tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84832547616009266172024-03-13T12:26:26.041+02:00Nad-ned Nad-nedA Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-60562700744502392092011-08-05T12:55:00.016+03:002011-08-05T16:08:13.753+03:00Dog Days<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:13px;"></span><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">"<b>Dog Days</b>" are the hottest, most sultry days of summer...usually fall[ing] between early July and early September..</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">. Dog Days can also define a time period or event that is very hot or stagnant...</span></span></blockquote><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:85%;">[In ancient Rome] Dog Days were popularly believed to be an evil time "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, Quinto raged in anger, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies" according to Brady’s <i>Clavis Calendarium,</i> 1813. (<i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_Days">Wikipedia</a></i>)</span></div></blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">These are days of tragedy and grief. Syria is in chaos, as the government ravages its people. Floods continue to pound </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">Southern Africa, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">while in the East children are dying of draught. The Greek economic crisis threatens all of Europe, and fills its own citizens with despair. Growing unemployment, inconsistent health care coverage and budgetary wars threaten the health, and the homes, of millions of Americans. Our own nation's ongoing anger at inaccessible housing has erupted into demonstrations and tent cities. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">And this morning I awoke to learn that Y, the sweet, strong and healthy 25-year-old son of friends from my teen years, collapsed yesterday -- inexplicably -- of a heart attack. In </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">a few hours from now</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;"> he will be buried in a Southern California cemetery.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">It must be human nature, that among the unfathomable grief on faceless human beings around the world, one young man's death has hit me so hard. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">I haven't seen Y since he was a child, but throughout my teenage years, his parents taught me a formative lesson in true hospitality. Time and geography have led me to lose immediate touch with the family for the past few years<i>, </i>though I've thought of them often. I remember his deep dark eyes, his energy, and his siblings. S, his older sister, is a talented writer while younger sister E was always a bright and energetic spark. Together, they were three of the most beautiful, talented, well-rounded and mature children I have encountered. Now they are only two. They did not have to say goodbye.</span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size:100%;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">A few days ago, I thought I was having a bad week. Our beautiful and affectionate cat, barely out of kittenhood, was cruelly mauled to death in the street by neighborhood dogs, most likely ones owned by irresponsible neighbors. In the fallout, the neighborly high following our family's celebration from last month collapsed like a blown-out mine of precious metals; sadness and anger took its place. Much thought, and a carefully-worded neighborhood email followed, whereby I took our dog-owning neighbors to task -- not by name -- and was rewarded</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">with both </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">words of support, and the inevitable rejoinders of denial. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;">For a few days, the stressful burden of ill will and mutual suspicion pretty much outstripped the sorrow of losing our lovely little feline. But, I thought, <i>Ahhh, such are The Nine Days</i>. "כפרה עליך" (<i>kaPAra aLAyich)</i> as they say. An atonement for past errors, and a gentle reminder to treasure the good things. Our fate is not in our hands. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">Now I imagine the family, w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">aking to a morning with no Y, and another, and another. I picture them g</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">athered together, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">enveloped by their community, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">crying out in despair, with shock and disbelief filling every corner of the house. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;">A few months back I was in class on a minor fast day -- <i>Asara b'Tevet -- </i> and my teacher, a convert to Judaism, remarked,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><i><blockquote>You know, this religion is so fixed on depression. Why do we need so many fast days? Why can't we be adding more holidays and celebrations instead? It's not good for us...</blockquote></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">I imagine he knows a thing or two about depressed peoplehood, having both African- and Native American roots. When I think of two nations with more than their share of calamity and maltreatment, these two come to mind. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">Thing is, I was kind of torn. On the one hand, he's right. Why do we insist on indulging in sorrow, guilt and mourning, year after year, four times a year, commemorating events some of which are so historically obsolete as to be almost ridiculous. Why, in fact, should we keep <i>Asara b'Tevet </i>on the books, when it commemorates [the beginning of] the destruction of a Temple -- the <b>First</b> Temple -- <i>that has since been both rebuilt <b>and</b> re-destroyed?! </i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">It is easy, even natural, to side with the thinking that suggests this type of mourning is no longer in step with our national timeline. Maybe such harping on the negative even weakens our collective conscience, at a time when we need to be investing all our emotional energies into increasing our sense of resilience. Can wallowing in our </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">collective </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">sorrow really help us?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;">On the other hand, we've harbor a tendency to hang on to our traditions, obsolete as they might seem, and for the most part this does us more good than harm.</span></div><div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size:100%;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Either way,<i> Tisha b'Av </i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">stands apart from the four minor fasts. We don't just grab one day, midyear, and assign it historical importance, long since superseded by subsequent national events. We enter a process of reverse-mourning, and we give ourselves nearly a month to do it, scraping away, little by little, at our every-day comforts until we come to feel some sense of loss. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;">And yet, despite all these collective efforts, I know I am not alone in saying that most years, it's a real challenge to really make the loss feel tangible. No Temple? No big deal. We've gone without that for nearly two millennia. As for the victims -- the previous generations who died at the hands of the Assyrians, the Greeks, the Romans -- they'd all be long gone by now in any event. How can I learn to feel that loss deeply and personally? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">We don't fool ourselves either -- as mourning goes, this is not exactly the Real Deal. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; ">Unlike individual mourners, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">physically demarcated and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;">emotionally isolated from their visitors, on <i>Tisha b'Av</i> we all sit together on the floor, reading out <i>Lamentations</i> for all to hear. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;"> When <i>Tisha b'Av</i> ends, we don't isolate ourselves, avoiding haircuts and new clothes and parties. We resume our lives, since we have not, in fact, just lost a mother, a child, a brother.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;">Unless, G-d forbid, we have.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;">This <i>Tisha b'Av</i> I will continue struggle, as I do every year, to make our ancient national losses feel personal. But this year, I know, this personally-felt loss will echo the national tragedy it truly is. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><i>May the family be comforted among the mourners of Tzion and Jerusalem.</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">Keep the balance, </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;">ALN</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size:100%;">See a previous post on <a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2008_07_01_archive.html">prophets & the Three Weeks.</a></span></span></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-70274357535076240212011-07-27T06:58:00.005+03:002011-07-27T23:27:32.322+03:00Nationalism on Their Young Minds<div><i>Mommy, I wish I know all the languages. Then I could understand everyone. </i> A brief pause, a puzzled look. And a question: <i>Mommy! am I Israeli or American?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Just when I'm thinking Blondini Boy -- all six years of him -- only has Playmobil and <a href="http://armorgames.com/play/5645/chaos-faction-2">Chaos Faction</a>2 on his mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even now I'm not sure exactly what he was after. Did our recent international influx of family visitors spark geographic, or perhaps linguistic, confusion? Was the very concept of multiple citizenship at odds with his developmental stage and notable tendency toward concrete thinking? Or was I merely underestimating his latent capability for immature existential musings?</div><div><br /></div><div>I told BBoy he was definitely Israeli, having been born and lived his entire life here in Israel. I emphasized that he was also part American -- and part British, by virtue of his parentage (just to further confuse things), following up with a mandatory footnote, that it is possible to <i>be</i> several things at once, even while you can only <i>live</i> in one place at a time. </div><div><br /></div><div>He accepted all of that. In other words, I got off easy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Flash forward, to last Tuesday. J, my work colleague and close friend for over a decade, has rightly insisted that if we don't get ourselves together this week, our breakfast out will have to wait another month until after <i>Ramaddan</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>We have a lot to talk about, now that each of us has taken the year off work, to study and recharge....we've missed an awful lot of lunchtime chit-chat. Beyond our common work interests, our kids are of similar ages, and so there are mutual updates and parental wisdom to share, conundrums to analyze and discuss.