Thursday, December 13. 2007
I arrive in Cobble Hill only to find poor Sheryl in deep distress: She has the stomach virus that is making most of NYC miserable. She is so sick that she does not even want Jeff to go down and get her creamed brussels sprouts, which she wanted last time she was sick. Sheryl languishes all night and does not seem to get better. I experience my first opportunity to worry all night about a daughter instead of son. (Really, the two are pretty similar.)
Friday, December 14, 2007
We are all up early. Sheryl still looks piqued and does not want any food. Jeff parks my car in a covered lot; we call a limo and prepare to leave the tundra that NYC has become and head south. (I am still worried about what will happen if I collapse on the plane. Will they have to land the plane in some strange city that does not take my health insurance and maybe does not even have a hospital? Sheryl and Jeff laugh at me, and we head for Newark Airport.)
We arrive in Florida early, where Harriet and Aunt Rozzie have somehow made their way through the gates and are waiting for us at the foot of the airplane exit. Jeff, thinking he is in the tropics, immediately removes his jacket and sweatshirt. Sheryl seems to be feeling better. I am saying little prayers of thankfulness that I did not experience vertigo or total lack of balance on the plane. All is well!!
Harriet has made a lovely chicken meal. Michael is very pleased with the meal and also with Harriet, whom he seems to love very much. He loves Sheryl and Jeff a lot too and is already calling him "son-in-law." Harriet appears to share his sentiments.
Sunday, December 15, 2007
Sheryl goes for her final bridal gown fitting. Jeff's eyes are sure to haze over when he sees his bride walk down the aisle in her most beautiful gown. Then Harriet goes for a fitting in her most lovely plum-colored evening gown. Much as I am tempted, I do not give up my intention to wear my frum outfit to the wedding, frumpy or not. It will be what it will be (or already is).
I left out lunch, but now I will go on to supper. We go to a restaurant whose owner is something or other on TV. Harriet asks for the waiter to send him over, and eventually he does. It turns out it is his birthday! I think we are supposed to get free dessert, but the cost appears on the bill. (Who is that guy anyway?)
Later
We meet Rabbi Gold, who seems very nice. (It seems strange for a rabbi to offer his hand, but I take it anyway.) He really just wants to speak to the kids, so the grown-ups take a tour of the Gordons' old neighborhood, which is very impressive. We also see the high school in which Michael teaches Math.
Back at the shul, we see two iguanas. One of them is stuck in a chain link fence and seems rather unattractive, even for an iguana. The other one is very "hot" and must be maddeningly attractive to others of his kind. He hears us rustle the grass and immediately demonstrates the "fight or flight" response; since there is nowhere to run, however, he remains a captive of our curious eyes. I say that if I had a pair of gloves I would throw both animals back into the little pond from whence they came, but I don't think anyone (except maybe Jeff) believes me.
Soon we have a nice deli meal with Aunt Rozzie and two of her sons. Then I very rudely fall asleep, quite exhausted from so much activity.
Then we are driven to the airport and say good-bye to the Gordons. The flight is okay until we approach New York City; we fly over Sea Gate and find ourselves not even near LaGuardia 1/2 hour later. (The iguanas could have gotten there sooner.) Turns out there is a great deal of wind, and the plane has been circling in an attempt to land, which it finally does with a huge THUMP. Jeff says he feels sick; Sheryl is now fine; I, thank G-d, have neither fainted nor died.
Home and queued up waiting for a cab. Boy, is it ever COLD!!!!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
So Long 2007...
...Year of Miracles:
1.I survived a divorce.
2.I survived a cerebellum clot and bleed.
3.I survived an emergency craniotomy.
4.I survived removal of my left cancerous kidney.
5.I survived 30 sessions of focused radiation to my head.
6.I survived anaphylactic shock caused by eight days of a toxic immunogenic drug.
7.I survived going bald. (My hair is actually growing back, more or less.)
I SURVIVED!
And I would like to thank G-d, family, friends, acquaintances and all blog-readers for bringing me back from the other side. I COULD NOT have done it withouy everyone's help and prayers.
1.I survived a divorce.
2.I survived a cerebellum clot and bleed.
3.I survived an emergency craniotomy.
4.I survived removal of my left cancerous kidney.
5.I survived 30 sessions of focused radiation to my head.
6.I survived anaphylactic shock caused by eight days of a toxic immunogenic drug.
7.I survived going bald. (My hair is actually growing back, more or less.)
I SURVIVED!
And I would like to thank G-d, family, friends, acquaintances and all blog-readers for bringing me back from the other side. I COULD NOT have done it withouy everyone's help and prayers.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Post-Cancer
This period in time that is euphemistically referred to as "'remission," or "period of forgiveness,'' is very strange. What does it mean? Had I first sinned and then been mollified via the cancer? Will I mess up (-miss-up?) again and therefore have continuing relapses (-re )? (Hint: The Torah teaches that G-d sent many boats to warn the people of the coming moab (flood). The boats were ignored, prompting G-d to cry out:"How many signs are you going to ignore?" Then came the flood.)
