FRIENDS WE HAVEN’T MET

Back when I was young and foolish, I thought that there was no rhyme or reason to the people who peopled my life. I just thought that the universe was random. If there was a Higher Power, it was capricious and inscrutable (apparently, lazy in spite of Its omnipotence). Therefore, I gave no thought to the meaning of chance meetings.

I think everything changed for me when I faced a life-threatening illness four and a half years ago – this on the heels of having lost my father only a month before. Suddenly, life looked very fragile and precious to me. I know, it’s the oldest story in the book, but there it is. For a while, I didn’t know whether I would live to see the next Christmas. I had watched my father’s life sputtering out for months. Now I myself faced the same possibility. I had no choice but to get very philosophical.

As I lay in the hospital bed after surgery (and by the way, “hospital bed” is a misnomer – they are really examining tables with hard pillows) – personnel wandered in and out of my room at all hours. There were doctors, nurses, technicians, orderlies, candy stripers, even clergy. In the haze of my medicated state, they all seemed like angels to me. Every single person who walked into my room had their own story, their own problems, their own pain. And yet, they came to give me their undivided attention, their compassion, and their energy. It sounds strange, but during my hospital stays I felt amazingly safe and cared for. I could feel the prayers of friends and strangers being sent up for me before and after my surgery. When transfusions were given, I could sense the love with which people who had never met me had offered up some of their life force so that I could survive.

I must note that I was extremely lucky in that my family made sure I was never alone in the hospital. My sweet husband, my mother, my sisters, all took turns staying with me. They had a round-Robin (literally) in which one would walk in with their overnight bag when the other walked out. My family supported me in such a way that I could not possibly come to harm. I know that, and I want to thank them for the zillionth time for their untiring love. When I was too groggy to know the difference, they would make sure that the medicine in the IV matched the medicine prescribed in the chart. They would ask the doctor or the nurse to go over instructions for home care for the fifth time. They would ask for more medication when I was in pain. So I want to take a moment to acknowledge that, too. Everyone needs at least one good advocate in the hospital, not because there is anything wrong with the people who staff the hospital, but because hospitals are typically understaffed; you have one talented and dedicated person trying to do the work of five talented and dedicated people.

I guess you could say that all of this made me grateful. I am filled with gratitude for the kindness I have received over the past four and a half years. I have developed a theory about all this, too. I think that whatever the Higher Power (I don’t think He/She cares what name you use) – there is a carefully orchestrated reason for each encounter in our lives. Looking back now, I can see it with much more clarity.

When we moved to Kingston Springs, Tennessee from Los Angeles, California, we unknowingly bought a house next door to two of the dearest people we had ever met. J.P. and B.B. turned out to be so much more than good neighbors. They are, to this day, our close friends. I feel that B.B. is my long-lost sister from Mississippi. J.P., as it turns out, is an artist and musician with whom we have a lot in common. We could never have planned that. But Somebody could.

We came back to Los Angeles a few years ago to be with family. Just recently, we have been befriended by a neighbor two doors down. She is so much like I was at her age, and in some ways, so much like I am now, that talking to her is like talking to myself. We had an instant rapport, and I believe we will remain friends regardless of where life takes us.

A chance conversation with a woman in my chorale got me in touch with a fantastic voice teacher who is a mentor and a kindred spirit. Even though I am not taking voice lessons right now, I know that I have a great deal more to learn from her about many things, and we will remain friends.

And now, even when we go to a restaurant, I see the person serving our food as someone with whom there is a relationship, no matter how brief it might be. Why were we assigned to that particular person? Are they in need of cheering up? Am I in need of cheering up? How can we serve each other?

My mother-in-law, a wise woman who has taught me a lot, has a favorite adage. It would be easy to dismiss such a statement as a cliché. But a cliché only becomes a cliché because, darn it, they’re usually true: “There are no strangers; only friends we haven’t met”.

ADOLESCENCE

A couple of days ago I called an old, dear friend of mine. She was in a funk. It turns out that her sixteen year-old (let’s call him Matt) has been acting out lately. He’s been “obnoxious”, “unreasonable”, and “mean”. He tells my friend (let’s call her Suzanne) – He tells Suzanne that he wants to go live with his father (let’s call him Henry). Suzanne has been more than a model mom over the years. She has been generous, sensitive, responsible – the kind of mom who bakes for the PTA fundraiser. The kind of mom who chooses to live on a farm far from the city so that her child can experience being in touch with nature. The kind of mom who home schools her child to help him through the tough years following divorce from Henry – and enjoyed doing it. Suzanne is brilliant, funny, unconventional in the deepest sense, sensitive, caring. So naturally, like any parent, she wonders where she went wrong.

