Our Little Black Box
About ten years ago at Christmas, back when we lived in Tennessee, I gave Art a radio. Art is not an easy man to gift – Whatever he wants, he simply acquires, and what he desires is usually pretty simple. But he had expressed an interest in a short-wave radio, which delighted me. Finally, a present I could buy that would make Art happy.
I went to Radio Shack at the Bellevue Mall, and there it was: a simple, black radio with an AM, FM and shortwave band. It stood about five inches high, seven inches wide, and maybe one inch deep. It probably didn’t cost much more than $10.00. I brought it home and wrapped it up with two double A batteries. When Art unwrapped it, you would have thought it was the Hope diamond. His whole face lit up. We installed the batteries immediately and found the BBC on the shortwave. So while we unwrapped our gifts, we could hear the lovely strains of a boy’s choir broadcast live from the cathedral in Oxford. It was such fun!
The radio has now become a fixture in our day-to-day lives. We never use the shortwave band – for some reason, I am not able to get anything on it anymore. But the AM and the FM work beautifully. We just feed it a couple of double A’s every six months or so, and it hums along obediently at the touch of an index finger. I turn it on every morning while I make breakfast, listening to “Morning Edition” on NPR. Again, while I’m making dinner, I listen to “All Things Considered”. On the weekends we tune in 790 KABC to hear “Money Talk” with Bob Brinker. Saturday afternoons it’s “Prairie Home Companion” and the news from Lake Wobegone. Sundays while I change the sheets I like to listen to “The Splendid Table” or “Speaking of Faith”. (Of course, we contribute to NPR. The guilt would kill us if we didn’t.)
But the humble little radio. What an instrument of magic! With its three-inch speaker, it brings the world to us. It sits quietly on the kitchen counter in the evening, patiently waiting for us to get through the evening’s entertainment on the bigger, gaudier appliance in the living room. Its little chrome antenna folds in on itself, much in the way that two little hands would be pressed into the prayer position. If it is admonishing us for our fickle behavior, it does so silently. And we do love our Netflix subscription. So we are “equal opportunity” media consumers. The radio knows that and indulges us, nevertheless.
Oh, I know. It’s silly bordering on insane to anthropomorphize a radio. And yet, what a good friend this plain little gizmo has been to us. Sometimes it goes missing when one of us has moved it into the office or the bedroom so that we could listen to it while we do our chores or answer e-mail. Then we shout across the apartment, “Honey, where’s the radio”? But it always shows up, eventually. I actually heard myself tonight declaring, “I don’t know what I’d do without that radio!” Then, before I had time to be embarrassed, I heard the love of my life quietly answer, “I know what you mean!”.
YES, TOGETHER, WE CAN
It was a miracle, plain and simple. The whole world held their breath Tuesday night as the election returns came in, state by state. First, McCain won West Virginia, Obama won Vermont. McCain got Tennessee and Texas, too. Texas was a very large red blob on the TV map. Lots and lots of red down the center of the country, the heartland, as it’s called. Too close to call in Virginia. McCain won Oklahoma. . . and so it went. But when Ohio was announced for Obama, I began to believe that maybe, maybe all the prayers of so many people had not gone unheard.
Art and I were sitting on our sofa when suddenly, there was a full screen with a large picture of Barack Obama and the words, “Barack Obama Elected President of the United States” (or words to that effect, I was frankly in a daze). I got a chill down my spine, and Art choked up. I couldn’t quite take it in, it was that massive. Art couldn’t stop dabbing his eyes. We held hands, spellbound in utter amazement.
Stunned, we listened to John McCain’s heartfelt and gracious concession speech. He did not acknowledge the angry outbursts from his disgruntled supporters. Sarah Palin stood by quietly, visibly shaken. We felt badly for them. It had been a long, hard-fought, hard-scrabble struggle for the soul of this country. But someone must win, and someone must walk away. I felt sad for the defeated McCain team. But I also knew that the best man had won.
