My girl

Before Tara passed away, I went to see her.  I sat with her along with her husband and in-laws. She had pretty much lost the ability to speak, so we sat around and I just held her hand.  I was uncomfortable in the awkward silence, so I pulled out my phone and started showing her pictures.  “Look Tara, here we are hanging out in your kitchen.   Here we are on our trip to Connecticut when the kids were little.  Here’s another picture in your kitchen.  This was on your birthday when we went to the chocolate making workshop.  And here’s another one in your kitchen….”  I can’t even count how many hundreds of hours I spent in that kitchen.  The chairs in her kitchen were worn with permanent butt indents.  

The kitchen was Tara’s happy place.  You could pop in unexpected and she would welcome you in, throw together an eggplant parmigiana, and then wrap it up so your husband and kids had dinner.  When we decided to meet for breakfast, she often insisted we come over and she made omelets to order and Nutella French toast.  She put out a smorgasbord every time.  

When Tara wasn’t baking cookies for the PTA, she was making chocolates for birthday goody bags.  Or she was preparing a dozen dishes for one of her barbecues, block parties or holidays.  She didn’t know what the word catering meant, except for when she was getting paid to cater someone else’s event.  When she became sick, she continued cooking, but now she was cooking for the nurses at the cancer center.  She was supposed to be slowing down, but her slowing down was the average person’s speeding up.  

Tara was always a caretaker.  In her last few weeks, she invited me into her bedroom to show me how her husband had moved the furniture around and put a chair next to the bed for visitors.  She walked over to a table in the corner where there was a basket of little heart trinkets.  She handed me one with my name on it.  Only Tara would give out parting gifts to visitors while she was dying.  Only Tara would put out a tray of goodies when the hospice nurse visited.  That was just who she was.

I was talking with a friend about her yesterday, and I was trying to find the words to describe her.  My friend said that she had a spicy personality, and it made me giggle, because of the cooking metaphor.  She was spicy.  She was loud and full of energy.  She would tell stories in a way that had you laughing so hard that it hurt and you were gasping for air.  She was confident and funny and didn’t take shit from anyone.  And yet she was the most gentle mother and would move mountains for her kids.  

Last year, while she was still well, we went out shopping together.  She saw me admiring a rainbow hamsa.  I walked away from it and continued to browse.  A few minutes later, she handed me a shopping bag with the hamsa in it.  She said, “I saw you looking at it so I bought it for you.  After I am gone, you can look at it and think of me.”  Even in her condition, she was thinking of others.  We stood in the store hugging and crying, and with every reason to be angry at the world, she was there comforting me.  I hung the hamsa on my mirror, so every morning I can look at it and smile.  

That was Mother’s Day weekend last year, and we thought it was our last hurrah, as we spent the weekend together, along with Beth and Michelle.  We didn’t dream that she’d make it another year, but I am convinced that her positive attitude and unwavering faith is what kept her going.  When she had every reason to question God, she found peace.  

A few weeks ago, while Tara was still able to, she handed me a letter that she wrote.  It sits on my desk, still sealed.  I have yet to read it.  I’m not sure I can handle it and if I do read it, that means that I really have to say goodbye.

My last interaction with Tara was right before she passed away.  She could barely speak, so I just crawled into bed with her and held her hand.  There was nothing to say, no words unsaid.  So we just laid together and I rubbed her hand and she snoozed on and off.  I don’t know how, but she opened her eyes and mustered up the strength to utter one sentence, clear as day.  I’ve decided to keep her words between her and I.  Finally I got up, kissed her on the forehead and told her that I loved her.  I left the room and met her husband in the hall and we just hugged for what felt like forever.  

My friend was truly like no one else.  She was a light in the darkness, and the world was a better place because she was in it.  

Let's Get Personal - My thoughts on Abortion

 

 

Let’s get a little personal for a minute. 

 

I’m beyond triggered by this new Texas law.  I’ve lost two babies to miscarriage and so I am well aware of the sanctity of life.  Those two babies were most certainly wanted. 

