Women

Release of Israeli Hostages: Relief, Anger, Hope

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The difference was stark: the best of humanity and the worst of humanity on a stage in the middle of Gaza. Four young women, Israeli hostages held by terrorists for 477 days in darkness and deprivation, overcoming whatever new fears arose as they were finally out in the open, but now surrounded by hundreds of masked, armed terrorists still chanting for their destruction, smiling, supporting each other, giving a thumbs up—which seemed to me to be a glorious middle finger—to the assembled horde. 

Humanity vs. inhumanity. Love vs. hate. Hope vs. destruction. Light vs darkness. Good vs. evil.

How does “the world” give validation to these terrorists, all men, in new uniforms, faces completely covered, standing shoulder to shoulder, lacking in individuality or signs of humanity for whom intimidation and brutality—in displays and actions—are their essence and existence. The scene felt like a thin veneer covering the flames of hatred bred from birth. Not a drop of remorse for what they made these women endure. An entire society raised to hate with their putrid intentions aimed at Israelis and Jews, for now. These women survived that. What will they see when they close their eyes, trying/crying for sleep, for the rest of their lives? My heart continues to ache for them.

So much light coming from the four young women who survived hell and were about to return to the heaven that is home: family, friends, and a community that cares for their well-being. They seemed to reflect the light that hearts have been sending to them for 11,448 hours of prayers.

Watching them on that stage, alive!, in pain and joy, is to know what it means to love someone you will never know. A pure love. One soul, somehow, connecting to another. This is what it means to be part of the Jewish people. It must be an essential part of the Jewish survival instinct.

קול ישראל ערבים זה לזה

Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh.

All Jews are responsible for one another.

(I thought I should talk about the masked men brandishing their weapons, directing the red cross and these four young women, and last week the three young women who were transferred in the middle of a mob that was barely tempered by civility, coming out of tunnels to chant for death, proclaiming that this is victory. But I decided that I don’t have to think about them or the people who think they are heroes. No. This is all they get. Perhaps the next generation (of both), or the one after it, can be saved from barbarity?)

“What three words describe how you feel now?” was the prompt in an online Havdalah service for women that I attended Saturday night.

“Relief. Anger. Hope.” My response. I wasn’t surprised to see that many of us included “anger” in our trio.

Relief for the hostages who have already been released (exchanged for terrorists, murderers, but that is another discussion).

Anger that the Jewish people are again/still suffering from antisemitism, and that there are those who see Jews as less than.

Hope, Tikvah, תִּקְוָה. The sentiment that binds us, that the Torah inspires in us, that our history demands of us.

My fourth word: community. I am not alone. You are not alone. We are. We are here for each other. We will be.


Caregiving and Maintaining Inner Peace

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The other night, in preparation for my study session with my Mussar partner, I read about the soul trait of zerizut (zeal, enthusiasm, promptness, engagement), which is “our capacity to bring our choices into action.” Before I could think about where I am on the scale (from procrastinator to serial project-completer), my mind, as usual, went to my interactions with my mother.

Looking out into the early autumn darkness, before my reflection in the window became clearer than the scraggly winter garden, I started to cry. Not a sad cry. An angry cry. This living arrangement is impacting me—the inner me, not just the spending-so-much-time-organizing-her-life me—more than I realize. Can’t I just be me?

When I moved out here in May, I knew that I would bring her, but now that she’s here, I feel what I’ve lost, not what I’ve gained. I miss my independence and solitude. I miss thinking of myself as a good person, not one constantly confronted with shortcomings: impatient, annoyed, selfish. I know that we don’t get to choose the challenges we face, but the degree to which they can force us to redefine ourselves is annoying, to put it lightly.

While I refuse to sacrifice myself to her, it’s not easy when confronted with degrees of her helplessness and dependence; and my pity and sorrow for her coupled with my, still, lack of privacy, even though I have my own physical space.

Knowing that assisted living is a viable option, peeking and tempting, helps keep me from completely losing it.

Her stubborn (yet understandable) desire to think that she doesn’t need any help makes her assert that we’re just two women living together and that “I’m fine on my own, don’t worry about me, I can manage.” This from a woman who finds pants increasingly complicated, as is taking a container out of the refrigerator and putting it on the kitchen table. Moreover, her lack of acknowledging what I do for her feels like it diminishes my actions and is a bit of a betrayal. It’s not that I need a constant “thank you,” but an understanding of what I do for her feels necessary for a better home atmosphere (read: my mood).

Now, calling up my zerizut, I need to figure out how I can adjust my perspective to be less impacted by her. This is my life and I need to stop feeling that I’ve been “invaded.”

In talking to my Mussar partners from a previous course, they suggested that I focus on the soul trait of equanimity (menuchat hanefesh) or inner calm, to re-balance myself. The idea here is that you should be a surfer riding the waves of life, not letting the waves overpower you or disrupt your inner peace and presence. By working on this, too, perhaps I can figure out how to protect myself—the person I am outside of being daughter and caregiver—so that I don’t let resentment become a huge wave crashing down on me.


A Caregiver’s Search for a Caregiver

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Thursday, Nov 14

1:47 PM: “Hi, I was wondering if a caregiver will be coming to stay with my mother tomorrow from 10-2, as I talked about with the in-take nurse on Monday.”

“Let me check with our scheduler and someone will get back to you.”

5:30: “Hi, Laura. We don’t have someone to start tomorrow. We do have someone who picked up the job for Monday, so we’ll start our services then.”

Monday, Nov 18

10 AM: The doorbell rang and a lovely young woman was there, ready to help my mother and give me a break for four hours.

Friday, Nov 22

10:18 AM: “I was wondering what’s happening with the caregiver who was supposed to be here at 10?”

“I’m so sorry, but she called at 10:05 to say that she’s vomiting. You were my next call to make, but I got inundated with calls.”

“Do you have someone else who could come?”

“No, we don’t have a back-up. I’m sorry.”

Monday, Nov 25

9:44 AM: “I’m calling to let you know that the caregiver who was going to stay with your mother today has a temperature, so we’ll have to cancel. I can see if someone else can pick up the job. We do have someone who picked up the job for Friday.”

“Later today doesn’t work for me. What about Wednesday?”

“I’ll put it into the system and see if anyone picks it up.”

Tuesday, Nov 26

1:17 PM: “Hi, I’m calling to see if someone picked up my job for tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to check and I’ll have someone get back to you.

4:06: I called another agency. When the woman I had been in email contact with answered, she said she had called me a few times earlier in the day. Turns out she dialed the wrong number. We made an appointment for her to meet us on Tuesday.

Wednesday, Nov 27

9:55 AM: I left the house for a couple of hours, knowing that no one was going to stay with my mother, but I had plans and I needed to get out, and I told my mother where her lunch was.

10:20: My brother in New York: “Mom just called to say a girl is there to give her a bath. She said she called you but you didn’t answer.”

There had been no calls from my mother. Using the phone has become a technological challenge that sometimes confounds her.

10:21: “Hi, Mom. Who’s there with you?

“The girl who came last time is here.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“Hi, thanks for being there with my mother. I didn’t know you were coming today, but I’m glad you’re there.”

10:24: “Hi, scheduler. I was calling to find out what happened today. No one told me that someone was scheduled for today.”

“When we talked on Monday, I told you I would reschedule the Monday person to Wednesday.”

“You said you would try to find someone to take the job and that you would get back to me to let me know. I’m really annoyed. I called yesterday to check and no one got back to me.”

“Do you know who you spoke to?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’ll try to clarify and I’m sorry about that.”