During remission, one marvels at one's ability to walk with only a slight - the very slightest - list to the right side. One marvels that one can speak with only the smallest degree of aphasia.One marvels that every day the pain in the esophagus decreases a little more, and it becomes slightly easier to eat. One is amazed at one's stupendous personal privacy: no gowns that "close" in the back or tylenol in one's rectum because one has a breathing tube inside of one's throat. One can only wonder at the indignity of having one's very own -very own - cerebellum probed and resected. Not to mention the exposure of self during kidney removal - one scar is perfectly parallel to one's "bikini cut" caeserean scar. (Some ob/gyn apparently envisioned a somewhat more hip lifestlyle.)
But let us imagine for a moment, if we can, the little circle of snakes that suround the word "remission." Sure snakes have some vague function on the symbol that means doctor - who knows what - but the snakes around the word "remission" are toothy and vicious and ready to strike at any moment. What will I lose next? The good doctors tell me kidneys, brain, liver, bones and lungs evolved from the same zygote: no wonder then that kidney cancer found a home in the brain! Will I emerge from "remission" only to lose a leg or perhaps an arm? Or will I lose more brain, renderiing me the idiot some people already think I have become? It is all open to conjecture and G-d's will, and one does better to take an extra sleepnig pill or two than toss around all nignt wondering if, a year from now, one will be able to toss around at all.
This piece would not be complete without mentioning exhaustion, perhaps the most prominent part of " remission." The body has suffered such unthinkable torture that denial, good old denial, becomes the only way to cope. Occasionally, though, after you have tried too hard to be the nicest person, the most helpful person, the most brave and cheerful person, the denial stops working, and exhaustion sets in. It is an exhaustion of body, mind and soul that rivals no other exhaustion. The skin, which has so recently and literally peeled and renewed itself; the hair that has shed and somehow started to grow back render the person so vulnerable to hurt, insult and exertion. I have heard other cancer "survivors" say the same. "It is par for the course," my long-dead mother would have said.
The worst part of being in "remission" is being in "remission" alone. It involves clutching your breasts in the middle of the night hoping you will not some day soon lose them to cancer; it means performing effleurage on the scars on your own belly, while wishing someone else could assuage the pain. It also means rubbing the palms of your own hands against each other, again and again, knowing that nobody else will ever again touch your hand because you have cancer.
Not even - or especially not even - while you are in "remission."
During remission, one marvels at one's ability to walk with only a slight - the very slightest - list to the right side. One marvels that one can speak with only the smallest degree of aphasia.One marvels that every day the pain in the esophagus decreases a little more, and it becomes slightly easier to eat. One is amazed at one's stupendous personal privacy: no gowns that "close" in the back or tylenol in one's rectum because one has a breathing tube inside of one's throat. One can only wonder at the indignity of having one's very own -very own - cerebellum probed and resected. Not to mention the exposure of self during kidney removal - one scar is perfectly parallel to one's "bikini cut" caeserean scar. (Some ob/gyn apparently envisioned a somewhat more hip lifestlyle.)
But let us imagine for a moment, if we can, the little circle of snakes that suround the word "remission." Sure snakes have some vague function on the symbol that means doctor - who knows what - but the snakes around the word "remission" are toothy and vicious and ready to strike at any moment. What will I lose next? The good doctors tell me kidneys, brain, liver, bones and lungs evolved from the same zygote: no wonder then that kidney cancer found a home in the brain! Will I emerge from "remission" only to lose a leg or perhaps an arm? Or will I lose more brain, renderiing me the idiot some people already think I have become? It is all open to conjecture and G-d's will, and one does better to take an extra sleepnig pill or two than toss around all nignt wondering if, a year from now, one will be able to toss around at all.
This piece would not be complete without mentioning exhaustion, perhaps the most prominent part of " remission." The body has suffered such unthinkable torture that denial, good old denial, becomes the only way to cope. Occasionally, though, after you have tried too hard to be the nicest person, the most helpful person, the most brave and cheerful person, the denial stops working, and exhaustion sets in. It is an exhaustion of body, mind and soul that rivals no other exhaustion. The skin, which has so recently and literally peeled and renewed itself; the hair that has shed and somehow started to grow back render the person so vulnerable to hurt, insult and exertion. I have heard other cancer "survivors" say the same. "It is par for the course," my long-dead mother would have said.
The worst part of being in "remission" is being in "remission" alone. It involves clutching your breasts in the middle of the night hoping you will not some day soon lose them to cancer; it means performing effleurage on the scars on your own belly, while wishing someone else could assuage the pain. It also means rubbing the palms of your own hands against each other, again and again, knowing that nobody else will ever again touch your hand because you have cancer.
Not even - or especially not even - while you are in "remission."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
To Lose a Son
There are many ways to lose a son.
You can lose a very, very young son to IFC, a rare genetic disorder. Your son would be bloated and wall-eyed; he would not recognize you at all, even as you held and hugged him. He would have no cognition and would probably be the closest thing to a human vegetable. His only bodily movements would be epileptic seizures. You would prepare for his death by building a tiny coffin, even as part of you wanted to believe he would not die. You would go on loving and loving him; at the same time you would wonder how your body, or G-d, or whatever could have produced such a miniature monster.
Then one day the child would stop breathing and die. You would dress him in a white shirt and a striped tie and let the undertaker carry him away in the small- very small - coffin you kept in your attic. It would be a cold day in February, and the funeral director would allow you and your husband to carry the little box and place it in the earth because this has all along been the plan. It would begin to snow as you left the cemetery. A part of you would be frozen with grief; another part would know that your baby has been called to a place where he will fare better than he ever could on this earth.