Then the images of celebrations began to pop up on our screen. There were tens of thousands of people in Time Square, nearly a quarter of a million people, I have heard, in Grant Park, Illinois.
When Barack Obama and his family took the stage, I had a strange sensation of déja vu. Hadn’t I seen this movie once before? Oh, yes. Now I remember. This picture was superimposed upon a much older picture in my memory bank of a young, vibrant, charismatic man alongside his beautiful, elegant wife and their two sweet children. Of course. It was 1960, and the newly-elected John Kennedy was poised to take the reins of office. The whole country was in a celebratory mood. No one would have guessed a scant year earlier that a Roman Catholic could be elected president of the United States.
Once John Kennedy had been in office just long enough for the initial euphoria to wear off, he was subjected to the same kind of scrutiny all of his predecessors had experienced. His judgment was called into question. He was second-guessed. He was accused of nepotism for appointing his brother, Bobby, as attorney general. There were rumors of indiscretions with mysterious women. He had been brought up as part of the noblesse oblige, so how could he relate to the problems of ordinary citizens? His father had made his fortune running whiskey during prohibition. There were rumors of ties to the Mob.
Before long, we will begin to see all of the usual slings and arrows directed at our newly elected leader. Already, his choice of chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, has been called into question. The choice was called “ironic” and some sniff that this is not in the spirit of change and bipartisanship. There are voices heard that criticize Obama’s campaign for the enormous amount of money spent in winning the election.
We must remember that, as Obama himself once quipped, he was not “born in a manger”. He is a human being, just like the rest of us. He loves his wife and his children. He mourns the passing of his grandmother. And he is smart enough to know that he doesn’t know everything, which is why he is assembling a crack team of experts to guide him through the rough waters of economic recession and simultaneous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He wisely chose Joe Biden as his right-hand man, and his wife, Michelle, will be his closest adviser and confidante. But he’s going to need more, much more than that.
We, the American people, the people who fought so hard to make Mr. Obama our president, see in him the person we all aspire to be; calm, self-assured, courageous, intelligent, wise, caring, and committed to serving a greater purpose.
So the question now becomes, as John Kennedy so eloquently stated it, “. . .what we can do for our country”. Should we get involved in our local government? Volunteer at a homeless shelter or in a school? Become a mentor to an underprivileged child? Join the Sierra Club or contribute to a food pantry? Or simply wake up every day with the intention of being the best person we can be.
It won’t be easy for some of us. As my sister and I discussed the other day, those of us old enough to remember the Kennedys and Martin Luther King have had to numb ourselves to the pain of losing so many of our cherished leaders in the ’60s. We then had to live through many years in the wilderness under regimes that, more often than not, were insensitive to our concerns. So we are going to have to reawaken slowly to this new dawn, then figure out the most meaningful way to spend the rest of our lives.
I am saying a prayer every day for Barack Obama, Joe Biden, and their families– that they be kept safe and healthy, and that they be blessed with the strength and wisdom they will need in these troubled times. And I am praying the exact same prayer for each and every one of us.
Back To “The Good Old Days”?
I am old enough to remember the “good old days” — before Roe v. Wade. It was not a pretty picture.
I had a friend, let’s call her Henrietta. Henrietta was 17 years-old, a senior in high school, and had a boyfriend, let’s call him Fred, who was 21 and worked in construction. Fred and Henrietta were deeply, passionately in love. They wanted to be married as soon as Henrietta finished high school and Fred could save up enough from his back-breaking work to make a home for them.
Inevitably, Fred and Henrietta couldn’t wait and became intimate. I know that they believed all of the prevalent teen-aged myths about conception: That she couldn’t get pregnant the first time. That if she douched immediately after sex she couldn’t become pregnant. That if Fred used a condom, however imperfectly, they were safe. Well, they weren’t safe. On his day off, Fred wound up driving Henrietta to a “back alley” abortionist out of state. Henrietta had to be home by supper time to avoid the suspicion of her parents, who were both unstable and given to wild fits of temper.
