Nationalism on Their Young Minds

Mommy, I wish I know all the languages. Then I could understand everyone. A brief pause, a puzzled look. And a question: Mommy! am I Israeli or American?

Just when I'm thinking Blondini Boy -- all six years of him -- only has Playmobil and Chaos Faction2 on his mind.

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?

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 be several things at once, even while you can only live in one place at a time.

He accepted all of that. In other words, I got off easy.

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 Ramaddan.

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.

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.

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).

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 Torah" (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.

(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).

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: Mama, do we live in Israel or Palestine?

Hmmm.

J answered in Talmudic style, a question for a question. What do you think? Do we live in Israel or Palestine? L thought about it and answered, Palestine, because everyone here speaks Arabic.

J took a deep breath. Then in a brilliant Uncharted Parenting move, J pulled out a map.

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").

Then she repeated L's own question back at her: Where do you think we live? T concluded that she lives in Israel, but goes to school in Palestine (her school is in East Jerusalem).

Put politics aside, as most eight-year-olds tend to do, and this ends up being a pretty precise answer.

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 bagrut 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 Yom haZikaron (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.

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.

J, have a meaningful Ramaddan.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Next up: Natural resource privatization issues, out of the mouths of babes.

Do Good to Feel Good, Part II

Now I'd like to play a couple rounds of Devil's Advocate.

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.

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 hesed committee, or run off to a wedding hall in the middle of the night to pick up and distribute the leftover food.

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.

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.

I'm thinking about yet another phenomenon. How do you do it, how can you work here, with such sick kids? someone will query in admiration. Kol haKavod (Bravo!), that's amazing! 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Sesame Street and Free to Be... You and Me. 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.

Their only Mom. Full speed ahead.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

For more on why we help one another, this is another interesting NYT piece, especially the part about the role of the sclera (whites of the eyes) in human altruistic behavior.

Long Overdue -- A Day in Their Life

(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).

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.

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.

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.

Recycling. 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 fitwithin the bin, or else forgo collection.

Shabbat. 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 Shabbat, 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 Shabbat problem but are stuck with an awkward manual one seven days a week. (One potential solution? Ebay...).

Unplanned "surprises." 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. It is just awful watching your child suffer, his mother writes me, and D clearly suffers.

Food and drink. D has dysphagia 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 PEG directly into his stomach, up to four times a day.

A day off. 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 per diem, 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:

One weekend = 3 days of hospice

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).

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).

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.

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 Shalva, a rehab hospital such as Alyn, or any similar organization -- there are hundreds -- you feel is worthwhile.

Keep the balance,

ALN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oy vey....

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

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

My Answer:  My job is to listen to kids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep the balance,

ALN

Let Them Eat Cake

Just a quick line, before the whirlwind packing process that precedes a family wedding (fancy white flower girl dresses, contingency dresses (note color of previous), little hair doo-dads, extra tights, more extra tights, needle and thread, etc. etc. etc...)

Last week I hosted colleagues from our school's senior staff for a presentation on the implementation of the new Hospital  Obligatory Education Law, which is finally going into effect some time in first few months of 2009. According to our school tradition, the presenter prepares a light meal for all of us to enjoy before the evening's program, and in addition to the soup, bread, and cheeses I had prepared a couple of chocolate cakes.

I went upstairs where That Guy I Married was getting the offspring into pajamas.  They had not failed to catch the freshly-baked cake aroma wafting through the house (and it wasn't even erev Shabbat), and asked whether they would be invited to partake.  When I was little, I told them, my Mommy was very concerned about not having us eat sugar, so she never let us have the cake she made for guests or work meetings.

Without missing a beat, Elder Princeski retorts, 

Mommy you're not going to do that to us, are you?

Followed by the inevitable, Mommy, you should blog this!  Either of those rejoinders would have convinced me, but really, I was planning on giving them some anyway...

(Sorry, Mom - I know your intentions were good).  

Shavua tov, a good week, and, of course, a huge mazal tov to N & M!