You could lose a son to Down's Syndrome. After you labor and labor, you would expel a child with the wrong number of chromosomes.You would soon be asked if you wanted to give him away. You would be told that there are wonderful group homes that care for such children. Social workers would come and explain and explain and explain again the difficulties of keeping such a child and the benefits of placement in a special setting where all the little girls and boys are the same. Before you would know it, you would be signing adoption papers, and your child would be taken from you to a facility somewhere out in the country and fresh air. You would leave the hospital with empty bellly, arms and heart.
There is another way to lose a son. You and he could pierce the soft corridors of each other's hearts and forget how to be sorry. For the first time you would feel only your own pain and not his; for the first time you would struggle to keep yourself from walking through fire instead of protecting him.The undertaking would take place in your aching brain. As you would dig, you would find strata and sub-strata - endless sub-strata - of memory. You would wonder how this compromised brain of yours could hold so many memories: the pain of his skull pressing against your spinal column during labor; the feel of his lips on your breast for the very first time; the little voice that said to you in the middle of one night that his throat hurt when he swallowed his saliva. Even though the funeral would be solely in your own head, the eulogies would be endless. You would try to take some of your archaelogical love and use it to patch your own pierced heart; you would struggle to find a way to give some of it to him. And you would fail, again and again.
There are many more ways to lose a son: many more ways to turn to stone.
You can lose a very, very young son to IFC, a rare genetic disorder. Your son would be bloated and wall-eyed; he would not recognize you at all, even as you held and hugged him. He would have no cognition and would probably be the closest thing to a human vegetable. His only bodily movements would be epileptic seizures. You would prepare for his death by building a tiny coffin, even as part of you wanted to believe he would not die. You would go on loving and loving him; at the same time you would wonder how your body, or G-d, or whatever could have produced such a miniature monster.
Then one day the child would stop breathing and die. You would dress him in a white shirt and a striped tie and let the undertaker carry him away in the small- very small - coffin you kept in your attic. It would be a cold day in February, and the funeral director would allow you and your husband to carry the little box and place it in the earth because this has all along been the plan. It would begin to snow as you left the cemetery. A part of you would be frozen with grief; another part would know that your baby has been called to a place where he will fare better than he ever could on this earth.
You could lose a son to Down's Syndrome. After you labor and labor, you would expel a child with the wrong number of chromosomes.You would soon be asked if you wanted to give him away. You would be told that there are wonderful group homes that care for such children. Social workers would come and explain and explain and explain again the difficulties of keeping such a child and the benefits of placement in a special setting where all the little girls and boys are the same. Before you would know it, you would be signing adoption papers, and your child would be taken from you to a facility somewhere out in the country and fresh air. You would leave the hospital with empty bellly, arms and heart.
There is another way to lose a son. You and he could pierce the soft corridors of each other's hearts and forget how to be sorry. For the first time you would feel only your own pain and not his; for the first time you would struggle to keep yourself from walking through fire instead of protecting him.The undertaking would take place in your aching brain. As you would dig, you would find strata and sub-strata - endless sub-strata - of memory. You would wonder how this compromised brain of yours could hold so many memories: the pain of his skull pressing against your spinal column during labor; the feel of his lips on your breast for the very first time; the little voice that said to you in the middle of one night that his throat hurt when he swallowed his saliva. Even though the funeral would be solely in your own head, the eulogies would be endless. You would try to take some of your archaelogical love and use it to patch your own pierced heart; you would struggle to find a way to give some of it to him. And you would fail, again and again.
There are many more ways to lose a son: many more ways to turn to stone.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Confusion of the Heart
The Yom Kippur machzar (prayer book) kept asking for repentance for sins that were pretty easy to recognize: e.g. "sessions of vice" and "disrespect for parents and teachers." Other sins were less transparent; in particular, I found myself wondering, again and again, what constitutes the sin of "confusion of the heart."
Possibilities:
1.Some divine script instructs the heart to beat adagio, and then the perverse, or perhaps just merely disobedient, heart contracts a bit too slowly - or a bit too fast.
2.An extrasystole manifests itself now and then, causing fear and confusion.
3.Two people get a divorce and then realize that, at best, their hearts were confused.
4.A person of color fights with a white boy in a small Southern town and finds himself locked up for who knows how long.(Whose heart was confused?)
5.A Southern District Attorney stands up in front of a lot of people and says that the people of color behaved well during their protest because of the presence of Jesus Christ. (Who was most confused at that point, the DA, the listeners or Jesus Christ?)
6.My sister is suddenly talking back to people. (Is this confusion of the heart or clarity of the heart?)
7.I was going to leave Nefesh last year at this time because I had too much hair. (How confused was that?)
8.At the blink of the eye, we have gone from Jeff sitting on my lap to the eve of his marriage. (My heart should be glad and not confused at this passage of time.)
9.My friend says that her brother has married her mother; I say that all men marry their mothers and that mothers come in many disguises.
10.An acquaintance misinterprets events and ends up hurting a lot of people.
Any suggestions?