When I went to visit Henrietta that night, I found her in bed, crying, a heating pad on her abdomen, and bleeding profusely. She would not talk about her experience. She was ashamed, frightened, distraught, in pain, and burdened by a secret she could only share sparingly with her closest friends. She had been catapulted into adulthood abruptly, and with no safety net. The abortion had cost thousands of dollars — money Fred had been saving for their future, which was now in doubt, given the complexity of emotions brought on by this harrowing experience.
Some might say that Henrietta lost her innocence when she first decided to have sex with her boyfriend. Some might say that this whole trauma might have been avoided had Henrietta’s parents, or Fred’s parents, given them proper moral guidance or made themselves more emotionally accessible and compassionate. But here is what I take away from this very sad incident: We are all imperfect beings. Young people can not always stem the tide of roiling passion brought on by very real hormonal surges.
Although I did not know any woman personally who was killed or maimed for life by a botched abortion, I know that they existed.
I also remember Mom telling me that one of her affluent friends was going in to the hospital for a “D and C”. When I asked her what that meant she whispered, “A Dusting and Cleaning”, which was the code for “Dilation and Curettage”. I came to find out later that what that meant was that a woman could have a surgery wherein her cervix was dilated and the contents of her uterus were scraped or vacuumed out. Supposedly, this procedure was reserved for women who had suffered a miscarriage. But I came to find out that some women, women of means, who wanted to opt out of a pregnancy could appeal to a sympathetic doctor and, for a reasonable sum, could terminate the pregnancy in the safety and comfort of a reputable hospital or doctor’s office. Of course, this option was only available to the “country club” set, who not only could afford it, but also had the “right connections” to the “right doctors”.
I did know of one young girl who was in my geometry class in the ninth grade. Let’s call her Susie. She was a flirt and a great beauty and was envied by all of the other girls in the class. When her lithe figure began to change and she began wearing over-sized dresses and skirts, there was widespread speculation as to the reason. When she dropped out of school for a year “to live with her grandparents in the country”, the speculation became even more cruel and unrelenting. And when she returned a year later, she was subdued and kept to herself, no longer the vivacious flirt she had once been. And she was an outcast. I don’t know for sure, but I am guessing that I know what had happened to Susie. She had given birth. I will never know the full extent of the consequences in her life but some of them were evident, even to me. But what might have happened if Susie had been given more education, more access to birth control, or another choice should either of those have failed?
Oh, yes. I remember the “good old days”. If the next president happens to choose supreme court justices, which will very likely be the case, they will most likely carefully choose in keeping with their own philosophical views. Right now the balance in the court is such that the issue of a woman’s right to choose is still protected by Roe v. Wade. Just one supreme court justice could tip the balance.
When you vote on Tuesday for a president, you will also be casting a ballot for or against the rights of the already born. We can still make inroads into reducing teen-aged pregnancy with education and compassionate guidance. Still, young people will make mistakes, even in the most conservative and God-fearing families (as we have recently seen in the news), parents will be imperfect, and biology will sometimes trump common sense. The well-to-do and the well-connected will always have ready access to safe abortions, regardless of laws to the contrary. Nobody knows the “right” answer to the abortion question. You must search your own conscience and make your decision based on all you know and all you believe. Will you cast your vote to go back to the “good old days”? Personally, I will not.
The Quest
Much has been made of womens’ lust for shoes. Think Imelda Marcos or Carrie Bradshaw. But it’s not the Manolo Blancos that get me all fired up. It’s bags. Tote bags, shoulder bags, messenger bags, pocketbooks, purses. A bag by any other name would still be — a bag.
Art laughs at me. I have about 15 reusable bags for groceries. And yet, often I still manage to leave them all in the apartment when I drive off to do errands. Is a canvas bag still green, even if it’s hanging on a hook by the door when you check out at Trader Joe’s?