Here is the answer in a nutshell: She didn’t.

We all seem to have amnesia when it comes to the teen years. We don’t remember the kind of cruel remarks we casually dropped to our parents – mothers in particular, I think, because they are less threatening than dads. We don’t remember how we plotted and schemed to break the rules in creative ways. We don’t remember our experimentation with the forbidden – cursing, smoking, drinking, drugs, and sex. Somehow or other, we must spend our time from the age of, oh, twenty-five to the age of forty, rewriting our histories.

We do remember that we were good students, good citizens of the world, idealistic, loyal, hard-working. And while all of that may even be true, we choose not to remember how we told our parents that they were hopelessly old-fashioned. We don’t remember how we questioned our parents’ motives, thinking that their rules were all a plot to squelch our happiness.We don’t remember how we practically jumped out of our skin trying to escape the family home. We don’t remember how we mocked our parents’ music, their values, their taste in clothes, their politics, even their religion. Maybe it has something to do with parenthood itself. I think if you have your own children, you feel obliged to forget your own sins. That way, you can look your child in the eye and say, “I NEVER DID THAT!” - and not crack up.

My friend Suzanne is one of my favorite people in the world. I admire her in every way. But, I’m sorry. When you look up the word “rebel” in the dictionary, there is a great big picture of Suzanne! She practically invented outrageousness. Her parents are gone, now, but I would love to have had the chance to interview them. I would love to have heard from them first-hand some of the shenanigans she put them through. It doesn’t make her any less wonderful in my eyes; just more of a human being.

It is our job between the ages of about 13 and 20 to differentiate from our parents. Boys must separate from Mom so that they can identify more with Dad and begin to evolve as men. Women, on the other hand, must separate from Mom so that they can define themselves as not Mom, and begin to evolve as women and seek out a partner other than Dear Old Dad. The stronger the attachment to Mom and Dad, the more wrenching the individuation process must be.

Matt is a very normal young man who is struggling with his independence. He has a formidable job, since his mom is such an incredible woman. I don’t envy Suzanne this stage in his development. No matter what I may say, it’s rough on her. But wait ten years or so. It will all be worth it when he comes to his senses. Then, it will be his turn to “forget”.

SOME OF THE PEOPLE SOME OF THE TIME

I promised myself I wouldn’t write this, but I couldn’t help myself.

During the summer of 1970 I traveled to Europe. I traveled with a group of students on a tour bus which took us through France, Italy, and Switzerland, and I had the incredible good fortune to actually attend classes at the University of Geneva and to live in a Swiss dormitory for a couple of months. It was a transformational experience for me.

Before leaving, I did a little bit of research. I wanted to look European. I wanted to act European. I did not want to be the stereotypical “ugly American”. I spoke with some seasoned tourists who explained that in Europe (at that time) women were expected to dress in skirts that fell below the knee. That I should dress very conservatively. That women should never travel the streets alone – especially in Italy – or else I might risk being mistaken for a “professional”. Women were supposed to walk down the streets arm-in-arm with other women. Never at night! Never alone! I was told to mind my manners, to address adults formally as “Monsieur”, “Madame”. I was told not to “tutoyer” anyone (in France) – that is, not to use the familiar “tu”, but to use the more formal “vous” when speaking with strangers. Dutifully, I went shopping and came back with a couple of scarves to tie over my head, and two suitably drab dresses that hit at mid-calf, exactly the least flattering place they could hit. I pulled my curly hair back into a tight bun and wore “sensible” brown shoes. All of this making me appear both matronly and prim, if not downright homely, even at the tender age of 19. My European disguise was complete, or so I thought.

What I did not know, as I took off from La Guardia Airport one warm June day, was that all the frumpy clothes in the world could not disguise my nationality. Everywhere I went in Europe, before I even had a chance to open my mouth, I was spotted as an American. People refused to address me in any language except English, although at the time I spoke fluent French. It puzzled me for the longest time. After all, I was only a second generation American. My grandparents hailed from Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Romania. I could easily “pass”, or so I thought. When I related this experience years later to friends who were very experienced world travelers, they nodded their heads knowingly.