</div><div><br /></div><div>I pick up J at her home and forty minutes later we are walking the streets of Jerusalem's historic German Colony heading for my favorite cafe. Once seated, I apologize for having dragged her into such an American venue, but then imagine that for her, being a minority here among the Americans might just be more comfortable. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>As always, our conversation tends toward education -- our own studies, the kids' schools -- and our personal and childrearing dilemmas. Her children attend private schools, one secular modeled on the American public school system, the other French Christian with a Muslim majority student body. (Her kids already speak four languages between the two of them). </div><div><br /></div><div>Together we review pros and cons of separate-sex education, secular education, multi-lingual education, the Education Ministry. Her approach toward nondenominational school prayer comes up, as does my [livid] reaction to my daughter's science teacher's refusal to teach Darwinism because "it conflicts with the <i>Torah</i>" (along with the school principal's support of such behavior on the grounds that "teaching evolution might confuse the girls' spiritual development." (Another time). As always, we found a common interest, and common ground, in every topic.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>(For many years J and I worked together in the same department, and from an early stage we began planning our group lesson plans together. I always felt at ease, knowing that her translation of my words would come across exactly as I meant it. If you've ever worked through a translator, you'll understand why this is not something to be taken for granted).</div><div><br /></div><div>Now here I was, telling J about BBoy's nationality question. Turns out her daughter L, age 8, had recently popped an even bigger one: <i>Mama, do we live in Israel or Palestine?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Hmmm.</div><div><br /></div><div>J answered in Talmudic style, a question for a question. <i>What do you think?</i> <i> Do we live in Israel or Palestine? </i>L thought about it and answered, <i>Palestine, because everyone here speaks Arabic. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>J took a deep breath. Then in a brilliant Uncharted Parenting move, J pulled out a map.</div><div></div><blockquote><div><i>I began to describe, place by place, the areas of Arab settlement, and of Jewish settlement. I explained that there had been one war, and then another, and so things shifted, and that, more recently, the Jewish areas expanded until some of them ran into the Arab ones. I pointed out places that were under Israel's jurisdiction ("Israel"), and places supervised by the PA ("Palestine"). </i></div><div><blockquote></blockquote></div></blockquote><div>Then she repeated L's own question back at her: <i>Where do <b>you</b> think we live?</i> T concluded that she lives in Israel, but goes to school in Palestine (her school is in East Jerusalem). </div><div><br /></div><div>Put politics aside, as most eight-year-olds tend to do, and this ends up being a pretty precise answer. </div><div><br /></div><div>I probably don't need to point out the obvious: J lives in two worlds that don't always fit together. She is proud of her Muslim-Arab heritage, proud her family has lived where it has for over ten generations. Yet she appreciates all the good things her state has to offer -- the opportunities, the education, the freedom. J loves Judaism and completed a <i>bagrut</i> in תנ"ך (Bible) and תושב"ע (the Oral Law) and probably knows more about them than I do. Yet if she's at work during the siren on <i>Yom haZikaron </i>(Memorial Day) she finds a private corner in which to sit, so as not to feel she is betraying one part of herself at the expense of the other. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't judge J for all of that. I embrace her for trying to find that ephemeral middle ground between sensitivity and dignity, assimilation and self preservation. (I'm trying to find it too, only this time, for the first time, I'm of the majority). Over the years, our parallel perspectives as minority citizens, searching for the common ground, have blessed our friendship with a mutual understanding neither of us has found too easily elsewhere. </div><div><br /></div><div>J, have a meaningful <i>Ramaddan</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>Next up: </b> Natural resource privatization issues, out of the mouths of babes.</i></div><div><br /></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-31305301228250083542011-07-26T16:53:00.015+03:002011-07-26T22:36:15.505+03:00It Takes A Village, a Family, and A Whole Lotta Insanity<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-poLhGRkXrXw/Ti7cfQ-FNII/AAAAAAAAAR0/xO7fmGHGcWU/s1600/224b_Scott_juggling.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: left;">(That almost rhymes).</div><div><br /></div><div>Won't make excuses, except for this: Took a year off. </div><div><br /></div><div>Literally. Took the year off work, off blogging. Returned to the student life and studied something entirely different. No education, no therapy. No hospital.</div><div><br /></div><div>Turns out, studying midlife is not studying at 19. No night-after-night-awake-until-2am. No running to the library whenever I darn feel like it. Elder Princeski, Always the Imp and</div><div>Blondini Boy (who, incidentally, has grown out of those blond curls) need me to look up from those books once in awhile. They can't be expected to understand what's so exciting about all the fine print piling up on the dining table. Even if colorful maps are sometimes involved.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Am9pDXCXdSE/Ti7VPSEDG5I/AAAAAAAAARU/UUbAxuMPoLg/s320/079_garden_kids.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633674642410642322" /><div>And then, there was the recent Coming of Age Celebration, aka the <i>Bat Mitzvah</i>. (Because we all know how a twelve-year-old is, um, practically an adult. Never mind).</div><div><br /></div><div>By now a majority of the neighbors have hosted one or more of these events, and this</div><div>is what stands out: The child's parents stand up and -- along with happily fawning over their child, and thanking everybody for coming -- praise the community at great lengths, for making the event a reality. It always sounded kind of exaggerated, and I couldn't understand what the big deal was.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I really do get it. Elder P & I had this vision, to celebrate at home with a kind of garden-block-party, and my neighbors did every imaginable task to make this thing a reality. An abridged list:</div><div><blockquote>Helping Elder P plan a special Bat Mitzvah <i>tefilla</i>. Sitting with me to plan out the menu, the shopping list, the time table, the program. Hosting our family for a relaxing <i>Shabbat</i> lunch the week before the event. Lending hotplates and water kettles, projector lights and electricity cables. Lending two hours at night, and again the next day -- in the blazing sun --to help That Guy install those lights and electricity cables. </blockquote><blockquote>(Pause for breath). Approaching neighbors and asking them to lend all the above (& more), then delivering it to our doorstep. Permitting us to close off the street for the evening. Making salads and fruit plates. Translating and printing Elder P's talk into English so our family could enjoy it. Going out -- at the last minute -- to pick up the food. Taking down the signs after the event (thank you, whoever you are!). Moral support. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I know there's more, but I've already forgotten.</span></i></blockquote></div><div>One of my neighbors has actually opened a <i>Gama"ch </i>in memory of her father <i>z"l</i>, lending out serving dishes, tablecloths, candlesticks and more so that her neighbors can hold events at home. She came two hours beforehand and set up all the tables, too. What a huge help.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bqr7IvWRUes/Ti7XcHoRf1I/AAAAAAAAARk/Dex3VvU1RTQ/s200/204_table.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633677061971345234" /></div><div>What goes around also comes around. By purchasing our drinks at the <i>ma</i><i>kolet</i> (local grocery store) instead of the [less expensive] chain supermarket, we received an offer to store the drinks in his jumbo-fridge until right before the party.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j1F7W6zuytM/Ti7SRqk2roI/AAAAAAAAARM/tZ79lGkBL5s/s200/016_Tz_hair.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633671384815545986" /><div>We hired one neighbor to make high-end</div><div>desserts, giving her much-needed publicity (and the desserts were fantastic! If you want her number, drop me a line). Another neighbor, all of fifteen years old, is a professional-grade hair stylist who, as you can see, turned Elder P into a true Princess.</div><div><br /></div><div>E, the son-in-law of friends and a young father raising two young kids while growing his new photography business, was hired to take pictures. We employed yet <a href="http://www.juggler.co.il/scott/">a fourth friend</a> to provide the entertainment, including individually tailored instruction for the kids and a funny & original juggling performance for all our guests. (Elder P loves juggling, and this was a special surprise in her honor). Three neighborhood teens were hired as kitchen managers and waitresses, and they <i>worked</i>.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-poLhGRkXrXw/Ti7cfQ-FNII/AAAAAAAAAR0/xO7fmGHGcWU/s200/224b_Scott_juggling.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633682613576479874" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 200px; " /></span><div><div><br /></div><div>We love having such talented friends, and being able to give them our business at such a happy occasion.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, there were my parents. The morning of, I sent them a fourteen-item list, <i>Which of these could you help with?,</i> expecting them to chose two or three. They choose ten, and then ran around schlepping stuff from late afternoon until early evening when the party began. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And yes, it was worth it! Elder P had the time of her life, so did the neighbors, and I'm thankful. בשמחות!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Keep the balance,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">ALN</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wtK3QhdBOfI/Ti7Z2TauctI/AAAAAAAAARs/7cmxaISvqMU/s320/294_dancing_balcony.