Angel

It was a chilly day in January. I was a new mother, trying to figure out how to work my newborn into the everyday tasks of my life. Things were great when we were home. All the gear I needed was available at my finger tips. It was packing to get out of the house that made life challenging. Did I pack the bottles? Did I have enough diapers? What if I need something I didn't bring? It was quite overwhelming at first. This day was no different. It was the six week check-up for my newborn Jacob. I was still struggling to physically feel like myself again. Don't get me wrong, I was loving motherhood. But admittedly, I was still quite emotional. I had finally come to terms with the idea I could not breast feed, and though seeing Jacob finally put on some weight, thanks to bottle nourishment, I was still harboring a bit of guilt. I knew I had somewhere to be, and if I dwelled on the little things, I would never get out the door and to the doctor on time.  Not having my husband home meant I had to get the baby and the stuff out on my own. I was already feeling rattled. But I buckled my little chicken in the car seat, and we were off.

I can't recall, but this may have been the first time we drove anywhere alone. I had to take my eyes off the baby in order to drive, and I wasn't altogether comfortable. I drove along apprehensively, much the way a new driver does. It was an awkward carefulness. Jacob was a bit fussy in the back, not an all out cry, but enough to make me a bit anxious. I was rigid and guarded, and I just wanted to blink us to the doctor. I was in the left lane, up against the median, because the doctor's office would be a left turn. Out of the blue, a car on my right swerved toward me with no notice at all. I was blocked in between the car and the median and my reflex was to pull away from the car, so I jumped the median curb and slammed on my breaks. I was up on the median with my right tires hanging out in the lane. I freaked out and started panting and Jacob must have reacted to the sudden motion of the car and my panic, and began belting out a tiny but fierce baby cry. 

I couldn't get to him, because there was no safe way for me to get out of the car, and I had to get us back and moving. I was panicked because it was the first time I hadn't thought about an asshole driver pissing me off, I was worried about the safety of my baby. And my heart was pounding out of my chest. I could barely choke back my own tears. I calmed enough to get us safely back in the lane and continue to the doctor. My hands were shaking, my baby was wailing, and I just wanted to go home. I turned on the radio softly to try and settle my nerves, and out of those speakers came the soothing sound of Sarah McLachlan. In the arms of the angel, you may find some comfort here. It didn't take but one or two bars, before Jacob and I had calmed. He stopped crying, and I stopped shaking, and together we got through our first trauma. 

I know it will sound like a generalization, but I kid you not. From that time on, whenever I put that song on the radio, my Jacob would calm and coo, and often fall asleep. It became my go-to song in the car, and with the exception of one or two times, it always worked. Sarah's Angel gave us comfort wherever we were.

Bubbie

Bubbie, I want to learn how to cook our family recipes. Can I make copies? These were my words to my Bubbie, my mom's mother, when I was finishing up college and planning to get married. I wanted to be able to cook all of our favorites.

Why don't you come over, and I'll show you. It was like a golden ticket to the best of the culinary arts schools in all the world. And it was mine. And it was free of charge.

A roundish woman in her 80's, with a beautiful, full head of silver hair, my Bubbie stood about five feet tall. Maybe. Though I had great love for both my grandmothers, my paternal grandmother died when I was 5 or 6 years old, and unfortunately my memories of her are few. Bubbie however, lived to be 92, and when we moved to Florida in 1987, she became an everyday part of my life. She was such a good cook. Not a gourmet by any means, there was nothing fancy about her cooking, just yummy homemade treats, and lots of traditional Jewish fare. Hands down, the. best. matzoh ball soup. Ever.

I remember the day I went to learn the recipes. I brought a notebook, but it did little good. There were no recipes! Everything she made was from her head, the way a true cook creates. No instructions, no measurements, just a little of this and pinch of that. And of course she always reminded me, The most important thing is to put in lots of love. That's what makes things taste so good.

She amazed me. I think back now about that day, and it could have very well been a cooking blog, or a story cookbook. I don't think I wrote a single thing down, I just watched her. Every time she did something, she told me a story or explained why she did it a certain way. She was a product of her generation, she grew up in the Great Depression. Everything got used, and nothing goes to waste. Only need an egg white? Find a use for the yolk. Or freeze it for use later. Thanksgiving Turkey picked clean? Use the carcass for a pot of turkey soup. Like so many others from the time, she remembered throwing whatever they had in a pot to make soup. She ate chicken parts that made my sister and me squirm.

