THE DAY AFTER

October 28, 2018-a very sad day.

Maybe I have no right to write this blog as I don’t belong to a synagogue, and never even attended Sunday School.  I played tennis on those days growing up.  But I still feel like crying today.

The tragedy in Pittsburgh highlighted how much I feel and even look Jewish.  My hair curls and frizzes and my face has semitic characteristics.   And when not around a crowd of my own faith, I wonder if someone will tell a “Jewish” joke.

I watched in horror, with the rest of the world, yesterday as the horrific scene in Pittsburgh unfolded.  How could this nightmare really be taking place?  I have been increasingly aware of the growing anti-Semitism these days, but felt a bit immune and smug that it would never affect me.  But it did back when I was in high school.

I applied to Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois and hoped for an acceptance. But my guidance counselor received a rejection stating that”they didn’t want any northeast Jews.”  I was somewhat stunned, but not enough to say or do anything in response.  I attended Barnard College instead.  But I have never forgotten the feeling of being so unwanted.

These days, I am mostly aware of my Judaism because my dear daughter is observant and her children celebrated their Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.  She has always been more religious than me.

Today, I have been acutely aware of my religion.  I have a glimpse of what the main minorities in this country must feel.  I don’t pretend to feel the depth of their pain when discriminated against, or horifically shot as in that grocery store outside Louisville, Kentucky.

I just know that I feel more vulnerable and afraid.  Do people notice that I am Jewish?  I know we live in a mainly Christian country.  But there is a place and room for all of us to be free and feel safe.

I pray for the victims in Pittsburgh and for all of us.

SEEKING SLEEP

I have not slept for an extended period during the night for several months.  I fall asleep quite easily around 11 PM, but wake unhappily any time between 1 and 2:30 AM.  I can’t stay asleep, even after ingesting medication designed to produce several hours of uninterrupted somnolence.

I just saw on a rerun of the Megan Kelly Show (perhaps she was afraid to appear so soon after her racial mean culpa,) that Elon Musk and Donald Trump each sleep about four hours a night.  But am I working or tweeting like these two controversial men?  Hardly!

I am usually, tossing and turning, continually looking at my watch on my bedside table, then resorting to eating  and even going online to check my non-existent email.  What’s the problem?  I wish I knew.

Fortunately, my days do not demand a high level of accuracy or acuity, so being  somewhat drowsy is not a horrible handicap.  But I am literally tired of not sleeping through the night.  Added to the daylight hours, my wakefulness during the dark makes the twenty-four hours seem much longer.

I begin to perk up around 4 AM as the local news is broadcast on my radio, and I know I can get up for good in about one hour.  On the days, I use the treadmill, 5:30 is the magic time for me to don my shorts and t-shirt, and lace up my New Balance running shoes.

This morning, I exited my condo building into the chill of early morning fall, and headed for the clubhouse where the exercise equipment awaits.  I really like my twenty-five minutes on the machine.  In my mind, I sing songs from the movie, “The Greatest Showman,” an all-time favorite cinema, and feel cozy and warm moving my leg muscles.

This morning an anorexic(my judgement) was burning calories on the elliptical, which I have not yet learned how to use.  I didn’t even feel jealous of how much better her figure was compared to mine.  I have made peace with my later-life body, and am grateful it moves for me.

Coming back to the condo, I take my hot bath, luxuriating in the wetness and let my hair go under the water.  I am temporarily a mermaid.  Then I do laundry when necessary and begin my day.

After not sleeping, my next problem is that I am finished my routine chores by 9 AM.  So it goes.  I will never design a fancy car or be president of the United States, just one more insomniac craving a good night’s sleep.

BOSTON NIGHTS

When I was a young girl, I used to snuggle with my transistor radio at night and listen to stations out of town.  Because at sunset, the signals change, and you can tune in towns far away that are impossible to find during daylight hours.  I have always liked radio more than TV.  I think I watched so much TV growing up, that I overdosed on the visual medium and now prefer the less stimulating audio tones.

Anyway, I used to listen to WKBW in Buffalo, NY and fantasize that we would get the snow which blanketed that area.  And I dreamed that school would be cancelled.  No such luck.  With dawn, came a sunny, moderate temperature day in Baltimore, and classes as usual.

These days, I still snuggle with my little transistor radio, and listen nightly to WBZ in Boston.  Maybe because of their accents, callers to the talk show sound smarter than the locals and I make believe I am one of them.  I tune in the Dan Rea Show at night and receive the news from a different perspective.

Since Elizabeth Warren is a current resident of Beantown, I get more of an insider’s perspective on the Senator.  I think she was originally a native (not Native American) of Oklahoma, but now resides in Red Sox territory.  People have very strong opinions of her.  Listening to an out-of-town station transports me away from the nightly commercials for Hogan, Jealous and the rest.  Maybe far away places always seem more exotic.