Possibilities:
1.Some divine script instructs the heart to beat adagio, and then the perverse, or perhaps just merely disobedient, heart contracts a bit too slowly - or a bit too fast.
2.An extrasystole manifests itself now and then, causing fear and confusion.
3.Two people get a divorce and then realize that, at best, their hearts were confused.
4.A person of color fights with a white boy in a small Southern town and finds himself locked up for who knows how long.(Whose heart was confused?)
5.A Southern District Attorney stands up in front of a lot of people and says that the people of color behaved well during their protest because of the presence of Jesus Christ. (Who was most confused at that point, the DA, the listeners or Jesus Christ?)
6.My sister is suddenly talking back to people. (Is this confusion of the heart or clarity of the heart?)
7.I was going to leave Nefesh last year at this time because I had too much hair. (How confused was that?)
8.At the blink of the eye, we have gone from Jeff sitting on my lap to the eve of his marriage. (My heart should be glad and not confused at this passage of time.)
9.My friend says that her brother has married her mother; I say that all men marry their mothers and that mothers come in many disguises.
10.An acquaintance misinterprets events and ends up hurting a lot of people.
Any suggestions?
Friday, September 7, 2007
Hair
November 2006
I find myself hating my hair in a particularly virulent way. Certainly I have hated my hair many times before, but now I hate my hair because I believe that it signals my religious hypocrisy: I am in fact the only woman at Nefesh, with one exception, who did not give up her hair at the moment of marriage, does not wear a shaytel (wig) and until very recently perceived hats only as clever matching accessories to her yeshiva moror (teacher) outfits.
Let's begin at the beginning: Why do Jewish women cut their hair very short when they are kallahs (brides) and hide what remains under a (beautifully styled) wig? (My Catholic friends might want to take this opportunity to wonder if the covering of a nun's head harkens back to Judaism? If I remember correctly, every depiction even (especially?) of Mary, a Jewess after all, shows her with head modestly covered.)
Explanation #1: G-d said so.
Explanation #2:There should be no knots or snarls in one's hair when one submerges one's total self in the mikveh (ritual bath). One must blend completely with the holy water.
Explanation #3:Once a woman marries and pleases her husband, she understands her sexual powers, symbolized by (or maybe even literally represented by) her hair. (Even if she wears the most beautiful wig in the world, it is still not her real hair.)
Explanation #4, a logical corollary to #3: A man studying Torah or davening (praying) should never be distracted by a woman's actual hair.
(The Skeptic's) Explanation #5: Since it was very sunny and sandy in the desert, it was a common habit (nun pun unintended) to cover one's head.
Anyway, I am so distraught because of my curly, abundant hair that I tell my supervisors that I cannot continue with the hats and therefore must leave Nefesh. Unbenknowest to anyone, I have a big nasty clot growing underneath all that hair; also lurking deep inside is the secret that I long for a kosher marriage to a kosher man, with whom I can practice all the rites and rituals of my religion. One way or the other, I am obsessed with the belief that I am either cheating or being cheated.
February 2007
I open my eyes and find myself in an ICU bed at Lutheran Hospital. I imagine that I have a huge goiterous growth on the side of my neck, (reminiscent of an old Seinfeld episode), but this perception turns out to be untrue. Instead, I soon learn that I have somehow surived an emergency craniotomy. The bandage is removed; I reach back and discover that a large portion of the right side of my head has been shaved. I find a clump of hair - no doubt mine - on the pillow next to my head, which feels as if it might roll off (just like the head of Saddam Hussein has recently detached from his body) if I am not careful. Having bigger fish to fry, I am no longer too worried about my hair.
April 2007
I must make a terrible decision: Either I have whole-head radiation, which would somewhat reduce the odds (maybe) of the recurrence of kidneycancerbecomebraintumor (go figure) and lose all my hair or "just" have focused radiation and lose only some of my hair. The doctors (some kindly, some not so kindly) inform me that there is a 70% chance that some hair, in some form, MIGHT eventually grow back. To confuse me further, I am told that "there is no right or wrong decision - only a decision."
I decide that I should start cutting my losses and choose focused radiation. So far I have lost: part of my brain, my left kidney, my marriage and a peculiar portion of hair near my right ear. I am still much too unworried about what will ultimately become of my hair; I am, unrealistically, as it soon turns out, glad that I am not going to be completely bald and that I actually have so much hair on certain parts of my head, which now seems grotesquely large, like a globe of an unexplored world.
July 2007
Thirty sessions of radiation have gone well. I am still, however, far too flippant about the areas of missing hair that surround the irradiatied parts of my head. With the best intentions, I start taking an immunogenic drug called Nexovar, which will take care of any micrometastases that some doctors (not all) fear are still floating around my body. Upon the first dosage of 400 mgs., I become acutely aware of my Çaesarean scar, which has never, in 27 years, pained me. (I am shortly to learn that chemo drugs arouse pain in any and every wound the victim has ever acquired.)
Soon my body turns brick red from head to toe, and I have no normal-colored flesh left. After some days, the red rash turns black, and I figure, in my delirium, that the drug is doing an excellent job of choking off the blood supply to the cancer, as it should. (I wonder, however, with whatever rationalitiy remains, Do I really have cancer in every inch of my body, inside and out? If so, I am in big trouble.) I am in fact in such big trouble that I think my mother is coming nightly to take me to heaven and find out only later that Mrs. Appelbaum, in her concern, is entering my bedroom well before break of dawn to see if I am still alive. Eventually, my entire body, from forehead to heel, begins to peel, leaving new, ultra-sensitive skin that I am too petrified even to touch.