And kitchen gadgets? She didn't have any. Her favorite tool was her hands. I remember as she poured eggs from one bowl into a mixture in a another bowl, she used the side of her hand to wipe out every drop. Not a rubber spatula, but the half inch-wide surface created from the tip of her pinky, down to the heel on the side of her tiny little hand. The most advanced kitchen gadget she had was an electric juicer. I ended up with it when we cleaned out her place. I still have it. It makes me smile when I use it to squeeze fresh orange juice.

I loved to watch Bubbie cook. I loved the smells in her kitchen, and my Zaza trying desperately to wait for the latest dish to be presented for tasting. She didn't even seem to mind when he grabbed something off the plate to taste before it was formally presented. He loved her cooking. We all did. We could taste the love in every bite.

Dads

"Forget AIDS,  I'll double bag it every time. I do not want to be a dad." I nodded, agreeing he was too young to have children. "Not now, not ever. I never want to be a dad." I was perplexed, and couldn't help but respond in surprise.

"Really? You don't think you'll want to have kids some day?"

"Nope. I never want to be a dad. Dads are assholes."

 And he swore, as much as he liked girls and acting like a player at only 16-years-old, he'd always use condoms because he never wanted kids. Okay then. We left it at that. My high school students, mostly boys, needed this class. But we agreed we would be open, not personal.

**

We connected on FB several years after he graduated. I taught this kid for four years. I got to know his family, and he worked for my husband on weekends. I have a book's worth of stories about him and his classmates. We were a family. I handed him his diploma when he graduated. I always had a very special place in my heart for him. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm getting married," he told me. "And I have a kid on the way." I wasn't sure how to react. I waited for more information. "Yeah, it wasn't planned. But we're going to make a go of it. I love her, and I'm not going to leave my kid without a dad." He insisted they were happy, so I was too.

**

The other night, after several FB posts reflecting on personal growth, I started to become concerned. I had seen similar posts over several days, and I was worried. He and his wife had moved up north to be near her family. Last I heard he had a great job, a beautiful little girl, and he and his wife were doing great. But the daddy pride and family photos were replaced with words of wisdom embedded in reflective memes.

I messaged him, "Everything okay with you kiddo?" He's about 30 now, but I'll always think of him as one of my boys. And I always called him kiddo.

"It's been a rough year, but I'm getting better." I didn't even inquire further. I didn't need to. "I just got out of rehab." All of the air pushed out of my lungs. My cheeks flushed and I wanted to cry. I wanted to give him a hug.

"Well that's bad and good, right?" I was appealing to the fact he got help.

"Yeah, I got caught up in all the wrong crap, fucked a lot of stuff up." We continued with banter about the Miami Hurricanes (he's a big fan of my alma mater), and he told me he was back in Florida living with his aunt and trying to get back on his feet. In between the small talk, he dropped bits about what was happening. "I'm learning a lot about myself. There's a reason I got the way I did." It seemed positive he was doing the personal work one needs to do when dealign with addiction. He shared that he likes his sponsor. And as I wondered what happened with his wife and daughter, and where they were, he let it all out. There were lots of drugs and alcohol and partying, and he was living what he described as a shady life. And he got caught and that sent him into a downward spiral resulting in more of the same. He lost control and knew it, so he asked his mom for help and they checked him into rehab. And he seemed remorseful. "I just don't want to fuck my daughter up. I lost everything."

And we talked some more, and I offered support. He was excited his daughter was coming for a visit after the holidays. He and his wife were at least on speaking terms. I reminded him nothing is impossible, and while I made no crazy promises about what I knew nothing about, I encouraged him to believe it may be repairable. He has some work ahead of him. But I'm certain about one thing. Not all dads, not even the ones with problems of their own, are assholes. At least this one isn't.

Me, Myselfie, and I

I posted a new profile photo today. It's been a really long time since my Facebook profile pic was actually a photo of my face. To tell you the truth, someone from long ago trying to find me would have a difficult time figuring out it was me because my profile is usually a sports logo or something related to writing- like a photo of my hand holding a pen and resting on one of my journals (one of my favorites). I post a lot of stuff on FB, mostly photos of my son and my dog, writing I've done on my blog, food I've cooked. But rarely do I post a photo of myself. I can probably count on one had how many times I've taken a selfie- if I could even remember when they were. And I've been thinking about this lately. Why don't I ever post a photo of myself?

