The Meaning of MY Life?

“[One] must fill [one's] life with meaning, meaning is not automatically given to life. It is hard work to fill one’s life with meaning.”

I stumbled upon this quote, taken from Chaim Potok’s brilliant masterpiece, “The Chosen,” as I pursued the Internet and as I sat at my computer, I began to cry. Potok, in his simple yet eloquent way, articulated beautifully what I’ve been feeling for months.

Let me be clear - I’m not questioning my faith or my marriage. Judaism truly gives my soul purpose and I love my wife with all my heart. The “meaning” that I’ve been so desperately trying to discover in my life is something outside of the things I know to be true (both my faith and my marriage), something that will challenge my mind and cause my heart to dance and while there are times I believe I’ve found the elusive “meaning,” there are times when the “hard work” involved  is greater than my body can withstand.

Since this past summer, I’ve had trouble with my knees. Initially, my right knee was periodically sore and a prescription anti-inflammatory all but made the problem disappear. Unfortunately, a nasty fall tore the meniscus in my left knee and left me facing surgery in August. After a series of MRIs and x-rays and despite what turned out to be unnecessary surgery I was diagnosed with degenerative osteoarthritis, an extremely painful condition that has left both my knees without cartilage and made knee-replacement surgery an absolute necessity. However, before a surgeon will agree to the surgery, I must lose at least 20% of my body weight which in-and-of-itself is a tremendous struggle for me.

The pain I experience is constant and is currently controlled with a narcotic pain-reliever. I will not (and legally can’t) drive and/or function while taking the drug so throughout the day I make do with Tylenol and walking very deliberately and very slowly. Fortunately, my insurance company finally authorized a series of three injections (directly into my knee) of a drug called Orthovisc that will hopefully surround my knees with a gel-like fluid, easing the pain I experience (the first injection was painful and after nearly a week, I’m still sore but can walk slightly better; injection number two is this Friday).

What does this have to do with finding “meaning?” It complicates the hard work. It’s all I can think about. It creates a cloak of depression that acts as a barrier between what I am physically able to do and the things I know I should do to help me achieve my goals. It infiltrates my thought process and makes concentration an exercise in futility. And it keeps me from focusing on the things that, at 50, I should be focused on.  Instead of working at tasks that give my life “meaning,” I work at making it through the day so I can come home, take a pill, and stop hurting.

In an odd way, Potok’s words give me a sense of hope. Something tells me that if I am able to endure my current physical challenges, I have the capacity to one day work hard enough to indeed fill MY life with the “meaning” I not only want but so desperately need.

Don’t Believe Everything You Hear

I will not say that I can understand his pain. What happened in his life was both shocking and completely unexpected. And he has every right to be devastated. That being said…

I find myself infuriated by his own exploitation of what occurred. The rush to engage the swarm of reporters that seem to follow his every move. The strategically placed paraphernalia. The inflammatory remarks meant to illicit sympathy and incite protest.

I am a firm believer in freedom of speech but before I can feel confident in drawing a conclusion, I need to know that I’ve gathered as many facts as possible. Despite what others believe, the various media outlets are NOT aware of all the facts and spin most of what they say/write toward one bias or another. News broadcasts have become little more than tabloid television, capitalizing on another human being’s pain, suffering, misfortune, or misery and society is ready to watch and listen to every horrible moment, unable to look away. He clearly understands this and will announce that he’s simply executing his “freedom of speech.”

Speaking from all-to-real and very unfortunate experience, I’ve found that it’s literally impossible to make an informed decision based on what one sees/hears/reads on television, the radio, or the newspaper.

Although it’s tempting, don’t believe everything you hear. The results will be disastrous if you do.

Nine Years?

 

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A lot has changed in my life over the past nine years. I’ve earned a Master’s Degree, become a Jew, buried my Dad, had weight-loss surgery, said goodbye to friends that didn’t support me and said thank you to those that did, bought the house I grew up in, got married (although the State of California will deny this), and soon I’ll say hello to 50. Despite all I’ve done, there’s one thing I haven’t done – talk to my Mom.

Nine years ago today, September 6th, 2002, my Mom lost her fight with breast cancer. I watched the essence of who she was leave her thin, frail, body behind to enter a space or time or place where pain is non-existent and worry is no more. I often think of that moment and feel thankful that I was there as she passed from one life to the next. I know it’s not for me to understand what happens after death but I truly hope that every dream she had somehow, in some way, shape, or form, came true. 

At her memorial service, I played the song, “For a Dancer,” by Jackson Browne (I’ve included a YouTube link above and hopefully it works because I’ve not tried it before)because the melody moves me and the words describe many of the feelings I have about not only her death, but death in general. When I listen to the song, I can sometimes hear her voice telling me what to do or how to dress or what to say. I never thought I’d miss that voice, but I do.