I recently ordered a “ketch purse” from a mail order catalog. I found it among the overstocks on sale for $14.99. Who could resist? A sturdy canvas bag with “lots of pockets”. I sent away for it. Loden green! I was so excited! However, when it arrived it was black. I was sure I had ordered the green. Oh, well. Back it went, and I quickly ordered its replacement in loden green. Finally, it arrived today. I could barely contain myself! Tore open the box, ripped open the plastic bag, pulled out half a ton of tissue paper, and then it hit me. It was perfect except: I couldn’t fit my wallet in it. Or, I could fit my wallet but not my keys. No room, either, for my oversized sunglasses. Definitely no room for a makeup case. I would have to make do with a lip gloss and a miniature tube of bronzer. I tinkered with it for about fifteen minutes, ran back to my closet to see if I had a smaller wallet. And when I looked up at the top shelf, there they sat, my last two “perfect” bags. The organizers to end all organizers. Both of them perfectly good bags, looking sad and abandoned, like two little wallflowers at a dance. I looked in the mirror, and I knew I had gone off the deep end. I carefully restuffed the tissue paper inside my teeny-tiny loden green bag, put it back in the same box it had arrived in, guiltily filled out the “return form” and admitted that I had misjudged the size (reason #31), slapped the return label on it, and resolved to drop it at the post office tomorrow. I pray I will never hear about this incident again. (But I have a sinking feeling that I will the next time I become infatuated with yet another bag).
The thing is, I am always in search of the holy grail of pocketbooks. I can see it in my mind: Just large enough to hold my wallet, my keys, my oversized sunglasses, a small makeup case, a travel size of Kleenex, my date book, a pen, and my cell phone. Nothing more, and nothing less. I would like it to look smart, but not pretentious. I would like for it to have the look of authority, but not pushiness. The sort of bag you could carry to work (even though I work at home), or to a night out on the town (although we mostly stay home and watch Netflix and Tivo). What I want, in short, is a bag that defines me and gives me an identity. You know, the identity I have always strived for and never quite achieved. The kind of bag that could be worn by a Vogue model along with a Chanel suit. Classic. Post-modern chic. (And of course, all for under $25.00).
And so, the quest continues, one bag at a time, always in search of the elusive enigma wrapped in a mystery. Will I ever find it? Perhaps not. Perhaps, as in so many other things, the joy is in the journey, not the destination. I just know, it’s out there somewhere. . . Maybe Macy’s?
Searching For a Miracle
A few days ago, our neighbor generously shared a magazine with us which I have never seen before. I don’t remember the name, but you know — it’s one of those magazines about spirituality, unity and healing with lots of ads for Whole Foods and organic cotton yoga wear — well, you get the picture.
So here I am, the ideal target demographic: mid-fifties, college-educated, devoutly liberal or progressive – I forget which term is in right now — vegetarian, “airie-fairie” kind of a gal. I remember the 60s with a little bit of nostalgia and a little bit of a shudder. You could guess how I have voted since 1968, and you would be right (I would be left!).
So. I’m leafing through this magazine rather mindlessly, and I stumble across the gleaming countenance of a beautiful woman looking to be, perhaps, Indian, and perhaps of a certain age. She is radiant, dressed in a sari. Below her picture is her “bio”, which describes her as a “Divine Spiritual Luminary”and a “Great Mystic”. I have the same feeling I have whenever I see a picture of the Pope, Queen Elizabeth, or for that matter, Mick Jagger. I mean, I know these people are extraordinary. I know they each possess a unique insight informed by a unique vantage point on the world. And each of them holds a mystique, an aura of power that transcends the mundane. They are icons, and as such, they command a certain respect.
But at some point, I’m sorry to say, a little voice in my head says, “Is it real, or is it just pretend?”. And if it *is* pretend, is that such a bad thing? Or, is it as real as I allow it to be? Or should I be offended by pretense that basically, sells us snake oil? Or. What if it’s not snake oil? Is the believing itself the real magic?