Then, without even actually realizing what is happening, the most devilish of all devilish nightmares becomes reality - the rest of my hair starts falling out, even though the drug insert says that alpoecia occurs in only 1-2% of all cases. (After eight days of dutifully ingesting the drug and watching my skin and scalp revert to prehuman states, I am told that the drug is inapporpriate and should never have been prescribed in the first place; just as dutifully, I stop taking the pills). BUT - (and here I am purposely violating my own injunction against ever beginning a sentence with the word BUT no matter what the NY Times is doing these days), BUT - my hair continues to fall out in huge enormous clumps, which show up in vastly useless and terrifying places: in my hands, in my mouth, in the bathtub drain, on the floor. My beautiful, thick, curly, bushy, totally unreligious hair is falling out and does not stop until some time in September.
I wail and scream and cry like the wild animal I believe I have become: I am losing my personality; in fact, my entire individuality. My less-than-human outbursts scare everyone around me half to death, and, when I finally calm down a little, I ask each one if he (or she) can ever possibly love a baldy beaner or, in a much more dire and horrific vein, an Anne Frank look-alike (such are my terrible swings of mood and vacillations of thought.) Some people answer affirmatively; some are too scared to answer at all.
AND IT GETS EVEN WORSE. (Yes, I have just broken another of my rules for writing): I CAN NO LONGER WASH MY HAIR FOR FEAR THAT THE REMAINING STRANDS AND TOTAL SCALP WILL SIMPLY FALL OFF MY HEAD AND START FLOATING IN THE WASH WATER. (TRUE: THAT DISGUSTING SMELL IS THE ODOR OF UNWASHED HAIR/SCALP THAT IS COMING FROM MY OWN FILTHY, ALMOST BALD HEAD.)
A few straggly ugly gray hairs remain. I want to attempt comb-overs but am afraid these hairs will fall out if I dare to take a comb to them.
Then one day it comes to me, perhaps the way the truth came, with soft rays of sunlight, to Joan of Arc: G-d has given me the experience I had rued not having. He has taken my hair. (No explanation point is needed, because the truth comes to me as a gentle, quiet, undramatic revelation.) I now know what it means to lose one' s hair and wear a hat to cover one's unfamiliar head. (Part of the quiet revelation is that the hair will grow back if and when G-d decides it should; it is totally out of my control.)
(My question for the Rabbis: Yes, I am a B'al Tshuva (Returner to my religion; Repenter). Do bad things happen to people like me because of the need to do tshuva? After all, even King David needed to do tshuva in order to understand what it felt like. Or am I wrong? At any rate, as a teacher at school later tells me, I am now "purified and cleansed." I will never be sure what she means, but the need for tshuva was real and remains real: I therefore offer every missing part of my body as tshuva, if this is appropriate; perhaps I will never know if it is. In addition. I offer every strand of the hair that previously defined me.)
Friday, September 7, 2007, 6:31PM
I just reread what I have written. The frequent tone of sarcasm is upsetting, but I know it covers an intensity of emotion that I am not as yet strong enough to feel.
The sabbath is rapidly approaching, the last one of this odd old year. So I will wish everyone a "guten shabbos" and observe as best as I can.
I find myself hating my hair in a particularly virulent way. Certainly I have hated my hair many times before, but now I hate my hair because I believe that it signals my religious hypocrisy: I am in fact the only woman at Nefesh, with one exception, who did not give up her hair at the moment of marriage, does not wear a shaytel (wig) and until very recently perceived hats only as clever matching accessories to her yeshiva moror (teacher) outfits.
Let's begin at the beginning: Why do Jewish women cut their hair very short when they are kallahs (brides) and hide what remains under a (beautifully styled) wig? (My Catholic friends might want to take this opportunity to wonder if the covering of a nun's head harkens back to Judaism? If I remember correctly, every depiction even (especially?) of Mary, a Jewess after all, shows her with head modestly covered.)
Explanation #1: G-d said so.
Explanation #2:There should be no knots or snarls in one's hair when one submerges one's total self in the mikveh (ritual bath). One must blend completely with the holy water.
Explanation #3:Once a woman marries and pleases her husband, she understands her sexual powers, symbolized by (or maybe even literally represented by) her hair. (Even if she wears the most beautiful wig in the world, it is still not her real hair.)
Explanation #4, a logical corollary to #3: A man studying Torah or davening (praying) should never be distracted by a woman's actual hair.
(The Skeptic's) Explanation #5: Since it was very sunny and sandy in the desert, it was a common habit (nun pun unintended) to cover one's head.
Anyway, I am so distraught because of my curly, abundant hair that I tell my supervisors that I cannot continue with the hats and therefore must leave Nefesh. Unbenknowest to anyone, I have a big nasty clot growing underneath all that hair; also lurking deep inside is the secret that I long for a kosher marriage to a kosher man, with whom I can practice all the rites and rituals of my religion. One way or the other, I am obsessed with the belief that I am either cheating or being cheated.