“It’s the walk”, they explained, “the way you carry yourself. You can spot Americans a mile away”. It’s our attitude. It comes out of having been born into a free society that honors individuality and independence. We can’t help it. We just feel entitled. We take up more space on the sidewalk. We walk with our heads held high, our gaze direct and unselfconscious. It’s a wonderful thing, when you think about it.

While I was in Europe, I was given a tiny taste of how things could be otherwise. I remember being stopped on a train every time we got to a border. We had to whip out our passports and answer questions. I vividly remember when we crossed over to England on a ferry on the way back home. The authorities questioned me as if I were a hardened criminal. They wanted to know what I would do in England; how much money I had in my possession; whether I had relatives in England; how long I planned to stay; whether I planned to work, with or without a work visa; where I planned to lodge . . .It seems like the questions were endless. While staying in a hotel in France I had to surrender my passport. This struck me as distinctly creepy. Even in Western Europe, I could feel how different life is outside of the United States. When we touched down in New York, I felt like bending down and kissing the ground. It’s hard to explain to an American who has never been abroad, but it seems like everyone I’ve spoken to who traveled abroad felt the way I did.

So why am I reminiscing?

I am afraid. I am very afraid. We have already had four years of a president whose core support comes from the so-called Christian right. He doesn’t seem to have any respect for separation of Church and State. Whether he is willing to say so out loud or not, I think he would like to turn the United States into a fundamentalist Christian theocracy. That’s a strong allegation, I know, but it is my honest opinion.

Let’s forget the fact that the Bush administration is so heavily weighted toward Big Business. Let’s forget that the president has the diplomatic skills of Genghis Khan. And let’s not discuss his leading us into a war that is becoming a worsening quagmire every day based on faulty intelligence, if not out-and-out lies.

This is an administration that is willing to amend the Constitution in order to further his anti-gay agenda. . I fail to understand the argument that gay marriage would somehow erode or destroy the “sacred institution of marriage”. Baloney.

He says he is concerned with the rights of the unborn, and that is his rationale for putting a lid on stem cell research. What about the rights of the already born? My cousin has been suffering from ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) for over five years. There is no sign of a cure on the horizon, although stem cell research holds the most promise right now. How should we explain all this to my cousin’s two children, his wife, and the patients in his once-thriving medical practice, which he had to abandon as the muscles in his body froze, one-by-one.

And, if Mr. Bush had his way, Roe v. Wade would be overturned. Do we really want to go back to the days of back-alley abortions? Because that would most certainly be the result.

This is an administration, in short, that would like to shove its extreme Christian fundamentalist views down the rest of our throats. This is an incursion on one of our most basic American convictions – that every citizen has the right to worship (or not worship) according to the dictates of their own conscience, and by extension, that each of us has the right to a lifestyle based on our own beliefs. (I was taught in fourth-grade Social Studies that my rights stop where your rights begin, and this simple common sense principal has always stood our country in good stead).

I’m worried that if the current administration manages to finagle its way back into office for four more years, we Americans will lose something precious. I imagine us diminished in our own eyes, as well as in the eyes of the world. I imagine that our country would be less secure than it is now, since we would have alienated so many of our friends. I imagine us walking a little slower, our gaze lowered, our shoulders slightly stooped. Maybe we wouldn’t be so easy to recognize on the streets of London, Rome, or Madrid. That would be a sad thing.

All of this is only my opinion. I tried to keep silent. Oh well. “You can please some of the people some of the time. . .”

SOME THOUGHTS ON VOTING

Two weeks until the election. I’ll bet you’re as tired as I am of hearing about it. I think maybe one of the reasons so many people fail to vote is that by the time the election rolls around, they’re convinced that they have already voted – over and over again.

Think about it. We keep hearing the poll results from the media. It’s like checking your pulse every five minutes. Is my heart beating now? What’s the rate? Will it go on, or will it suddenly stop, say, in the next five to ten minutes? And if my pulse is racing, what are the long-term ramifications? Am I temporarily excited or am I about to have a coronary? Yes, I would love to stop checking my pulse, but when you’re talking about pulse rate, five minutes can be an eternity. I must check it, again and again, so that I will know with certainty what will happen in the next five minutes. After all, the pulse rate today, maybe blood pressure tomorrow. Insane.