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633679710835602130" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px; " /></span></div></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-58242190830261221522010-11-07T20:50:00.006+02:002010-11-08T06:12:43.905+02:00Don't Worry, The Blogosphere Is Behind You<a href="http://www.blogger.com/coffeeandchemo.blogspot.com">RivkA's</a> death has really driven home a point. Yes, the blogosphere really <i>is</i> a community. Of friends, compatriots, supporters, rivals, and everything in between. <div><br /></div><div>On Friday at her <i>shiva</i> -- how odd, and empty, to be in RivkA's home, without her there! -- this topic came up in discussion with her mother and father. Like my own parents, they could not understand at first what would possess a person to write (and especially in RivkA's case, so openly and personally) to a vitual audience, "somewhere out there." After a time, they came to appreciate the regular updates, her shared thoughts, and especially, her very real blogosphere friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>In RivkA's case, she was a source of information and inspiration to many, many people. Her writing brought people together. As I told her mother on Friday, whenever I read RivkA's blog, I felt the acute presence of others reading alongside me, a tangible community of supporters and friends.</div><div><br /></div><div>This afternoon I had one of those -- dare I say it -- "Israeli" experiences... and there was <a href="http://bogieworks.blogs.com/">Treppenwitz</a>, right there behind me. You can read his whole piece <a href="http://www.treppenwitz.com/2010/11/active-passive-verbs.html">here</a> (recommended), but meanwhile, here's the the part that hit home:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(102, 102, 102); line-height: 22px; font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:small;"><p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin-bottom: 10px; "></p><blockquote><p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin-bottom: 10px; ">Sadly, when faced with an immigrant making a formal complaint about a perceived insult (even when the insult can't possibly be open to perception and/or interpretation), the default response of many people in this country is, "<em>You must not have understood</em>...", or "<em>That was not my intention</em>...".</p><p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin-bottom: 10px; ">This is doubly frustrating for a non-native Hebrew speaker because even in cases where the insult is so glaring as to be beyond misinterpretation, the immigrant is often expected to feign difficulty with the language in order to allow the insulter to climb down from their tree and save face.</p></blockquote><p style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin-bottom: 10px; "></p></span></div><div>Ahh, so true, I nodded as I read along. And so sad, so frustrating. We've all felt this at some point, but for me today's experience took the cake. For the first time in a long time, I felt a tinge of regret for having moved here. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here I was, standing in front (underneath, really -- it was cranked up on the repair lift) of my decade-old Beloved Renault, the recent victim of an unfortunate but -- thank God -- harmless accident,* with the insurance assessor trying to convince me that he had not listed the obvious damage to the ABS on the insurance claim because I hadn't initially reported it (I had) and <b>maybe I hadn't understood him properly. </b></div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><i>Oh uh, Mister Assessor. Now you've done it.<b> </b></i>Deep breath, short pause. Think of Treppenwitz, and Rev Up Your Engines.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I let the assessor have it. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">With a capital IT: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Don't you dare pull that one. I understood you perfectly. And you know it.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>He yelled, I countered (two rounds). He relented. I got the repair approved.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you, David Bogner, for reminding me that I do understand. Perfectly.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div><div><br /></div><div>* Wouldn't ya know it? Two days prior to the accident, I'd signed on a trade-in deal to have someone pay me to take the Beloved Renault off my hands. Murphy's Law, still valid. Or maybe just Freud. <i>Oy.</i></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-13224083769011203702010-10-30T19:16:00.014+02:002010-10-31T07:22:55.201+02:00Goodbye, Our Incredible Friend<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 387px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/TMxlEIfET6I/AAAAAAAAAQI/5noY0mfMPlw/s400/IMGP6378.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533909163803168674" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.blogger.com/coffeeandchemo.blogspot.com">RivkA.....</a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.blogger.com/coffeeandchemo.blogspot.com"></a>We all knew it would happen. Despite your consistently high spirits, your infectious optimism, your belief that giving up was not an option.</div><div><br /></div><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/TMxmAsIaP7I/AAAAAAAAAQY/uMn_k456Vas/s400/IMGP6561.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533910204163964850" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 352px; height: 400px; " /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This was true long before your diagnosis, and all the more so since.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Who else would manage to turn a course of chemotherapy into a weekly opportunity to meet old friends for a drink? Or continue her job as a swim instructor, while on chemo, because it rejuvenated her? Or take the time each and every week to reach out to her hundreds</div><div>(thousands?!) of friends, family, readers and fans.</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/TMxldbwOtRI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/WYabenJUMPo/s400/IMGP6368.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533909598472156434" /><div><br /></div><div>Like any blogger, I am usually a person of words. Now, it seems, there is nothing to say.... except to ask <i>Why?</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>The question only echoes back darkly, as I think of your beautiful kids, your supportive husband, continuing on without you. You made it quite clear: Pity is not your way, and faith is always the answer. Oh, to have that kind of clarity!</div><div><br /></div><div>We were supposed to get together and paint.... just the idea got both of us so excited! It was you, RivkA, who inspired me to write. Now, after nearly a year away from this blog, your death has inspired me to return. You had that kind of strength, encouraging people to do their best, be themselves, reach their goals, believe in God, and tell it like it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>RivkA, you're gone. We miss you horribly. But know this: Your love and enthusiasm are here to stay.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>רבקה בת ישעיה, לכי בשלום.</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div><div><br /></div><div>Photo credits go to That Guy I Married, who succeeded in capturing RivkA's energy and enthusiasm for the camera, at her daughter A's bat mitzvah last June.</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-66258287882389099562009-12-03T09:00:00.004+02:002009-12-03T09:48:57.319+02:00Do Good to Feel Good, Part II<div>Now I'd like to play a couple rounds of Devil's Advocate. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's put it on the table. Is there such thing as too much giving? After all, some of us are already helping people. All. The. Time. </div><div><br /></div><div>We volunteer at the retirement home, we bake for the neighbors. Perhaps we run a little NPO on the side that distributes funds and clothing, or join every other community <i>hesed</i> committee, or run off to a wedding hall in the middle of the night to <a href="http://www.leket.org/english/">pick up and distribute the leftover food.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe we do some or all of the above, PLUS we've found our life's calling in one of those pointedly-named Helping Professions --as a social worker, therapist, nurse or charity office manager. What could be better? We are assured an opportunity to help others, every day, and often in the most moving and meaningful ways. We take care of others' bodies and souls. We sooth mental anguish and relieve financial burdens, advocate for the disenfranchised and restore human dignity. We do all of this without pitying or patronizing. </div><div><br /></div><div>So is there such thing as helping too much? We love our life's work because it is life-giving, meaningful, significant. We believe our professional role is right and yes, a kind of moral obligation. But we often resent the conditions: Low pay, little recognition, case overload, stressful work environment. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thinking about yet another phenomenon. <i>How do you do it, how can you work here, with such sick kids? </i> someone will query in admiration. <i>Kol haKavod (Bravo!), that's amazing!</i> They don't get it. I can do this work because love this work, and when I'm doing it, my life feels meaningful and significant. </div><div><br /></div><div>The problem comes later, when I get home. Sometimes it hits me, how sick those kids really are, and I am exhausted. Weighing me down are all the patients I didn't have time to work with. The parents I didn't get back to. That uncomfortable exchange with a short-tempered staff member. The feeling of being constantly on call -- encouraging, empathic, organized and authoritative -- but not too authoritative. These things can all but wash out the day's many successes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Worse, I often find myself unable to regroup and focus by the time I've finished my commute home. My own kids need me. They need someone to give them lunch and watch their gymnastics practice and blows their noses and help with their math homework. They don't feel my own need to go to the bathroom and then sit down for five minutes, alone, over a hot drink. Whatever went on in my day until now is completely irrelevant. They expect focused, energetic Mommy, ready to go and full speed ahead. </div><div><br /></div><div>The work itself is not the problem, it's maintaining my strength to give and give, all morning and afternoon, and then give again into the evening. It's keeping up the required enthusiasm at home to do all the day-to-day tasks, with the patience my kids deserve from me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I fantasize leaving for a well-compensated, "normal" office job, or locking myself away in my studio, "arting" around all day. I imagine opening a small craft business, or private therapy work with a limited number of clients. But getting down to it, I know I would only do such a thing if I were to reach the conclusion that the price had gotten too high, that I could no longer keep up both ends of the giving spectrum, and that giving at work was always at the expense of giving at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>And here's where I have to admit it. For all its difficulties, hospital work gives me a sense of status and accomplishment that, for whatever reason, I cannot always seem to muster at home. Maybe that's the fallout for some of us girls who grew up in the Seventies on <i>Sesame Street</i> and <i><a href="http://www.freetobefoundation.org/">Free to Be... You and Me</a></i>. Or maybe it's just that at work, I'm an experienced professional, a figure of authority, a source of knowledge and understanding, while at home, I'm "just" Mom.