In Florida, the caregivers who came for five hours once-a-week were mostly middle-aged women from around the Caribbean. There was never a time that I scheduled someone and no one showed up. Here, apparently, it’s mostly women in their 20s, setting out on their careers. I’m not sure what conclusions to draw. Maybe it’s cold and flu season here in the Pacific Northwest (someone suggested handovers), and, clearly, this is not a smooth-sailing process. It (as in my mother) is all on me, even as I try to dump it on someone else for a little while. I also see that as much as I think I may not be organized, at least I’m not in a job where that’s all I need to do and I’m failing at it.

Another conclusion is that it’s lonely being a caregiver. While I love my mother, who has always been supportive of me, I don’t want to hang out with her, even if it means that I miss some of her childhood-in-the-Bronx stories. What I get out of her living with me is that I’m doing what I feel I should do, with a smattering of want-to-do, as well as a heavy feeling tinged with guilt and the responsibility of “honor thy father and mother.”

Wednesday, Nov 27

3:38 PM I received an email saying that today’s caregiver felt that my mother wasn’t kind to her and that she wouldn’t be returning.

Of all the issues relating to caregivers, it never occurred to me that there would be a clash of personalities. A young Oregonian meeting an elderly New Yorker. Ok. I see the possibility of misunderstanding forthrightness and brusqueness, and my mother’s general frustration (which says more about how she feels about herself not being her usual self than how someone is helping her). Onward.

Friday, Nov 29

10:00 AM A knock on the door. The scheduled aide was there, ready to start.

I could have hugged her before she even came into the house. She’s a woman in her 60s who looks like she can handle my mother. When I left, she was putting my mother into my new winter coat (she was not letting my mother wear just a vest) and my gloves (we need to do some winter shopping), getting her ready to take a walk around the neighborhood. I’ll hold off on my “Hurray for mature women!” but I’m letting myself feel optimistic.

The image of a rollercoaster comes to mind when thinking of the past two weeks. But so, too, is the insight that life is for living, which means to “expect the unexpected” and deal without getting angry or losing my equilibrium. I’m living, making the best out of what happens, being responsible, and making time for myself and what I need. Maintaining an inner calm despite the turmoil is essential self-care and self-preservation.

2:54 PM I received an email that the caregiver enjoyed spending time with my mother and that she would be back on Monday.

That email made me glad I hadn’t lost my balance within when dealing with this external issue. Caregiving my mother is certainly not a challenge I expected, but it’s the one I have and I’m going to use it to try to become a person version of myself.


Shuffling Off to Assisted Living: My Mother’s New Home, Temporarily

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We're each slugging along at our own pace.


Once the decision was made, the rush was on to find an assisted living community for my mother. The plan was for her to live there until she was strong enough (or convinced enough) to move out to where I live. This temporary solution in assisted living is called respite care, which is a way to hike up the monthly rate by providing a furnished studio apartment for up to 90 days, but at least you don’t have to pay the community fee (a one-time fee of several thousand dollars) or move in with any more than your clothing and a few family photos.

Being there would also be a break for me from being around and on-call. After having put my new life on hold to return to a place where I never felt at home, I was increasingly feeling that it was a sacrifice. I needed to leave before resentment billowed.

In a month, I’d return to take her to a follow-up medical appointment (after, thankfully, my brother and sister-in-law flew down amid Hurricane Milton for the procedure that should have happened when I was there but had been postponed) and pack up the clothes she wanted to bring with her. They will barely fill a suitcase, since so few clothes fit her since she’s shriveled in the past year. After living in Florida for more than ten years, her wardrobe is decidedly not appropriate for anything chillier than an air conditioner on full blast in 100-degree weather.

I’m trying to envision and manifest us living together in joyful harmony, her in her part of the house and me in mine, having an aide come regularly to help her and free me from taking care of her bodily functions. Would this test the limits of honoring one’s mother? What would I gain and lose in the arrangement? And, being honest with myself and my roommate limitations, I also wondered what she would gain and lose in the arrangement. To be ready for the failure or the reality (framing is key) contingency, I already visited an assisted living community in her soon-to-be hometown.

How people do the assisted living search when they work full-time or live out-of-town and possibly with youngish ones at home is beyond me. It was all-consuming: finding the places (even with the help of ‘A Place for Mom’) and getting input from people who’ve been down this road, conducting phone interviews and checking out websites, to winnow down the list of places to visit for what the standard mid-day hour-long tour. At least it was a short burst of time, but still, thinking about where would be best for someone else to live is not an easy task. It’s like looking for a present: when does what they want overtake what you would want to receive?

After visiting six places in one week, I was ok leaving aside the tainted word “facility” and using the more pleasant “community.” But “facility” had been hovering over me as I began the search, remembered the overwhelming smell of urine and decay from visiting my grandmother when she was in an old-age home. I had feared what I would face, and how I would rise to the occasion of needing to have a life but also respecting my mother’s right to live in a stink-free environment. Is the smell, I wondered as I was told the costs, the difference between what each could afford?

When I started the search, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but when I finished, I realized that there were a few pass/fail elements. Obviously, no smell. This was a challenge that each place I visited passed.

Next was length of hallways, which was not something that had been on my list before I started my visits. With most residents using walkers (my mother now included in that number) or wheelchairs (where they propel themselves by their feet, shuffling while seated) this turned out to be very important. It was surprising, then, to see that some corridors were so long that I figured this was how they got around providing daily exercise classes, since just getting to the dining room was an exhausting hike.

The dining room and food were, of course, important. This was one item that my mother was interested in, asking to see sample menus. She was pleased to see that pork wasn’t the mainstay of the place that I thought best for her.

The daily activities were also important for me, and I studied the calendar from each place as if it was a college course catalog. My mother, who thought that she would get out of doing any exercise and just sit in her room like at home, was less than enthused about the daily chair exercise and brain twisters that I was excited to tell her about. Once she won a round of trivia with her knowledge of baseball, thanks to my father and his love of New York baseball, she found this activity to be worthy of her time. We were both pleased to see that bingo was only a weekly event and that she could nap in the afternoon when the card players took over. I bet the dollar I put on her refrigerator door for bingo is still there.

Still to come. The people I met during those assisted-living community visits, with some positive stereotyping. How my mother turned from a non-believer to a believer. Re-living the stress of a high school cafeteria.

Have you been through this journey? I’d love to hear from you.

 


My Mother Can’t Live Alone Anymore: A Tough Realization

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In a recent conversation with my 90-year-old mother, she said, “Someone asked me what’s my last name and I couldn’t remember.”

“Did you eventually remember?” I asked, stunned.

“Yes,” she said, before moving onto telling me what she had for lunch, which she had already told me.

When we spoke, I was in my relatively new home in Oregon, where she is to join me, and she was in the assisted living community in Florida where I brought her a few weeks ago. The distance was tangible.

Have I been delusional about her mental acuity, I wondered. I had noticed that she was forgetting things (thankfully, this was after she stopped cooking for herself, so we skipped the burning the toast, the kettle, and the house phase) and repeating stories, which I had (mostly) stopped calling her out on because what’s the harm in her telling a story again (and again and again) when the telling gives her so much pleasure (and, surely, I can survive a little boredom for her to feel that she’s having a wonderful conversation with her delightful daughter). But this does seem to be another step in her cognitive decline. On the plus side, it’s an opportunity for me to work on the character trait of patience.

