alternatively, on our way out the door towards a car ride.

My favorite?  A couple years ago our Virgin Guinea Pig mysteriously gave birth.  OK, not so mysteriously;  unknown to us, she'd been pregnant when we bought her.  

Turns out, guinea pig gestation is much longer than that of most rodents and lagomorphs. Compare:  hamster gestation is 15 to 18 days, rabbit gestation is about 30 days, while that of the guinea pig can reach 72 days -- that's over two months.   The difference becomes clear when you see how guinea pigs come into the world:   fully formed, fur-covered, open-eyed, and munching on solids within a day.

So when Elder Princeski called me in happy-hysteria, MOMMY, THERE ARE BABIES IN THE GUINEA PIG CAGE!, naturally this became a source of great excitement.  

A few minutes later, it also became a source of great confusion.

Always the Imp (then age 4):  Mommy, how could the guinea pig have babies without an Abba?

Me:  There must have been an Abba with her in the store, before we bought her, but then we brought her home and it took a long time for the babies to come out.

Always:  (Pause for thought).  Mommy, how did the babies get inside the mommy?  

Me: (Wasn't expecting that one yet).  Well... (Stalling for time.  She's only four, I mean, really). 

Always:  Is it true that the doctor puts the baby through the mommy's vulva, into her tummy?  (Yes, she already knew one V-word, way back then.)

Me:  (To self)  Only if the Mommy is married to a doctor.  

(To Always)  Well, it's something like that.  But it's kind of complicated, and you know, we really are supposed to be going out now.

Always (looking me straight in the eye):  It's okay, Mommy.  You don't have to explain everything.  Just tell me the important parts!

Oy vey....

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

The Challenge:  Describe your job in one sentence or less.

My Answer:  My job is to listen to kids.

OK, so sometimes "listening" comes in the form of watching them draw, or joining them as they play, or helping them surf the net, or just sitting nearby while they read.  And, of course, the kids I listen to are sick, or are recovering from being sick, or were sick in the past, or are sick again.

Leave out that last part about the sick kids, and replace what's left with the additional cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, fetching & carrying, and we've just described the Second Shift, a.k.a. The Home Front.

I admit it:  Part of me has been waiting for years for my kids to get a little older, so we could start having some real conversations, the ones that extend beyond "Why can't I have a cookie? But why?!?"  It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.

Elder Princeski will be ten soon, and her questions tend to reflect her newly-developing empathy and Theory of Mind.  Always the Imp has just turned six, but her line of questioning (once she gets past all those unreasonable demands resulting from her sugar addiction) has always pushed the envelope, amplifying her imp-like attributes.

Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to euthanize the poor goldfish who, having displayed multiple signs of illness for nearly half a year (and had long since been placed in isolation from his healthier peers), was now showing acute signs of imminent status change. 

Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted.  We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in You and Your Aquarium (London: DK), while Always hid herself away until the deed was done.  Later, of course, there were thoughts and reflections on the matter, which surfaced today during Shabbat lunch.

Always the Imp:  Mommy, when you die, I want to keep the whole house for myself.  But I don't need the things inside it, you can give those to somebody else.

Me:  [Which Left Field did that one come out of?  Oh, maybe it was the fish...] Why?  Do you want me to die soon?

Always:  Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...

Elder Princeski:  Mommy, I don't want you to die for a long time... but when you do, I'll keep the things inside the house.  I won't need the house itself because I will be married and my husband will buy me a house.

(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)

The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's my 95-year-old grandmother -- see here), wondering how much longer she would continue to live, and if she wants to live much longer, and whether, were she to become very sick, dependent, and pain-ridden, she would choose to die (from what she has told me in the past, I wouldn't put it past her).   

We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.

Then there were questions about death itself.  What does it feel like?, and Does it hurt? and Do people know they're dying?   I told them about the reports I had read on near-death experiences, in which people described feelings of well-being, comfort, and being reunited with lost loved ones.  I told them that no one could prove whether these things really happen, but that many people felt and believed that this is what had happened to them.