From the time I was a little girl I heard my father saying that the electorate in this country was complacent, lazy, underinvolved. I always thought it was true. Now, I wonder if the truth is just the opposite. We are overinvolved. We have been systematically desensitized by a flood of media hype. It doesn’t really matter where your own particular brand of politics happens to fall; you, my fellow citizen, have been numbed by an avalanche of overinformation. (Not, of course, accurate information. Here, the media has given us a word for the phenomenon: “spin”).

The politicians, of course, are equally to blame when it comes to spin. After all, if public opinion hands you a lemon, you must make lemonade. Perhaps one of the most famous (and pitiful) examples of spin is, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is”. Yes, if you’re caught with your pants down (literally) you have to spin till you’re dizzy. But Bill Clinton did not invent spin, and, although he was a brilliant politician, he wasn’t actually a master of spin. (That’s why it was so pitiful). I have much better spinmeisters I could point to, but that might make me look partisan, so I’ll pass. Besides, what difference does it make? Everyone does it. It is the political equivalent of wearing make-up. You go for the illusion of being natural. No one actually expects you to be natural. And whether you favor the Tammy Faye approach or the Christie Brinkley approach, everyone knows you wear make-up. Can you name one supermodel who doesn’t wear make-up? Aha! That’s my point.

So, here is what I intend to do for the next two weeks. I intend not to watch television news. I will watch “I Love Lucy”reruns. I will write my blog. I will read another book in the Mitford series. I will stay close to my loved ones. I will clean house and make dinner. I have already gone over my ballot and I know how I will vote. Unless something earth-shaking happens between now and November 2nd, there is no more information I need. So, hopefully, by November 2nd I won’t be too burnt-out to vote. I will remember that I haven’t really voted before in this election, although I may have dreamt or imagined that I voted in this election hundreds of times.

I hope you will vote, too. In real life. On November 2nd. Even if it seems like you’ve “been there, done that”. You haven’t.

MALLED 2: SHOP TILL YOU DROP

MALLED

Yesterday, my sister Michele and I rendezvoused at the Beverly Center in order to buy birthday gifts for our other sister, Sherry, and our mom, who turns 77 today. This does not seem like an unreasonable or Herculean task. Rather, I imagined, it would be a pleasant two-hour diversion. A time for Michele and me to do some serious girl talk, sip cappuccinos, and shop. Can you think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon? (Okay, granted, this particular piece is skewed a little in the feminine direction).

We synchronized our watches for 1:00, Macy’s handbag department.

The first thing I realized, after years of planning such outings, was that I was going to be late. I had a 10:30 hair appointment, and typically, I would not be out of there before 12:30. (This has more to do with my friendship with my hairdresser than with the requirements of coloring my hair, which she could do in her sleep in half an hour). So I called Michele and we agreed to meet at 1:30 instead of 1:00. In this way I would avoid rushing.

As it happens, my husband, Art, needed the car while I was getting my hair done, so he dropped me off, and when he picked me up, he was hungry. He wanted to go out for lunch, but clearly there was no time for that, so we went home and I made him a sandwich. We were done eating by 12:55, and I had it in my head that if I left by 1:00, I would be able to comfortably make my 1:30 ETA. Then I realized that our cat, Henry, was looking longingly at his empty food bowl, so I stopped and fed him before I left.

I got in my car and turned on the radio. The announcer stated that it was 1:13. One thirteen? I was sure my watch was right. It had to be 1:00. I looked at my Timex. One thirteen. I tore out of the driveway, headed down the street, and drove straight into the parking lot on Barham Boulevard, which was usually more like the Indy 500. I crawled all the way down Highland Avenue, behind buses, behind trucks. Meanwhile, I remembered that my sister had begged me to keep my cell phone on and handy (just in case of a delay).