It was sudden. At 90. This need to go to assisted living, even if temporary. It was a before-after experience, where before she was out and about, driving herself to visit sick friends and shopping for new clothes, until she had an undiagnosed illness (with virus being the vague explanation) that resulted in a brief hospitalization at 89, and health issues every few months since then. Prior to that, she had been hospitalized in her 50s for women’s issues.

Which means that I’ve had many years of her good health during which I would see how other people’s parents have gotten cancer, or body parts replaced, or rapidly declined, or withered away. I expressed my concern for them and their parent (practicing the character traits of compassion and humility), giving them the opportunity to take all the space they needed to figure out their thoughts and, hoping—praying—that I would never have to deal with any of that myself. Now it’s my turn. And it is a lot. The switch from carefree retired adult to caretaker of parent (at any level of care) is not easy. On the bright side, I still respect her even after seeing her naked and being confronted with my extreme dismay at having to deal with someone else’s bodily functions, when that person is not an infant. There’s definitely a reason I never went into the medical field.

After a few weeks in rehab and then back in her apartment when I was visiting, she didn’t follow the plan and return to her old spry self. There were falls, because how does a woman who strode along the avenues of Manhattan ever get used to using a walker? And there was the confusion, not to be confused with her general lack of interest in anything other than her meals. Once I started cooking for her, I appreciated the “You know how to cook eggs” (stated daily), but not the “What’s for lunch?” while still eating breakfast.

Realizing that I couldn’t take care of her 24/7, as in couldn’t and wouldn’t, I decided (with the support of my brother and daughters) that she would need to go into assisted living until she’s strong enough for me to bring her to Oregon.

Next. Those visits and my insights gained from them. As well as the guilt-not guilt accompanied by my shuffling her off to assisted living.


Sharing Insights: Unnoticed Miracles

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The Miracle of a Forest

Light bulbs do pop in our heads. I know because it happened to me yesterday in the middle of a Zoom breakout room. We were sent there to talk about whether we trust in God, to which I immediately said that I have a hard time with that. But then the woman I was talking to asked me the next part of the question: “What are some of the ways you have addressed anxiety or worry in your life?”

In the middle of responding that I’m an independent woman and I figure things out on my own (after an adequate amount of procrastinating), I said that I depend on a few friends for support. As the words were coming out of my mouth, I realized that none of those women “naturally” entered my life or came back into it.

God’s influence, I realized, is not necessarily that of a magician, but rather an improv director, bringing together people who need each other to create a single scene or a few scenes—helping each other live our lives and fulfill our purpose.

Miracles don’t need to be as obvious as a non-burning burning bush or a winning lottery ticket or a cure for an incurable disease. They are gifts that we receive but ignore, perhaps in a closet to be regifted. Or, they are gifts that we integrate into our lives becoming indispensable, for as long as necessary. Grateful for their miraculous appearance.

Who are the miracles in your life?

Today is Day 259 that the Israeli hostages are in captivity. Bring them home now!


Gaining Perspective in Uncertainty

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Not a pity party

On my recent birthday, a friend asked what plans I had. I told her, breakfast at my favorite café (Aioli), lunch with my mother at a restaurant on the ocean (Latitudes), ending with a private pity party, perhaps paired with birthday cake. A realistic plan.

I haven’t done pity lately because of my preoccupation with Israel and the continuing brutal holding and who knows what horrors experienced by the 133 hostages; and the continued rocket attacks in Israel, especially in the north and feeling empathy for the stress that all Israelis are living with; and the parallel stress that Jews worldwide are experiencing because of the events in Israel, the resulting vile onslaught of antisemitism and the dangerous hypocrisy that it breeds. And the sadness at the tragedy in Gaza that a terrorist government, supported by another terrorist government, has caused and continues to cause, abetted by antisemites in high places.

The drive home from the restaurant was along the ocean on the A1A, with its occasional view of the ocean amidst luxury homes and lush tropical greenery. A true staycation feeling. For a moment, I forgot the human-created tragedies and noticed the beauty that there still is in this world.

When I got home, I listened to a new voicemail message. It was from my gynecologist. No, big deal, she said, but call before the end of the day to discuss the results of my annual exam.

The no big deal, turned out to be a slight chance of cancer. Ugh. Not the word you want to hear any day, especially on your birthday. But what surprised me was that the celebratory pity party I had planned was immediately replaced by thoughts of gratitude. Of course, I don’t want cancer, and I hope and pray that the follow-up test I took the next week shows that it’s nothing, but in that moment, and since then, I realized that I had no need to wallow in woe-is-me: I am immensely grateful for my life.

Sure, I’d like things to be different, and, yes, I’m working toward that, but all-in-all, my life is pretty darn good. No winter home along the A1A, or even a condo in Delray Beach, or a partner to make my birthday breakfast, but there are people who I care about and who care about me—and I’m retired! And there is purpose outside of myself.

It occurred to me, too, as I tamp down diagnosis anxiety, that the work I’ve been doing on myself, especially since October 7th, probably has something to do with that. My focus has been more on the spiritual and religious, connecting to the wisdom and stories of Judaism and Jewish people: the long thread of life that has been at the core of my ancestors, and of wanting to be a better version of myself, growing from those traditions and accumulated wisdom.

A friend told me that children view people our age as old. We both laughed at the idea of being considered old in our 60s. But, now, sitting here, I kind of like that. Perhaps that explains where I am on my journey: this desire to focus on the transcendent, on being there for others and learning how to do that best, trying to elevate my soul (that which is essence), to keep being worthy of the trust people have placed in me as a person.

Praying for health and peace and compassion.

Follow-up: I'm thankful to say that the doctor said my test was negative. Breathing sighs of relief.


"The Future Is Feminine": Insights from a Lecture

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Recently, I attended an online lecture by a Chassidic rabbi titled, “The Future Is Feminine.” I’m not sure what I expected, but nowadays I want to hear thoughts that haven’t been floating around in my mind for years. I’m also in a religious and spiritual seeker mind-frame where my focus is on learning from the accumulated wisdom of the sages of my Jewish heritage. October 7th propelled me faster down a path that I was already meandering along. A motivating thought: Why should I accept your concepts if they end up leading to—and even encouraging—the dismissal, death, and destruction of my people?

What surprised me, when I listened to the rabbi and heard the direction he took, was that I remained attentive to ideas that, until recently, I would have been aghast at and probably mocked. Now, I’m willing to listen. It seems that when concepts that had seemed valid turn out to twist and distort reality, casting good as evil and evil as good, that becomes the time to be open to hearing other ideas.

As I explained the main points to younger daughter’s boyfriend later that day, he summed it up succinctly, “Oh, it’s about women staying home.” It horrified me to think that I had listened to and found worthwhile thoughts in that vein. But rather than rip up my notes and turn my back on the rabbi’s ideas, I decided to read through them and think about whether there may be something to what he said, while still firmly in my feminist perspective.

While the ideas he presented are simplistic and stereotyping, I still found them thought-provoking.

Women

  • Women are motivated by how good the good is. Things can be so good, why not make them better. For women, achievements come from their identity, and contentment is their natural condition.
  • Women are motivated to do something good, which leads to their doing more good deeds; for example, keep Shabbat, then start to eat kosher food.

Men

  • Men are motivated to eliminate the bad. I must do something to get rid of the bad. They are anxious, then they become active to complete a task, upon completion there is a moment of contentment, then they return to anxiety, to begin the cycle again. Men identify with their achievements. They are motivated by anxiety, to make a change or to fix something, which is their natural condition.
  • Men are motivated to stop doing something negative, which leads to doing something positive; for example: stop eating non-kosher food, then keep Shabbat.