As we head into winter, sunsets are earlier each day until we arrive at the Winter Solstice, so I am able to listen to the whole  program which begins at 8 PM.I don’t always receive a clear signal, so I must have patience until the voices become clearer. It is worth the wait.  WBZ, although somewhat conservative in its talk show, is much more open to differing opinions than the local right-wing outlets.  It is my little secret.

I have traveled to Boston, when my daughter was visiting colleges, and liked the city, but couldn’t tolerate the traffic.  Liking cold weather better than hot, I wouldn’t mind living in New England some day, but for now I just add it to the list of possible places to retire.

So, my friends, if TV bores you at night, and you are in the mood for some intelligent talk, just turn in 1030 on your radio dial and enjoy the show.

MORNING SPOILER

I usually workout on Monday mornings, sweating on the treadmill for twenty-five minutes.  This activity improves my mood, even if not my body.  I used to look forward to walking to the gym in our condo, looking at the moon and stars, and preparing to exercise.  I even felt virtuous.

But now everything, or at least something big has ruined my routine.  There are two televisions in the room, but when alone, I watch neither.  I prefer the solitude of my own thoughts and fantasies to old news about the latest local horror.

The etiquette of the gym follows the guidelines of the first person present sets the stage for whoever follows.  In other words, if the earliest  exerciser turns on the TV, it stays on even if the next resident wants silence.  So it goes for me now.

For many months, I had the gym to myself.  I felt a special serenity thinking I was awake and alert when the other people in the condo were sleeping.  What arrogance!  But, now, I face a rabid Fox when I open the gym door with my key card and see a man already there with the TV blaring.

He has the channel set to Fox News, which I abhor.  And which in recent times has become increasingly hostile to women and free, independent thinkers.  I am so tired of hearing the familiar, but unwelcome rhetoric of the hosts-men dressed for casual Friday, and women wearing clothes better suited to a cocktail party.

The Brett Kavanaugh saga has only intensified my misery.  I can no longer relax while walking the miles on the treadmill until I reach the welcome time when I am finished.

I can’t escape Fox-it fills the room, and I am a captive to their “fake” news.  I hate having to watch the channel, but there is no place to hide.  If I want to use the treadmill, I am a captive of the conservative channel.  It is none of my business, really, what the nice man chooses to watch, but I am angry nonetheless.

So, today, I skipped my workout, and soothed my frayed nerves and growing anger by eating a big chocolate-chip cookie at Barnes & Noble.  I needed to soothe my soul.  And it worked, and I am happy I missed the nasty news channel.

I guess I could buy ear plugs, but the sight of Fox would still be evident.  The answer for me is to tolerate what I despise and get on with my workout.

HOPE CHEST

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  On the first day of the month, the Today Show honored this occasion with almost non-stop attention paid to the disease and their efforts to support those coping with the illness.  Escaping the monthly tribute is impossible.

It would be difficult for me to forget the struggle anyway, as I am a brest cancer survivor.  In the fall of 1995, I had recently moved to Columbia, MD and was beginning a new chapter in the book of my life, when a routine mammogram showed calcification in my right breast.  The radiologist examining the film told me I could wait six months to follow-up on the finding.  Since, I was living in a new city, I had no familiar doctors.

But, my mother died of breast cancer, and I knew I had better attend to my problem rapidly.  So, I consulted a surgeon, recommended by my gynecologist, who performed a biopsy and informed me that, indeed, I had early-stage breast cancer.  When I asked him what the next step would be, he told me to go the library, conduct research, and tell him how to proceed.

I had been a health writer for The Baltimore Sun, and the physician assumed I could decide between a lumpectomy and a mastectomy.  The following days and the intervening weekend seemed to last forever.

My choice was an easy one, a mastectomy and reconstruction.  I didn’t tell anyone other than a therapist about my impending surgery before the fact.  I chose not to enlighten my father or sister with the news.  I am a rather private person, and don’t like much attention when events are good or bad.

The day of the surgery was fairly simple, as my boyfriend at the time accompanied me to the hospital and stayed by my side as long as possible.  Fortunately, the operation went well, and I was minus my right brest, but alive.

Recovery was rapid, and I invented my own form of physical therapy to regain strength in my right arm, where all the lymph nodes had been removed.  The plastic surgeon performing the reconstruction was excellent in proficiency and temperament.   I even looked forward to my monthly visits when he added saline to the tissue expander.  Too much information?  I apologize.

I think G-d played a part in my treatment and survival, as I was seamlessly led from one new doctor to the next.  I also occasionally bristle at the word”survivor.” Through luck and good medical care, I am alive all these years later, but don’t feel any more special than my Mom who didn’t make it.

I get scared each year, when the time arrives for my yearly mammogram.  This month is that time.  So, I will show up shaky and praying and try to be able to surrender to whatever the films show.  But it is a yearly struggle.

So, welcome October, and the constant reminders of the disease, and please G-d give me the strength to keep taking good care of myself.