Now, you have to understand that there is a philosophical difference between my sisters’ view of cell phones and my own. My sisters treat their cell phones more or less as extensions of themselves. The cells appear to be on and functioning 24/7. I have often had long, heartfelt conversations with both my sisters while they were negotiating their way through traffic. To them, this is the logical use of a cell phone, and the logical way to use what would otherwise be wasted time in traffic. My own cell phone use is restricted to emergencies and situations where I just find it much more convenient than walking to the nearest pay phone. I don’t know my cell phone number. I never call it. I don’t keep my cell phone on when I’m not using it. Nobody ever calls me, anyway because they know I won’t pick up. I am rattled on the rare occasions that the cell phone does ring, because it sounds so alien. I am just getting used to the fact that in order to “pick up” on a cell phone you have to press the “Send” button. In order to turn it on you have to press the “End” button. (???). Furthermore, like Spiro Agnew (may he rest in peace), I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time, so my attempts at driving and using the cell phone have been almost nil, and on the rare occasions when I thought, “Okay. How hard can this be?”, I have nearly wrecked the car.

But there I was at Fountain and La Cienega, still a good ten minutes from the Bev Center and maybe fifteen minutes from Macy’s handbags, and still slogging my way through a maze of red lights, jay-walking pedestrians, double-parked Rolls-Royces, and large, cumbersome buses. I had prepared for this by deliberately turning on my cell and putting the ear piece in my ear so that I wouldn’t have to risk the microwaves next to my head or hold the phone while trying to steer. I waited until there was a dead stop – that didn’t take long – and I squinted to look at the miniature numbers and dial Michele’s cell number. Suddenly, I went blank. Was it 2-7-3 or 2-7-8 or 4-7-3 or 4-7-8? I tried all of them. No Michele. I kept getting some guy’s voice mail. If he has caller ID he’s going to wonder who was calling and hanging up time after time. You see, in my panic, I couldn’t remember which numbers I had tried. When I looked up, cars were honking at me, and the traffic had begun to move. I abandoned all cell phone activity and decided to just drive and hope for forgiveness.

I made the parking lot by 1:43. There was a long, long line of traffic wending its way up the spiraling platforms looking for open spots. Thank God for fifteen years of training from Art. I knew what to do. I looked for the sign marked “Valet Parking”. I followed the arrows. I stopped where it said “Stop”. I was practically hysterical by this time, so I wasn’t too concerned about the price. (It clearly stated, “$5.00 for the first three hours, $3.00 an hour after). “Oh, what the hell” I reasoned. I could still taste the bitter gall in my mouth from the last time I had lost my car in the maze of a similar parking structure. It was worth every penny.

I got my ticket for the car, shoved my keys into my purse, and began running. The attendant ran after me, “Miss! Miss! What about the keys?!”. I ran back and gave him the keys and ran into the elevator like a maniac. It was now 1:45. The elevator landed me at the Macy’s Men’s Department. “Perfect”, I thought. “At last something that works!” You would have to have a fairly intimate knowledge of the Beverly Center to know that having arrived at Macy’s Men’s Department does not mean that you have arrived at Macy’s. I quickly determined that and began running down the nearest corridor craning my neck for signs. I finally found Macy’s. I got on the escalator which carried me down to the first floor, and I ran toward the smell of leather. The handbag department. At last!

Michele was there, browsing in the handbags, not seeming to be in the least bit bothered by my tardiness. I was sweating by now, hot flashes coming fast and furious. I meant to apologize, but the first thing out of my mouth was, “I hate cell phones!”. She said, “I love them!”. Then I apologized, and she was gracious and unfazed. I took a deep breath.

“Okay, let’s shop”.

(To be continued.)

NATASHA

You may not want to hear from me today. My head is muddled. I have so much on my mind that there is almost too much to write.

Yesterday morning we lost our dear, sweet little Natasha. Our angel girl kitty. For anyone who has ever been through it, no words are necessary to describe our grief. For those of you who have not, no words are sufficient.

I miss her every time I look at our bed. Our bed was Natasha’s domain. She spent every possible moment holding court there. Sleeping there. Dreaming there. Cuddling with us. Banishing her little brother, Henry. When I was sick or discouraged, she was “Nurse Natty”. She would just appear and come to wherever I was. She would sit on me and purr endlessly until either she or I had to get up. She had magical healing powers when she did that. Natasha was regally beautiful. She commanded respect. She had her own kind of intelligence. She could be very funny. When Art came in to the bedroom, she would flirt with him, rubbing up against him, nuzzling him. Then she would flop down on the bed. Art would say, “Come on, Natty. Show us what the girls in Hollywood do!”. And Natty, on cue, would roll over on her back, paws splayed, showing off her perfect white tummy for all the world to see. God, we would laugh so hard. And I think she was laughing with us.