February 2007
I open my eyes and find myself in an ICU bed at Lutheran Hospital. I imagine that I have a huge goiterous growth on the side of my neck, (reminiscent of an old Seinfeld episode), but this perception turns out to be untrue. Instead, I soon learn that I have somehow surived an emergency craniotomy. The bandage is removed; I reach back and discover that a large portion of the right side of my head has been shaved. I find a clump of hair - no doubt mine - on the pillow next to my head, which feels as if it might roll off (just like the head of Saddam Hussein has recently detached from his body) if I am not careful. Having bigger fish to fry, I am no longer too worried about my hair.
April 2007
I must make a terrible decision: Either I have whole-head radiation, which would somewhat reduce the odds (maybe) of the recurrence of kidneycancerbecomebraintumor (go figure) and lose all my hair or "just" have focused radiation and lose only some of my hair. The doctors (some kindly, some not so kindly) inform me that there is a 70% chance that some hair, in some form, MIGHT eventually grow back. To confuse me further, I am told that "there is no right or wrong decision - only a decision."
I decide that I should start cutting my losses and choose focused radiation. So far I have lost: part of my brain, my left kidney, my marriage and a peculiar portion of hair near my right ear. I am still much too unworried about what will ultimately become of my hair; I am, unrealistically, as it soon turns out, glad that I am not going to be completely bald and that I actually have so much hair on certain parts of my head, which now seems grotesquely large, like a globe of an unexplored world.
July 2007
Thirty sessions of radiation have gone well. I am still, however, far too flippant about the areas of missing hair that surround the irradiatied parts of my head. With the best intentions, I start taking an immunogenic drug called Nexovar, which will take care of any micrometastases that some doctors (not all) fear are still floating around my body. Upon the first dosage of 400 mgs., I become acutely aware of my Çaesarean scar, which has never, in 27 years, pained me. (I am shortly to learn that chemo drugs arouse pain in any and every wound the victim has ever acquired.)
Soon my body turns brick red from head to toe, and I have no normal-colored flesh left. After some days, the red rash turns black, and I figure, in my delirium, that the drug is doing an excellent job of choking off the blood supply to the cancer, as it should. (I wonder, however, with whatever rationalitiy remains, Do I really have cancer in every inch of my body, inside and out? If so, I am in big trouble.) I am in fact in such big trouble that I think my mother is coming nightly to take me to heaven and find out only later that Mrs. Appelbaum, in her concern, is entering my bedroom well before break of dawn to see if I am still alive. Eventually, my entire body, from forehead to heel, begins to peel, leaving new, ultra-sensitive skin that I am too petrified even to touch.
Then, without even actually realizing what is happening, the most devilish of all devilish nightmares becomes reality - the rest of my hair starts falling out, even though the drug insert says that alpoecia occurs in only 1-2% of all cases. (After eight days of dutifully ingesting the drug and watching my skin and scalp revert to prehuman states, I am told that the drug is inapporpriate and should never have been prescribed in the first place; just as dutifully, I stop taking the pills). BUT - (and here I am purposely violating my own injunction against ever beginning a sentence with the word BUT no matter what the NY Times is doing these days), BUT - my hair continues to fall out in huge enormous clumps, which show up in vastly useless and terrifying places: in my hands, in my mouth, in the bathtub drain, on the floor. My beautiful, thick, curly, bushy, totally unreligious hair is falling out and does not stop until some time in September.
I wail and scream and cry like the wild animal I believe I have become: I am losing my personality; in fact, my entire individuality. My less-than-human outbursts scare everyone around me half to death, and, when I finally calm down a little, I ask each one if he (or she) can ever possibly love a baldy beaner or, in a much more dire and horrific vein, an Anne Frank look-alike (such are my terrible swings of mood and vacillations of thought.) Some people answer affirmatively; some are too scared to answer at all.
AND IT GETS EVEN WORSE. (Yes, I have just broken another of my rules for writing): I CAN NO LONGER WASH MY HAIR FOR FEAR THAT THE REMAINING STRANDS AND TOTAL SCALP WILL SIMPLY FALL OFF MY HEAD AND START FLOATING IN THE WASH WATER. (TRUE: THAT DISGUSTING SMELL IS THE ODOR OF UNWASHED HAIR/SCALP THAT IS COMING FROM MY OWN FILTHY, ALMOST BALD HEAD.)
A few straggly ugly gray hairs remain. I want to attempt comb-overs but am afraid these hairs will fall out if I dare to take a comb to them.
Then one day it comes to me, perhaps the way the truth came, with soft rays of sunlight, to Joan of Arc: G-d has given me the experience I had rued not having. He has taken my hair. (No explanation point is needed, because the truth comes to me as a gentle, quiet, undramatic revelation.) I now know what it means to lose one' s hair and wear a hat to cover one's unfamiliar head. (Part of the quiet revelation is that the hair will grow back if and when G-d decides it should; it is totally out of my control.)
(My question for the Rabbis: Yes, I am a B'al Tshuva (Returner to my religion; Repenter). Do bad things happen to people like me because of the need to do tshuva? After all, even King David needed to do tshuva in order to understand what it felt like. Or am I wrong? At any rate, as a teacher at school later tells me, I am now "purified and cleansed." I will never be sure what she means, but the need for tshuva was real and remains real: I therefore offer every missing part of my body as tshuva, if this is appropriate; perhaps I will never know if it is. In addition. I offer every strand of the hair that previously defined me.)
