A Eulogy

Dear Ma, 

What can I say to the woman who brought me into this world.  You waited for so many years. So much pain and heartache.  You suffered through so much.  But despite all of the suffering, you were still my mother. Our Ma. You were so proud of us three children.  

The person that people saw in the last few years was not the real you. Although, your personality definitely peeked through. Your stubbornness. Your spunk. Your fight. You were a survivor. You taught me what it means to live. To hold on. 

I want to share some memories of the good times. 

Remember the time that we went horseback riding and you sat on the side reading a book waiting for us as a pig tried to eat your chair. 

Remember when you got your hair cutting license in Israel. You were so proud. Little did I know I would spend my childhood with short hair and short bangs as you would practice on my hair. Everyone in the Dorset area came to you for haircuts.

Remember how you were always bickering with Aunt Naomi on the phone and whenever you got together. You always argued about the time you walked through the glass door, you only got a book about animals, and when Aunt Naomi fell out of the car, she got markers. I can’t even count how many times I had to hear that story. 

Remember how you always had to match everything. Your shoes matched your skirt, which matched you shirt and eyeshadow. Your earrings were probably heavier than you.

Remember how you made coca cola chicken. Apricot meat that would melt in your mouth. And the best Bubby Kugel. 

Remember how you bought every Jewish book that came out. Your love for Rabbi Biographies. And millions of Miriam Adahan books. You went to almost every WIT class possible. Your notes were everywhere around the house. You went to shul every Shabbos. Always sitting up front. 

Remember Tai Chi. Remember how you and Bubby would be sitting by the window in Household two waiting for one of us to come. The minute you would see Abba walking towards you, you would stand up and mimic his motions. Putting your arms up above your head and copying all the arm motions he was doing in the parking lot. 

Your love for Abba was beyond anything. 

Remember how proud you were of Chaim. He is your pride and joy. Your obvious favorite. 

Remember when you found out you were pregnant withDevora. Was probably the happiest day of your life. 

Remember how you would talk to your father every day on the phone. 

Remember how you loved Simcha and Shira. How proud you were of the families they crated. 

Remember how grateful you were to Yechiel for the dedication and care for Aunt Naomi. You finally get to be with your sister. And your mother. And Bubby. You are finally pain free.  

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I’ll miss you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

Surgery #8

They came to get me that Friday evening. Transport that is. Two women wearing nets on their heads, chatting the whole time about their lives. As they wheeled me into the elevator on the 12th floor, “bump” one of them called out to me. The pain was so overwhelming, shooting through my lower back. My back that had been cut open two days earlier to stop my leaking spinal fluid. Here I was having to come to terms with another surgery. Was I avoiding reality? In denial. Most probably. 

We get to the large pre-op room and I am placed in a little cubicle. Two men come forward. One steps close to the head of my bed and informs me that he is a graduate student and has to ask me some questions. Ok I think, here we go. And then he stupidly asks me if I have ever had any surgeries. Umm hello? Are you for real? Have you even read my file, I ask him. He steps back as if a wounded puppy and then the next guy steps forward. 

Now this guy looks more seasoned. Not his first time at the rodeo. I ignore him and watch the TV above my head as it silently plays Will & Grace. Alex is his name. He has a faint Russian accent and informs me that he is the anesthesiologist and apologized for his acquaintance. He clearly sensed my frustration. Alex is one of those doctors who emanates bedside manner. He stood there holding my hand and chatting as we waited for my operating room to be ready. He was trying to rile me up, kept telling me to curse if I felt like it. We schmoozed about his family and career and my past surgeries, good experiences and bad. I felt validated and listened to. 

Finally the time had come to head to the operating room. They asked me if I could scoot from my hospital bed onto the operating table. I find that table laughable. How is a person meant to actually lay on that tiny board without falling off? I always ask what a fat person does. The operating room staff snicker at my questions and sarcastic comments. I try to wiggle my way but cannot maneuver or bend my back without screaming in pain. Alex and the grad student grab my arms and lift me onto the table. Holding a mask over my face and reminding me to breathe deep breaths. It’s not working, I am still alert. I feel the needle puncture my hand as they search for a vein for a second IV. I wince and Alex grabs my hand tightly while gently rubbing my forehead and whispering that all will be ok and I am doing great. 

That is the last thing I remember as I drifted off into a silent reality. I woke up less than two hours later as they pulled the tube out of my throat, me vomiting everywhere. Wheeling me directly to postop, it was then that recovery would begin. The last four months would no longer dictate my life. This surgery was going to be a solution. No longer the bandaid approach.

