Monday, March 19, 2012

OY!

B"H

Do We Ever Know the Whole Story?


"It's not good to get old." 

That's what Beatrice had the chutzpah to say to me, ... TO ME ... while I was in the middle of my second round of chemotherapy.  I stood there in her apartment waiting for her to get ready to come to us for dinner.   She is toddling around her apartment looking for something, her glasses perhaps.  One of those things that you need in order to find.  Oh well, I was ready to scream but all I said was that it looked good to me.  Maybe it was the missing glasses.  Did she not see how bald I was from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.  No eyebrows, no eyelashes, BALD.   ... I resembled my baby pictures all thanks to this chemotherapy.  Getting old, raising my family to meet milestones like bar/bat mitzvah, chupah (the wedding canopy), grandchildren, the next generation, another gift to the world... maybe they will improve on the mess we leave to them.  Getting old sounded good to me. 

What was it that made her thoughtlessly bad mouth her gift and blessing of time in my presence?  Ver Veys! (Who knows?!)


Years before, when Sam and I were first married we would visit his parents in their home.  It was a one and a half hour drive each way so our visits waited for the weekends, every weekend.  My father-in-law had been a stroke patient for several years but was still a presence, a strong presence in the family and at gatherings.  Practically every visit there would come a moment when Beatrice would shout from across the house, "Papa, do you want to go pishy?"  I was horrified.  I did not speak this way to our kids and they were still very young.  Papa never responded to this question.  However, a few minutes later Beatrice would come over to his chair, press all the necessary buttons for it to lift him up and onto his feet so he could grab the walker waiting patiently in front of him.  She would then grab the therapy belt around his waist and walk with him to the bathroom. 

What a thing to say to a grown man in front of everyone! 

Years later, just before Purim time I was at synagogue with the ladies of our sisterhood group.  One of those wonderful women was a dear friend of mine who had been busy caring for her husband while he'd been recovering from a leg injury.  It was months and months of recovery.  First he was in the hospital, then in rehab, then at home, then back into the hospital, then another rehab visit, and finally home with a visiting nurse and instructions to stay put.  She was living with a caged animal.  Staying put was not his strongest attribute.  She was EXHAUSTED.  As we were talking my mother-in-law, of blessed memory, came to mind.  I mentioned that she had cared for her husband at home for twenty two years, the last seventeen of which she'd felt that she'd had no companionship.  And then with a preface I said that even though I had never travelled in her footsteps, I was horrified that she had spoken to her husband of fifty some years like a baby.

Another lady in our group spoke up.  "Anna, you have to remember that sometimes we must use the words that work.  Under those circumstances maybe the only words that worked were those that his parents said to him when he was a young child.  They were not sophisticated people.  They did not speak about bodily functions with any ease or grace.  And we don't speak so gracefully about the body's functions either.  Perhaps the 'Papa go pishy' was the only cue that made sense... the only cue that allowed the man not to wet himself.   There is dignity in the final result if not in the method."  I stood there in silence.  Miriam had spoken from experience and with great tenderness.  I did not feel like I had been smacked over the head.  I felt like a kind and wise teacher had taken the time and energy to inform the unwise.  I was humbled. 

Years later my daughter was joining me for one of my medical appointments.  She was a good sport about accompanying me.  First we parked in the underground lot beneath the hospital, then we walked into the building to find the elevators.  When we found the correct elevators my young daughter excitedly pressed the "up" button and not so patiently waited with me for the doors to open and welcome us in.  Finally, the bell announced the elevator's arrival, next moment it opened up, and we walked in.  There were other people in that small space:  a middle-aged lady, quite normal looking; a young woman with copper black hair gelled into short spikes in a variety of directions enhanced by dark green and black makeup and by scary, very scary facial piercings; and a beautiful baby boy resting comfortably in her arms.  My Rachel took one look at the young mom and said without missing a single beat, "what the hell is wrong with you!?"  I lost a moment before I recovered enough to say to her that as we have discussed on other occasions, G-d has created a full spectrum of life, much fuller that what we experience in our own home.  The grandmother smiled.  Then I turned to the young woman to ask about the age of her baby.  We talked about the baby until the elevator doors opened to let go of this family of three.  Mom and baby were out the door quickly, the middle-aged woman, the grandmother, turned to say good bye to us and gave Rachel a smiling thumbs up. 

Social graces and informed inhibition have not been my Rachel's strong points.  Speaking one's mind, out loud, to her intended auditor was a gift, I suppose... the gift of Down Syndrome.  I don't know anyone who would have spoken as honestly as she.  ... except for Beatrice.  Maybe she comes to this talent honestly.

No comments:

Post a Comment