Keep the balance,

ALN

Enough to Make Your Mouth Water

It's definitely more expensive than the supermarket, or the shuq (outdoor market), but sometimes, you just gotta do it - take the kids out to dinner in the mall and buy them a little treat afterwards.

  ...Or maybe it was just the Mommy guilt, knowing that I'm going away for three days.   Whatever.  The kids were happy about it, and I got in a couple of photos for this week's Ruby Tuesday.  (Don't worry, we didn't buy them that much candy!)

I'm off to Be'er Sheva, and I have no idea what the internet situation will be over there, so it may be a few days.  Meanwhile, as usual,

Keep the balance,

ALN

A Visibly Beautiful Family

When beginning this blog, I didn't know what direction it would take.  After a decade of hospital work there were so many stories to tell, an endless backlog of small, moving moments. It was hard to start with anything, for fear of missing out something, or perhaps, for fear of being overwhelmed.

I'm really not into the maudlin.  Honest.  I'm not trying to make anyone cry, and I learned awhile back that Survivor's Guilt, in its various guises, has nothing positive to offer.  But now that it has a venue, the here-and-now campaigns urgently to reveal itself.

Here is today's story.

M lies in her mother's lap, her eyes nodding, sometimes rolling, upward and back, trying in vain to focus ahead of her.  Her limbs are heavy, flopped down beside her flaccid body.  She loves attention but cannot maintain eye contact, cannot lift her arms out to reach another. She does not talk, can barely form a smile.  A rare genetic illness has robbed her nervous system of control over her body, and her muscles have atrophied.  She is nearly five years old.

I enter the outpatient waiting room.  M's mother catches sight of me and we share a moment, both our faces lit up in mutual recognition.  How nice to see you, I begin.  It's been so long.

Actually, it hasn't.  She gives a sad smile.  This month we've been here every Sunday. Nobody sees us.  We're the invisible family.  M is the invisible girl.

I'm stunned.  I try to think back...  How could I have missed them all this time?  I make a quick calculation.  Last Sunday I didn't come in to the department.  The week before that? Too long ago to remember.    I'm sorry I missed you before, I tell her.  There's not much else to say.  Lame excuses certainly won't do here. 

It's no use.  Murphy's Law has demanded that I be called away at that moment on urgent staff business. I excuse myself, privately committing to return and sit with this "invisible" family before the day is through.

Sometime later -- but not much later -- I make my way back to Outpatient.  It's a Sunday, and the department is overflowing with hematology patients.  Before I can be pulled aside by a familiar kid requesting a puzzle, or a concerned mother inquiring after her daughter's studies, I beeline it for a smallish patient room at the end of the hall.

So, how are you these days? I ask M's mother, as I reach out to take her hand.  She is doing all right, she tells me.  Her life is taking care of M.  That's all she does, all she wants to do.  I listen, and the questions takes form inside... I hesitate, but something inside pushes a question out. What happens when you need a break? Who relieves you?  She smiles.

My sister, if I need to go somewhere for a few hours.  Or if M can't fall asleep at night, I wake my sister at 2 a.m. and she takes over so I can sleep a little.  But that's it.  That's all I need.  No one else knows how to take care of M like I do.  

I don't need a vacation.  Seeing her smile at me, knowing that she's comfortable and free of pain, that's my vacation.  The only one I need, for as long as she needs me.

M's mother continues.  She has four daughters -- the oldest is in medical school, the second youngest still in high school.  I am a mother of girls, she tells me.  I love being a mother of girls.  Once, there was a son.  He left them seven years ago, at age four.

G-d gave him to us, and then He took him back.  We pray for him, and he is Up There, praying for us, all the time.  We celebrate his birthday, every year. We pray and we have a cake.  I am very proud, that we had him, and that we could give him back.   I know he takes care of us from Up There.

M's mother relates all of this clearly in a sincere expression of love and understanding, devoid of irony or sorrow. Her life is full of meaning, as her son's death continues to be.  