The Desired Direction

  • We all need to be more like women. Rather than focus on not sinning (the masculine approach), we need to focus on doing more mitzvahs/good deeds (the feminine approach).

I’m not necessarily thinking about what he said from the male/female dichotomy, though it may have some validity, though certainly not on a universal scale. Instead, I’m thinking about these two ways of moving through the world. It does seem more peaceful to go from the perspective that things need to be improved and to work at that, rather than that things need to be broken and then rebuilt. Not only is the latter way destructive, it’s also arrogant. It’s as if all the contributions of those before you are valueless and only yours are of worth. Each time re-creating, rather than growing a creation and maintaining its fruition.

The wars that were and those that are, could they have been prevented if the world had been more feminine, or acting from a place of improvement rather than destruction?

Since October 7th, my thoughts keep returning to this moment: Israeli hostages still held in terror tunnels, Israel living through the drain and devastation of war; the reignition of the nasty flame of antisemitism; Gazans suffering from the impact of Islamic terrorism and, ironically, antisemitism; and supposedly caring people failing to see the humanity and worth of every human.

And I think about how the rabbi’s ideas could help me think forward, to a way out of the gloom. The rabbi may have been talking about men and women in personal relationships, but that is not where I take them.

These days I see women baking challah, reading psalms, writing, speaking, informing, and organizing as their way of prayer to the Eternal Spirit to protect their loved ones, to return the hostages, to protect the soldiers, to stop the deaths and harm to all civilians—to bring about lasting peace. And I think, too, of the people I know who remain devoted to bringing together Jews and Arabs—people are people—because they cannot abandon the idea that Things can be so good, why not make them better, because they want to make that the way forward rather than I must do something to get rid of the (perceived) bad.

Perhaps the way forward, using the rabbi’s insights, is for me—for each of us—to commit to improving the world—focusing on that which is good: using and sharing our sparks within as best we can so that there is more light, and not a diminishing. Perhaps each of us—man and woman—needs to see what we can contribute to making the world a better place and not letting others, or even ourselves, rip apart the good with the bad.


Four Stages of Retirement

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Seeing far and fog on a walk in the woods


I’m slipping into my next, the fourth, retirement stage or mindset. I call it Detachment.

First, there was the astonishment that I don’t have to be at a specific place, at a set time, to do a certain thing, and that nothing can be demanded of me by anyone. That was Relief.

Second was Disappointment. This was when Relief was awash with negative thoughts. No one needs me. What am I going to do with all these days stretching ahead of me? How can I fill my time so that I still feel needed, important, alive? This mindset began the stripping bare that’s happening even more now. But, as a courtesy to ourselves, this doesn’t happen all at once.

Third was Unretirement. Looking for activities (volunteer and paid) and get-togethers that made me think that I still have it, that I’m still the person I was, that I’m still good at the things I trained in and practiced for years, the things that, in fact, enabled me to retire early. This stage is when people often go back to work, escaping the freedom of retirement.

Interspersed amongst those mindsets is Escape. Travelling, especially when teaching, was hard during the school year. We all seemed to have someone determining when we could or couldn’t escape. Now, my schedulelessness is another bit of proof that I’m in control of my life and my time. This one also feels good when I hear about other people’s trips—it’s not just mine. There’s less envy than there may have been in the past. Now, it’s about appreciating that other people are cutting loose from whatever schedule they created for themselves and are setting out to have new adventures.

Two weeks into my Oregon sojourn, I realize that I have transitioned into the fourth stage, Detachment. This is me figuring out what I want to do without the imposition of external shoulds or shouldn’ts.

I’ve been spending whole days without anything to show for my time and it barely bothers me. When younger daughter asked what I did one day, I told her, without apologizing, that I read emails, watched lectures, viewed stories on Israel, napped, and took a walk. I can now spend my time productively for me without needing to have anything to show for it. Receiving—information, thoughts, observations, ideas, learnings—are just as important and necessary as output. The veneer of acceptability is being scratched through: I don’t need do something to prove (especially to myself) that I’m not lazy or that my life is of value. Every moment is to be lived and embraced as I need, and within every moment I am figuring out how to keep growing.

As I’ve been thinking about why I continue to write and what I hope to get out of it, I’m becoming aware that I don’t contain within myself all that I want to know and share. I’m ready to learn new things and be a conduit to others. But, and this is key, this is self-directed.

For years, I was fixated on needing to get a PhD to prove (to myself and others) that I know something, that I am an expert in something. But I never did it and now the idea of going back to school and spending years putting my mind under the scrutiny and assessment of professors feels like a waste of the time that I have left and a waste of what I have learned up to this moment.

This, too, is a shift in mindset. I realized that what I want—need—to know is not more detached information. What I need is as pertinent as breath: how can I keep improving as a person.

With no job that demands and drains my time, and adult children who don’t need me for their sustenance, I’m free to follow the path that leads me to be as me as possible, giving me the opportunity to fulfill my purpose as I understand it to be.


Daughtering My Mother

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A walk in Oregon

My 90-year-old mother is clearly a child of the Great Depression: she saves and reuses everything, and not out of concern for the environment. There are cottage cheese containers holding dried apricots, supermarket bags as garbage bags (in Florida, we still get plastic bags at checkout), and envelops doubling as notepapers. But the efficacy of using every scrap of paper, including yesterday’s newspaper that’s about to go into the recycling, as a place to write a shopping list, a relative’s address, a friend’s phone number, or even a reminder to take one’s pills and eyedrops is questionable when one’s memory dulls and the pieces of paper seem to disappear, somewhere.

Growing up, there was always a notepad with a pencil by the telephone (back when they were rotary and connected to the wall by a cable). This woman had it together. It’s taken a while for me to notice that she doesn’t anymore and to realize that I need to help her. It's not easy to realize that your parent needs you in a way that infringes upon your independence—and the image of them that you built over a lifetime.

Remembering that younger daughter used a daily planner to keep herself organized in school, I decided to get one for my mother. We went together to Target and I showed her the one that I thought was right. Feeling conflicted about making decisions for her, I didn’t want to buy it without her participation. She might forget where she put a note, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t remember what she wrote on the note and why she needed it.

There is the intense fear that she will lose her independence and become dependent on me. It’s not an unfounded fear. Too many people I know have stories of parental dementia and dependence to not think about how I would respond to the challenge. And knowing that my brother won’t be a partner to me in any care, means that the decision-making is mine.

But here is where love and good parenting are appreciated. As I make decisions, and deal with new confusions, and get frustrated with and question myself, my daughters have become my sounding boards. Perhaps if I was married or if my brother was a better son, I wouldn’t have to turn to them for feedback and support. But this is the situation. The cycle of mothering and daughtering continues: none of us is in a fixed role.

My mother is still trying not to need me, even as she thanks me and says that she doesn’t know what she would do without me. I’m finding that I need to stand up for myself and not glide into letting her needs overshadow mine.

I’m taking a class in Mussar (an ancient Jewish spiritual tradition) where the goal is to work on different personality traits to better ourselves (and in the religious sentiment, better serve G-d). The first trait covered is humility. We were given a focus phrase, which seems appropriate here: “No more than my place, no less than my space.”

Perhaps this is what I need to have in mind when I think about daughtering my mother and mothering myself. The place and space may change depending on the circumstances, but there should never be a negation of one for the other. This is what I need to have in mind as I continue creating my life, and not denying it for my mother, whatever her situation.

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A walk in Florida

Jewish Women Are Lionesses, Not Material for Mockery and Easy Jokes

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Jewish mothers are rising and we are lionesses!