Many times I dreamt that Natasha could speak English. I would dream that she was standing at our back door, yowling to go out. I would hear, “Meow! Meow! Meow!”, and I would stand there, helpless. Wondering why she was crying. And she would say, “MEOW! MEOW! ME! OUT!!! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you speak English?”. I am convinced that she understood every word we said. Of course, we struggled for the most rudimentary understanding of her feline language. I’m sure it was a constant source of amusement to her. Stupid humans.

For fourteen wonderful years, Natasha graced our home. She enriched our lives. She was our friend, our child, our guardian angel, our baby girl. I hope with all my heart that she is, not only finally cured of that nasty cancer, not only out of pain, but triumphant, soaring, blissful, at peace. Finally, our delicate little one is in perfect health. I envision her in a place where every iota of her beauty, her generosity of spirit, her sweetness, her grace, is reflected back through a Benevolent Being. I would like her to be in a world where she has access to unlimited catnip, beautiful birds that she can chase down who magically resurrect themselves for the next chase, endless warm summer sun baths. Perhaps she is playing with Charlie, our partly feral grey and white kitty with whom Natasha was raised. (They were polar opposites in personality, but they loved each other). I see her surrounded by her littermates and her Cat Mother/Father. I see her in fields of sweet fragrant flowers that tickle her nose, and a protective mantle of love that enfolds her and protects her for eternity.

And Art and I will join her there some day. We will all be happily reunited. And finally, we will all speak the same language.

SAYING GOODBYE

It is our last day in Connecticut. Tomorrow it’s back to Los Angeles after a three-week sojourn in New England.

Goodbyes are so hard, and even harder in autumn. Autumn is the time of year when we say goodbye to summer, to warm weather, to ice cream, to green, to bare feet, to skimpy outfits, to drive-in movies, to suntans and convertibles and all that they imply. We say goodbye to so much, and now we have to say goodbye to autumn itself, since we are going back to Los Angeles where autumn is mostly a non-event. After all, the palm trees stay green, the weather stays warm, and some fools even go swimming in the ocean in December! So, not much changes in Los Angeles.

I am especially sad right now because we have just learned that our darling baby kitty, Natasha, is a very sick girl. She has always been a delicate flower. She was a foundling who showed up in our carport one very rainy morning the day after Christmas. She was obviously of Siamese ancestry, with something softer mixed in. She had piercing blue eyes and a commanding voice that said, “What are you waiting for? Take me home!”. But underneath the regal bearing was a vulnerability that was even more compelling. We dutifully tried to find her owner, hoping that we wouldn’t. No one claimed her, and from that day forward, we felt that she had been sent to us straight from God. We have had Natty with us for almost fourteen years. There have been many illnesses to contend with. She has had asthma, infections, “Bird fever” and often what the vet referred to as “NQR” – “Not Quite Right”. But she was always taking care of us. We have often called her “Nurse Natty”, because when one of us is feeling under the weather, she will simply sit on us, purr, and within seconds we feel better. Natasha has always been an angel. I guess she is being called home.

When we left Los Angeles, we had just taken her to the vet. She appeared to be in pretty good shape, considering her age, with some suspicion of problems with her thyroid, a common ailment for aging cats. We thought that when we got home she would be seated on the living room sofa pretending to ignore us, as she usually does when we are guilty of abandoning her for a week or two. We had left both the kitties in very capable hands. We have the best pet sitter in the world – a woman who appears to be a cross between Mother Theresa and a women’s basketball coach. Very practical, no nonsense, and totally caring. She called me a couple of days ago, concerned that Natty was losing weight and acting lethargic. I knew she would never have called for something even remotely frivolous, so I asked her to take her to the vet in my absence, which she graciously did. My heart sank, even before I had called Dr. Basilius.

But when he called me to say that Natasha had a mass in her abdomen – that had not been there at all two weeks ago – my heart sank further. I was seized with guilt for having left her for too long, but then realized that, although our absence may have been the proverbial last straw, her illness must have been waiting in the wings for any excuse to rear its ugly head.