I listen.   I am awed and bewildered by her clarity of purpose.  

And then, at that moment, life goes on.  Two women come into the room to say hello, and a mother's conversation ensues.  A joke about M's diaper peeking out from over her pink jumpsuit flows into an earnest discussion of the deplorable popularity of low-rise jeans that do little to cover one's undergarments.  No one is embarrassed these days, they lament. What is the young generation coming to?

I excuse myself to go on with my workday, and, eventually, M returns home, still in her mother's arms.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Kid Central

Elder Princeski is just old enough to make her favorite dinner, pancakes.  She has finally finished her homework and is in a good mood.  I haven't yet told her about my in-service training next week. I figure this might be a good time to breach the subject.

ALN:  So, I have to tell you something:  Next week I'm going away for three days.

Elder Princeski:  What?!?  Three days?  Does this mean we won't see you?

ALN:  Yes.

Elder P:  (slightly perturbed)  Why are you doing this to us?

ALN:  I need to go away for work.

Elder P:  But what does that mean to us?

ALN:  Well, it means something to me.  It's for work.

(A pregnant pause, while she flips the pancakes).

ALN:  Wait, did you just say, What does that mean to us?

Elder P:  Why, do you wanna blog it?

ALN:  Yeah, actually.  I'll be right back...

Sometimes (always?) they see right through me.

Keep the balance,

ALN

What We're Used To

What began as a comments on Conversation in Klal's recent Seminary post (read her post first to understand the context of mine) has morphed into its own entity.

My year in seminary, here in Israel, was one of the most meaningful and impacting in my life, both in terms of learning, and being in Israel. During that year, I learned more about Jewish thought and practice than all years prior or thereafter. I spent time with incredible teachers, who opened their homes to us throughout the year. My hesed (community service) project was working with kids in the hospital, which eventually led me to... a career working with kids in the hospital. I grew up in a nonreligious home and attended public school, so I had quite a lot of catching up to do in terms of Jewish learning, but by age 18 I was mature enough to make up quite a bit of it in only one short but intensive year. (I wanted to stay on for a second year, but that's another story...) My Rabbanit helped prepare me for the year by tutoring me in some pre-catch up catch up, and my parents generously funded a summer in ulpan to help me improve my Hebrew. (Ulpan was an intensive experience in an of itself, but that is yet another story, for another time,. In retrospect, the time and money investment proved invaluable later, when I returned to Israel to stay). Yes, that year was expensive (seminary cost less then, but still). I am thankful that my parents could afford it, and that they chose to support my wishes to attend seminary in Israel. I am fully aware that these days, this type of expense does not fit into many family budgets.

But allow me to look at the economic issue another way (and like Prof K, I'll probably get some flak for this too, and so be it). You might say my parents had more money to spend on one year of seminary because they didn't "waste" money all those years paying outrageously extravagant day school tuition, when there was an excellent public school freely available two blocks away. Back then, my family didn't have a choice -- unlike today, there were no Jewish private school options anywhere near my home town -- but if we're talking about educational luxuries, why stop at seminary? Some (I among them) would argue that Jewish day schools, with their ridiculous high prices, should not automatically be considered a necessity these days, but rather, a luxury. I would guess that the cost of a semi-private tutor for Jewish studies, split among the families even a small group of kids, has got to be significantly less than day school tuition.  

I know most religious Jewish people outside of Israel view Jewish day school as a given, and that no parent in his right mind would dare send his kids to public school. But those of us who didn't have the option as kids, don't necessarily view it as a necessity now, either.  Would religious families who chose to send their kids to local public schools, despite the availability of a local Jewish school, be shunned by the community? My guess is, yes, they would.

I see the irony in the idea that my own kids are growing up in a completely different situation, where public school IS Jewish school and costs under $1000/year (including books). Despite the many advantages, I'm not completely comfortable with the state education system having such a dominant role in the formulation of my children's religious beliefs. But -- you guessed it -- that's another story.