</div><div><br /></div><div>Their only Mom. Full speed ahead.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div><div><br /></div><div>____</div><div><i>For more on why we help one another, this is </i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/01/science/01human.html?th&emc=th"><i>another interesting NYT piece</i></a><i>, especially the part about the role of the sclera (whites of the eyes) in human altruistic behavior. </i></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-35398175735885734892009-12-03T08:01:00.002+02:002009-12-03T08:01:59.220+02:00Do Good to Feel Good, Part I<div><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/01/health/01well.html?th&emc=th">Here it is </a>(again), this time via the NYT: Scientific evidence that giving works. </div><div><br /></div><div>And let's face it, we <i>know</i> this. We all know it, from the inside. Giving promotes health. Thinking about others promotes health. (Thanks again, <a href="http://conversationsinklal.blogspot.com/">Prof K</a>, for your <a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2009/11/long-overdue-day-in-their-life.html">insightful reminder</a>).</div><div><br /></div><div>The article's examples there are numerous. Here's a personal favorite:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 22px; "><blockquote>An array of studies have documented this effect. In one, <a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science?_ob=ArticleURL&_udi=B6WP6-46P42XT-4&_user=10&_rdoc=1&_fmt=&_orig=search&_sort=d&_docanchor=&view=c&_searchStrId=1115480062&_rerunOrigin=google&_acct=C000050221&_version=1&_urlVersion=0&_userid=10&md5=509eb58a53e88a6c9a13ead7239b0dc4" title="Read the abstract." style="color: rgb(0, 66, 118); text-decoration: underline; ">a 2002 Boston College study,</a> researchers found that patients with chronic pain fared better when they counseled other pain patients, experiencing less depression, intense pain and disability.</blockquote></span></div><div><div>Anyone who has been chronically ill, or who has spent time among the chronically ill, will readily note that a sick person does not want to be the focus of people's help and attention all the time; she wants to listen to others and be there for them. In other words, she wants to <i>feel normal, </i>and being able to help others restores our sense of normalcy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unless you're a celebrity, being the constant focus of others is not a normal state of existence. I'm not convinced it does much good for celebrities either, with their constant complaints of telephoto lenses sneaking ou from behind the trash cans, and all those pop songs lamenting the <i>paparazzi.</i> But heck, it's a living.</div><div><br /></div><div>Turns out that being stuck in your own misery can lead to somatic harm.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 22px; "><blockquote>By contrast, being self-centered may be damaging to health. <a href="http://www.psychosomaticmedicine.org/cgi/reprint/45/1/47" title="Read the full study." style="color: rgb(0, 66, 118); text-decoration: underline; ">In one study of 150 heart patients</a>, researchers found that people in the study who had more “self-references” (those who talked about themselves at length or used more first-person pronouns) had more severe heart disease and did worse on treadmill tests.</blockquote></span></div><div>I believe it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't usually do this, honest, but I'm even going out on a limb and referencing<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQqJvfh9irs"> Dennis Prager's take on happiness</a>, flippant as it sounds, since I think he's got something too. </div><div><br /></div><div>(I do take issue with his use of the term <i>moral obligation.</i> I don't usually view the use of antiperspirant as a moral obligation either.... a social obligation, maybe, but moral? An exception might be when working with people, such as those on chemo, who may be exceedingly disturbed or nauseated by strong smells. And on Egged buses during the summer months -- OK, that might just be a moral obligation).</div><div><br /></div><div>Call it <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_behavioral_therapy">CBT</a>, call it common sense, call it a serotonin-inspired warm fuzzy feeling -- the evidence has long been out there. Actions determine mood, and not the other way round. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-45166780690264214002009-12-01T18:59:00.009+02:002009-12-03T09:33:28.473+02:00"I'm the Oldest Person I Know."<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm 95 years old, and you know what? That's old. </span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I'm the oldest person I know.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That's Grandma. As a kid, I can't say we got along. There were some strong opinions involved, some -- shall we say -- incidents. Like the time she called my mother from 100 miles away insisting that we wear sweaters "because it's cold over here." Or the time she entered my room while I was away and straightened it up "just a bit." I wanted to kill her. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grandma has always held strong opinions about everything. She was into raw foods and organic produce long before the rest of California discovered them. She firmly believed, and continues to believe, that fluoridated water is evil reincarnate, and that women who do not make efforts to "look smart," (that is, dress well and apply make-up) are doing humanity some sort of general disservice. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Through the years, her letter-writing has had me in stitches. There's the time I wrote her from summer camp to report on my recent swimming lessons, and received a reply that she, too, was learning to swim. At age 70. "But," she confided, "I don't like to put my face in the water." (I could relate to that).</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And not one of my fellow campmates received, as I did, letters signed with the valuable but ill-timed advice, "Remember to eat lots of organic lettuce!" I neglected to return her counsel with the sad but true reality that at camp we were lucky to get some limp iceberg with our suspiciously-tinted beef patties and soggy fries. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This year, my grandmother is, as she puts it, "really feeling my age." Everything is a process; getting dressed, preparing meals, even -- I assume -- going to the bathroom, although this has yet to come up in conversation. A couple of months back she fell down in her kitchen and, in typical Grandma style, refused to tell anyone about it for fear she'd be dragged to the hospital for endless tests (eventually that is exactly what happened). She's okay now, having rested at home for a short time, after which she systematically rejected the help of every home care nurse and social worker available. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">During her recuperation she refused to go outside, for fear she would be spotted using a walker by one of her fellow retirement community-neighbors in her, and subsequently be labeled an old lady.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*</span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*</span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*</span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*</span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The other day I asked Grandma for her insights about aging. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"></p><blockquote><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grandma: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I don't like old people. Even myself....I have to listen to myself all the time, and I get tired of it. I'm always trying to change things.</span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What do you mean by that?</span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">G: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I would realized what I'm doing, and change what I'm thinking, and reject it.</span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like what?</span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">G: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Like walking like a duck. I reject it. Like being critical about people. Things really aren't that important, you know? I'm trying to resist some of the earmarks of old people.</span></span></i></p></blockquote> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I once read in an old copy of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">New Scientist, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">British popular science weekly, that neurological imaging at different stages of life has shown that older people have a tendency to "mellow out" over time, not getting as worked up neurologically about those little things that get under the skin of most the rest of us. In other words, over time, older people gain perspective, at the most basic neurological level.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sometimes, after a frustrating conversation with Grandma, my family will say, "Oh, she's acting like an stubborn old person again." But I'm not so convinced. No question, she's still stubborn, way beyond the rest of us, but she's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">always</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> been like that. If anything, she's calmed down a bit over the years. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She's not acting old -- she's acting </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grandma</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you'd asked me as a child whether my grandmother would ever mellow out, I wouldn't have answered positively. I wouldn't describe her as mellow now. Despite her refusal to receive help, for the most part her obstinate behavior benefits her. She's already lost some of her mobility, much of her eyesight, and most of her friends to old age. But when she tells me she's gained a new perspective on herself and others, I believe her. She just wants her body, and her life, to stay just the way they are. Don't we all? </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Get to know Grandma a bit better in </span></span><a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2008/08/imagine-alternatives.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Imagine the Alternatives</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> and </span></span><a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/search/label/generations"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">).