We’re done being mocked for loving our families too fiercely. There can be no “too” much love, as there can never be enough kugel or rugelach (two tasty signs of that love).

Jewish mothers have often been portrayed in movies and TV as meddling, overprotective, domineering, aggressive, pushy, and even a tad bitchy in support of their brood. Is that bad? This is how we do generational trauma!

And now we see the reason for having developed those behaviors playing out right before our eyes. We see the devastated mothers of kidnapped Israelis battling the world to get their children back. We see mothers whose children were killed in a modern-day pogrom and mothers whose children, Israeli soldiers, died as they fought for our survival, bereft, grief-stricken, but still rising with an untamable fierceness to find their children, to protect the memory of their children, to roar in pain.

Does it still seem like a burden that a mother would want to know where her children are and when they’ll be home? Just one, two, three generations ago, it wasn’t a stretch for her to wait with real trepidation and supreme relief to hear from them, to see them, to pamper them.

Is it funny that Jewish mothers seemed to smother their children with constant concern when we are now presented, in the supposedly safe USA, with the reason behind the behavior: vile antisemitism?

It’s clear now why Jewish mothers always need to know where their children are and who they’re with. Today, their children are on campuses where students and professors mass together to call them murderers and chant slogans for the destruction of their people, and where administrators are dangerously silent—where exactly is the line between overbearing and sensibly protecting their children?

It’s clear now that this protective stance may be one of the reasons why Jews have survived through so much destruction and turmoil over the centuries.

Look at those Jewish lionesses whose sons and daughters have been abducted. They are not settling for letting men in high places figure things out quietly or standing behind any man. Nope. Centuries of institutional oppression, wherever we have lived, taught Jewish mothers to be the strength and the backbone of the family. But now, finally, they don’t have to do that quietly, salvaging what is left of a destroyed family—no, they’re demanding to be seen and heard. Let’s heed the cries of these modern versions of our Biblical mothers. They are a force to be reckoned with. And their voices sear our hearts.

I’m in awe of Jewish mothers in Israel. One woman I know has two sons serving in the military, and still she goes out and volunteers, determined to do more to support other people who are suffering. Another mother, with two daughters in the military, provides succor to those with whom she interacts, even as she herself is consumed with worry.

Thinking back to Jewish mothers who sacrificed in ways big and small (which is it when she gives an extra matzoh ball to her children, but only takes a single lumpy one for herself?), nagging them to keep studying so that they can get into the finest schools in the land and have professions that they could take with them wherever they may be forced to live. Now, somehow, they need to protect their children on campuses rife with antisemitism and hate, reminiscent of the baying crowds of the pogroms that drove so many of our ancestors from Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa.

How can it be funny that a Jewish mother sees her children as little princes and princesses? Why not smother your children with things when just a generation ago all was taken and destroyed: all that your family had managed to amass from the previous pogrom or expulsion. I finally understand that being raised as a Jewish American Princess was aspirational and not something by which to be embarrassed.

We Jewish women need to channel our inner lionesses, demanding that all Jewish lives and what happens to them matter.

I recently joined a daily women’s prayer group where we recite tehilim (psalms), as an act of calling to God. I’m not really sure why. But part of me feels that through it I’m establishing a connection with Jewish women in the past for whom prayer was an integral part of their lives, their expression of faith, of that which is within and which they could control. I’m also connecting with other Jewish women in that zoom room who are earnestly praying for safety, victory, and peace. It’s not that I believe in the power of prayer, but I realized who am I to not believe in it. Why not do something that I don’t understand, something through which I send out my voice and my heart.

Once I would have mocked them—me—but now I see nothing to mock in hoping that there is a force that binds the world and that, perhaps, the positive energy that we create can somehow be for the good. We are quiet lionesses. We each need to find a way to express our pain and our hope—to not give in to the drag of fear and anger, but to let our pain lead, somehow, to something better.

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On Reading in Retirement: The Lesson of Too Much of a Good Thing

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I thought I learned a lesson about retirement when I visited my grandparents in Miami Beach when it was still a retirement haven, long before it became the hip place to party.  

By the shuffleboard court (with nary a pickleball court in sight), a neighbor of theirs told me, “I have a list of books that I told myself I’d read when I retire.”

“How long have you been retired?” I asked, thinking that he would say a few months, settling in before tackling Gibbon's The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and War and Peace.

“About five years,” he responded. Then, he went on to talk about all the volunteer activities that were keeping him busy.

A person doesn’t change who they are when they retire, I thought at the time. I even used this as an anecdote when talking to people about my perception of retirement. Recently, I learned that I was wrong.

A friend, another former high school English teacher, and I talked about how our main hobby is reading. It’s our “activity” of choice whenever we have downtime. So, I expected to luxuriate in my reading hobby in retirement. And I did, I do. But a funny thing happens when your wish is granted—or when I got unlimited time to read—I realized that it’s not enough to live for or focus on.

It’s not that I don’t have good books to read, especially since my list of recommendations is always growing and I got over the mental hurdle of reading on my phone, but I feel uncomfortable giving in to the couch and a book in the middle of the day, especially weekdays. Friends have told me, “You’ve given of yourself for your entire teaching career and as a mother, you’ve earned it. You can relax.” But I can’t. It feels too selfish, like I’m just taking.

Reading was always an escape for me; it was how I learned about the world and the people in it. In college, when I decided not to major in Political Science, I wavered between switching to literature or psychology. Literature won out because it felt truer to me to learn from stories that people create based on their lives and perceptions (and I stayed awake reading novels, except for the Victorians), while psychology, with its dense textbooks that put me to sleep, was too detached and dry.

When I was teaching, not only did I get to read for work, but when I read non-school books, it was both an escape and the source of insights and lessons that I could share with my students and daughters. My reading served a purpose outside of myself. Now, it’s just for my own entertainment. Which doesn’t sit well with me.

The other day I overheard two men talking. One commented that he was feeling old at 60. The other said that a relative of his just turned 101, noting that if the other man lived that long, “you have almost a whole life ahead of you.” The preternaturally elderly 60-year-old, thanked the other man for the perspective, as did I, silently. Just because I have accepted certain things about myself in the past doesn’t mean that they should determine my future.

It seems that the question I need to ask is “What do I want to get out of my reading?” since a few hours of retreat into a book’s world makes me feel that I should be doing something productive. Then the question reframed itself: “What do I want to do with the things I learn and absorb in a day?”

Which immediately made me think of how we interact in real life: in conversations. I thought of the two main types of conversations we have. There are the details conversations, where you hear (even if you don’t want to) about what a person did and said and ate and bought. Then, there are those which are an exchange of ideas and experiences, where questioning and receiving support are integral, raising a conversation into a productive activity.

Now, I see that my conversations continue to be fruitful because of the words I read on the page. It’s as if I come forward—across a table, a phone, a Zoom screen—bolstered by the stories and insights I’ve gleaned from a supporting cast of characters and authors. This is especially true in retirement when I don’t interact with many people. Rather than a way to retreat from the world, books enhance the way I engage with it.

Which means, that, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to hit the couch (or beach), book in hand. We can talk later.


Rosh Hashanah Gifts for My Daughters: A Delicate Balance

Thinking about the upcoming Jewish High Holidays and my triannual conundrum of gift-giving and holiday reminding to my daughters, I wrote my latest post, "Rosh Hashanah Gifts for My Daughters: A Delicate Balance." You can read it at The Times of Israel, by clicking either of the links here.