 

My first pregnancy was with Goofball.  It was pretty much a textbook pregnancy.

 

My second pregnancy was a very early miscarriage.  Had I not been extremely in tune with my body, I would have assumed my period was just a little late and a little heavier than usual, except that I was in tune and I had two positive pregnancy tests.

 

My third pregnancy was a first trimester miscarriage.  I was about 10 weeks along and we had been monitoring baby closely, so I was devastated, yet not surprised when we could not detect a heartbeat at our third sono, because our second sono had an extremely weak heartbeat and our first sono had not yet shown one.  Clearly we were prepared that this was a touch and go pregnancy and we knew from the beginning that something was wrong.  I was offered a D&C but I made my own choice to carry that dead baby until I naturally miscarried 2 weeks later.  I wanted to really feel the hard core emotions.  That was my choice.  Laying on the floor outside of my bathroom, writhing in pain with contractions, I delivered that fetus at home with my husband by my side.  That was the choice I made because that was what I wanted.  I needed to do it for my own grieving process.

 

My last pregnancy was with Mush.  I don’t think I ever relaxed during that first trimester having just lost two babies, having to go on progesterone to keep my uterus safe for him after having some bleeding.  During my second trimester I was past the danger point where I had lost the last two and I was able to enjoy my pregnancy and start to plan, but only for a short time.  By the beginning of the third trimester, something was obviously very wrong.  My hands and feet were swollen, I lost four pounds in one week from vomiting, my urine was orange, I felt little movement, I was doubled over in pain and shivering, and so I went to the doctor assuming they would put me on bed rest or give me fluids for dehydration, only to be sent to the hospital, knocked out and rushed into the OR for an emergency c-section 8 weeks early.  My body was literally shutting down.  My liver enzymes were through the roof.  My blood pressure was elevated.  My platelets were so low that I couldn’t be given proper anesthesia and so I could not be awake to hear my baby’s first cry and his father could not be with me holding my hand.  I was knocked out and rushed in.  My husband thought I died.

 

In essence, that pregnancy was terminated.  That baby still had another 8 weeks to grow.  Had I continued that pregnancy, I’d probably be dead in a matter of days, maybe even hours.  Had I not been monitoring my symptoms and advocating for myself, I very likely could have had a stroke while I was home alone with a preschooler.

 

What is the point of telling this story and what does it have to do with Texas?

 

Firstly, without safe access to abortion, a woman may have to turn to unsafe measures.  With my second miscarriage (third pregnancy) I carried a dead baby inside me for two weeks until the fetus naturally miscarried.  I was monitored the entire time and was given a timeline and my doctor instructed that if the baby does not pass, my body could go into sepsis and I could die, and so if it doesn’t naturally happen, he has to intervene.  It was for my safety.  If a woman tries to abort her baby without being under the care of her doctor, we can start seeing a lot of dead women.  Where are the pro-lifers now? 

 

Secondly, with Mush, it was imperative that we get him out or I was going to die.  I was lucky that we recognized the problem and that I was able to be saved.  (I was misdiagnosed the week before with “just having a rough pregnancy” and very well may not have been here to type this post but that is another story for another day.)  Under some of these archaic laws, a women will be forced to carry a child to term, even if it means having to lose the mother.  Now I was far enough along in my pregnancy where my baby could safely be delivered, but what if he wasn’t?  What if I was forced to carry to term?  What if my HELLP syndrome came on earlier in the pregnancy and I was forced to carry him?  I’d be dead.  And as a result, the baby would be dead, so what has been accomplished here?  One doesn’t have to go to medical school to know that the health of a fetus is 100 percent dependent on the health of the mother. 

 

When I was crying on the sonogram table after losing my third pregnancy, and when I was being rushed into the operating room to deliver my last child prematurely, I consulted with my husband and I consulted with my doctor.  I didn’t stop to check with my local politicians because this is not their area of expertise.