Throughout this conversation, my internal voice was asking how much of an influence my Day Job was having here on the Home Front.  I think about death a lot, because I encounter death a lot, and so it is on my mind --  sometimes at a frequency that surpasses what I would consider to be a level of healthy denial.  

I try to keep that to myself, at least around the kids, but as they grow older they develop an awareness of what I do for a living;  Elder Princeski has even accompanied me to work events a couple of times. Sometimes they ask questions about work, and while I don't shy away from answering, I try to keep my answers short and to the point.  

The thing is, kids know about death.  They think about death.  They wonder about it, and they have questions.  At a certain point, they lose their dog, or their grandfather, or their neighbor, or their parent, and they learn that death can't be avoided.   

All of this obligates us to invite their questions, listen to their concerns, and share some answers -- gradually, thoughtfully, and straightforwardly.  Which we tried to do this afternoon.

Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects.  For another time...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Verlyn on the Familiar

Today's piece is on the geography of familiarity.  Here's a taste:

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the geography of familiarity. By that I mean something like a map of my habitat, the paths I travel most often, the places I feel most comfortable, the routines embedded in the rural and urban landscapes I know best. Most days, familiarity seems inherent in the world right around me, but every now and then I remember that it’s really an artifact of consciousness, a form of perception that can be lost, say, in someone with Alzheimer’s.  (New York Times online, June 3, 2009)

What can I say.... I'm inspired, yet again.  Her thoughts speak to my mind and soul.  I hope you feel the same.  

Thank you yet again, Ms. Klinkenborg, for getting it so right.

ALN

Into Another World

(If you missed it, see Maybe I Should Write About It).

The view from their living room window -- dry hills interspersed with grasses and low-lying bushes -- was oddly familiar, in that I could have mistaken it for the California of my childhood. 

I had parked the car on the street above.  There was plenty of parking;  most residents in this area don't know how to drive a car and cannot afford one.  The early afternoon air was hot and still.  The inside car temperature approached that of an oven from the moment I shut off the engine.  

I crossed the sidewalk, paused, and headed toward the double flight of stairs.  To my left, three middle-aged, dark-skinned men squatted over a flattened carton, dealing cards.  The stairs, framed by simple metal railings, abutted a series of dirt-filled, half-meter brick tiers in an uneven stack like some child's haphazard block construction.  They led me down to one of a series of dreary dun developments, each four stories high and six living units across, fronted by an empty patch of dusty soil.  Most of the buildings carried a rusty sign vainly remarking a municipal-sponsored refurbishment in 1976, and despite this, they all looked as though they had somehow survived five decades or more.

As expected, there were no signs pointing the way toward the house of mourning.  The numbering was haphazard and I could not find the right building.  In response to my query, an older man placed his hands on my shoulders and literally rotated my body to the right and downward.  

His murmuring suggested I had a ways to walk, and the apartment I sought was in fact the last one in the staggered row of developments.   As I followed along the row of buildings, there was a smell, of pungent, unfamiliar spice and slightly fermented grains, which seemed to grow in intensity as I approached the entrance.

The door of one of the ground-floor apartments had been left wide open, and the spotless living room floor reflected an image of a hefty woman lounging on her sofa.  She jumped in with an answer  before I could get the question out.  "Where -- ?"  "Up on the third floor."

The door was closed and had no markings on or around it, save a mezuzah with a cheap plastic cover.  Inside the house, the extended family -- his mother, sister, two brothers, four aunts, three uncles and a cousin -- nearly filled the small living room.  His mother had a black mourning cape draped over one shoulder, and as I entered she glanced up, sighed and shifted the cape to her lap, stood, and clung to me.   She sat down, sighed, and offered me a chair near the middle of the room.   "My heart..."