You see, I am very, very confused. Part of me wants so badly to believe it all. I want to just swallow the Divine Light whole and let it illuminate my very being, curing me of everything from cancer to cataracts, from indigestion to indiscretion, from ignorance to inertia. (Okay, I’ll stop now). I think there is a secret, and that once I *divine* this secret, all will be well.
But then I say to myself: There is no secret. There is only the truth that is staring me in the face. There is only this moment where I am sitting in front of my computer, confessing my self-doubt before an imaginary audience (which, by the way, seems to be my calling in life, whether I am writing a song, composing a letter, or sobbing in front of a therapist. All one and the same. Me, confessing). There is only here an now. And isn’t that miracle enough?
Namaste.
“Forgotten Songs”
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The deep, crooning baritone you hear at the beginning and end of “Forgotten Songs” is actually a 1993 recording of my father, Philip Brourman singing one of his own tunes, “Gambler’s Blues”; a song he wrote during his time as a P.O.W. in Germany during World War II. (He is accompanied by my sister, Michele Brourman, a brilliant songwriter herself). Daddy used to say that songwriting was only one of several strategies he and his buddies came up with to keep their sanity during that awful time. (They also formed a men’s chorus and gambled trading cigarettes and Red Cross rations. Daddy was an avid card player throughout his life). [Read more]
America
I was 15, going on 16 – just like the song says in The Sound of Music.
I was invited to my first party at a friend’s house without parental supervision. Of course, this was unbeknownst to my parents, who would never have let me go if they had known that the Hendersons were off somewhere for the weekend, leaving my friend, Catherine, alone with her ten year-old sister. Obviously, the Hendersons had much more faith in their daughter’s good judgment and moral compass than my parents had in mine – a fact which I deeply resented, and I thought to myself, “Sure! Might as well fulfill their worst fears, since it’s clear that being a nice, compliant, goody two-shoes – which I have always been – doesn’t get me any respect!” I don’t remember anymore how I got to the party. Probably, my father drove me there. He probably gave me the “third degree” all the way over. I probably lied through my teeth, swearing up and down that the party would be duly chaperoned and there would only be girls and absolutely NO alcohol.
[Read more]
Watching “Ed Wood”
Last night Art and I had a truly fabulous night watching “Ed Wood”‘, a film made in 1994 starring Johnnie Depp in the title role with Martin Landau co-starring as Bela Lugosi. (Martin Landau won an Oscar for his performance, which, I am sure, was absolutely deserved.
First of all, if you don’t know, Ed Wood was a writer, director and producer of some of arguably some of the worst movies ever made. I haven’t laughed so hard in many years! Johnnie Depp as Ed Wood was, well, wooden in a way that must have been an enormous challenge for such a gifted actor. Most of all, he reminded me of Mickey Rooney in the Andy Hardy series of films. He mouthed the kind of “aw shucks” lines that under most circumstances would make me cringe — lines such as “The kids really love that sort of thing” (while making a pitch for one of his epically bad films).
On the other hand, just below the surface of the hilarious antics, there was a poignancy that broke your heart. Here was a man who was burdened with a secret compulsion to dress up in women’s clothing, a transvestite, who suffered greatly because of it. Still, he dutifully confessed to his future wife on their first date, afraid that later on she would, like his former girlfriend, discover the truth and abandon him. He was naive, vulnerable, and utterly honest. In a pivotal scene, he has been chafing under the scrutiny of a group of investors from the Beverly Hills Baptist Church, who are trying to wrest artistic control of his picture. He goes to the Brown Derby (an iconic Hollywood restaurant) and has a chance encounter with his idol, Orson Welles. Although at that time, Wood was outrageously dolled-up in drag, Welles seems oblivious to this and has a serious, artist-to-artist conversation with young Wood. Welles concludes the conversation by telling Ed that he must be true to his artistic vision. Wood, newly energized by this encouragement from one of the gods of Hollywood filmdom, goes back to his set and recaptures artistic control, going on to complete the crowning achievement of his career, “Plan Nine from Outer Space”. (I use the term “crowning achievement” in the broadest possible sense of the word).