</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Keep the balance,</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ALN</span></span></p>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-36958790284858217002009-11-29T21:40:00.007+02:002009-11-29T22:04:22.742+02:00Long Overdue -- A Day in Their Life<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana;"><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">(This piece is from back in August. My apologizes for the lengthy post gap, and my thanks to you, loyal readers, for bearing with me).</span></i></div><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">When in London, we like to visit friends, and one family in particular who we're pretty sure we won't be able to see on our side of the world, since they rarely travel outside of England.</span></div><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Their first-born, D, is a handsome, dark-haired boy with huge brown eyes, who came into the world with an exceedingly rare condition that has left his mind stranded in early infancy, even as his body continues to grow. On our last visit, when D was five, they shared with us one of his recent accomplishments -- reaching forward to push a large button on a musical toy. Now he is seven and he is much the same, only bigger and heavier.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Our time with them this afternoon was brief, which was really too bad, but during that two-hour visit I began to understand a little more about a few aspects of their lives. Here are some of the "simple" things, things I'd barely thought about before now.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Recycling</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">. I offered to take a couple of glass bottles out to the curbside bins, and casually remarked that I wished Israel also had a curbside recycling program. Our friend, D's mother, pointed out that since cardboard was added to their borough's list, only a few months before, their lives had gotten a bit easier. Previously, they disposed of all those carton containers housing D's special feeding and care supplies only by dividing them among their neighbors' waste bins, since London's notoriously strict waste collection laws require that all items fit</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">within</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> the bin, or else forgo collection.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Shabbat</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">. As D's body grows, he gains weight but not strength, and his parents can no longer lift him with ease. Several rooms in their house have been fitted with ceiling tracks for an electric hoist system to aid them in day-to-day care for D. But the hoists cannot be operated on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Shabbat, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">nor can they be fitted with a time switch, since their control requires precise adjustments in real time, or D could be crushed. If they exchange the electric hoist for a hydrolic one (their health plan will only fund one), they solve the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Shabbat</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> problem but are stuck with an awkward manual one seven days a week. (One potential solution? Ebay...).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Unplanned "surprises." </span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">D and his family have known many good days in a row, days in which D can enjoy his classmates' company, bang away on his keyboard, and lie peacefully while his siblings play around him. And then comes the now long-expected unexpected: nonstop seizures that can last through day and night, leaving D exhausted and confused, and his parents feeling exhausted and helpless. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">It is just awful watching your child suffer,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> his mother writes me, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">and D clearly suffers.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Food and drink</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">. D has </span><a href="http://www.medterms.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=11185"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">dysphagia</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> and struggles to swallow. All his liquids must be mixed with starch until they form a paste, to prevent them ending up down his windpipe. All foods must be pulverized, and even then he struggles to consume enough calories, and there are days when he suffers seizures and cannot eat at all. During these times he receives his nutrition via a </span><a href="http://www.medterms.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=3556"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">PEG</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> directly into his stomach, up to four times a day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">A</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> day off</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">. If our friends want to go away for the weekend, or even for the day, they must book hospice care for D in advance. Since hospice costs £400 - 1000 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">per diem</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">, they must remain within their sponsored allotment of 20 days a year. (Last year it was 30; just another microcosmic fall-out of the market implosion). Twenty days of respite sounds like a lot, until you start to do the math:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">One weekend = 3 days of hospice</span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Since any trip they take requires setting up D at the hospice care (half a day, plus/minus) and picking him up (another half a day), that's nearly one full day, already gone. One short trip abroad would use up half their annual allotment. (And yes, each of them has family abroad).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">I haven't even touched on their morning routine --morning time, school travel, bath time, bed time -- since I don't know much about those things. Our conversation touched on other, "regular" issues, like our satisfaction level [medium-to-low] with our respective kids' education systems. (They have other, "normal" children and work hard to make sure these children lead "normal" lives, inasmuch as the siblings of special children live normal lives).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">These friends are some of the brightest people I know. They are well-educated, balanced, hard-working, and kind. They have family for moral support, some extra help at home, and a hard-earned familiarity with "the system." But this is their reality, every day, and it is exhausting. Sometimes, when I feel my own exhaustion at the end of a long morning of work and an even longer afternoon of whiny children, I think of them. I don't know how they do it. But they do it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">If, despite the crash, you still have a few shekels / dollars / pounds to spare and would like to donate them to a worthy cause, please consider a respite program such as </span></span><a href="http://www.shalva.org/index.aspx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Shalva</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">, a rehab hospital such as </span></span><a href="http://www.alyn.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Alyn</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">, or any similar organization -- there are hundreds -- you feel is worthwhile</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Keep the balance,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">ALN</span></div></span></span></div></div></span>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-77696948559443243782009-09-26T23:44:00.010+03:002009-09-27T00:45:40.297+03:00Opening UpTook a too-long blog break -- <a href="http://productiveblog.tumblr.com/">this</a> 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. <div><div><div><br /></div><div>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 <a href="http://www.desertusa.com/mag99/july/papr/nbcereus.html">Night-Blooming Cereus</a> is, as well.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 332px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/Sr5-pWBlUOI/AAAAAAAAAPw/UQPgyTJtjmY/s400/cereus1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385881453133648098" /></div><div><br /></div><div>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:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/Sr5-p4jtpoI/AAAAAAAAAP4/IfUm7tYaMec/s400/cereus2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385881462403606146" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">(Both photos copyright the family photographer, i.e. That Guy I Married)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">(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?)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Just a simple thought, coming into our Day of Repentence. Last week during class break, a fellow student approached me with a question:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i><blockquote><i>Why should I bother fasting again this year? I know that right after </i>Yom Kippur <i>I'm just going back to all the things I usually do -- not keeping </i>Shabbat<i>, and all that. So what good will it do for me to fast? </i></blockquote><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">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.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As in keeping with the tradition, I answered her question with a question: What's the connection between not keeping <i>Shabbat</i> next week, and keeping <i>Yom Kippur</i> this week? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">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. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Today, leafing through <i>Al ha-Teshuva</i>, 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 <i>Klal</i>, 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. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is up to the individual to consider him or herself a part of <i>Klal Yisrael</i>, and one way to achieve <i>kapara</i> (atonement) on <i>Yom Kippur</i> is to be a part of this collective -- what he calls the "אני קבוצי," "communal I." In his words (my translation):</div><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote><i>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 <b>it</b> [the congregation] is worthy of (p. 77).</i></blockquote></div><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>גמר חתימה טובה / <i>Gmar Hatima Tova.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>May we all be inscribed for life, blessings, health, and new openings leading to new beginnings.