A foursome of aunts and uncles sat around a coffee table playing cards, throwing each card onto one of four piles with an aggressive THWAP.  Somehow, it felt only slightly out of place.  His sister poured me a cup of cola, which his mother refilled after every sip I took.  She exchanged a few words with her daughter.  I was waiting for a translation, some statement about how it was all over, or referring to his time in the hospital.  But no.

He had some new clothes, the sister related.  They're in G's office.  Do you think you can talk to him about getting them back?

Of course.  His brother would be needing those clothes, so carefully chosen only two months before.  

The mother continued her conversation with an aunt who was sitting across from us, while I talked to the sister and made a few phone calls in an unsuccessful attempt to contact the cable TV representative and ask him to come pick up the cable box which nobody in the household now has a use for.  

Sometime later, we exchanged good-byes and I made my way back down three stories, along six dreary buildings, and up two outside flights to street level.  I got in my car, drove out of the neighborhood and back into to my infinitely more complex, familiar -- and for now, sadder -- world.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Now I Can Laugh, Too

A Mentsh Tracht un Gott Lacht* א מענטש טראַכט, און גאָט לאַכט

Friday morning, and the to-do list is pretty long.  Shabbat comes in late in the Spring, so that list can include the usual preparations (cooking, cleaning, etc.), plus a lot of the spillover from the week -- several work projects, in this case.  I would just get the kids on their ways and get down to work.

As usual, Blondini Boy pulled his wake-up-early-and-refuse-to-go-back-to-sleep number.  But something was up. When I gave him his morning squeeze, he pulled away with,  No!  My tummy hurts.   

Since he has been known to neglect that certain daily ritual, I wasn't too worried.  I would encourage him to sit on the toilet for a few minutes, and all would be well.

Within ten minutes he was writhing on the sofa.  He wouldn't let me touch him.  He wanted his bed.  He refused to walk upright.  His face was pale.  I took his temperature -- normal.  I tried to feel his abdomen.  He screamed in pain and then kept moaning.

Quick internal debate:  Do I call ER this second, or first consult a friendly neighborhood physician to confirm I'm not overreacting?  

The latter won out.  I discovered that our friend G was on call at the hospital (I'd been afraid to call because I didn't want to wake him up after a night shift).  He asked a few questions -- Is he walking with difficulty? (Yes).  Is he willing to jump up and down?  (No) -- and told me not to waste time, bring BB into ER right away.  He would meet us there.  I threw some clothes and favorite toy vehicles into a bag with my wallet, phone, and hospital ID, and put BB in the car. 

On the road, I tried to keep my focus, a vast selection of scary scenarios competing with a the beautiful winding road I know so well from my morning commute.  Appendicitis.  Peritonitis.  I imagined my little boy being called in for emergency surgery after being diagnosed with one of these. 

Or worse:  Neuroblastoma.  Wilm's Tumor.  Burkitt's.  All those exceedingly rare childhood diseases that my work experience has long since deceived me into believing are common.  (They are not).

Back in his car seat, Blondini Boy was looking paler and paler, his eyes nearly closed.  The trucks and bicycles that normally grab his attention passed by without remark.   My tummy hurts, Mommy, he groaned over and over. 

Seven minutes from the hospital, he wanted to stop.  Mommy, I have a pee-pee.  

You're wearing a diaper, I told him.  You can make your pee-pee right now.  I hadn't taken the time this morning to change him out of pajamas, and now there was no safe place to stop along the road.  

I have a pee-pee, and I want to make my pee-pee in the toilet.

He was insistent;  he knew what he needed.  We stopped in a parking lot at the entrance to a hiking trail along the road, where I offered a pee-pee in nature as the next-best option to a toilet.  

Two liters poured out of him, and that was it.  I peered into his strained little face and watched the tension drain away.  Does your tummy still hurt?  No.  

Unconvinced, I pressed his stomach.  Here? Here? What about here?  (Not a grimace).  Jump up and down.  (Three jumps).  Run over to that tree and look at the birds.   (But I don't want to scare them!)

Soon, the color had returned to his face, and we were heading towards home.   