Thanks, Laura


The Use of Regrets; Or, Appreciating Conversations with Friends

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Stormy waters at Ocean Reef Park

After a few wide-ranging conversations with friends recently, it’s clear that each person has their own issues to deal with. We have empathy for each other, as well as opinions (stated or implied) about what the other is doing and the decisions they’re making. The takeaway is that we wouldn’t live each other’s lives. We’ve each ended up where we are for a reason and we’re each living with the consequences. And, as Frank Sinatra sang, “Regrets, I've had a few.” Though regrets don’t mean that we would want a complete do-over or exchange.

My dogsitting, for example, is a temporary solution for me, and a “heck no” situation for others. The weirdness of going into other people’s houses and living in them for a few days or weeks is not tempting to most people, especially those who are at least a decade into living in their own homes. But for me, I get a break from living with my mother and sleeping on a couch in the living room, without having to make a “rent or buy and where” decision.

It also enables me to live the life that I could have lived—in the nicest of houses in the nicest of neighborhoods—if my life had meandered differently.

What’s not to like about having a private pool and high-end appliances without having to pay for them, and even being paid, in a sense, to use them? There is the issue of too many people liking white sheets and towels, and not providing soap and shampoo for the dogsitter, but, still, not the end of the world. Now I know to travel with more things in my bags than when I started a couple of years ago.

The problem is the bitterness creep. If I wasn’t in these “it could have been me” houses, then I wouldn’t be so aware of the discrepancy between what I don’t have and thought I would, and what I do have. Sure, I know that my teacher’s salary wouldn’t buy much more than a small dated house or condo in Palm Beach County these days, and I watch enough house renovation programs to know that I couldn’t afford high-end finishes. But, being semi-retired and living off my teacher’s pension is because I divorced the, at-one-time, well-compensated attorney husband. 

With one friend, we have our occasional Shabbat talks where we inevitably get to the “if only” part of the conversation when we reminisce having been married to successful, dynamic Israeli men with so much potential. But the realities of living with them made the vision of extra bedrooms in the right suburbs and tropical island vacations worthless.

Not having a home—especially not the home I had envisioned for myself—has made it so much easier to be ok, satisfied, with what I do or don’t have. The craving for more, for what others have, vanishes pretty quickly when I realize how unnecessary most things are. A fancy faucet is still a faucet. Three places to have a meal are just spaces to move between with a single plate. And, yes, lots of cabinet space is nice, but who needs eight cutting boards, service for twenty, and storage space for thrice-used gadgets?

The reality of having divorced when I did, and working the job that I did, and retiring when I did results in my having stopped caring—mainly, except for these moments—about what I don’t have. My life feels like the Michelangelo quote: “Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it,” where my life is what is in the stone and I am the sculptor, chipping away at the unnecessary to get at what is.

So, as I sit here looking out at the pool that I will swim in soon (with the dog I’m watching because she likes to swim and I am, after all, here to cater to her), I force myself to stop looking back, again, into a world of what-ifs. But it’s hard when I also wonder if this is all there is and all there will be.

Then, I recall what a friend told another friend who recently turned 60: “You can expect to have ten good years ahead of you with your health intact, so stop moaning and use them.” Tough love, but useful words to consider.

It made me think that not having a house as an anchor has let me be as free as I’ve ever been to indulge myself in doing what I want to do—with no should’s or have to’s. I can be here for those I love. I can live my empathy, embody the essential.

It’s up to me to not regret my future, my meanderings.

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The spikes and tape indicate where there were turtle nests; I hope they made it!

The Aging Body—Not Mine, Yet

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My private pool at one house where I dogsit.

A comedy skit of old women going out to eat wouldn’t be as funny and poignant as my mother and her friend, Ann, getting out of and then back into my Corolla when we went out the other night. They ignored my suggestions about what to hold onto and where to walk. Or they didn’t hear me. Or they were too preoccupied with their own thoughts of how to conquer the curb that had morphed into a mountain to pay attention to me. Or, even though they both walked with a shuffle, they were not going to give up any autonomy, so they pretended that I was “the girl,” who they didn’t have to heed.

As a disclaimer and a warning that this could be me—or you, my mother played tennis for years, learned how to golf in her 70s (even making a hole-in-one), and power walked Manhattan for years. Ann has mobility issues and uses a walker, but she was less steady than usual, as if she had taken advantage of the $7 martinis even before we even got to the restaurant.

Since I hadn’t been my bitter, critical self during the drive there and the meal itself—even when we told the waiter at least five times that we weren’t ready to order because my mother couldn’t decide what she wanted to eat, so we ended up ordering when the restaurant had filled up, resulting in a long wait for our food—I was able to see humor in the drama and sound effects of their attempting to exit and then later enter my car. I even got them to be momentarily lighthearted in the face of their own dismay. It would have been a pee-in-my-pants moment if I hadn’t crossed my legs in time. (When will that not be enough and I will need a lady diaper or a post-period pad?)

Ann needed to figure out where to hold onto my car, so that she could maneuver up and down the curb. Not only is there the fear of falling, but the frustration of not being able to do something that should be so simple, added to her heightened mood.

Because of curbs, my mother needs to start taking and using a cane. Something she, obviously, hasn’t acted on yet. Who knew that those few inches could pose such a grave danger? I told her where the cutout was and it took her about five minutes to round the corner that would have taken me seconds.

Our evening out made me see that my mother does need me more than I realized. While she’s not bedridden or so felled by memory issues that she can’t be left alone, there’s a sense of daughterly responsibility (that feels a lot like being a mother) that is uncomfortable. When I recently visited my daughters, one told me that I need to stay by Grandma and the other told me that I need to live my life. Yes and yes.

As friends tell me, it’s not easy. Seeing these women try to maneuver the world reminds me that I, too, am aging. There are sags here and there that I’m not happy about. Someone much younger than me told me that she has a herniated disc that her doctor told her is because of age.

How to balance this one life we have so that it’s lived, but also to be responsible and caring because that, too, is part of life? Clearly, we each have our own answers and they change depending on circumstances. I need to remember, as I watch my mother navigate the perils of walking, that there is no answer, there will never be complete satisfaction, and that that is part of living life.


Dogsitting and the Perils of Temporary Love

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One dogsitting neighborhood had a flock of peacocks wandering around and in the trees

Jerry, a laidback chunky Beagle mix, one of my oldest and favorite clients, died last week. I cried when I read his owner’s text. When I spoke to her, she was as upset as can be expected when a beloved 14-year-old pet dies suddenly. She had taken him to the vet after he wasn’t feeling well at night. Then, as she sat in the waiting room scrolling on her phone, the doctor came to tell her that Jerry needs to be put down. Losing a pet is agonizing, I thought as my mind went back to my Poops who died seven years ago, also at 14, at home in my arms.

Jerry’s death caused me to sit a moment with my decision to be a dogsitter. It has been a good retirement gig, where I get to stay in (usually) lovely homes, make a little money and save even more by living with my mother (when not dogsitting or travelling). But loss, I hadn’t thought of that, as we tend not to think of death if we don’t have to.

And I recall the death of one of my daughter’s dogs in a tragic accident (dog meets motorcycle), and the deaths of a dear friend’s two dogs. And the cats who I have known who have passed their nine lives.

Seems like a fulfillment of some statement that there is always a flipside to that which is joyful: if there’s a silver lining, then there needs to be a dark exterior.