</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div></div></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-5631269695637015032009-07-19T11:16:00.008+03:002009-07-19T13:15:50.258+03:00NOT A HYSTERICAL HEADLINE!In a few more days we will overstuff our suitcases and head for home. The kids have been asking, begging, really -- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">When are we coming home? </span> They miss their friends, and the ease of access to those friends. They miss our animals. So do I.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are things here I will miss.</div><blockquote><div></div><div>The cool weather, and the rain. </div><div>Public parks, open farmland, trees. </div><div>The convenience of buses, trains, and the Underground. </div><div>People who wait patiently while others disembark from buses, trains and the Underground. </div><div>The Science Museum, the Natural History Museum, the National Gallery. </div><div>Every type of bird in the garden. Squirrels.</div><div>Electric sockets with built-in switches. <br /></div><div>Trees.</div></blockquote><div>What I will not miss: Histrionic headlines preceding dumb-downed, hyperbolic newspaper pieces that preempt rational analysis and deter all optimism. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "> </span></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Hey, Londoners, why do you do it to yourselves? The constant cloud cover isn't enough? </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Not much balance there.</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN </div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-68936765120798372772009-07-03T12:02:00.008+03:002009-07-03T18:19:25.481+03:00Meetingplace / MarketplaceThe short flight had been uneventful. As we disembark, Blondie Boy waves a casual <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Shalom</span> 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 -- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Just keep your ears open!</span> -- is cut short by a mother speaking Hebrew to her two kids as they cross our path toward the escalator.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-91054177282010029682009-06-15T22:33:00.008+03:002009-06-16T01:06:45.275+03:00Have the Answers, But Not Telling (At Least For Now...)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><div><a href="http://imabima.blogspot.com/2009/06/haveil-havalim-221-news-and-politics.html">HH #221</a> here at <a href="http://imabima.blogspot.com">Ima on (and off) the Bima.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a href="http://conversationsinklal.blogspot.com/">ProfK</a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> brought us a familiar observation here <a href="https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8483254761600926617&postID=8012493376646108098&isPopup=true">in her comment</a></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. We, too, have gotten some </span></span><a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2008/08/another-good-question-and-another.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">really doozy-questions</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> aimed our way during car rides, or alternatively, on our way out the door towards a car ride.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So when Elder Princeski called me in happy-hysteria, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">MOMMY, T</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">HERE ARE BABIES IN THE GUINEA PIG CAGE!,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> naturally this became a source of great excitement. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A few minutes later, it also became a source of great confusion.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Always the Imp</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (then age 4): Mommy, how could the guinea pig have babies without an Abba?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">: 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.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Always:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (Pause for thought). Mommy, how did the babies get inside the mommy? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Wasn't expecting that one yet</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">). Well... (</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Stalling for time. S</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">he's only four, I mean, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">really</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">). </span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Always:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> 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.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Me: </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (To self) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Only if the Mommy is married to a doctor.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(To Always) Well, it's something like that. But it's kind of complicated, and you know, we </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">really</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> are supposed to be going out now.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Always</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (looking me straight in the eye): It's okay, Mommy. You don't have to explain everything. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just tell me the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">important</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> parts!</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic;font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div></blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Oy vey....</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Keep the balance,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ALN</span></span></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-80124933766461080982009-06-13T22:16:00.005+03:002009-06-14T00:05:30.949+03:00Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Challenge: </span> Describe your job in one sentence or less.<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">My Answer:</span> My job is to listen to kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">why</span>?!?" It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted. We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/You-Your-Aquarium-Dick-Mills/dp/0394729854">You and Your Aquarium</a> (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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Shabbat</span> lunch.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Always the Imp: </span> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> [<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Which Left Field did that one come out of? Oh, maybe it was the fish...</span>] Why? Do you want me to die soon?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Always:</span> Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Elder Princeski:</span> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)</div></blockquote><div>The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">my</span> 95-year-old grandmother -- <a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2008/08/imagine-alternatives.html">see here</a>), 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). </div><div><br /></div><div>We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there were questions about death itself. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What does it feel like?</span>, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">D</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">oes it hurt?</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Do people</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> know they're dying? </span> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects. For another time...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-88757061987200191932009-06-03T21:06:00.005+03:002010-11-07T22:16:23.952+02:00Verlyn on the Familiar<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/03/opinion/03weds4.html?th&emc=th">Today's piece</a> is on the geography of familiarity. Here's a taste:<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-size:15px;"><blockquote>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Times</span> online, June 3, 2009)</blockquote></span></div><div>What can I say.... I'm inspired, yet again. His thoughts speak to my mind and soul. I hope you feel the same. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you yet again, Mr. Klinkenborg, for getting it so right.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-68756868512367010312009-06-03T00:24:00.005+03:002009-06-03T00:35:05.681+03:00Into Another World<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(If you missed it, see </span><a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2008/12/maybe-i-should-write-about-it.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Maybe I Should Write About It</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">).</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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."</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The door was closed and had no markings on or around it, save a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">mezuzah</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> 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..."</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He had some new clothes,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> the sister related. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">They're in G's office. Do you think you can talk to him about getting them back?</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Of course. His brother would be needing those clothes, so carefully chosen only two months before. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">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.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Keep the balance,</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ALN</span></span></p>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-81389007117419147022009-05-08T13:08:00.009+03:002009-05-08T14:45:49.432+03:00Now I Can Laugh, Too<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A Mentsh Tracht un Gott Lacht* א <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: -webkit-sans-serif; font-style: normal; line-height: 19px; white-space: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">מענטש טראַכט, און גאָט לאַכט</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-style: italic; line-height: normal; white-space: pre; "> </span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Friday morning, and the to-do list is pretty long. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Shabbat</span> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">No! My tummy hurts. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Quick internal debate: Do I call ER this second, or first consult a friendly neighborhood physician to confirm I'm not overreacting? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. A<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ppendicitis. Peritonitis. </span>I imagined my little boy being called in for emergency surgery after being diagnosed with one of these. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or worse: <a href="http://www.cancer.org/docroot/CRI/content/CRI_2_4_1X_What_is_neuroblastoma_31.asp">Neuroblastoma</a>. <a href="http://www.cancerbackup.org.uk/Cancertype/Childrenscancers/Typesofchildrenscancers/Wilmstumour">Wilm's Tumor</a>. B<a href="http://lymphoma.about.com/od/nonhodgkinlymphoma/p/burkitts.htm">urkitt's</a>. All those exceedingly rare childhood diseases that my work experience has long since deceived me into believing are common. (They are not).</div><div><br /></div><div>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. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "> My tummy hurts, Mommy, </span>he groaned over and over. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seven minutes from the hospital, he wanted to stop. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Mommy, I have a pee-pee.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You're wearing a diaper</span>, I told him. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You can make your pee-pee right now.</span> 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. </div><div><blockquote></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I have a pee-pee, and I want to make my pee-pee<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> in the toilet</span>.</span></div><div></div></blockquote><div>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. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Two liters poured out of him, and that was it. I peered into his strained little face and watched the tension drain away.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Does your tummy still hurt? </span> No. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unconvinced, I pressed his stomach. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Here? Here? What about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">here</span>?</span> (Not a grimace). <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Jump up and down.</span> (Three jumps). <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Run over to that tree and look at the birds.</span> (</span>But I don't want to scare them!)</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Soon, the color had returned to his face, and we were heading towards home. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">check the obvious. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*</div><div></div><blockquote><div>ALN: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> So tell me, what did we do this morning?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Blondini Boy: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> This morning?.. We were going to the doctor, and then I made a pee-pee!</span></div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: center; ">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span>*</div><div style="text-align: left;">Yah, that pretty much sums it up. <br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Shabbat Shalom.</div></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; font-size: 13px;">ALN</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; font-size: 13px;">___</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms'; font-size: 13px;">* From the Yiddish: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A man plans and G-d laughs.</span></span></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-10464234004184523482009-05-06T14:32:00.007+03:002009-05-07T07:11:31.502+03:00A Room of Everyone's OwnWhen thinking <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">hospital</span>, a lot of things come to mind, and not one of them is "privacy." <div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there's the flip side: Where do hospital workers go to preserve privacy -- their own, their colleagues', their patients', their patients' families'? </div><div><br /></div><div>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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> tallit / tefillin</span> bag resting, open, just under the handrail along my right side, while he was making his way through <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">shaharit </span>(morning prayers) there on my left.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Aren't you going to take your break now?</span> I asked the her. </div><div><br /></div><div>She nodded at her pupil with a knowing smile. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> I'm taking a sort of learning break</span>, she replied, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">here with H.</span></div><div></div></blockquote><div>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 <a href="http://nad-ned.blogspot.com/2008/11/another-typical-day-at-office.html">I've lamented before</a>, 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Only one other room option comes to mind. It has a lockable door, but alas, it only seats one... </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-79555003601073790992009-05-05T21:49:00.006+03:002009-05-05T23:20:50.104+03:00Iodine SeasonSpring is in the air... speaking of which, many thanks to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/13246089571573457394">Gila</a> from <a href="http://myshrapnel.blogspot.com/2009/05/haveil-havelim-215-one-topic-edition.html">My Shrapnel</a> for a great HH #215, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that lovely Julie Andrews </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">song!</span> But I digress...<div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.slime.com/" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-decoration: none;">(</span></a><a href="http://www.slime.com/">Slime</a> 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).</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>The scene inspired me. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">moshav</span>, at this point. Only 28 more days of this and I'll have myself a habit. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The hills are alive...</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep fit, and keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-14966562783828052102009-05-04T17:03:00.010+03:002009-05-04T18:53:38.440+03:00Finally, Finally, FinallyAhh, 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.<div><br /></div><div>I owe a big thank you to <a href="http://beneaththewings.blogspot.com/2009/04/blog-awards.html">Ricki's Mom</a>, who tagged me with the Honest Scrap Award <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">nearly a month ago</span> 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.</div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 194px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/Sf8AKYqMOlI/AAAAAAAAAPY/DesujBH9OKg/s320/Honest_Scrap_Award.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331980662248061522" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">read</span> seven blogs these days... but let's give it a go:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. I've been through almost every version of vegetarianism that there is (excepting, perhaps, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fruitarianism">fructarianism</a>, 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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). </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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).</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>8. I am ever grateful to <a href="http://coffeeandchemo.blogspot.com/">RivkA</a> 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).</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>I really can't do seven right now, but can we settle for <a href="http://coffeeandchemo.blogspot.com/">Coffee and Chemo</a>, <a href="http://superraizy.blogspot.com/">SuperRaizy</a>, <a href="http://shilohmusings.blogspot.com/">Shilo Musings</a>, <a href="http://www.leoraw.com/blog/">Here in HP</a> and <a href="http://rechovot.blogspot.com/">The Rebbetzin's Husband</a>? You're all it (and if you've already been through a round of this, please forgive me... I'm behind the times).</div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div><div><br /></div><div>PS: <a href="amotherinisrael.com">Mother in Israel</a> -- you too!</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-59531821697034545022009-03-04T21:55:00.010+02:002009-03-04T22:22:53.198+02:00Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'Trebuchet MS';font-size:13px;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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. <br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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, <a href="http://conversationsinklal.blogspot.com/2008/08/urns-are-still-among-us.html">here</a> and <a href="http://conversationsinklal.blogspot.com/2008/08/additional-word-about-urns.html">here</a>, 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.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"> </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">Keep the balance,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; min-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">ALN</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">____</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 51);">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 <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/10/world/middleeast/10patients.html?_r=2&hp">NY Times piece here</a>, and the <a href="http://jta.org/news/article/2009/02/24/1003240/lifeline-cut-as-palestinians-leave-israeli-hospitals">JTA piece here</a><a href="http://jta.org/news/article/2009/02/24/1003240/lifeline-cut-as-palestinians-leave-israeli-hospitals">.</a></span></p></span>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-69156444011623551722009-03-01T14:24:00.011+02:002009-03-03T05:58:53.493+02:00We're on a Road to...Once in awhile <a href="http://www.treppenwitz.com/">Treppenwitz</a> offers a "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">tremp</span>" 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. <div><br /></div><div>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<div><br /></div><div>I do feel safe picking up fellow <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">moshav</span> 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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">shuk </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">for some shopping</span>. Often as not, it's someone trying to get to the hospital itself, to visit a relative or to keep a medical appointment. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">trempist </span>(hitchhiker), that older, first-generation North-African immigrant <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Savta</span>-type. I could tell this was going to involve a process, and I stifled a groan.