Thinking back, I think the last time I had a photo in my profile was when I graduated with my doctorate. I had to submit a photo to accompany my dissertation defense announcement. A teacher friend who does photography on the side, snapped a photo of me in the courtyard at the school where we worked. She did a great job, and I thought I looked alright, so I decided to use it as my profile pic. Can't quite remember what I had before that, but it was two and half years ago. The photo remains as my Blogger profile pic (you can check it out to the right ->) but before too long, I changed it on FB.

So why don't I use photos of myself for my Facebook profile? I hate to be cliche and obvious, but I think it's a lack of love for myself. Like so many, I generally hate the way I look in photos. It's safer to use my interests than my face. I guess I don't take selfies because I don't like looking at my own face. No matter how much I try to improve my self image, to remind myself I am a beautiful creation of G-d, I still struggle to love myself. And I got to thinking, how am I going to change this?

Recently, I started focusing on things I do like about my appearance. They're hard to come by, but I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. Kicking self-degradation is just like kicking any other bad habit, and you have to give it deliberate effort. So, I started with my hair. Hands down, the feature I am most complimented on is my hair. Naturally curly, and naturally highlighted by the sun, my hair gets a lot of attention. I've actually grown to appreciate it. I don't do much to it chemically, so it's very healthy. This would be my focus for learning to like my face.

I started by taking selfies around my room and bathroom on days I liked my hair. I tried them in different light and at different angles. I marvel at these people who get so many great angles in their cars and the bathroom. Maybe it's because I'm short (and my arms are too?) but I struggled with this. Looking up, looking down? The latter makes you look like you have a double chin. I trashed them all, and tried again another day. Same thing happened over and over again. I realized I would never like a photo of myself because I'm not happy with myself. I've put on some weight and I can see it in my face. My eyes are dark because I don't get enough sun on my face. And holy crap, I'm getting crows feet around my eyes!

And then I realized, all of that is part of me. I can get a tan. I can lose weight. The wrinkles are just part of life. I need to learn to love myself and take care of myself. If the selfie is a reminder that my face looks fuller than I want it to be, only I can do something about it. If I need a little color back in my skin, I have to get myself outside more. But hiding behind a Dolphins helmet, or a Hurricanes logo, or my writing hand, is just plain silly.

So I took another photo and I posted it. Now my profile is the real me. Ready or not, here I come.

Heartbreak: A Micro Memoir

One of my writing group buddies attended the Sanibel Island Writing Conference this month, and she shared a new form she learned about in a workshop. It's called Micro memoir, and after reading a couple of hers I couldn't resist the urge to to try it out. So, here it goes...


"Since we're going to get married," I told him. "I need to tell you something." I confessed to my fiancé, lying on a bed cuddling, that I had been with another guy while we apart in college. In his heart I think he knew it, but I needed to make sure we didn't start our marriage with a lie. I worried because there was no explosion. Just a long silence. He said he'd get over it and he still wanted to marry me. I said I was worried he'd hold it in and later hold it over my head. I was relieved because I was able to shed the weight of a secret, but I was nervous he'd never get over it. And we moved on. At least we tried to. Twenty years of marriage, a solid and faithful one, and we never spoke of it again- until a couple of weeks ago when I was reading aloud a stupid Signs You Know You're Soulmates or in a successful marriage or whatever list on Facebook. Amidst the list items about laughing at each other's jokes, enjoying each other's company in silence, blah, blah, blah, it said:

"You've never broken each other's hearts." 

I said, "That's true."

He said, "Well..." And we both knew exactly what he meant. Ouch.

Lacey

I never fancied myself a dog person. I had nothing against them, I just wasn't impressed. My parents had a dog when I was little, an oversized Yorkie whose legs were long enough that his hair didn't even sweep the floor. He was cute enough, but I remember little about him. His name was Ralphie, and my mom and dad hated when the vet or groomer put the traditional Yorkie bow in his hair to keep it out of his eyes. He was a boy for goodness sake, and boys do not wear bows. Other than that, my memories of him are unfortunate and few and far between. Dad trying to give him a bath while he shivered liked a hairless Chihuahua, and the end of days when he was constantly messing in the house and my parents were angry and stressed about it. That and the time my mom was devastated because by dad and grandpa took him to a vet on a family trip to visit my cousins in Massachusetts, because the decision had been made that at 17 years and poor health, it was time to say goodbye. That was when I was in elementary school. We never got another dog, and I was never one of those kids who begged for one. Again, I had nothing against them, but I could take them or leave them.