 

Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker was asked in a GOP debate in 2015 if he would really let a mother die than have an abortion, and his response was that “I’ve said many times that that unborn child can be protected and there are many alternatives that would protect the life of the mother” and sometimes that is simply not true.  I would have given anything to go on bedrest and take some medicine to carry my child to term.  I would have been thrilled to not have to deal with a baby in the NICU and his lifelong developmental delays which are very possibly the result of his being born prematurely.  Scott Walker, and politicians like him will never know what it is like to hear the heartbreaking news that their child has died in utero or to give birth to a fetus in their toilet. 

 

Having lost two babies has made me more pro-choice than ever, because it is not my business what happens between a woman and her partner, and at the most vulnerable moments of my life, I chose to consult the experts and not the law makers. 

 

Great Grandma's Candlesticks

Friday night is family night in my house. We try to observe Shabbos every week, although I never actually light the candles at the right time. One thing is constant – every Friday night I light the candles that I received for my Bat Mitzvah, and now those candlesticks are even more meaningful, as the synagogue I grew up in is just this week closing its doors.

Tonight I used a different set, a pair that sits in my breakfront with all my other Judaic items. It’s the pair that belonged to my Great Grandma Ida, who I never met. I never knew her, but she lives on in these candlesticks. In the early 1900’s, she came alone to America, just a teenager, fleeing Russia. She carried with her two sets of heavy brass candlesticks. The story is told that at one point, she was stopped by a border guard and she bribed her passage through by giving him one of the four candlesticks, and now there are three, given to my mother who gave them to me. I don’t know if she had a visa. I don’t know if anyone sponsored her. I just know that she was fleeing violence and because of that candlestick, I can light my Shabbat candles, honor her memory and tell her story.

This week I’ve felt very helpless over the fact that children are being held in cages and separated from their parents. I can enjoy my freedom because I just happened to be lucky enough to be born in this country. So as I celebrate this Shabbat, I’ll say a prayer that families can be made whole again. I’m thankful for my Great-Grandmother’s safety, and that because of one bribed candlestick that allowed her to make it to America, she was able to go on and have 121 descendants.

Shabbat Shalom.

Thoughts from Quarantine

Early in the new year, you only knew of the coronavirus because of memes you saw on social media – silly memes depicting a Corona beer bottle with a lime backing away.  

Today we are seeing our family through a computer screen.  “Social distancing” is the new catch phrase, along with “flatten the curve” and “stop the spread.”  We wave to our family through our laptops, yearning to reach through the screens for hugs.

At first you thought that it’s no big deal, maybe even an overreaction.  There were hardly any confirmed cases, and you didn’t know anyone infected.  You didn’t know anyone who knew anyone who’d been infected.  You didn’t know anyone who knew anyone who knew anyone.

Slowly everyone starts working from home.  You have conference calls with your kids screaming in the background, and you even feel a tinge of jealousy that your colleagues have grown kids and they aren’t stuck homeschooling while trying to work.

At first it’s kind of fun.  The schools are sending videos of the teachers with messages for the kids. People in the community are decorating their windows with rainbows for hope.  You drive around and try to count the rainbows.

Then they tell you to avoid the grocery store.  So you spend 3 days uploading grocery apps and trying to grab a delivery spot, and you refresh the screen as though you are trying to get concert tickets.  And you set an alarm for 1 AM to see if you can get on.  And you finally get a “flexible” spot and are confirmed for a grocery delivery, and they will contact you for a delivery sometime between tomorrow and five days from tomorrow.  And then you find out that many people in your neighborhood were expecting deliveries only to be cancelled.