There is another thread to the film which must be mentioned: Ed Wood stumbles upon the famed star of the horror genre of the ’30s and ’40s, the man synonymous with Dracula, Bela Lugosi. By the time Wood befriends the older man, Lugosi is “washed up” by all accounts, a drug addict whose wife has recently died, living alone in a very modest and unkempt house in Baldwin Hills with a pack of small dogs. Ed does his best to resurrect (pun intended) Lugosi’s career by starring him in several of his own pictures. There is a growing bond of friendship between the two men, and Lugosi comes to depend on Wood, so much so, that he calls Wood up on many occasions in dire peril. The younger man always shows up, always treats Lugosi with utter respect and reverence.
Over the years, there has been consensus among film historians that Ed Wood was, by most measures, the worst director of all time. Indeed, his movies were made on a shoestring budget, sloppy in their execution, and were built on concepts such as, “Grave diggers from outer space”. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that he was a man worthy of respect. Hollywood “chewed him up and spit him out”, just as it did many others. We’ll never know what Ed Wood might have been had he not been what he was. I don’t know whether the world is a better place for films like, “Plan Nine from Outer Space”. But I can say that he was a steadfast, loyal, and compassionate friend to Bela Lugosi and in general, conducted his personal life with integrity. Isn’t that the more important measure of a man?
Lies, Sex and Politics!
Let’s talk politics.
Yes, I know. Mom always said there were two topics of conversation to avoid: 1) religion; 2) politics. But I am a rebellious child, and so I am flagrantly violating Mom’ s rule. Some of you won’ t like what I have to say. That’ s fine. So far, this is still a democracy, and I still have the right to say annoying things. Sometimes I feel – especially in the middle of a presidential campaign – that all politics is just a matter of smoke and mirrors. I find that I have a lot of company in that belief. Lots of people decline to vote at all, saying, basically, “What’ s the difference? They’ re all the same!”. To them I say, “Yes, you’ re probably right, but to paraphrase George Orwell, “Some politicians are more (the same) than others”. Let’s review.
Do all politicians lie? Well, as the joke has it, like lawyers, only when their lips are moving. But seriously, folks. Is there a difference between lying and exaggerating? Is there a difference between lying and being mistaken? Is there a difference between manipulating the voters and honestly trying to answer their needs? The question of lying is at the heart of this discussion. It would be easy to tar all politicians with the same brush, but is that fair? And more importantly, is it accurate? And even more importantly, does that mean that all of us should just sit on our hands on November 4th?
Eight years ago when “Dubya” ascended to the throne, I was none too happy, but I so wanted to believe in our system of government that I tried to give him the benefit of a doubt. I tried hard to believe him when he said he was a “uniter and not a divider”. I tried hard to believe him when he said war was only the option of last resort. I tried hard to believe that, deep in his heart, he wanted only the best for all of the people he supposedly represented. But eight years is a long, long time. I have had to admit to myself, finally, that this country was duped. Lots and lots of intelligent people believed Bush’s campaign rhetoric. They thought they were getting a “compassionate conservative”. What could be better, after all? Instead, (IMHO), we got a dangerous, manipulative, war-mongering administration, stone deaf to the real issues of the majority of voters in this country. This “fiscally responsible” administration has left us deeper in debt as a nation than we have ever been before. We are engaged in two wars in the Middle East, with lots of saber-rattling and “tough talk” coming out of Washington. We no longer walk soflty and carry a big stick. It seems we just carry a big stick. The Supreme Court has been skewed far to the right politically, as you might expect from any administration whose core constituents are made up primarily of the the most zealous of evangelicals and “neo-cons”. There are other issues, I’m sure. This is just the list that immediately pops into my (admittedly left-leaning) mind.