Eventually my parents split up and we moved to Florida, there was never a pet conversation. Two of my best pals in high school had dogs and so did my boyfriend. The experiences were mixed. It never occurred to me to ask for one of my own. My sister and I even got my mom a cat one year as a present- my horrific allergy to them didn't develop until a few years later. But, no dogs, no problem.

In the spring of 1995 when I graduated college, my husband and I got engaged and moved in together. It only took a few months before he was driving home from work and saw a box of puppies on the side of the road. Yup, just like a movie, some guy had a box of puppies and was trying to find homes for them. Pet them, say how cute!, and then leave without one? Not a chance. My soon-to-be husband brought us home a 5 week old puppy. To a rental apartment. To house train. Yay.

Don't get me wrong, I liked the puppy. She was cute as only a puppy can be, and she was a mutt of lab and something with short legs, and maybe pitt. She was fun until she started tearing up the place.  We paid quite a few penalties in pet deposits over the next couple of years. But she was my husband's dog. He was devastated when we had to give her away because she didn't take kindly to sharing her daddy with a newborn baby. Faced with a choice between Jacob or Dusty, Dusty had to go. It was unfortunate, but necessary. And truth? I never really missed her. I was too enmeshed in becoming a new mother.

Dusty did leave something behind though. Back before Jacob was born, we dog sat for a couple of months for a friend who was moving and was in between homes. We were all young, and we collectively made the stupid and irresponsible decision to allow our dogs, not spayed or neutered, to get together and have puppies. Fortunately, the puppies were so dang cute we had no trouble finding homes for all of them, and we kept one for ourselves. Our dog was blonde, and the dog she mated with was jet black. Together their puppies were all black and white splotched like cows, except one. The runt of the litter was cinnamon brown with Cleopatra black markings around her eyes. For that, we named her Cara (face in Spanish), and kept her with her mama. She adjusted a lot better to having a baby at home, so she stayed with us when Dusty had to go.

So Cara was our family dog. Jacob loved to chase her and lay around with her, and looking back, I'm grateful he grew up around a dog from an early age. He's never been afraid of dogs and he has a love of and a respect for animals. I've written on this blog before about how much we moved around in the early days of our marriage and Jacob's childhood, and Cara's future would be caught up in that chaos. We bought a house and about two years later, sold it. We decided to rent for awhile to see where jobs and things would take us next. To save money, we asked my dad, who happened to work from home, (one they owned) if he would take Cara for awhile so we didn't have to pay the enormous pet deposit required by our new leasing company. Dog lover at heart, he was happy to oblige. And that was the end of that. Dad and Cara got so attached to one another, she never moved back in with us. We got to see her every time we visited, and we all promised Jacob when we bought a house, we could get another dog.

Jacob and Lacey the year we adopted her.

It was right around his 7th birthday when Paul and I decided we were ready to think about getting a dog. We were renting his parents' house from them, so no pet deposit required. There was a fenced in backyard, and boy was Jacob ever ready. We piled in the car and explained to Jacob that we were going to the Humane Society to visit with dogs and possibly adopt one, but there were no guarantees. The experience was one I will never forget. The procedure at this particular location was for visitors to walk up and down the aisles, identify dogs they were interested in, and then meet them one at a time in a visiting room. From there people could determine if they wanted to adopt the pet.

We walked gingerly up and down the aisles. I'm not sure if we all had different images in our minds of what we were looking for, or of it was all random. One thing was for certain. We did not want a "little yappy dog." We wanted a good size dog, kind of like Cara. We selected three and notified the
attendant. We were escorted to the visiting room. I remember it like it was yesterday. Rectangular, like the size of a large walk in closet with glass windows overlooking the main hallway. Across for the door where we entered, there were two chairs, where Paul and I sat down. Jacob stood between us. The first two dogs were brought in. One I don't remember at all, the other I remember as cute to look at but nothing notable in the way of personality.

Enter dog number three. This latte colored labbish kind of mutt with white cream spots on her paws and neck, sauntered in and walked around the three of us in a circle, sniffing and wagging her tail. She had perky ears, and when her tongue hung out of her mouth it appeared she was smiling. She completed the circle and stopped right at Jacob's feet and sat. And that was all she wrote. We talked with the attendant, learned the little bit of history they had on her, and Lacey went home with us that day. We kept the name she came with, she was 2-years-old and they explained to us the only way to change her name without confusing her was to make it something that sounded similar, like Casey or Lucy. We didn't give it another thought. She was clearly a Lacey.