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bottom line? I have to admit it, I have a problem. I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold; ">hate</span> it when people make me late to work. </div><div><br /></div><div>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: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Where are you going? How are you getting there? Are you going via the ----- route? No?</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Why not?</span> </div><div><br /></div><div>Pause and grimace. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Are you <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">sure</span> you aren't going the ---- route?</span> Turns around to her companion, waiting at the bus stop two meters away. Shouts, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">SHE'S NOT GOING THE ----- ROUTE. SHOULD I GO WITH HER?</span> Pause for discussion. Short argument. Unclear resolution. I yell out through the window,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> I have to go. Are you coming or not?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Steps back toward the car. Looks back at companion, then back at me. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">OK, I'll go with you.</span>Opens the back door. Piles in two heavy bags. Slams the door. Opens the front door, sits down with a thud. </div><div><br /></div><div>Glances at me and remembers -- I'm that crazy woman who insists on using that silly device. Looks down, fumbles with the seat belt. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>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. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I have to get to the Central Bus Station,</span> she repeats. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The bus station. To</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> 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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">sure</span> you're not going via -----?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>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. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> Maybe you could just drop me off somewhere along the way,</span> she continues to mumble. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Maybe the bus will come by. </span>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://thisamericanlife.org/">This American Life</a> </span>podcast. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">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. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>I force a smile and, not able to hear Ira, I pause the podcast.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Well, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="">I tell her</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">, I wouldn't know. I didn't learn English here in the school system, being that it's my mother tongue and all. </span> 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. </div><div></div><blockquote><div>North African <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Savta </span>(continues the discussion, completely unfazed):<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> 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?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>ALN:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">No, I didn't catch that one. We don't actually have a television. </span> </div><div><br /></div><div>NAS: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">No television? Really? Why not? Oh, just like my sister; she's Haredi, she doesn't have a television. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""> She looks at me quizzically. I'm clearly not </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Haredi,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""> yet she just can't seem to alight on any other logical explanation.</span></div></blockquote><div>(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).</div><div></div><blockquote><div>NAS: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">So if you don't have a television, what do you do for fun?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>ALN: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">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. </span></div></blockquote><div>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.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote>So, you say you're going to your sister's house for a wedding... </blockquote></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-12657804430566623422009-03-01T06:00:00.013+02:002009-03-01T06:00:00.651+02:00Almond Blossoms -- Goodbye Until Next Year<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">This </span><a href="http://flowersfromtoday.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Today's Flowers</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> post is dedicated to my Mom.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMF61yp9fI/AAAAAAAAAOU/n5M3nCYzU0k/s400/blog+flowers+ein+kerem7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306091294402672114" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 338px; " /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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. <br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMF6cot2AI/AAAAAAAAAOE/TKdFY6xAI_8/s400/blog+flowers+ein+kerem2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306091287650097154" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">It's the end of the almond tree blossoms. Ein Kerem is filled with almond trees -- שקדיות </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">shkediot</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> 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. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMF64AXiZI/AAAAAAAAAOM/fJnLsd1JgPs/s400/blog+flowers+ein+kerem4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306091294997055890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">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. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Here, the flowers have already dropped off as the tree develops leaves and shifts into fruit-producing mode.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMF6Bc4BqI/AAAAAAAAAN8/3U22XUq6rE0/s400/blog+flowers+ein+kerem1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306091280352675490" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Another Spring, already on its way...</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);">Happy Birthday, Mom!</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://flowersfromtoday.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><img src="http://www.leoraw.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/todays_flowers.jpg" alt="" title="todays_flowers" width="150" height="102" style="text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 4px; padding-right: 4px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 4px; border-top-width: 1px; border-right-width: 1px; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-width: 1px; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-right-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-bottom-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-left-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); " /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Keep the balance,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">ALN</span></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-3134066270624270242009-02-24T06:00:00.004+02:002009-02-24T06:00:00.606+02:00Ruby Tuesday -- They're Still Kicking. Well, Mostly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMN5Wp5vTI/AAAAAAAAAOs/DQNJxoslYXM/s1600-h/blog+ruby+kalaniot3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMN5Wp5vTI/AAAAAAAAAOs/DQNJxoslYXM/s400/blog+ruby+kalaniot3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306100064957611314" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Getting back to blogging means getting back on the <a href="http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/2009/02/ruby-tuesday_23.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Ruby Tuesday</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"> </span>bandwagon. (Check out <a href="http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/">Work of the Poet</a>'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).<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">Shabbat</span>. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMN48-p4uI/AAAAAAAAAOk/cwtTiKJ-oK8/s400/blog+ruby+kalaniot2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306100058065330914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div>The flowers are called כלניות <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">kalaniot</span> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMN4QxomzI/AAAAAAAAAOc/EOuen8ty7AM/s400/blog+ruby+kalaniot1+.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306100046199561010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><a href="http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/2009/02/ruby-tuesday_23.html"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UEGy-8c06F8/SPukZ7lIfPI/AAAAAAAAFJU/H4JBXADrzG0/s400/rubytuesday.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258977755282308338" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 4px; padding-right: 4px; padding-bottom: 4px; padding-left: 4px; border-top-width: 1px; border-right-width: 1px; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-width: 1px; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-right-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-bottom-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); border-left-color: rgb(187, 187, 187); " /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance,</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8483254761600926617.post-24604015948456112492009-02-23T21:56:00.005+02:002009-02-23T22:03:51.202+02:00ReflectionFor once, there's no hidden metaphor here... unless you're looking for some deeper meaning, and a reason to celebrate. Here it is: <div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">It's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">finally</span> started raining here in Israel. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Okay, so it came two months late, but we'll take every drop we can get, even when it means mud everywhere. Bring it on, we can handle it!<div><br /><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_hMFGx318440/SaMAIq1R2yI/AAAAAAAAAN0/mb0HA97H8YY/s400/blog+flowers+ein+kerem+puddle.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306084934909287202" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Keep the balance, and Let It Rain!</div><div><br /></div><div>ALN</div></div></div>A Living Nadneydahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14365370597831368062noreply@blogger.com0