Next week we'll be visiting our regular pediatrician to ask whether some organic problem might have gotten BB into this state in the first place.  I suspect he'll tell me it's nothing.  For now, I am relieved, thankful, and acutely aware of being safe and relaxed at home, as opposed to where we could have been, and still would be, now.  

And if something like this every happens again, I'll try to keep some things in mind:   Use caution, but try to stay relaxed and focused enough to check the obvious.  

* * *

ALN:  So tell me, what did we do this morning?

Blondini Boy:  This morning?.. We were going to the doctor, and then I made a pee-pee!

* * *

Yah, that pretty much sums it up. 

Shabbat Shalom.

ALN

___

* From the Yiddish:  A man plans and G-d laughs.

A Room of Everyone's Own

When thinking hospital, a lot of things come to mind, and not one of them is "privacy."  

We are always citing patients' privacy rights -- the subject resurfaced as a welcome reminder in a recent department meeting -- along with the acknowledgement that while everyone acknowledges the value of medical secrecy, standing up to its principles are no easy feat in a small, everyone's-my-cousin environment such as exists in our humble corner of the Middle East.

Then there's the flip side:  Where do hospital workers go to preserve privacy -- their own, their colleagues', their patients', their patients' families'?  

This morning after a meeting, I returned to my department via the stairs.  Between two of the upper floors, a tech staff member was lying against the stairwell wall, coffee in hand, three sections of the newspaper sprawled across several steps and over a chair on the landing. One flight later, a young man -- a volunteer, perhaps, or a pediatric patients' older brother -- had his waterproof tallit / tefillin bag resting, open, just under the handrail along my right side, while he was making his way through shaharit (morning prayers) there on my left.

Yesterday I walked into our department classroom a few minutes into our mid-day break, only to find one of our teachers working with a small patient while colleagues sat drinking coffee across the table.  

Aren't you going to take your break now?  I asked the her.  

She nodded at her pupil with a knowing smile.   I'm taking a sort of learning break, she replied, here with H.

I'll be the first to admit it:  I'm not the best example.  I don't always stop to take a methodical, sit-down-and-close-the-door-behind-you coffee break, and anyway, there aren't too many spaces in the department that provide the right conditions for such an effort.  As I've lamented before, I don't have an office.  For this reason I can (and have) spend up to ten minutes looking for a semi-private corner of the department to sit down with a staff member, for a conversation of the same length.

So where should we go to hold a private conversation?  The archives?  A stuffy, windowless security room with little ventilation to counter the stifling odor of multiple files.  The chairs in the waiting area across the hall?  Patients and staff walk through there freely, always within hearing distance.   I would even try the stairwell, but what an echo.  No privacy there.  

Only one other room option comes to mind.  It has a lockable door, but alas, it only seats one... 

Keep the balance,

ALN

Iodine Season

Spring is in the air... speaking of which, many thanks to Gila from My Shrapnel for a great HH #215, and that lovely Julie Andrews song!  But I digress...

Bike Season is officially here, so keep the iodine handy.    A couple weeks ago I brought what was formerly Elder Princeski's long-outgrown, hot-pink set of wheels into the local bike shop for a tire refurbish, and the guys could barely look up from their wrenches and chains, they were so busy sliming and realigning. 

(Slime is, of course, a registered trademark and the brand name of that funky stuff they smear on the inner tubes to make them self-repairing.  The bike shop has a huge tank of it sitting on the floor, next to their scattered worktable, and for a few extra shekels they'll apply it to your inner tubes, saving you much sorry later in the season).

The number of first-time bikers  on our block -- among them, our own Always the Imp --can appear greater than the total number of children around here.  The other afternoon I edged toward our driveway while noting at least a dozen (including a couple of my own) within a three-house stretch, wheeling about like scattering sparrows.   

The scene inspired me.  