Maybe it all comes down to what we're used to...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Update: It's Over, Now What?

(If you're not caught up, or your memory is as bad as mine, go read the original post here).

I had the good fortune of seeing K and her mother last week. K had chosen to spend those two long hours (between swallowing the CAT scan medicine and the scan itself) in our classroom, joining our school activity. She ran off to join one of our teachers in an interactive computer lesson, while I sat down to chat with her mother. So, how's everything going? I ask.

K's Mother: Well, I know what you would say (giant smile) -- Everything is going at the pace it's supposed to go. You know, K is doing really well in school. I was worried about that, really worried. But she completely caught up over the summer, her teachers are really happy with her progress, and she's having no trouble in math or computers or any of the other subjects.

ALN: Not a single one of us here was worried about her schooling. We all know she's a very bright kid. But you know, even though she's doing well in school, it's very likely that she still thinks a lot about what happened to her here, about her treatment, and that she'll still want to talk about it, even a year or two from now.

K's Mother: Oh, she already does talk about it! Not all the time, but sometimes.

ALN: I'm very glad to hear that. I was a little concerned about that, because I know K is a private kind of person.

K's Mother: No, you don't have to worry. She doesn't always talk to me, but she talks. (Hearty laugh). You know, I was reminded about your art therapy the other day....There's a ceramics group opening up at our local community center, and I was thinking....

ALN: For K?

K's Mother: No, for me!

K's mother went on to tell me that she's suddenly felt an urge to go back to painting, or maybe even trying a new thing, working with clay. It sounds like the whole family really is finding their way to a "new normal."

Keep the balance,

ALN

The Role of Hope

Yesterday a patient's father appeared in the hallway outside our department.   Professor O is a large man, tall and sturdily built, with a kind round face and wild, grey-and-black eyebrows over large, sensitive eyes.  He stood there with head hung down and shoulders slumped in a gesture of abject sadness.    

Professor O had walked over to the pediatric building from the oncology department in the main hospital building, to update us on the condition of his son L, and more importantly, to feel the comfort of familiar faces who have known and loved his son through many years of treatment. 

He informed us that L is not doing well, that he is reacting very badly to a recent bone marrow transplant and is extremely weak.  Despite the specialized drugs, L's body is fighting the transplant (a process known as GHVD) and destroying his own organs in the process.

Professor O is a highly educated man, a lecturer at a local university, with a good grasp of English (not his first language) and keen ability to describe complex ideas in apprehensible and interesting terms.  He is rational and emotional in equal measures, punctuating medical and scientific discussions with sensitive observations about his son's and his own emotional experience with illness.  During our many talks over the years, I have always been impressed by the way in which he speaks of his son with  deep love and sensitivity. Toward the hospital staff he consistently conveys a sense of respect, together with his belief that despite our best efforts, these multiple relapses and failures of treatment are the will of G-d.

When he arrived in the hall, Professor O was joined by two of us from the school staff and by L's oncologist.  He described how terrible his son looked and felt, the constant loss of blood, L's refusal to eat or drink.  As he spoke, his shoulders sank further toward the ground as his gaze extended outward toward ours, in search of comfort.

We understood our role:  to listen, to confirm, and most crucially, to help this man hold onto his sense of hope.  He and L had understood the heavy risks of transplantation, yet he seemed to be asking the oncologist for confirmation that proceeding with this transplant had been the right decision.  Yes, she assured him, as tears streamed down his face, this was the only option. The medicine can still help him survive the GVHD.  There is still reason to hope.

Professor O understands, L understands, and L's physician understands.  L's chances for survival are low, and meanwhile he only suffers.  Yet no one has given up hope.  For all we know, it is hope -- his own, his father's -- and not medication, that is keeping L alive.  

This hope is not misplaced optimism or denial.   It is not a substitute for recognizing reality.  Rather, I think, it is that uniquely human feeling that we are part of something greater and better than what we can see and feel at this moment.