To be continued... 

Ma

Mother. Is an abstract concept. A given. Everyone has one. Or do they. Biological. Part of humanity. Society. Way of life. But is it. Some do not choose it. Others forced. Precious few are deserving.

My mother wanted me. She waited and waited. Let down one too many times. She suffered. Suffered for years. Much heartache. And then I appeared. Tiny but not really. A bundle of joy. Surrounded by difficulty. Constant suffering.

Ma. Mommy. Imma.

Where are you. Why does this keep happening to you. To us. I just don't understand. How are you able to withstand all this pain. All this sorrow. Ma. I wish you knew who I was. I wish you were my real mother. I wish you could make everything ok. Make me ok.

I can't look at you. So pathetic and sad. So small. How did we get here. How did this become our lives. How could I have thought we hit rock bottom so many years ago. And look at us now. Broken. Alone. Ma. Where are you. Open your eyes. Can you hear my voice. Blink.

Where is the justice. On your birthday. Is God mocking. Playing the evil puppeteer. We are helpless marionettes. Ma. Wake up. Breathe. Take those precious breathes. Fight. Don't leave me. I can't live without you. I need you more than I have ever realized. So what if you weren't perfect. You were still there. And maybe I wasn't always there. Still not. But I knew where to find you.

Your hand has always been warm. You always smiled when you saw me. I am your first. My voice is the one you always recognize. I am your original. Been there through thick and thin. Ma. Please. I'm sorry. Sorry for this life you've had. Sorry for all the pain. Sorry I haven't always been there. I'm sorry.

If it's your time. Then let go. It's ok. We will all understand. We just want you to be calm. At peace. Pain free.

Ma. I love you. Mommy. I need you. Imma. Forever your daughter.

6 Years.

6 Years.

72 Months.
2190 Days.
52560 Hours.
3153600 Minutes.

Time is a funny thing.
Slows down when you need it to pass.
Flies by when you want to catch the moment.
You can't change it.
Only relive it.

Time has a mind of its own.
Memories are confused.
Brain in a fog.
Thoughts rearranged.
Is any of it true.

Time never leaves.

Always in the background.

You can't escape it.
Only avoid suffocation.
Wait to forget.

This day comes every year. 

Less and less meaning. 

As time evaporates. 

Memories fade. 

Tomorrow is another day. 

Wake Up

I'm still here
And I am tired
I need a break
From life
From everyone
But mostly from myself
A minute
Would be nice
Of calm
Freedom
From reality
Life
Just one second
Pain free
No thoughts
Sleep
Why does my body
Betray me
Just need a break
Not sure how much more
I can take

permanently agitated

Am I agitated because my head hurts
Or does my head hurt because I'm agitated
Questions I ask myself
Every single day
Does everything have to feel
Like it's falling apart
Collapsing around me
Curve balls being thrown
Directly at my face
Tripping me as I move
Is the anger real
Or is it chemical imbalance
Am I kidding myself
Not going to therapy
No antidepressants
Faking this positive life
Suffocated by my own thoughts
Unable to handle real emotion
All sadness masked
Expressed as anger
Bubbling at the surface
Internal discomfort
Emotional immobility
Can't a girl catch a break
No pain
For a few minutes
No aggravation
For one day
Support
Attention
Love
Wouldn't that be nice
To feel like you belong
And not constantly abandoned
Over and over again
When will the agitation end
In others
Myself
Tell me. When.

What Did I Do

What am I supposed to take from that
Is there a lesson somewhere
A punishment
Were you trying to give me a message
A wake up call
Did I need it that day
That minute
Of all places
I had to pass by then
Cross the street
At that very moment
On that specific day
Exact hour
Tell me why
What did I do
Why did I need that
What were you trying to say
Did you want me to think
Feel
Pretend there's such a thing
As coincidence
Random chance
There's no such thing
Everything matters
Has a purpose
Meaning
A reason
So tell me why
Why did you do it
Do you even care
See me
Hear my silent pain
Is that your plan
Destruction
Shame
Slow
Agonizing
Life-long
Agony
So blatantly obvious
In my face
On a terrible day
The worst kind

Tell me why

Lost

Today is Yom Haatzmaut. Yes, I'm wearing blue and white. Go Israel! Today like every day, I contemplate my life. It's almost my birthday. Another year has flown by. What do I have to show for myself? What have I accomplished?