A day or two later, That Guy I Married set off with Elder P to get her a new bike, accompanied by my long-neglected red frame, with its shredded seat and failing gear shifts, in the hopes that a renewed set of wheels would inspire me to re-commit myself (yet again) to some sort of reasonable, enjoyable fitness plan.

I can't speak for the future but so far, so good.  I've managed to get myself out on it two days in a row -- if only around the moshav, at this point.  Only 28 more days of this and I'll have myself a habit.  

Nothing like that burst of speed down a hill, that rush of air across the face, to remind me what every kid worth his weight in helmets already knows.  So get out the iodine, and get out there.

The hills are alive...

Keep fit, and keep the balance,

ALN

Finally, Finally, Finally

Ahh, how I wish I could stick to this writing business -- and all the other things in my life -- with regularity, enthusiasm, and a clear head.  I look around in jealousy and wonder at all the regular bloggers, and I know darn well most of them also have lives (Read: families, jobs, friends, hobbies households) that slurp their time down to the last drop.

I owe a big thank you to Ricki's Mom, who tagged me with the Honest Scrap Award nearly a month ago and I'm only getting a response together now.  In general, I owe a big thank you to Ricki's Mom because I find her writing interesting, honest, inspirational and empowering, and hers is one of the first blogs I run to when I've fallen out of the blog loop and want to get back on it.

Rules:  Ten honest things about me, then pass it on to seven bloggers.  Honestly, I dunno about the second part.  I wish I had the time to read seven blogs these days... but let's give it a go:

1.  I've been through almost every version of vegetarianism that there is (excepting, perhaps, fructarianism, which is just a little overboard for me).  Lacto-ovo, lacto, vegan, even juice diets.   For the past decade or so, I've come to terms with a lacto-ovo-pescetarian diet.  Works for me.

2.  I believe in balance.  Not a new concept to you, my readers, but how does it manifest in my life?  Example:  I consider myself an observant Jew, and cover my hair, but usually wear trousers -- as opposed to skirts -- because it's much more comfortable for me, physically and emotionally.  (This may be because I did not grow up in a religious household, but then again, maybe it wouldn't have mattered either way). 

3.  For an American, I use way too many Britishisms in my speech.  Probably the influence of That Guy I Married.  He's from London.  Not his fault.  

4.  I spent hours of my childhood either up in trees or down among the weeds and bushes.  I used to pet the bees I found there.

5.  My family is multi-cultural.  By this I mean that I have an Indian sister-in-law.  I have joined her family in their place of worship (they are Sikh, strict monotheists) and despite the many difficulties and challenges of intermarriage, I feel a certain kinship with them that is hard to explain in words.  (And they have the most beautiful clothes -- they have given me several outfits).

6.  I love to dance, and I don't mean folk dance.  Hip-hop, modern, street dancing.  I shut the blinds and open the windows and crank up the MP3 and go nuts.  Also while cooking.  I get chopped onions & garlic all over the place.

7.  Two years ago I decided it was (past) time to start reading in Hebrew.  I don't mean signs and menus, I mean books.  Novels.  Nonfiction.  It demands more concentration but -- I know this sounds crazy -- when I read in Hebrew, I get this feeling of the juices flowing in a different area of my brain, and I like it.

8.  I am ever grateful to RivkA  for getting me started in the blogosphere.  Before I read her blog, I hardly knew what a blog was.  Once I read hers, I thought -- what a great idea!  Now I'll be forced to write, my family will have automatic updates about my life, and I might even develop a modest fan club.  All for free.  What could be better?  (Then I discovered the catch:  I actually have to write regularly, and not just think about writing).

9.  I work with sick kids all day, of all different ages and cultures and sizes and shapes and intellectual capacities.  I've been doing this for quite awhile now, and I think I've got the basics down by now.  So why am I always wondering whether I'm doing the right thing with my own kids?  It's a mystery.