The doctor will do all he can to make our girl comfortable, at least until we can be there Friday morning. He says we can take her home, at least, for a little while – for which I am grateful. So long as she is not in pain or suffering, I would like to have some time with her. I would like to bring her home. I would like to have her cuddle up with us in bed again.

When we flew to the East Coast three weeks ago, we were on a “mission of love”, coming here to help Art’s parents move out of their beautiful old house and into a more comfortable and practical smaller home. We were coming to help and be of moral support to Art’s brother who was facing a difficult medical challenge. We were coming to buy a small home of our own here in Connecticut so that we could spend more time with Art’s family.

Now we are flying back to the West Coast. This time our mission is to spend whatever time remains with our beloved Natasha, to comfort our poor “orphaned” cat, Henry, who has been alone for the past few days in the house, save for Mary, his sitter. To reconnect with our family in Los Angeles, whom we have missed terribly and who have missed us.

There is so much melancholy in all of this, and yet. How sad it would be to fly back and forth, without connections, without the tug on your heartstrings saying, “Stay – Don’t go!” “Come here! We need you!”. So it is with very full hearts that we bid adieu to our home in Connecticut and travel back to our home in California. We are very grateful. We are surrounded by love.

HOME

We all know what a house is. What is a home?

I think in my lifetime I have moved about twenty times. Every time I moved I called the place I lived in “home”. Even when Art and I are staying at a hotel, we talk about “going home” at the end of the day. It’s amazing how adaptable we are.

But all of this became a relevant topic for me in the past few weeks. My in-laws are in the process of moving. They are leaving their home of forty-eight years, a large, traditional, Cape style house built in 1756. It had originally been a stagecoach stop; a place where people might come to stay the night before moving on to their ultimate destination. It has been added on to a couple of times. What was once a ballroom on the upper floor has been divvied up into several bedrooms and a bath. It has been moved from its original site (although not very far). It still has its original wood beams and wide-planked wood floors in some rooms. There is an original fireplace in the living room. The original house is so old that behind the original lathe and plaster walls, the insulation consists of old newspapers. There is a gracious old maple tree outside the house that provides ample shade in summer and a gorgeous display of foliage in the fall. The saplings that my father-in-law planted some forty odd years ago are now towering pines. What was once a meadow beside the house is now a thick wood. My in-laws still sleep in the same double bed they have throughout their marriage. The floors creak. The doors squeak. The rooms are drafty and are expensive to heat. There are squirrels in the attic. There are mice in the basement. There is a leak somewhere around the chimney. The view across the street is of a farm. The well water is consistently the best water I have ever tasted. There are two buildings on the property besides the house; there is a barn used for storage, and a store. My mother-in-law had a little country craft boutique there for many years. Before that, my father-in-law had a gas station right next door.

This is the place where my husband’s family grew up – the ancestral home. It was the site of many a birthday party, Christmas celebrations, Thanksgiving feasts, and two spectacular parties, one on their fiftieth and one on their sixtieth wedding anniversary.

On Thursday the movers are coming to pick up the furniture. A great deal of the furniture will have to go into storage. They are moving to a much smaller house. It is a neat, white, two-bedroom ranch-style house only a mile from where they live now. But you would think they were moving to another planet.

This house was built around the middle of the last century. It has a dishwasher, disposal, and city water. The basement is large, but the dining room is small. There is no fireplace. There is no second floor. It is next door to the Town Hall. There is no farm across the street. The lot is a tidy green square.

There were a lot of good reasons for the folks to move. The old house had become very demanding, of late: “Fix my chimney!”, “Wash my windows!” “Clean my gutters!” “Clean my septic!” “Paint my sides!” “Trim my trees!” “Weed my garden!” “Rake my leaves!” “Replace my heater!” The list was endless. Marge and Ed have worked so hard to keep up with it all, but at their stage of life, they simply had to let it go.

So, sadly, but bravely, they made their decision. The house they are moving to will be smaller, less demanding, more accommodating to their practical needs. I have no doubt that we will all miss the old house. But the little white house next to town hall will become a home. In time they will imbue it with their spirit. It will be a warm, lively, generous home that will have the smell of apple pie and freshly brewed coffee. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren will come. Trees will be planted. The neighbors will visit. There will be family gatherings at Thanksgiving and Christmas, although they might be a little cozier. And it will be a great place for Ed and Marge to begin their sixty-sixth year of marriage.