I feel very stuck. I'm still haunted by the past. Most days I can barely live in the present. I work hard to live in the process. But the now is so difficult. There's not much to keep me going. Every day that I get out of bed is a miracle. I'm stuck.

I'm that soda bottle. All is calm until you shake it. And then you take the top off and fizz explodes everywhere, a lot less soda left. I'm sitting alone in a glass box. There's a key sitting right outside the glass. And yet, I don't make any effort to get out. I don't budge. I know the glass is breakable. I know there's a key right outside of my prison. But I can't move. I am incapable of making things better for myself. I choose to be stuck. I know no other way to function.

Where do I fit in? What is my purpose? Why was I created? What am I doing here? What do I want?

I've created this bubble, this reality. I have solidified my perspective. Manipulated my emotions. I have erased any possible expectations. And I can no longer be disappointed. I don't trust. I move. I do. Function. I am dependable. I am relied upon. I am your friend. Your caretaker. Your parent. Your spouse. I am defined by what you need. I am defined by you. There is no me. I am a figment of your imagination. A shell. I live to serve you.

I am deflated. Mute. I have quit fighting. A prisoner in my own life. Of my own mind.

On this very important day, I feel nothing. I wear the colors. But they mean nothing to me. I am not where I am supposed to be. I am lost. I am lost.

I live to serve

Sometimes I just wish for the end. For it all to be over. I see no point. No silver lining. Nothing in the cup. I see nothing. But feel everything. And nothing at the same time. Or maybe too much of everything. I just need a break. I need a breather from all of this. A pain-free moment. To be calm. I'm just done. I'm tired. Very tired. I feel old. Very old. It's enough.

I feel alone. Fighting this constant battle. Alone. No matter how much you try now. It's too late. You can't make up the damage. It's done. I'm scarred. Crippled. Destroyed. My heart is forever broken. Shattered. With no chance of recovery. I will never be ok. I will always be haunted. Damaged. I am damaged goods. Ruined.

Every day that I get out of bed is a miracle. I don't want to do this anymore. I daydream of a funeral. Mine. Who will attend. Who will speak. How miserable everyone will be. It's magnificent. I want everyone to feel pain. Anguish. I want everyone to feel a void. To wonder. How they caused me to end everything. How insensitive they lead their lives. Serves them all right. Everyone deserves what they get. I hope you all suffer.

the story never ends

Let me tell you a story.

There once was a girl.  For the sake of the story, we will call her Olive. Olive looked very young. She had great genes. External genes that is. Most of the women on her mother's side looked very young. A true miracle. Internally, Olive had aged way too quickly. She had the soul of a 93 year old. An old soul. And too many experiences to count for her young age. Painful experiences. 

Olive played a part. She was the lead in a very complex play. She was the heroine. For everyone else. She showed up to every practice. Never missed a beat. Lines were all memorized. Costume was always ironed and pressed. She even ad-libbed when others' faltered. Olive was a pro. Always to be counted on. Reliable. Responsible. 

Olive held it all together. Until one day, she couldn't. Olive couldn't fake it anymore. Her facade started crumbling. The walls around her soul could no longer hold themselves up. The glass surrounding her heart lay in a shattered mess inside her lungs. Every breath became difficult. Every movement felt weighed down. 

Olive continued showing up to practice. But her lines faltered. Her enthusiasm was lacking. She showed up. But she wasn't really there. She was nowhere to be found. She heard nothing. Not the director and not her fellow actors. The only sound that penetrated her body was the music. Only music. The music had never left her. Never abandoned her. Olive felt enveloped in the music's power. It ate her alive. 

The story of Olive never ends. It just goes on and on. Until it doesn't. 