So you go to the grocery store with a list a mile long, looking to stock up on enough food for at least two weeks.  You don’t want to appear alarmist, but you put on a surgical mask (which you just happen to have in your kids’ dress up bin) and you wear gloves and you zip up your hoodie with a credit card and license in your pocket – you don’t want to carry a purse – more chances for contamination, and you hope for the best.  And you are relieved that no one thinks you are crazy, because they are all wearing latex gloves and masks as well.  You buy an extra container of milk to freeze.  They have no chicken.  Your regular marinara sauce is out so you try a new brand.  They just got a toilet paper delivery – grab a package – limit of one – you don’t need it now but who knows if you’ll find it when you need it again.  They have eggs – thank goodness – but you are only allowed to buy 1 carton, which will maybe last 3 days in your house.  No hand sanitizer.  They keep telling us to wash our hands, which are now dry and cracking.  No Lysol wipes.  No Clorox bleach.  No yeast. No brown sugar.  No powdered sugar – I guess everyone else also has the desire to bake.  What else is there to do? 

You come home with your groceries and your son runs to hug you.  You hold your hands up to push him away – you haven’t washed yet, and for a brief moment your heart breaks, because you can just barely relate to the medical staff on the front lines who come home each day and sleep in their garages and basements, or even those who are living away from their children out of fear for bringing this disease home.

You wash your hands, strip down your out of your sweats, jump in the shower and put on new sweats - No need to look nice when you never leave the house.  You empty your groceries, wiping down packages, and then put your reusable shopping bags in the washing machine.

Three days later, just as predicted, you run out of eggs.  Still no hope for a grocery delivery, so you head up the road to 7-11 with hopes of buying a few cartons.  There’s only 1 carton left, and your thankful that you only had to go to one store. You grab another container of milk, just in case.  There are lines on the floor where you are supposed to stand back, allowing distance between you and the cashier.  They have temporarily built plexiglass walls as a barrier.  While you are there, you buy a scratch off lotto ticket.  You’re thankful that both you and your spouse are still employed, but you also just read that another six million people applied for unemployment last week.  As expected, the scratch off is not a winner.

As the weeks go by, you look forward to the daily briefing from the governor, not because it’s good news – it’s not, but you need a dose of reality between the Simpsons and Paw Patrol.  The numbers are climbing – the people hospitalized, the people who have died.  They keep postponing the date to return to school, but at this point, in your mind, you know that there will be no spring concerts, no proms, no graduations.

And you don’t necessarily hate this – of course you hate the circumstances – but you don’t hate conference calls in your pajamas.  And you actually start to feel sad for your colleagues with grown children who they haven’t visited and grandchildren who they haven’t held.  And yes, you are working and homeschooling, but you are also snuggling and reading bedtime stories.  You are baking and building legos and playing board games and going for afternoon walks.  And it’s hard to find the balance between work and school and play – you are so thankful that you still have a job, but are a smidge jealous of those who don’t.  

You’re so done with cooking, so you order takeout.  You place the order on the phone and give your credit card number.  You drive to the restaurant to pick it up and find a bag with your name on it, sitting on a table in the vestibule.  No human interaction required.  No “have a great day.”  No “enjoy.”  They are thankful to still have customers and you are thankful to still have the luxury of not having to make dinner. 

Most days have been rainy, and that’s good – who wants to be stuck inside on a beautiful day?  On those sunshiny days, you see the neighbors playing in the yard, and your kids run to grab their sneakers, and you have to tell them no.  They don’t understand social distancing.  They don’t understand quarantine.  You offer to take a walk instead, and so you walk to the quiet little playground that no one ever goes to.  You approach and see that the gate is locked, and there is a “temporarily closed” sign, and your child falls to the ground wailing.  This is all too much for us to understand – how can we expect our kids to?  So you hold hands and walk to your secret little hill instead, and you climb up the hill and watch the clouds and you just hold each other.  And your child cries in your arms and you stroke his hair and you wish that you could just let him be a kid and that this will all go away, and you worry that things will never be the same for him.

You watch the news.  You are 50 miles from the epicenter and the epicenter is moving east.  Times square is at a standstill.  Broadway is shut down.  The subways are running but no one is on them.  The city that never sleeps is in a coma.  Yesterday, 799 New Yorkers died.  Nearby, field hospitals are being built.  In the city, refrigerated trucks are holding bodies as the morgues fill up.