10.  Working with those very sick kids, for so many years has probably skewed my view of life just a bit, in that I tend to view life as a very limited thing, to be cherished and pushed to the fullest, every second.  Which is why I am in a constant, sleep-deprived and hypo-caloric state and cannot get enough of what this world has to offer:  family, work, hobbies, etc, etc.  Just dangle it in front of me, and I will probably try to pack it into my already-bursting schedule.  

Which reminds me, I have to go back to studying now (I have an anatomy-physiology exam on Thursday), push Always the Imp along on her bike, make supper, plan a work presentation, and book a trial lesson with the guitar teacher.  Among other things.

I really can't do seven right now, but can we settle for Coffee and Chemo, SuperRaizy, Shilo Musings, Here in HP and The Rebbetzin's Husband?  You're all it (and if you've already been through a round of this, please forgive me... I'm behind the times).

Keep the balance,

ALN

PS:   Mother in Israel -- you too!

Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA

Since beginning pediatric hospital work over a decade ago, I've shown a tendency to divide circumstances -- that is, reasons for hospitalization -- into two artificially neat categories:  Man-made, and G-d-made.  

Examples of the former include falls from upper-story windows, hot-water burns, and car "accidents."  The latter run a spectrum, from "less serious," (i.e. dangerous but curable) illnesses like RSV, Hanoch-Schlein and cellulitis, to acutely life-threatening maladies like Crohn's, SCID, CF, and acute myeloid leukemia.  

Believe it or not, in many ways I had a much harder time in Pediatric Surgical, working with kids injured as a result of the "man-made" stuff.  Why?  I was constantly troubled by the thought that most of the injuries there were preventable;  Falls resulting from unsupervised climbs along an unfenced roof edge or an unbarred third-story window.  Shabbat kettle burns?  See Prof K's posts, here and here, for more on that.  (Yes, I've referenced these before, and I'll probably keep doing it until the problem is no more).  Car-related injuries?   I won't start ranting here about street safety or seat belt use, but please pretend I did.

As for the G-d-made part -- we can't prevent that stuff.  It's just not our jurisdiction.  We can only try to cure it.  And if we cannot cure a child's illness, we can still try to help that child find comfort and meaning until the end.

But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.

I am, of course, referring to the February 1, 2009 decision of the Palestinian Authority to cease nearly all payments to Israeli hospitals, thereby cutting off hundreds of Palestinian children (and adults) with life-threatening illnesses from the medical care they need. 

  

Let's not turn this situation into another political discussion.  Because for me, and so many others, this is not a theoretical situation involving some unnamed, unknown enemy.  This is a new reality, where over fifty children, all of which I know personally on one level or another -- some for several years now -- have been given a death sentence by way of a governmental policy of collective medical neglect.

When I let myself think about it, or when circumstances force me to think about this new reality, sadness creeps in and hits me, literally, in the face.  Our department is half empty, which for us staff members could be viewed as a glass half-full, since we've been working at a slower pace these past few weeks and can take a few minutes to breathe now and then.

But then someone like A -- a beautiful, bright and sensitive teenage girl whom we have been treating for a leukemia for the past four months -- suddenly shows up in our department with a nearly lethal systemic infection because she no longer had a commitment from the PA to pay for her treatments.

What about all the others?  Some of them are in touch with us by phone, while others have been so difficult to contact, it's as if they have disappeared into thin air.   All are pleading desperately, crying at the desks of the PA bureaucrats who have the power to make a life-changing decision but choose not to.  These officials have claimed they will sponsor parallel treatment in an Egyptian, Jordanian, or even Europe -- anywhere but Israel -- but with very few exceptions, we've yet to encounter evidence that our patients are receiving any treatment whatsoever.   

Every once in awhile a rumor flits through the department -- that so-and-so has died of a deadly infection in some PA hospital somewhere.  So far these rumors have proven false, but it's only a matter of time before they are not.  Chemotherapy protocols are measured in days and hours.  A lost week is an acute risk;  a lost month, or even a fever, is a death sentence.  