This week, I’m dogsitting a 6-month-old puppy, Sally, owned by a soon-to-be-divorced man who didn’t get the dogs in the settlement. She is still learning to do her business outside and chewing on everything she can get into her mouth before I can even say “Drop it!”—which she heeds, Good Girl! Later in the month, I’ll be dogsitting for a rambunctious 18-month-old who is owned by two 80-plus-year-olds. A recently retired friend just got a “delish” puppy and continues to save kittens in her Queens neighborhood.

There is so much to say about having a pet and leaving behind loneliness. Of bringing joie de vivre into your life simply by watching how excited they are to make a discovery in the grass. Of playing their version of fetch and tug-of-war with a tattered formerly squeaky toy until you, too, are tattered. Of having to get out at set times to walk them and see that the world still exists, and that you aren’t as alone as it sometimes feels within the walls of your home.

I may not have loved all these temporary pets, but I have appreciated each of them: these animals we’ve brought into our lives for the express purpose of having a companion. Clearly, some dogs are trained to protect, but I’m talking about the dogs, like Poops, who would notify me with incessant barking that someone was outside our house, but his little Maltese self was not there to physically protect me. He did save me, though, by coming to my room every night when I went through my divorce and still lived with my ex. There was always room for him on the couch that was my bed for two years. Good Boy, indeed!

And now, I have these borrowed pets to provide what it is that dogs so readily give, but to still have the freedom not to always be ruled by their potty schedule. Win-win, as I see it.

When I’m back at my mother’s house, sometimes I see the older neighbors walk their little lapdogs who are as slow as they are. Their owners sit with friends on a bench, the dogs patiently waiting for them to resume the walk that is so often delayed, since it is to return to the loneliness inside. Except it’s not completely lonely, since this little dog demands food, attention, and space on a lap.

A couple of single friends got dogs at the beginning of Covid that helped turn the endless days of isolation and social distancing into an opportunity to talk and interact with a new kind of partner.

I wonder about myself sometimes: my desire not to have my own dog and my satisfaction with an unpartnered life. Am I living unengaged and protecting myself, or is this as engaged and open as suits me? When I talk to a friend who has a husband or when I finish a dogsitting job, I don’t feel that I’m missing out on having someone to continue the conversation with or a dog to walk in the heat and humidity. I simply accept that this is my life at this point. Will it always be like this, who knows? But these temporary pets have added permanent love to my heart and psyche. They may not be my pets and my time with them is limited, but that time (except for cleaning up throw up and poop—Bad Girls and Boys!) has soothed me.

It's also helped me see that I’m a kinder, more caring person than I give myself credit for. And as much as I enjoy being alone, wandering within my thoughts, I’ve learned that I really do enjoy the company of others—people and pets—but in balance. And for that, I say, Good Girl! Good Boy!, to all the lovely pets waiting for a belly rub, and a walk, and an approved treat—they’re coming! 

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“This Thing,” Or Thinking about Death and Getting Older

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Mt. Charleston, Nevada

“I’m bothered about this thing with Sandy,” my mother said.

“You mean that she died? You can say that she died,” I responded, a little harshly.

The “thing with Sandy” was not just her discomfort with the word “died” (if you don’t say it out loud, you keep it away apparently), but Sandy, a woman she knew for over 60 years, recently died of lung cancer even though she never smoked. Who in their generation wasn’t exposed to second-hand smoke? So now my mother worries that this will happen to her, especially since both my grandmother and my father smoked.

There seems to be a lottery wheel constantly rolling around in her head with things that she could die of. Unfortunately, the wheel keeps expanding when she hears about yet another person’s death.

At 89, so much of her life exists in memories and then recounted in long phone calls with friends, where the focus is on taking turns to retell, to relive, but not to listen, because that’s not the point, that’s not what’s needed in the exchange.

Women in their 80s and 90s, holding on, rarely going out because of illnesses or fears of the dangers out there. Their increasing frailness and so few positive things to look forward enable trepidation to become a barrier.

Do they only look forward to seeing their children and grandchildren, and hoping for great-grandchildren? Are they done thinking of things to do? Are memories enough? Has life become a waiting game, even though the end is dreaded?

Looking at my mother, at her life that has been still for so long, I wonder what I want to be doing or thinking about if I make it to my 90s.

At 62, I have a hypothetical 30 years to go—not a pause or an epilogue, entire chapters, a new book, a lifetime. Looking at it in stark numbers terms, if I don’t want to regret my life as still life, I need to commit myself to more than I’m doing now. How should I spend the next third of my life (fingers crossed, tfu tfu tfu), so I don’t live with regrets for/in 30 years.

The other day I realized that I’m always searching for meaning. But I’m not content with that; I can simultaneously wonder and do.

With all the time I have to write, I realize that I don’t want to just sit and reflect. I need to be thinking about what I’m doing, gaining insights from living, not only remembering or observing.  

Lately, my focus has been on where I’ll live, but that’s not a cure or the core. That won’t satisfy my endless desire for purpose, to push beyond the borders of my life as it is.  

What will make me feel fulfilled? What new stories will I recount, animating conversations with as yet unmet people?

I’ve been retired for two years; enough time to know that I need something new; but not travel, or a hobby, or a relationship, or a pet. Studies and related work: to get me out of my meditations, not letting my concern for my mother overshadow concerns for myself.

I’m a busy person with two paid part-time jobs and two volunteer jobs: dogsitting, course evaluator for online courses, grant writer, and translator of Holocaust testimonies. Each of these jobs brings satisfaction, but none is enough. None animates my entire being and I realize that I want that: I don’t want to retire from contributing of myself.

In the past, I have often fallen into things. Now I need to be intentional, to get off the conveyor belt. I’m leaning towards expanding my knowledge in a chosen area that aligns with who I am and what I’ve done, so that I can express myself fully in mind, being, and actions. The direction is mine to determine.

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Blooming cactus on Mr. Charleston

Conversations with Friends About Our Parents and the Stages of Deterioration, Our Bodies, and Our Children’s Lives

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Tropical and desert plants living side-by-side in Lake Worth Beach

Conversations with friends lately have invariably steered, at some point, to our parents.  For most of us, it’s our mothers and mothers-in-law, though for some it’s concern for both parents, and for a younger friend it’s about a grandmother. Mothers are in the process of deteriorating, some are bedridden. The body seems to falter first, but, to differing degrees, the mind also shows signs of aging, where the range is from “not quite herself at times” to “who is that woman?” Maybe not all the time, but it does seem that once the walk becomes focused on maintaining balance, a shuffle ensues, and then the mind, too, exhibits a kind of shuffle.

Fathers, if they’re around (for most of us they’re not), remain stubborn, thinking that nothing has changed since they were young men, responsible for supporting an entire family even if they are now in their 90s and their children are grandparents. These guys need to finally release their grip and realize that the world will not collapse if they are no longer their own version of Master of the Universe. A bright spot is the father who’s finding independence in a wheelchair.

Our parents are in their 80s and 90s. Hurrah for long-life! Our hope for each of them is that they continue to enjoy life, and not simply hold on to the drudgery of life becoming an extremely long, super ultra-marathon.

Depending on a parent’s situation, we are involved in varying degrees of caregiving. One friend and her husband lived with her mother-in-law for years, most of their time devoted to her care. And others, like me, listen with dread to those stories, grateful that there is experience and wisdom being shared, though often coming from a place of frustration and despair, and heard with fear and trepidation.

Listening to those stories of active caregiving and actively arranging for caregiving help is heartbreaking. But to see how taxing it is to constantly make arrangements and deal—battle—with the bureaucracy turning a normally sane, organized woman into a harridan, is disheartening. We have been or still are professionals, most of us teachers, most with children of our own. We have spent our lives concerned for others and acting on that concern, and now when our children are starting to find their way, we are still stuck at home.