I don't know the pain, suffering and fear L feels, nor do I truly understand that other kind of pain and suffering, and guilt, felt by his father.  I want never to know their experience from within.  But I believe that from our external point of view, we can still help L and his family hold onto hope.  From now on, it may be the only way we can really help them.*

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* For more reading on the subject of hope, I really like this website -- available here, in a slightly different form, as a PDF download -- sponsored by the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.  Saint Jude is known to those of Catholic and other faiths as the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, yet somehow this is not at odds with the hospital's mission of encouraging hope in patients and their families.

Rain at a Snail's Pace

What are these doing here? Read on...

There we were, finishing Shabbat lunch just hours ago when BOOM!  A crash of thunder, and the heavens showered down.  For the first ten minutes or so, the downpour was heavy enough to imitate a snowfall over the not-so-distant valley.  Without missing a beat, the kids ran outside to rejoice in their own personal rain dances, while we adults stood under the eaves, hoping this was only the beginning of a long, rain-drenched season.

As the drops dissipated, our lunch hostess T (a.k.a. my father-in-law's cousin's wife, who also happens to be our neighbor; see this post) sighed.  Don't you just love that smell, after it rains?  Definitely.  I wait for that smell every year, and I was especially glad not to have to wait until mid-December, as in many years previous.  Now we wait for the newly-sowed fields in the valleys surrounding our little hilltop to begin sprouting their waves of green.  

But let's get to the really important stuff:  Immediate gratification.  Just this morning (on Shabbat, of course, when we can do nothing about it, but never mind) Always the Imp expressed a keen interest  in having a pet of her own.  OK, today was far from the first time she'd expressed such a desire, but this time she said it with such enthusiasm.

What sort of pet, I queried, getting a little nervous.

(Previous requests had included the word "rat," a pet I wouldn't entirely object to owning.  After all, I did not spend my childhood in Manhattan, a place which, as I understand it, can lead to the development of a firm anti-rat stance later in life).

Always:  A pet of my own, that I can hold.  

ALN:  What about a walking stick?  You know, it's an insect that looks like a --

Always:  I know what that is, Mommy.  They brought them to our gan [kindergarten, last year].  I don't want that.

ALN (hesitating):  How about a rat?  You once said --

Always:  No, no, not a rat.

ALN (To self): Phew.  (Out loud): Then which pet do you want?

Always:  I want a pet snail!

Apparently she had already picked up a bit of knowledge concerning this animal's personal habits, including its hermaphroditic tendencies, since a few minutes later, she added, Mommy, if I have snails, am I supposed to call them he/she?

I didn't quite know how to answer that one.   But I was relieved she had settled on such a convenient pet.  Today's rain had conveniently reawakened the snails, who protect themselves over the dry season by covering their shell openings with a coating that dissolves at first contact with water, and so they were now sliding around our garden in surprisingly large numbers.

And so, despite the Shabbat injunction against capturing wild animals, the collection process began immediately with a human-induced Gathering of the Snails onto Alway's personal snapdragon plant sitting on the windowsill (leaving the creatures free to roam and, therefore, not technically "trapped").  

After Havdalah we brought the small plastic fish box down from the closet, filled it with earth, some gathered plant life, and the chosen local snails.  

Voila!  Instant, personal pets for Always, acquired with minimal effort and, best of all, at no extra cost.  She's happy, and so are we. 

(Later a brief internet survey led to the realization that a lining of peat moss or some similar was supposed to be involved.  If you're curious about raising snails, here's one site that answers the basic questions but leaves incredulous as to whether -- as they claim -- we really are meant to be bathing the creatures.  I'll let you know about that one.  For the record, we are talking about local, indigenous snails and not the large African variety, which can wreak havoc on agriculture and is therefore illegal in both Israel and the U.S.).

I must admit, while photographing, I got kind of attached to them... they really are endearing little guys (or is that, guy/girls?), in their own way. 

And just think:  for every snail in Always' mini-terrarium, there's one snail fewer outside, munching away at my garden.

Keep the balance,

ALN