If we could treat for free, we would.  But we can't, because the funding would come out of our department budget, such that within a month even one patient's treatment would empty the coffers and shut down the department.  A few of our staff have even dug into their pockets so that certain individual patients could have this one medical test or that course of life-saving antibiotics.  A few miniscule drops into a very deep bucket.

This past Monday we were all relieved to learn that A's family managed to confirm her East Jerusalem resident status, allowing us to continue the treatment that will, most likely, save her life.  This morning, the Palestinian Authority's Committee of Medical Exceptions purportedly met to review the list of children requesting funding in to continue treatment in Israeli hospitals for long-term, life-threatening illnesses.  

I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

While this situation has affected patients in hospitals throughout the country, for whatever reason most of the (limited) PR refers to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.  See the NY Times piece here, and the JTA piece here.

We're on a Road to...

Once in awhile Treppenwitz offers a "tremp" post;  that is, a hitchhiking experience that stands out for being unusual, humorous or just plain wacky.  I myself don't have many stories to tell since, I'll readily admit, I shy away from picking up hitchhikers.  I'm just too scared to let a total stranger into the car, and unfortunately I've heard enough worrisome stories to justify that fear.  

But in theory I think it's a lovely idea.   As an older teenager / young adult, I depended on others to transport me around this teeny tiny country, and nowadays I wish I felt safe enough to return the favor to society at large

I do feel safe picking up fellow moshav residents, which I often do on my way to work.  I leave the house early and at this time of year the sun is up but it's still chilly and these past few days -- hurray! -- rainy.   Sometimes it's a high school kid trying to get to school, or an older resident on his way to the local shuk for some shopping.  Often as not, it's someone trying to get to the hospital itself, to visit a relative or to keep a medical appointment.  

When I pull my car up to the bus stop each morning, most people come up to the window, ask where I'm going, and either reject the ride with a polite "Have a nice drive," or else they hop into the car, and off we go.   This morning, though, it was the other type of trempist (hitchhiker), that older, first-generation North-African immigrant Savta-type.  I could tell this was going to involve a process, and I stifled a groan.

I know, what's the big deal?  I feel extremely grateful to own a (mostly) reliable vehicle, and we're only talking about a few minutes of my time to help a fellow citizen get on with his life.  True, it's challenging enough, when it's still dark, to drag myself out of bed and make my way through the sleepy-crazy morning rush, out the door and onto the road, only to have someone waste precious time deciding whether to hitch a ride.  

Bottom line?  I have to admit it, I have a problem.   I hate it when people make me late to work.  

So I could see this passenger was going to be a problem.   First, standing outside the car with rain streaming in through the now-open window, she has to interview me:  Where are you going?  How are you getting there?  Are you going via the ----- route?  No?  Why not?  

Pause and grimace.  Are you sure you aren't going the ---- route?  Turns around to her companion, waiting at the bus stop two meters away.  Shouts, SHE'S NOT GOING THE ----- ROUTE.  SHOULD I GO WITH HER?  Pause for discussion.  Short argument.   Unclear resolution.  I yell out through the window, I have to go.  Are you coming or not?

Steps back toward the car.   Looks back at companion, then back at me.   OK, I'll go with you.Opens the back door.  Piles in two heavy bags.   Slams the door.  Opens the front door, sits down with a thud.  

Glances at me and remembers -- I'm that crazy woman who insists on using that silly device. Looks down, fumbles with the seat belt.   I have a wedding tonight.  My sister's daughter.  I have to get to the Central Bus Station by ten o'clock, there's a bus that leaves at ten.  I'm sleeping over there, at my sister's.

I nod.  I'm trying not to lose it, but I'm already running late, I still have to stop and fill up at the gas station, it's pouring with rain, and we've already wasted five minutes discussing route options, as if it's even up to her in the first place.  

I have to get to the Central Bus Station, she repeats.  The bus station.  To catch a bus.  To my sister's.  Maybe if we see the bus coming up the hill you can just drop me off and I'll get a ride from there to -----.    Are you sure you're not going via -----?