Home is a state of mind. It is a place in our hearts made manifest in wood, plaster, paint and glass.

GOD LAUGHS

A couple of days ago we were at the hospital visiting my brother-in-law, who had undergone surgery two days before. He was having a tough time, as the surgery was extensive, and they had him on a lot of medications. We were there to give him moral support and comfort.

I was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed, engaging in light conversation. All of a sudden, I got a stomach cramp. I told myself firmly, “Not now!”. I shifted in my chair to get more comfortable. Then I began to feel nauseous. I began to count backward from 100, trying to get into a meditative state. As I was counting backwards, I looked around the stark hospital room. My brother-in-law, Eddie, dressed in the ubiquitous hospital gown with the blue pattern on white, was hooked up to all kinds of I.V. tubes – Saline solution, morphine drip, catheters – he looked like the bionic man. I felt at that moment somewhat divided from him, as is always the case when the relatively well come face-to-face with the relatively unwell.

Now the nausea was beginning to get more intense. I began to feel very warm. I began to sweat profusely. I bent down in my chair, once again trying to find out how best to get comfortable. I vaguely heard my husband, Art, ask if I was okay. I mumbled, “I don’t feel very good”. Someone said, “Put your head between your knees”, which I did. Meanwhile, Art went out to the hallway to get a nurse.

Next thing I knew, a couple of nurses were in my face, telling me to sit up and asking me questions. I began to vomit. Someone put a bed pan in front of me. Once I had vomited, I began to feel a little better. I heard myself say, “I’m okay.” But the nurse said, “We’d better send you down to emergency so they can take a look at you.” I kept apologizing – to Eddie, to my husband, to my mother-in-law, to my father-in-law. It had not been my intention that day to add to everyone’s troubles. Had I had any inkling that I was at all under the weather, I never would have come to the hospital. And I was embarrassed. I mean – here I was making a scene, when Eddie was the one who truly needed attention.

Well, they put me on a gurney and wheeled me down to Emergency. Art stayed with me. A reasonable facsimile of Doogie Howser, a very nice young man, came in and questioned me. It seems they were afraid I was having a heart attack. Someone asked me if I was pregnant, which was the comic relief of the day. I had to take off my sweater and replace it with a hospital gown. As it turned out, they took some blood from me (they had trouble getting me to bleed, and I thought I would have another episode just from all the prodding). They took a chest X-ray. They gave me an EKG. Then, they decided to give me some I.V. fluids. Finally, I could see my reflection in the glass of the double emergency doors. I was a patient. There was no mistaking it – the hospital gown, the I.V. It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. For several hours I lay there, dextrose or saline solution dripping in to my veins, my name written on a big chalkboard. Nurses and technicians and Doogie dropping by every so often to reassure me that they were just waiting for results of all the tests.

Finally, at about 7:30 in the evening, the results came back. All was within normal limits. I could dress and go home. The I.V. was taken out. The official diagnosis was a “pre-syncopal episode”. The reason, basically, “who knows?”. The hospital gown came off and my sweater was returned to me. I got down off the gurney and walked out with my husband and my in-laws. For me, this time, it had been a five-hour ordeal, but it was over. Eddie was still up there on the sixth floor.

Sometimes odd things occur in our lives, and we are left to make sense out of them. I think maybe I was over-identifying with Eddie, and maybe that was the beginning of my feeling woozy. Or maybe I ate something that wasn’t quite right. Or maybe it was the smell of disinfectant in the hospital. Or maybe it was a combination of everything. But this time, I was okay.

It was a reminder to me that our lives can turn on a dime. Here we are, planning for our futures. Putting money aside for our “golden years”. We can’t help but see the future stretched out before us like a long, unending road, dotted with pleasant memories, holidays, grandchildren, perhaps travel, retirement, gray hair, learning a new language, hard-won recognition of our accomplishments, and the list could go on endlessly. But there is a Yiddish expression that translates to, “Man plans. God laughs”. We are allowed the illusion of having control over our lives, and within the larger framework, to some extent, we do. But the Big Picture is beyond our mortal control. And a little reminder such as I had the other day is a blessing. It forces me to remember that every day is precious. Every breath is precious. Our time here is limited, and we are definitely not in charge. Someone or something else is running the show. And whoever or whatever It is – It’s got a great sense of humor.