Friday, September 7, 2007, 6:31PM
I just reread what I have written. The frequent tone of sarcasm is upsetting, but I know it covers an intensity of emotion that I am not as yet strong enough to feel.
The sabbath is rapidly approaching, the last one of this odd old year. So I will wish everyone a "guten shabbos" and observe as best as I can.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
New Year, 5768
Some random thoughts, as we approach the New Year:
1.In this year I will oficially welcome Sheryl into my heart and life as my daughter.
2.I have already lived 7 months longer than anyone had thought I would!
3.I will not have a relapse.
4.I will navigate through the American Cancer Industry with a little (lot?) more savvy.
5.I will try to understand the importance of Jewish brochas (prayers) for activities I used to take for granted: eatiing, drinking, going to the bathroom, waking up in the morning, etc.
6.I will be happy about every strand of hair (no matter the color or texture) that G-d, through His grace and mercy, is returning to my head.
7.I will be the best teacher I can be without thinking too much about salary issues.
8.I will try not to judge anyone...
9.because we all make big mistakes in the course of our lifetimes...
10.and none of us is G-d; only G-d can judge.
May we all be inscribed for a healthy, peaceful, prosperous, forgiving, loving, compassionate New Year! And MUCH thanks to all my very dear friends and relatives who helped me survive 5767; I would not have been able to do it alone.
1.In this year I will oficially welcome Sheryl into my heart and life as my daughter.
2.I have already lived 7 months longer than anyone had thought I would!
3.I will not have a relapse.
4.I will navigate through the American Cancer Industry with a little (lot?) more savvy.
5.I will try to understand the importance of Jewish brochas (prayers) for activities I used to take for granted: eatiing, drinking, going to the bathroom, waking up in the morning, etc.
6.I will be happy about every strand of hair (no matter the color or texture) that G-d, through His grace and mercy, is returning to my head.
7.I will be the best teacher I can be without thinking too much about salary issues.
8.I will try not to judge anyone...
9.because we all make big mistakes in the course of our lifetimes...
10.and none of us is G-d; only G-d can judge.
May we all be inscribed for a healthy, peaceful, prosperous, forgiving, loving, compassionate New Year! And MUCH thanks to all my very dear friends and relatives who helped me survive 5767; I would not have been able to do it alone.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
TV, August 31, 2007
Bill Moyers' Journal:
1.Robert Bly: I have heard of this modern American (somewhat minor) poet, but seeing the 80 year-old in action took me aback - a lot. He is quite a formidable man, and the poems he read struck me as quite good. One line in particular, in a poem he had written long ago for his 10 year-old son Noah: "It was a day of undivided tenderness." It made me remember, with acute sadness, the days I used to spend with my own son. What does one do at my age and in my condition to broker "a day of undivided tenderness"?
Bly has studied Indian and Muslim poetry quite extensively. He read from Rami, who has supposedly driven much of modern American poetry; he spoke of the Islam concept of "nafs," which mean one's greedy soul. He read some old Vietnam poems and one Iraq one; they were very touching and true.
2. Grace Lee Boggs
She s a 92 year-old Chinese Åmerican activist. She is a graduate of Barnard and Bryn Mawr. Her father had a Chinese restaurant in NYC. She is an amazing woman, apart from one Jewish slur.
Her face is so worn and wise that it appears to be beautiiful. She was married to an African-American activist for 40 years until his death. She was a Marxist and a devout follower of Martin Luther King. She has a lot of hope for the future because of all the local "green projects" that are emerging. She does not despair: simply called Iraq the "quagmire" that it surely is and moved on. Her hope for America triumphed.
3.The Anvil of Fallujah, CNN
An awful, terrible recollection of the Battle of Fallujah. Marines recalled the deaths of their buddies. Film footage showed Marines kicking doors open and shooting and being shot.
There are many green garden projects in Coney Island. Does this really signal hope? Or is Fallujah the reality of America, circa August 2007?
1.Robert Bly: I have heard of this modern American (somewhat minor) poet, but seeing the 80 year-old in action took me aback - a lot. He is quite a formidable man, and the poems he read struck me as quite good. One line in particular, in a poem he had written long ago for his 10 year-old son Noah: "It was a day of undivided tenderness." It made me remember, with acute sadness, the days I used to spend with my own son. What does one do at my age and in my condition to broker "a day of undivided tenderness"?
Bly has studied Indian and Muslim poetry quite extensively. He read from Rami, who has supposedly driven much of modern American poetry; he spoke of the Islam concept of "nafs," which mean one's greedy soul. He read some old Vietnam poems and one Iraq one; they were very touching and true.
2. Grace Lee Boggs
She s a 92 year-old Chinese Åmerican activist. She is a graduate of Barnard and Bryn Mawr. Her father had a Chinese restaurant in NYC. She is an amazing woman, apart from one Jewish slur.
Her face is so worn and wise that it appears to be beautiiful. She was married to an African-American activist for 40 years until his death. She was a Marxist and a devout follower of Martin Luther King. She has a lot of hope for the future because of all the local "green projects" that are emerging. She does not despair: simply called Iraq the "quagmire" that it surely is and moved on. Her hope for America triumphed.