We have covered this material before, and so I feel obligated to clarify, more forcefully now, that yes, I'm sure we are traveling the very route I originally specified.  Maybe you could just drop me off somewhere along the way, she continues to mumble.  Maybe the bus will come by.  Meanwhile, my iPod is plugged into the car's speaker system and I am desperately trying to hear Ira Glass introduce Act One of the week's This American Life podcast.  

But my passenger does not understand English and treats the sound coming from the speakers as just that -- sound, without meaning -- so she continues this one-way conversation, competing at full volume with the podcast.  

So, you're going to work?  Oh, you speak English.  I know some people who speak English.  From England.  What do you think, the English they teach in schools, is it the American English, or the English from England. 

I force a smile and, not able to hear Ira, I pause the podcast.  

Well, I tell her, I wouldn't know.  I didn't learn English here in the school system, being that it's my mother tongue and all.   I figure maybe this comment would serve as a hint, that the noise coming out of the speakers is, to me, not some unintelligible cacophony or background noise, but rather, something I was in the middle of following, and I press play.  

North African Savta (continues the discussion, completely unfazed):  Oh, r i g h t. Well, you know, there was just this program on television, about this American couple, a twelve-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy, in America, who had a baby, and they had to give it away.  Did you see that program?

ALN:  No, I didn't catch that one.  We don't actually have a television.  

NAS:  No television?  Really?  Why not?  Oh, just like my sister;  she's Haredi, she doesn't have a television.  She looks at me quizzically.  I'm clearly not Haredi, yet she just can't seem to alight on any other logical explanation.

(Short pause, to point out to our non-Israeli readers the common assumption among Israelis that if you don't have a television, it must be because you're ultra-Orthodox.  Never mind that one does not need an exceedingly conservation lifestyle to come to the conclusion that television here is, on average, a huge waste of time).

NAS:  So if you don't have a television, what do you do for fun?

ALN:  For fun?  Ummm....we read books.  Or we listen to radio programs.  You know,  just like the one I've been listening to, here in the car. 

Another subtle hint that simply does not get through, followed by one final attempt to put the program back on.  Oh, it's no use.   I sigh, shut off the radio, and glance at my passenger.

So, you say you're going to your sister's house for a wedding... 

Keep the balance,

ALN

Almond Blossoms -- Goodbye Until Next Year

This Today's Flowers post is dedicated to my Mom.

This past week I found myself wandering around Ein Kerem, at the southern end of Jerusalem, following an off-site planning session that, to my delight, ended an hour ahead of schedule. 

I was so pleasantly surprised by having this extra hour to myself  that it took me nearly 15 minutes just to decide what to do with it.  The sun, hidden behind the clouds, was due to set in about an hour.  Perfect photography light.

It's the end of the almond tree blossoms.  Ein Kerem is filled with almond trees -- שקדיות shkediot in Hebrew.  This tree's claim to fame is that it is the first to bloom, in the dead of winter, and almost out of nowhere.  

Now most almond trees in Israel are divided between bloom and foliage, with the white/pink blossoms contrasting against dark spindley branches and the bright green of newly sprouting leaves.  

Here, the flowers have already dropped off as the tree develops leaves and shifts into fruit-producing mode.

Another Spring, already on its way...

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Ruby Tuesday -- They're Still Kicking. Well, Mostly

Getting back to blogging means getting back on the Ruby Tuesday bandwagon.  (Check out Work of the Poet's other photo memes, too... yellow is sometimes involved, and so is the sky...but alas, no time to keep up with everything, and so for now we stick with ruby).

They're just now winding down, though they've been gracing our table for the past week and a half.  That Guy I Married brought them home for us two Fridays ago, in honor of Shabbat.  

The flowers are called  כלניות kalaniot in Hebrew and are grown locally, on Moshav land in the area.  In fact, there is an anemone field right down the road from us.   They also grow wild at this time of year -- although only in ruby red -- all over Israel.

Keep the balance,

ALN