devour me

You didn't listen

I told you no

I tried so hard 

To end things 

I was hoping 

You would get the message 

Let me off the hook

Do the right thing 

Be the stronger person 

You kept talking to me 

It wasn't over 

I couldn't stop 

I needed one more second 

You wanted more time

Saw that I was weak 

You sat around the corner 

I went against my morals 

I walked to your car 

I got in the passenger side 

We were silent 

Like we knew each other 

For a lifetime 

A magnetic pull 

Drawing us closer 

You drove to a parking lot

I kept shaking my head 

Knew this was wrong 

So very wrong 

But I didnt stop you 

I just wanted to be close to you 

Even for one tiny second 

I needed the attention 

I felt the desire

My body was shaking 

My heart was beating 

You said you just wanted to be near me

All you wanted was to touch my face 

It had been so long

Since I had felt anything 

Let alone touch

And then you touched my face 

You ran your fingers along my lips 

Pulled me towards you 

A small kiss

Your hands in my hair 

I knew we should stop

But I wanted more 

I craved more 

I needed you to touch me

To feel me 

But I kept sitting back 

Shaking my head

It was all wrong 

We were all wrong 

And then you drove

To a more deserted location 

And I felt your tongue 

I tasted your mouth 

Your hand tried to travel 

I stopped you

And then you held my hand 

I wrapped my fingers in yours 

I just wanted more 

I wanted you

I wanted you to want me 

To devour me 

Whole 

But we kept stopping

Holding back 

A ticking time bomb 

About to explode

The desire was flooding the car

Intensity 

You laid on my chest 

You felt my scar

And your fingers tried to travel 

But I pulled you away 

We were on the verge 

Of insanity 

Torture

And then you got your bearings 

You buckled your seat belt

And drove me back 

I got out of your car 

And I kissed the window 

I left my lip print 

On your car 

So you would always see me there 

Never forget me

Or that moment 

And then I ran inside  

Guilt overwhelmed me 

But so did desire 

I wanted more

I wanted you

I got moments 

And they began fading 

Sporadic memory 

Of your lips on mine 

Your fingers on my face

Your head on my chest 

A moment that came and went

Disappeared 

I was reminded 

I was awakened 

I felt

I desired 

I was real 

During that entire moment

I was real

I was alive 

And then it was over

Motherfree

She's back in the emergency room

Thinks the year is 1973

Not sure what happened then 

Why that sticks in her mind

She thinks she's at "zaidy's house"

We don't have a zaidy 

He rushes to her side 

Once again

Just like always

Everything gets dropped

She is his first priority 

I have wished her dead

Gone from my life 

I have cursed her

I picture availus

Mourning 

Motherfree

I am a bad person 

Good Shabbos

Killing Us Slowly

I can't deal.

My sister is laying in her bed crying. Crying off and on for the last hour. I tell her I love her. But she still cries. She is so mad at my father. Her father. This is the girl that rarely shows emotion. She's crying. 

And I lay here in the dark. Absent of emotion. Numb. I envy her tears. I desire her outburst of emotion. I feel apathy towards him. For myself. But for her, I want to strangle him. Shake him awake from his deep sleep. Make him apologize. Fix this mess he has caused. 

My sister is crying. And it's all his fault. His neglect is damaging our lives. It is ruining the balance of our home. Killing us slowly. 

And she continues to cry. 

Lack of Color

I think I am getting angry all over again. I say I have moved on. I have mourned. Been through the five stages of grieving. That's false. There are way more stages. Try a million. Sadness. Anger. Hatred. Obsession. Neurosis. Psychosis. Happiness. Morbidity. Disgust. Perversion. Maybe a million and one. But I won't name them all.

I'm not sure what sparked me to think about all this today. Why I can't get this out of my head. Why today. There's no date significance. I didn't have a sighting. Perhaps it's because I read an article about a 35 year old virgin. Or an article that a newly divorced guy just wrote about how to be a good husband. But in any case. It's on mind so here goes.

How dare you?
How dare you.

I gave you everything. Everything. I lost all of me. In you. I gave up my whole being for you. To make you happy. To satisfy you. I dedicated my life to you.

You. You in your pressed shirt. Dry cleaned pants. Neat and trimmed chin strap beard. Always so put together. Go ahead, shine your shoes. Take out that polish from the top of your closet. Shine your damn shoes.

Me. Me in my random colors. Me in my free spirit. My love for people. My need for randomness and excitement.

It wasn't me that changed. I have always been the same. You were the one that changed. Or maybe we saw each other's true colors. You in your lack of color. Me in my abundance of color. You wanted me to be drained of all color. And I wanted you to add color. The mixture clashed. It always ended up in a mud brown tone. Hideous. Painful. Horrifying. Disastrous.

You might ask why I still wonder why you gave it all up. Why you walked out on me. Why I cannot move. Forgive. Because. I don't walk away. I don't give up. I am worth fighting for. I am not to be given away. Discarded. I am loyal. I am a friend. I can be counted on. I am worth loving.

So go about your life. As if I never existed. Go about your day to day routine. And just remember that those bright colored, pressed shirts you wear were bought by me. I was the color in your dreary life. You can never erase me. Blot me out. I will always be a part of your color block. One bright, shiny color in your past.