Here we are: middle-aged women who are starting to see our own slide into senior living, who want to be out and about, vacationing and lunching with the ladies, but we’re still tied down, to some degree, by the compassion that has always guided us.  

But here we are, too, talking about ourselves and how we are also starting to see our own things falling apart. Skin cancer. Breast cancer. Vertigo. Rheumatoid arthritis. Macular degeneration. Glaucoma. We take care of ourselves. But there’s so much that healthy living and exercise can do.

We are determined to live our lives to the fullest, doing what we can to take care of everyone and ourselves. But what does that mean? Do you postpone trips or, as a friend does, pay for travel insurance just in case a trip needs to be cancelled. We can’t wait around for the generation before us to go. But we can’t ignore their needs and existence. When I told older daughter that I was thinking of going on a trip to Spain and Portugal, her first thought was if it would be ok to leave Grandma on her own. My daughter asked me if I was going to be an irresponsible daughter. It’s not necessarily the travel that I needed, as the time to enjoy myself with no responsibilities.

At the end of an essay, there is a culminating thought that feels like a proper conclusion. Today, I don’t have one. Everything feels so open, unknown—lifelike. Perhaps there is only gratitude, flexibility, and love that guides us—but this also needs to be self-directed. And as I continue to sit here with these thoughts, I realize that this unknown and uncertain time reminds me of early adulthood, when there were so many decisions to be made. Then, I was mainly guided by my own intuition, desires, and fears. Now, there is guidance. There is this point in my history, which means there is what to look back upon. There are friends’ lives, showing how things work out in different scenarios. There is the understanding that looking ahead and looking back don’t give answers or even a roadmap.

But I do know that I’m grateful to my friends for being a forum for sharing thoughts as we each deal with what we deal, helping me understand my situation and myself.


Not Having a Room of My Own

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Hoping to dogsit here one day

I’m back dogsitting for Jerry, my best customer. I watch him for about a week every couple of months. His house now feels almost as uncomfortable as my mother’s apartment: neither place is mine, so in neither am I completely at ease, but I’m there enough to feel almost home, though always as a visitor. Nowadays, I exist in spaces that other people have created for themselves. The more I stay at my mother’s house and dogsit for different dogs, I find that I’m becoming detached from the space around me and becoming centered on self. Am I all the space I need?

The eight years that I was an empty nester, from when younger daughter went to college in 2013 to when I moved to Florida to be with my mother in 2021, were the only years when I lived by myself. Is that a long time or a short time? Or is it both? Time enough to see that it could be lonely without other people. Time to, also, enjoy not having to adjust myself for anyone or think about how my habits may be perceived by someone else. Enough time to know that the arrangement suited me.

I’ve finally taken a break (most of the time) from checking real estate websites for homes to rent or buy near younger daughter. It’s not that the move won’t happen, it’s that I don’t want to focus on the future—and my future space—when I have the present to live. Looking at homes that will be rented or sold by the time I’m ready doesn’t make me feel satisfied with myself at the end of the day. Enough time has been spent imagining what will be. So many minutes in a day in a life spent daydreaming—no, not daydreaming, suspended—just out of reach of the reality or the doldrums of the day. Perhaps at times I protected myself by looking for the future as an answer, but not now, not at 62.

I need to use each moment that I have in service of my life—of this moment—not on thoughts that are vague, wispy things. For so many years I lulled myself into thinking that my life—I—would be different at some future time. Alas, the same person who couldn’t accomplish goals that were beyond her personality and comfort level, is ready to see what has been done while thinking that nothing has been done. That suspended time may have passed unnoticed, but it is where I have spent my life.

Being in spaces that aren’t mine, I’m forced to think about what is mine—what is me. I cannot appease myself by thinking that the things around me make up my life, make a statement on myself and my accomplishments. Not having my own bed and pictures on a nightstand force me to think about the meaning of a life, of my life: the children raised, the connections established, the creations made, the morality adhered to. Perhaps this is to assuage myself to accepting what I have or don’t have, but that’s okay, because I’m generally at ease with myself. I am here, fully, in whatever space I inhabit.

 


Talking My Way Through a Food Tour

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Art Deco building

 

Last week I went on a food and Art Deco tour in South Beach, Miami Beach, which was part of acting on my decision to “travel” where I live. The tour met my travel needs of learning new things, trying new foods, and meeting new people. But after the three-hour tour, rather than having to continue looking for places to eat and things to do, or return to the discomfort of a hotel room, I drove home. Even the traffic didn’t bother me (too much), because, until I reached the congested highway (the always-congested I95), I got to see more of Miami.

As I write this, I’m in a bakery (Aioli, WPB) that I recently read about in the paper. It’s about 20-minutes from my house and would count as a great find on a trip, but is an especially great find since I can return whenever I want. Even the fact that it doesn’t have wifi ended up being a benefit because rather than wasting time reading emails and news items, I got right to writing (which was one of the purposes of coming here in the first place).

On the food tour, we went to four restaurants. First a Colombian restaurant (Bolivar) where we tried the national drink, Aguardiente, which is a combination of beer and the Colombian version of cream soda. An acquired taste to be sure, but liking isn’t necessarily the point when trying new things. With that I had a cheese empanada (I asked for vegetarian and non-alcoholic drinks, but I was on “vacation,” so I let myself mix things up. I mean, how can you turn down trying a beer and cream soda cocktail?). There was also a tomato spread on a kind of cracker. The meat-eaters had a meat empanada and ceviche with passion fruit instead of lime.

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Colombian meal

Next, a Miami culinary requirement: Cuban food. After learning that the much-faded paint on the sidewalks had been red to make us tourists feel that we were celebs on the red carpet, we went to a Cuban restaurant on Ocean Drive (Havana 1957). After hearing that I would get a veggie alternative to ropa vieja, a traditional Cuban meat stew which, according to our guide, was based on a stew that Sephardic Jews made for Shabbat, I decided that I preferred to try that. I’m glad I did. The tostones that came with it were excellent, too: just the right blend of crispy and chewy.

Ropa vieja
The next stop was a Mexican restaurant (Naked Taco) for what were original tacos. I went back to being a non-drinking vegetarian and had a roasted pepper taco and a shot of pineapple juice sans tequila. The last stop, in the guide’s homage to Miami Beach’s mafia influence, was a bakery where I had a mini-cannoli. It was my first cannoli in years. Tasty, but too rich for what I have gotten used to.

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Red and green pepper taco

But I left out the best part of the day: meeting Roz. She became my tour partner from the moment I sat down opposite her in the first restaurant. The two single ladies bonded. So, instead of feeling left out around the couples and families, I spent the day with a friend-for-the-day. We had lots of similarities: age, daughters’ ages, divorced since 2007, and teaching. It was non-stop talking, except when the guide was talking (usually). Turns out that life in Australia and here in the states can be pretty darn similar (which perhaps answers my question of what my life may have been like if I moved to Australia when I wanted to at 21).

She was at the end of her annual trip; this year she went to Mexico and Cuba, and was in Miami for a few days before heading home and working to save for next year’s trip.

As we walked down Ocean Drive, she saw an iguana and ran to take a picture of it. She was so excited by her sighting of this exotic creature. I told her that it’s an invasive animal here and that I see them all the time. Different perspectives. She made me realize that to really be a tourist at-home I need to leave aside assumptions and prejudices. It’s not just about being open to trying new things, it’s about seeing the things you’ve become accustomed to with new eyes.