You open up your social media and too many times you type, “I’m sorry for your loss.”  And you check the profiles of your friends who work in the field to make sure they are still symptom-free.  You see your friends are sewing masks and scrub caps, because the healthcare workers don’t have enough protective equipment.  You are praying for your friends and family who now are testing positive and getting admitted into hospitals.  

There is nowhere to go, but you need to get away, so you take a ride to nowhere.  You call your friend who’s been sick in bed for two weeks and you fear that she might be getting admitted.  She’s actually feeling better today and her chest x-ray looks clearer.  You breathe a sigh of relief and turn on the AM radio, just in time to catch the governor’s daily address, and for the first time they can confirm that the number of infected are down.  You are so overwhelmed with all of life, and you are crying as you drive, and so you are forced to pull over.  You’re not quite even sure where you are, but you pull your car to the side of the road and you see a little toddler playing in her front yard with her mom.  Her mom is blowing bubbles and the toddler is trying to catch the bubbles and she is running around and smiling and laughing and poking at bubbles.  And this little toddler knows nothing of quarantine and nothing of disease; she just knows Elmo shirts and bubbles and pigtails and her Mommy.  And mom blows a bubble that flies around the yard, and floats up, up, up.  And you watch this bubble as it floats up and in the second floor window you see that someone has taped up a picture of a rainbow and for a brief moment you smile, and there is hope. 

A eulogy for my sister-in-law, my favorite Nudge

Jodie was my sister-in-law and we were polar opposites.  She was always well put together, and I am a “ponytail and go” kind of person.  Jodie was a staunch republican, and I am a diehard liberal.  I generally choose my words carefully, and Jodie was very blunt and off the cuff. 

            Jodie was extremely successful in her career.  Maybe it’s because of her strong personality.  She could negotiate a severance package like it’s nobody’s business.  She could get out of a speeding ticket after flashing her brights at a cop.  Seriously…   He pulled her over and asked what her deal was and her response?  “You were going too slow!” 

She was a real firecracker, assertive, persistent, strong-willed, a nudge.  She’d say things to get a rise out of people, like at Thanksgiving, in a room full of democrats, she raised her wine glass and proposed a toast to Donald Trump.  It seemed as though at every Passover seder, or over latkes at Chanukah, we’d get into a big political debate, and Jodie would never back down, and we’d never see eye-to-eye, but at the end of the night, we’d still hug good-bye, and look forward to the next debate, where we’d try to present our defense of Barack Obama, and she would just tear us all down. 

Jodie and I were pregnant at the same time, and I remember sitting around the table eating dinner, talking about how in the coming months, there would be three more boys eating with us.  And Jodie, being Jodie, turns to Caleb and says, “You know, Caleb, I’m having 2 babies.  I don’t need you to buy me a push present.  You should buy me TWO push presents.”  Caleb’s response?  “You think you have to suffer?  I have to watch TWO boys have a bris!  You should be buying ME a bris gift!”  Now to make this story even more hysterical, we all misheard Caleb, and instead of saying “bris gift” we all thought he said, “brisket.”  I’ll never forget sitting around the table laughing at that.  Even better, Jodie’s parents, my in-laws, gave Jodie and Caleb two briskets when the twins were born.  We got one for our son and then 4 years later, were blessed with another brisket.  And now, every time I eat brisket, I think of that hilarious encounter.

