poem

Mom, I thought of you today
and the way you'd pin
a scarf to your hair sometimes. You never said
it was what your own mother had done
in the shtetl, across the sea, every day of her married life.
You never asked me to do the same, for perhaps
the covering of your head represented only a gesture,
the fix for a bit of unruly hair some afternoons,
two pins haphazardly placed, one over each ear.
Who will ever know?
All that I know is of your beauty:
how that slight tuck of hair enhanced
the best face I have ever seen.
I,the ugly duck, you,the queen of sequins and the divine,
each serving her duty to the other:
mother to daughter, daughter to mother,
played out one million times before.

In your last photo, taken on the front porch,
your face takes on the look of an entire generation.
Tumor hidden, a simple transcendent light
glows from inside your brain. You display
only a slight backward glance.
You would be dying soon, and it was fine;
years had played themselves out,
and you had chosen your next in line.
All was well: You had transferred your hell.
The Queen is dead; now lives her broken shell.

ellen moser
for mom's 104th birthday

Dream, May 2, 2008

I am hopelessly and terrifyingly lost, even on the streets of Sea Gate.

I have lost Jeff, and cannot find him.

I search for Greg and cry out, "Is Greg gone too?"

I finally find Greg. He refuses to believe Jeff is lost.

My car is lost; cannot get anywhere.

I am walking the streets of Sea Gate, naked to the waist:exposed. Nobody notices.

Won't someone in the world please help me?

untitled

the day the music died

Sweet Simples

The sweet simples of sanity:
My love,
when you went away, I doted on the dance
of dust in sunbeams; I lived by the placement
of spoons; the arrangement of rooms; the presence
of spools and needles and pins and threads that kept me
walking through days and space without you.

We were the simplest of simples:
blood reds, bone whites, mud browns.

Sweet solid simples! Grain of wood
on old tables; the tiny rims of thimbles;
melted- down candles;
jars of Indian head nickels.

O simple simple simples.

em
8/05/02

Poem, for Jeff

That time I was in heaven,it was pink with flowers.
The pink was essential pink, or perhaps platonic
pink, so pink it was. My baby boy flew
through the pinkness on angel's wings,
his sunlit hair down to his eyes but blocking
his vision not at all. (The sunlight, you see,
carried such blessing.)There were Greg Daddies
all around, and so easy to catch one. "Please,
Daddy, read me "Charlotte's Web" just one more
time, and of course he did, each time you asked.
So many happy leaping piggies! So many
miracle webs! SOME PIG! Some Daddy!Some Mommy,
fighting her way back to the world of pastries.
A long time from now, Mommy will hold her one true
Love in that very pink flowery heaven
And we will kiss all sadness away.

e. moser, heart on fire

For Molly, by Carl Dennis

For him to remember what he was
Back in the days he knew the truth
You knew, loved what you loved,
Would be to bear on his back a grief
Too massive for the narrow door of his house
On the quiet side street, where his one wish
Is to sleep through the night unvisited.
So your face is airbrushed from the photograph,
Your name erased from the history book
Of his little country, the thoughts
That could testify on your side
Banished to a cold Siberian wilderness
To die unmourned for, with no witnesses.
You are the only archive now of a state too small
For any stranger to care how it once was ruled
In the old days, under the old king.

May a town that loves the truth
Be yours one day and invite your chronicling.
May you love the honest talk of the town square
And the gentle way the shoppers push through the aisles
With their shopping carts and exit to the lots.
The school bus stops at the crosswalk in the dark,
Its lights flashing, and the children climb aboard.
Your life will serve them as a guide and, later,
When they travel and can make comparisons,
They'll understand how rare their luck was.

But if no town receives you and you lose heart
And fall away from the woman you once were,
You won't pretend that she never lived, as he does.
You'll be sad to think how far you've come
From the customs of her country.
You'll be happy you can still remember her.

Crying

Crying has been in the news a great deal lately. Coincidentally, I have been giving a lot of thought to the topic of tears.

One shabbos night, the rabbi started explaining tears to Iser. Some, it seems, come out of tear ducts; the rest leave the body through special tubes in the nose.

"Oh," said Iser excitedly. "That is why a nose blow is different from a crying blow," causing the rabbi to nod his head appreciatively.

Now, think for a moment: Why did Hillary's tears make the headlines? Because she is a woman, and would-be female leaders commit political suicide when they show emotion? Because she IS a woman, and wanted to show that she can cry openly, unlike most men, who are, at best, emotionally constipated? Or because the whole nation, the press being bellwether for the entire U.S.of A.,has such mixed feelings about tears that they did not know what to do with them? Mock them; praise them; ridicule them; sympathize with them - qui sait?

As usual, the private is political and vice versa. The people around me hardly know how to react when I cry. I try to remind them that shed tears contain harmful stress hormones; after all, everyone knows the research results that showed major differences in the compositions of "real" tears and "tear-jerker" induced tears.But even this knowledge is no comfort: When I cry, people leave the room; make jokes about faucets; turn their backs and even leave the house and marriage. After crying, I always feel better and have to start rounding everyone up again.

So why the great ambivalence? Nobody freaks (except brand-new parents) when a baby cries; nobody (that I know of) goes nuts when a puppy starts yip-yipping. Why then are adult tears so hard to tolerate?

The answer must lay somewhere in our archaeological past, but where? Did crying signal imminent death? (What a riot must have ensued when Christ started crying blood.) Did people actually start crying blood when things got bad enough? Were tears the last outburst of fluid when a woman was about to die in childbirth? Or what? Sometimes people try to fake tears: crocodile tears. (Do crocs pretend to cry?) Other times people laugh, even when the going becomes rough, until they cry: laughing with "yashtikahs" (salamanders). Other times people cry tears of pure joy. (Where do the stress hormones go then, or is it that even pure joy is stressful?)

Anyway, I'll let you know about the tears at Jeff and Sheryl's wedding next week. I really think that paying someone to apply makeup may be a bit of a waste of money, unless of course all the ingredients will be waterproof plus,,,,

The Innocents Aboard

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!!!!

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.

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."