I miss you, Mom.

Zichrono Livracha

A Day for Remembering

Five years ago today, August 24, 2006, my Dad died. Because I am a Jew, I especially remember my Father today on his Yahrzeit (Yiddish, meaning “a year’s time”). Of the several occasions throughout the Jewish year that the dead are memorialized, the Yahrzeit is the most significant and while, according to tradition my Father’s yahrzeit is to be observed according to the Jewish calendar, because my Father was not Jewish, I choose to observe his yahrzeit as it falls on the secular calendar.

In the 16th century code of Jewish law known as the Shulhan Arukh (which is literally translated as “set table”) Joseph Caro writes, “One should not grieve too much for the dead and whoever grieves excessively is really grieving for someone else.” Although I don’t ”grieve excessively,” I often grieve for “someone else” and on this day set aside to remember my Dad, the “someone else” I grieve for is me. 

After I light a candle and recite Kaddish, I begin what will be a day filled with memories of my Dad. The things he taught me and the things he didn’t. The rollercoaster that was my relationship with him. His weathered skin and tired eyes. The deafening silence of the look on his face as he sat in the back yard, petting the dog, smoking a cigarette, and drinking his 20th cup of coffee. The way he lived and the way he died.    

But on this day of remembering I also find myself questioning. What would my Dad be like today? Had he left the hospital would he have looked at life differently? Would he have succeeded in his millionth attempt to quit smoking? Would he have grown to like my sister’s boyfriend? Would he, unable to shoulder the ache of losing his wife of nearly 45 years, simply have given up?

Today more than any other, I seem to sense  his spirit accompany me as I go about my daily tasks. I can almost smell the scent of Old Spice mixed with cigarette smoke and hear the heels of his boots as he walks down the hallway toward the front door. He is somehow here, looking over my shoulder, offering suggestions on what book I should read next or how to set the sprinkler so it reaches every corner of the lawn in one pass. He sits next to me in the car reminding me to “slow down and drive safely,” and he gets irritated when a clerk at the drugstore takes more than a minute to fill my prescription.

As the day continues, I not only remember but I also grieve. Grieve for the loss of his presence in my life. Grieve for the fact that, in two short months, he won’t be there as I turn 50. Grieve that he won’t be there waiting as the surgeon fixes my bad knee. Grieve that he wasn’t there as I received my graduate degree and grieve that I turned down the opportunity (more than once) to take a ride on the back of his motorcycle.

Today, I remember my Dad and for a short time, I grieve for myself. I miss you, Dad, and sometimes I just can’t believe that you’re really gone.

I love you.

Zichrono Livracha

When It’s All Just Too Much

As I begin this post, I notice the time – 11:08 pm. Shabbat has been over for several hours and a “new” week has officially begun. I should be filled with anticipation, excitement, and wonder at what this week will bring but if I’m to be completely honest, all I feel is fear.

When my Mom, z”l, used to tell me that if I “had my health I would have everything,” I used to sigh heavily (the way teenagers do) and say, “Mommm! You say that all the time!” I knew she had breast cancer but my teen-aged mind wasn’t able to comprehend what that really meant – the severe sun-burn-like redness the replaced her breasts, the nausea and vomiting brought on by chemo, and the effort it took for her just to do the dishes. Looking back, I imagine she was so concerned about my health because she had lost hers and I seemed to take mine for granted.

Although I don’t have breast cancer and can’t imagine what my Mom went through, I do understand what she meant about “having” my health. For the past few months my body has begun to exact revenge for the years and years of abuse I’ve put it through. The migraines have been severe and closer together, the flu struck quickly and violently, and my knees are damaged to the point of requiring surgery. It is painful to perform the normal household chores that need to get done and the longer I put them off, the more overwhelming they become. Emotionally, I seem to spiral downward until I’m so upset that I begin to cry when friends are unable to meet for dinner.

So as a new week dawns, I find myself asking if this is what my life beyond 50 will become. And I’m terrified that the answer is “yes.” Cognitively, I understand that  things will get better. The surgery for my knee is scheduled for August 31st and the orthopedic surgeon assures me the problem I have will no longer be an issue. I trust that the small pink pills I take twice a day are having some kind of positive effect on my brain, and I know that as my body begins to heal I’ll begin to feel better emotionally. Unfortunately, feelings aren’t always rational and right now, mine are whispering in my ear that the way I feel today is the way I’m going to feel from now on.

It’s been over an hour since I began this post and I am physically and emotionally tired. The whispers in my ear have become shouts and I know that before long they will become deafening. At the same time, I know that once I am in bed and have recited the Shema my mind will quiet and I will find the sleep my body craves and perhaps in the morning the fear I feel tonight will have somehow morphed into hope.