And what of the preceding eight years with Bill Clinton at the helm? Well, we know for sure that there was a budget surplus at the end of those eight years. We know that apart from some very targeted air strikes in Bosnia, it was a peaceful eight years. We know that people in general were economically better off than they are now, the middle class in particular. And, yes. Bill Clinton cheated on his wife. His enemies in Washington did a little sleuthing and made him testify to Congress concerning the affair. And in an effort to maintain the dignity of the office and, I would assume, not to humiliate himself or his family, he lied about it clumsily. Stooping to an unbelievable low, the Republicans dug up a blue dress and caught Bill Clinton in a lie. For that lie, they gleefully impeached him. “High crimes and misdemeanors”? Really? Having a tawdry little affair with a willing young woman and then lying about it? How many presidents have been held accountable for such behavior, let alone impeached? Oh, that’ s right: None!
But here is the point. Whatever else you may believe about the last two administrations, and no matter what side you may take in terms of liberal versus conservative, they were certainly different.
So, now we have yet another chance to discern the difference between out-and-out lying and overstating the truth. We have a chance to guess who has our best interest at heart and who is in the back pocket of powerful lobbyists. In spite of all of the confusing claims and counter-claims, we must try to figure out who is the “good guy” and who is the “bad guy”, or at least, who is competent and who is simply ambitious. We must at least try to make a difference. Otherwise, what hope do we
have?
If you’ re still not registered to vote, NOW is the time. Maybe you don’ t agree with my views. Fine. Vote and prove me wrong! Just vote!
HAPPY BIRTH DAY, MOM
Today is my 58th birthday. Hard to believe I’ ve been on this earth all those years, and yet, through the magic of memory, I can instantly be back to my eight year-old self, sitting with my mother at the kitchen table in our house on Gettysburg Street. Mom was telling me about how I was born.
It was a cinematic story. I can picture it all in my mind’s eye, even if I don’ t actually remember the event itself.
I was born in the evening, I assume, since when my mother went into labor, it was afternoon. How do I know that? I know that because when I was ready to be born, my mother’ s ob-gyn, Dr. Cohen, was on the golf course. Mom had been taken to the Magee Hospital for Women, and apparently, it was going to be a very short labor. Literally, the nurse had to keep pushing me back to keep me from being born before the good doctor got there. “Wow, Mom!” I heard myself exclaim, “Why did they do that? Couldn’t someone else have delivered me?” Mom’ s reply shocked me: “No, honey. I had signed an agreement stating that only Dr. Cohen could deliver you, and he was off on the golf course somewhere and couldn’ t be found”. For years, I ruminated on this story, thinking I must have imagined it. I must have dreamt that Mom told me that. It’s too unbelievable.
So when I was already quite grown up, I asked my mother once again, “Mom? Did you really tell me that?” and she said, “I sure did!”. And still not believing it, thinking Mom must have been hallucinating, I asked my own ob-gyn, “Could this be true?” and he immediately said, “Sure. It happens all the time.” So, apart from thinking to myself, “How barbaric!” and “No wonder I’m such a neurotic woman”, I also thought, “Poor Mom!”. Imagine going through all the travails of labor, and then having the nurse keep literally pushing the baby back, over and over, until the doctor arrives! I think of the pain, the fear, the frustration – especially since my mother’s comment was, “Really, all anyone had to do was ‘catch’! You should have been a very easy birth! You were practically here when they admitted me to the hospital”.
So, this is the first birthday of my life when Mom is no longer with me, at least, physically. Every year on my birthday it has been my tradition to call her and to thank her from the bottom of my heart for giving birth to me, and then, for putting up with me – especially during my teenage years – and beyond. For raising me to be a decent human being, For her wisdom, For her humor. For her love. I woke up this morning wishing she were still here. But then I remembered her “visiting” me in a dream about a month after she passed away. She looked beautiful, strong, and whole. When I said, “Mom! You’re alive”, she threw her head back and laughed heartily, “Of course, I am, baby. I’m alive every time you think of me!”.
Well, I am certainly thinking of you today, Mom. And you’re as alive as I am! And thank you, for all of it.
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