I could share lots of stories about how great of a pet she is- how great she is around kids, how adoringly cautious yet friendly she is around strangers, and how she likes other dogs, unless they growl at her first. I can tell you she loves popcorn and will leap in the air to catch it, and like many dogs thinks ice cubes are treats. She's a licker too. And I don't just mean a little lick if she likes you. I mean she licks her bed at night before she gets in it, licks the sweat and drool off Paul's pillows, and she loves to lick feet (especially mine)! Don't judge her, it's a dog thing. She makes a wide-mouthed growling sound when she needs to go out, and Paul has convinced himself she's saying "out."  We've taken her camping and on road trips, and even people who aren't dog people have told us how great of a dog she is. Like other dogs, she loves to cuddle and go for walks and I think her favorite is just laying out in the grass on a sunny day. She really is the greatest dog.

Lacey resting on my knee as we waited
to be called for the ultrasound test.

And it was just about one week ago, when it felt like the world stopped turning. Lacey wasn't her usually spritely self and was showing signs she was sick. After a visit to the vet with blood tests, urinalysis, and whatever else they do when they take your dog to the back, things were not looking good. She was beyond lethargic and she was not eating. We had to carry her outside to pee and upstairs to the bedroom with us at night. All signs were pointing to a problem with her kidneys, but nothing in the test results was helping the doctor nail down the cause so she sent us for an ultrasound. By this time Lacey was clearly in pain and we had a hard time fighting back tears every time we looked at her. The ultrasound showed she had blockage in one of her kidneys, a mass of sorts and it was stressing out her body. The vet prescribed medication to help fight infection and treat the pain, and we waited on a more detailed report.

She seemed to bounce back a little bit and we were hopeful the medication was taking effect. The radiology report would lead to an order for another test when they would draw fluid from her kidney to determine if the mass was cancerous. Once again that test laid her out and we started to wonder if it was the end for Lacey. There was a lot of crying and concern. She seemed so uncomfortable and so lifeless- so far from the giddy, goofy dog she'd always been. We started to prepare ourselves for the worst, still hoping we wouldn't have to say goodbye. Finally after a week, yesterday we found out it's not cancer. At least no sign of it at this point. The vet has ordered a lengthy dose of heavy antibiotics and Lacey is starting to seem a lot more like herself. We're not sure she's completely out of the woods, but for now she seems comfortable and that means we are more comfortable too.

Jacob laying with Lacey on her worst night.

She's 12-years-old. Of course as pet owners you know the time will come eventually, we just weren't prepared for it to come so soon and so suddenly. Cara passed a couple of years ago, and it was tough. But we were distanced from it because she didn't live with us anymore. My dad was absolutely wrecked, and now I know why. Lacey has become a member of our family. A part of us. I never thought we'd lose her before Jacob left our home. I suppose no matter when it happens, we won't be prepared. But I wasn't prepared for how painful it would be for me. My heart hurt watching her suffer, watching Jacob lay over her in tears that she might be leaving us. I had difficulty leaving her to go to work, putting my head down to sleep. I kept wondering if that would be it. It felt as though the world was standing still. And now, at least for the time being, the world is back in motion. In another couple of months we'll take Lacey for a follow up ultrasound to see if her kidney cleared. If it does, she's in good shape. If it doesn't, we'll have some decisions to make.

For now, we try to resume our lives. Iguess I really am a dog person. I know I'm a Lacey person. I'll cherish every moment we have with her, and just hope when her time has come that she goes the way we all hope to, peacefully.

Lacey starting to look and act a little more like herself.

Lacey checking on Paul during a road trip.

This is one of the funniest pictures.. Jacob, Max, and I were all sitting in on a counter in an archway on the day we moved out of our house in Lehigh. Jacob was holding the phone up to take a selfie of all of us and he caught Lacey in mid-air jumping on all fours- another silly thing she does!

Still

How can things keep going

when it seems my world has stood still

while I wait, hopeful but scared

I try to work, try to clear my head

only to feel cloudy and unsure

of what to do next, how to keep going

Does she know what's happening to her

is she waiting for answers like we are

desperate to know if she will recover

She lays restfully, medicated and mellow

for her day's activities haven't changed

like mine have, trudging through the mud of fear

Today, another test to get some answers

about whether her body can fight

whether the doctor can work magic

And we keep working, 

and the world keeps turning for everyone else

as mine just stands still.