“Call My Dad…”

Author’s note: Thank you to Frume Sarah for her post last week that gave me the idea for my post today. Although born of what could have been a very serious (perhaps deadly) accident, a piece of her post touched me in a way I didn’t expect. Thanks, Frume Sarah, for once again inspiring me.

“Call my Dad.” After a nasty tumble last week at a roller skating rink, a fellow blogger asked her husband to contact her father to take her to the local emergency room. As she told the story of the fall and its aftermath, she continually mentioned her Dad and his care for her during their unexpected trip to the hospital and as I listened I began to think about my Dad (z”l) and the many times I said to myself (or someone else), “Call my Dad.”

 - Almost every Saturday night during high school I went with a group of friends to a near-by skating rink. There were two sessions, one from 6:00 to 9:00 and one from 9:00 to midnight. My Dad used to drop me off at 5:45 with the admonition, “I don’t want to get a call at 8:45….” Usually around 8:30 my friends would start discussing the possibility of staying until midnight and I found myself (against my better judgement) saying enthusiastically, “I’ll call my Dad,” secretly hoping he’d forgotten about his warning, yelled to me three hours earlier as I slammed the car door.

- At 17, my Dad allowed me to attend Halloween Haunt, a special event held at a local amusement park. People dressed as ghouls, zombies, vampires, and various monsters roamed the park and the normal docile rides were transformed into rides with names like, “The Tunnel of Terror,” or “Mazes of Mayhem.” The event went until 2:00 in the morning and my best friend’s Mom arrived to pick us up. Suddenly, her car sputtered and stalled and despite her best efforts the engine wouldn’t turn over. Getting out of the car, she looked at us and said, “I don’t know how we’re going to get home,” and in an instant I said, “Call my Dad!,” knowing that he’d be there in 30 minutes or so, adorned in a collared shirt and clean Levis to satisfy my Mom’s  worry that he “look nice for Sara’s friends.”

- When I summoned the courage to leave my physically abusive husband, the only thought I had was, “I have to call my Dad” because I knew he would help me gather my things, drive me ”home,” and help me decide what to do next.

- Despite the fact that my Dad was not a mechanic, plumber, electrician, or tradesman of any kind, every time I had car trouble, water leaking from somewhere, an appliance that didn’t work, or anything I couldn’t figure out how to fix, I sighed and thought, “I guess I’ll have to call my Dad,” knowing that although he most likely couldn’t fix the problem, he would at least help me figure out who to call.

- While reading a book I knew he would appreciate, watching a TV show that we both liked, hearing a song on the radio that reminded me of him (usually something by Merle Haggard), or seeing a great play by the Chicago Bears (his favorite team), I’d say excitedly to my spouse, ” I HAVE to call my Dad,” hoping to hear a smile in his voice or listen to one of his tired, heard-it-a-million-times jokes.

- After nearly 45 years together, I watched as my Dad held her hand and said goodbye to my Mom and for a year or so after she died I made sure to call my Dad every day, just to make sure he was okay. 

- An hour or so after he died, when the nurse asked me about “arrangements,” I sat in the nearest chair and sobbed because for the first time in my life I knew I couldn’t call my Dad to ask him what to do.

Today, on a day when Father’s are celebrated and honored, I thought about my Dad and how much I miss him and I thought about the countless phone calls we shared, especially during the last years of his life. I thought about my fellow blogger and the experience she shared with her Dad after her frightening fall. And in the back of my mind as the day wore on, I wished that I could pick up the phone and call my Dad. 

Happy Father’s, Dad. I love you.

Zichrono Livracha.

 

Sara’s Not Laughing Right Now

I’m in a bad mood. It’s been a long day. I’m tired and should be in bed. Instead, I’m checking e-mails too late and trying to get caught up with the things I should have done yesterday.

The Incredible Hulk (when he was Bruce Banner and right before he “transformed” into the Hulk) used to say, “Don’t make me angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.” To the author of an e-mail I received this evening I offer the same advice – don’t make me angry. Because despite the fact that I may appear to be lazy and undisciplined, I’m neither.  You may think I’m easily intimidated, but I’m not. And it might seem to you that I don’t really know what I’m talking about but I assure you, I’m quite smart. 

I can put up with a lot. Treat me badly – fine. I’ll let it go. Tell me you don’t like me very much? Great. I’ll apologize and walk away; hell, I’ll even try to avoid you. But DON’T tell me I don’t understand Judaism. You see, THAT makes me angry, and I guarantee, although you may not have seen it yet, you WON’T like me when I’m angry.