3.The Anvil of Fallujah, CNN
An awful, terrible recollection of the Battle of Fallujah. Marines recalled the deaths of their buddies. Film footage showed Marines kicking doors open and shooting and being shot.
There are many green garden projects in Coney Island. Does this really signal hope? Or is Fallujah the reality of America, circa August 2007?
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Jaunt
Last Friday morning all of us (Greg, Jeff, Sheryl and I) loaded into the old Honda and headed upstate to the "country" - i.e. the Catskill Mountains. Sheryl had never been there, and it was particularly fun for her ( I hope) because her parents had first met at the Tamarack Hotel, which may or may not still be in existence.
The mountains themseslves were predictably beautiful, the many shades of green only increased by the frequent rains we have had this summer. Although there is a striking absence of insects there too, there surely were enough tics around to cause me considerable angst and upset because Sheryl and Jeff wore flip-flops and only sneered when I recommended lace- up shoes and socks.
We stopped first at the Kerchners' house in Liberty. Jeff could not even sit on the front porch; he looked like he was about to faint from mold smell the whole time we were there. Sheryl played the piano; then we all went to a lovely crafts store. Back at home Andrea, Diana and I made earrings while Adam, Josh, Jeff and Sheryl went to play miniature golf, or "minister golf," as Jeffy used to say. Then it was lanyard time.
Saturday Night
We ate in a nice restaurant - thankfully I could eat! Then we paid a visit to Wal-Mart, the main sight to see, and then the four of use went to Kutsher's, the 100 year-old hotel where we spent the night. I was amazed that the hotel, though effete, is clean and very much a large snapshot of the 1950's. I was quite dismayed that the "oldtmers" are about my age: they had been young children at much the same time I had been a little girl! The jewelry in the boutique store looked as it did some 50 (!) years ago; so did the clothing.
The next day we stopped at Woodbury Commons. It was very hot, but everyone managed to shop.
Then home. I think we all had a very nice time, though we are not headiing back in that direction any time soon.
The mountains themseslves were predictably beautiful, the many shades of green only increased by the frequent rains we have had this summer. Although there is a striking absence of insects there too, there surely were enough tics around to cause me considerable angst and upset because Sheryl and Jeff wore flip-flops and only sneered when I recommended lace- up shoes and socks.
We stopped first at the Kerchners' house in Liberty. Jeff could not even sit on the front porch; he looked like he was about to faint from mold smell the whole time we were there. Sheryl played the piano; then we all went to a lovely crafts store. Back at home Andrea, Diana and I made earrings while Adam, Josh, Jeff and Sheryl went to play miniature golf, or "minister golf," as Jeffy used to say. Then it was lanyard time.
Saturday Night
We ate in a nice restaurant - thankfully I could eat! Then we paid a visit to Wal-Mart, the main sight to see, and then the four of use went to Kutsher's, the 100 year-old hotel where we spent the night. I was amazed that the hotel, though effete, is clean and very much a large snapshot of the 1950's. I was quite dismayed that the "oldtmers" are about my age: they had been young children at much the same time I had been a little girl! The jewelry in the boutique store looked as it did some 50 (!) years ago; so did the clothing.
The next day we stopped at Woodbury Commons. It was very hot, but everyone managed to shop.
Then home. I think we all had a very nice time, though we are not headiing back in that direction any time soon.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Gardening:Mid-August
Having been in toxic shock all of July, it is a bit startling to go out back and see the enormous growth of vegetation. Many of the petunias have already gone to seed and need to be pinched back; the balsam stems are filled with seed pods; some have aready popped; some will pop very soon. The impatiens, usually a bother, are just right this summer; the hibiscus plant, sent by Lodie and Judi, is amazing, and will have to be transferred from the pot it arrived in straight into the autumn ground.
One truly shocking fact of life this year is the general lack of insects. The only bees around are the tiny ones with small yellow stripes, possibly not even bees at all. What has happened to the lusty bumble bees that used to hunker over my flowers, and how will we get them back? Occasionally a moth will still fly out of a flower bed when I water; this is fun to see. But not one centipede (thank goodness) this year; hardly any flies, and only one ladybug (maybe it will bring good luck). Where have all the bugs gone? (Surely the baking powder that I conscientiously pour down my kitchen sink drain isn't enough to keep all the centipedes away.)
I am sorry I missed July, but will now make the most of what is left of August. And I look forward to the uniquely autumnal pansies and cabbages, which are certainly coming soon....
One truly shocking fact of life this year is the general lack of insects. The only bees around are the tiny ones with small yellow stripes, possibly not even bees at all. What has happened to the lusty bumble bees that used to hunker over my flowers, and how will we get them back? Occasionally a moth will still fly out of a flower bed when I water; this is fun to see. But not one centipede (thank goodness) this year; hardly any flies, and only one ladybug (maybe it will bring good luck). Where have all the bugs gone? (Surely the baking powder that I conscientiously pour down my kitchen sink drain isn't enough to keep all the centipedes away.)
I am sorry I missed July, but will now make the most of what is left of August. And I look forward to the uniquely autumnal pansies and cabbages, which are certainly coming soon....
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