Now I told you that Jodie was a nudge, but here’s something you might not know about Jodie.  She was truly, the most generous nudge I ever met.  As a wedding gift, Jodie paid for our honeymoon, and she didn’t skimp on anything.  She put us up in the finest hotel, we ate the finest meals, and if it weren’t for her, we would not have gone on a honeymoon.  Then there were little things, liken when we sat down to dinner at her house and there were little personalized plates that she ordered for each of the kids.  Or she would hand me a hair straightener or a container of lotion that she ordered and didn’t care for.  I’d go home and look at it online to see that her bottle of lotion cost the same as my monthly phone bill.  Or she’d order matching shirts for the kids so we could surprise Toni with a photo shoot.  Before Jodie, I didn’t even know that Ralph Lauren made infant clothing.  When my little one was in the NICU, she gave me all of her books on dealing with preemies.  When he was diagnosed with autism, she held my hands, answered my questions, and showed nothing but support.  And another thing about Jodie – she was truly the most loving mother I have ever met.  In almost ten years, I never saw her once lose her cool around those boys. 

Here’s something else you might not know about Jodie:  After 9-11, Jodie volunteered on the bucket brigade in downtown Manhattan.  I can just picture her – the only one there in a hard hat and a pair of Manolo Bhahniks.    

Now I have been married into the family for almost 14 years, and in that time, Jodie didn’t always bring out the best in me, and I know I didn’t always bring out the best in her.  But I am at peace with the way we left things.  I already told you about our fierce political debates at every holiday – well this year at Thanksgiving, as we sat around the table debating, something truly weird and magical happened – we actually found common ground.  It was on the debate about gun control.  In fact, I asked her to repeat her position several times because I couldn’t believe that we actually agreed on anything political.  Maybe we had more in common than I realized.

I saw Jodie 3 weeks before she died.  She was at our house for my 6 year old’s birthday.  My older son pulled out his new chess set that she bought him for Chanukah and said, “Look Aunt Jodie – I’ve been learning chess on the set that you bought me!”  They sat down and instead of playing with him, she started playing with her dad.  I walked by and snapped a picture, because again, I saw it as a magical kind of moment – dad and daughter playing chess together – a close moment that I don’t remember the two of them sharing often.  That night, after the cake had been put away and the presents were opened, I went through my camera roll and started looking back at the photos.  I came across the picture of the chess game.  No one was looking at the camera, so I deleted it.  I didn’t know that would be the last picture I would ever take of her.

At my wedding, Jodie gave us a speech in her rendition of “All I need to know I learned in kindergarten” but changed it to “All I really need to know about love, I learned from you two.”  Here are three pieces of advice that Jodie gave us, that we could all benefit from:

1. Let the little things go.

2. Always make time for good friends, family, each other and yourselves.

3. Take time to look at the stars above.

I’m going to add one:

            4. Take pictures.  Take every picture like it’s the last picture you will take of that person. 

            Boys – You two were the smallest babies I have ever met.  You had a rocky start in life, but you are both feisty fighters, just like your mom.  When you were newborns in the hospital, I marveled at how strong your mom was.  We will always be here to help you on your journey through life.

            Caleb – When you and Jodie started dating, I didn’t think you were her type.  But clearly I was wrong because I never saw her happier than when she was with you.  You truly got her.  Please know that we love you and we will be there for you.  You are our brother.

            Jodie – You are the sister I always wanted.  Like sisters, we argued over silly things, but we still loved each other.  Your lack of presence will definitely be noticed, and the dinner table is going to be much quieter without you.  I’ll miss you.  You were my favorite nudge.  

Mush-isms

Some funny gems from this funny kid:

Age 2:

Mommy:  "I..... love..... you!"
Mush: "A...... wub.....Daddy!"

Age 3:

"Ice cream is my favorite vegetable!"

Upon seeing the garbage man: "He's coming to take my stinky diapers away!"

Upon seeing me clean the toilet:  "Mommy is cleaning the tushie water."

"This feels me all better."

Upon seeing a picture of himself, "That's my friend, Me!"

"Mommy - what you eating?"
"A breakfast bar.  I didn't eat breakfast."
"Can I share it?"
"Just a small piece.  Mommy didn't eat breakfast.  You did."
"Can I pretend I didn't eat breakfast?"

"Mommy - You locked the bathroom door!  That's okay - I'll break it!"

"Mush - Do you have a poop in your diaper?"
"No."
"Are you telling the truth or are you tricking me?"
"I am telling a lie."

Upon farting:
My tushie sings "la la la."

Age 4:
"I want a heart lollipop."
"I'm sorry honey.  We don't eat lollipops for breakfast."
"I want a pretent-a-lollipop."
"What is a pretend-a-lollipop?"
"I want to pretend a lollipop is for breakfast."
"We could eat a lollipop after lunch."
"Okay let's have lunch."

Upon dropping big brother off at school, Mush says, "I'm going to go to this school when I am a big boy and I have a big penis!"

"Let's put on underwear."
"No, a diaper."
"Everyone wears underwear!  Does Daddy wear underwear?"
"Yes"
"Does brother wear underwear?"
"Yes"
"Does Mommy wear underwear?
"No, Mommy wears a magina."

Big brother was quizzing him on fire safety.
"What do you do if your pants are on fire?"
"You take your pants off and put on new ones!"

"I have a bless you nose."

Age 5:
Mush: "I love you."
Mom: "I love you too, buddy."
Mush: "Mommy I was talking to my seashell.

Upon descending during his first airplane trip, Mush turned to big brother and loudly proclaimed, "You're right!  The plane didn't crash!"

During Easter, we were visiting friends.  When Mush woke up on Easter morning to find an Easter basket for him, he said, "The Easter Bunny doesn't realize we're Jewish!"

Mush was passing gas shortly after using the bathroom.
Mom: "Do you need to use the bathroom some more?"
Mush: "No, my tushie was just saying thank you for making the poo poos."

"Mommy, my heart beeps for you because I love you so much!"

"Mommy, what does that sign say?"
"It says, 'no smoking on the playground.'"
Mush walks out of the playground gate.
"Can I smoke out here?"

Age 6:
"I have toe cheese.  My toes ate too much cheese."

Age 8:
"My teacher said that she went to Egypt.  I said, 'Are you kidding?  Why would you go to Egypt?  The Jews were slaves there!'"

At a party, Mush was at the drink table making each person a cup of lemonade with water, lemon slices and sugar packets.  He walked around the party offering each person his homemade lemonade.  Finally, he came to Mommy and said, "I have one lemonade left.  Would you like it?"  I tasted it and commented that it was delicious, to which he replied, "I tasted each one to make sure it was perfect."

Age 9:

"I speak 3 languages - English, Hebrew and Klingon!"

A psychologist asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.  His response: "I'm not sure.  I haven't given it much thought yet.  Right now I'm just working on me."

Third time's a charm - Avon Walk 2015

It’s been about 24 hours since I crossed the finish line.  After a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, I still haven’t shaken the chill from my bones, nor have I come down from my natural high.  This past weekend has been the most physically challenging, and one of the most rewarding and emotional weekends of my life.

It started early on Saturday morning.  We set our alarms for 4:30 AM and made our way to Pier 84.  The sun had not yet risen, the temperature was brisk, but the energy was high.  We dropped off our gear, filled our water bottles, grabbed some food and waited for opening ceremonies to start. 

We had the option of walking either 13.1 miles or 26.2 miles on day 1, and of course you can walk any amount – it’s not about the miles but about the dedication.  I told the girls that my plan was to walk 13.1.  That’s what I trained for, although I secretly thought that it would be pretty amazing to walk 26.2 miles all in the first day.  I know that Sabrina was determined to walk the entire day, and Iris was pretty hyped up for it too.  I told them that I will see how it goes. 

The first ten miles were a piece of cake.  I had been training for seven months and the most I had walked in training was 11 miles in one day.  At 13.1 miles we stopped for lunch and I had to make the decision – will this be my finish line for the day or should I go on?  I told Iris that I would walk to the next rest stop, which was about 2 miles away and decide from there.  As we started back, I started to get chills, but I pushed through.  I was starting to mentally waver but I kept going.  We passed mile marker 14, 15, 16 and so on, and we walked.  We were going to do it.  I wasn’t going to stop.

Somewhere around mile 24 I started feeling a little nauseous, but kept it to myself.  We were so close.  I worried that I was getting dehydrated, but I couldn’t fathom the idea because I was diligent about filling up my water bottle at every single stop and making sure it was empty before the next one. 

Finally at mile 25 we were able to see the walking bridge that would lead us to Randalls Island, and we got a sudden burst of energy and hope.  We crossed the bridge and made it to our first finish line at 26.2 miles just as the sun was setting.  We had accomplished our first goal, and we had literally walked from sun up to sun down.

All I wanted to do was get our tent set up and sit down and stretch my legs.  Right before it was fully dark, we got the tent up with the help of a volunteer.  Although I wasn’t really hungry, we made our way to the food tent.  We had to stand around for a few minutes to wait for another food delivery and all of a sudden I felt as though the walls were closing in on me.  I told Sabrina that I needed to sit down or I was going to faint.  She walked me to a table and got me some food.  I didn’t feel like eating, but I did.  I was scared to stand up to even walk to the medical tent for fear of fainting, and my body was literally shaking from the chills.  I really just wanted to go back to my tent but the girls were worried about me, so off to triage we went, with each of them holding me up in case I got dizzy.

My blood pressure was okay and my pulse was fine, but my body was clearly in a little bit of shock, maybe from the rapid change of temperature.  They put me in front of a heater and wrapped mylar blankets around me to help retain my body heat and they made me drink.  Finally after about an hour, I headed back to the tent.  I was too afraid to shower, for fear of passing out, so I went to bed as is, a disgusting, stinky wreck.  I put on 2 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, 2 sweatshirts, a hat and gloves.  I stuck a disposable heating pad on my chest and I climbed into my sleeping bag.  It was 39 degrees outside.  I thought about the day ahead of us and prayed that I wouldn’t have to tap out.  I had worked too hard and had come too far.  Iris convinced me that the next day would be easier, because we would “only” be walking 13 miles.  We tried to fall asleep, hearing the sounds of the wind, and the song “Rock you like a hurricane” on a loop blasting from the neighboring haunted hayride.

We got up at sunrise after a horrible night of sleep.  My legs were cramped, my mouth was dry and my head was spinning.  Not sure if I was determined or stupid, I decided not to quit.  We got dressed, took down our tent, had some breakfast and started day 2.

Day 2 was very hard.  I was losing momentum and with each mile I was ready to be done.  To pass the time, we chit chatted with other walkers and heard their stories of why they walk.  Many people had their shirts decorated, and I loved their creativity.  One person’s shirt read, “For my daughter, so she can wear pink ribbons in her hair and not on her shirt.”  One young man had a shirt that said, “Ladies – check your breasts or I will do it for you!”  Every time I was ready to quit there were people cheering us on, and I thought of the women going through chemo and radiation, who are drained in every way possible, and so I kept walking. 

This was my third Avon Walk but it was much harder than the other two.  I am 9 years older now, and this time I walked twice as far on day 1 than I had the last time.

Finally we were getting close to the end.  There were no more bridges to cross, no more traffic lights to pass.  We were on our last stretch and we could see the finish line ahead. 

We linked arms and walked together, and I could see my family cheering us on.  With tears streaming down my face, I hugged my mom, an 11 year breast cancer survivor. 

My mom had been diagnosed in 2004, which is what motivated me to participate in the walk back then.  In 2006 she decided to walk with me.  This past weekend, she reflected on the walk, and she commented that “the whole weekend is about walking and crying.”

And she’s right.

We walked and cried for those that lost the battle.

We walked and cried for those who are going through treatment.

We walked and cried for our courageous survivors.

We walked and cried for those who are yet to be diagnosed.

We walked and cried for our daughters, sisters, mothers and friends.

And we walked and cried because maybe, just maybe, one day there will be a time when we won’t have to walk and cry for breast cancer anymore.