I have a ritual. Every Sunday morning I am in town I go to Chad Hamrin’s yoga class at 7:30 am. And every week the same people come because no one would ever get up that early on a Sunday unless he is an insane yoga devotee. So every Sunday, I spend one and half hours in these painful positions which eventually calm my mind, my nervous system and prepare me for the week ahead.
Except every Sunday when I get out of class there are about 80 people waiting for the next class. Since there is only room for about 60 students, these yogis are anything but serene. Just to exit my class requires laser focus and intention.
And the other day as I struggled to get out the door, in total frustration, I turned to the teacher of the waiting class and said, “Would you get control of your students!” He looked at me like I was insane.
Sure enough, the next Wednesday I see the same teacher I had snapped at entering the class I am about to take. I am embarrassed and uncomfortable. Does he recognize me? I turn to apologize but he disappears into the bathroom. Well, I think to myself, maybe I don’t need to say anything. But a minute later I turn to get my blankets and we are, again, face to face.
Stammering, I apologize for Sunday. He has no idea what I am talking about or who I am. After all, he teaches huge classes all week long. I reintroduce myself, remind him of the situation and ask for his forgiveness once more. Now he remembers. He smiles and says thank you. “I accept your apology.”
At that moment, I had a flash thought to excuse my behavior. “Well, I said that because… “and then I paused. Who was I kidding? My instruction to him was out of line and my task was to make amends without excusing my behavior.
And a few minutes I was resting on my mat feeling incredibly relieved and relaxed. For the past four days, I had been obsessively thinking about me, him, the situation. I finally felt clear to think about what really mattered.
I am still in awe how just the words “I am sorry” can change my entire disposition and demeanor. Try it, let me know what you think.
Four months after We Plan, God Laughswas published my mother was diagnosed with Glioblastoma (GBM) stage 4 brain cancer. I dedicated this book to my mother for her courage and how she overcame so many challenges in her life. Now she is facing her biggest challenge yet, and she and many others suffering with GBM need your help.
Today June 16, 2009, my mother turns 65 years old and the paperback of We Plan, God Laughs with a new epilogue goes on sale.
In celebration , I am donating 10% of the profits to the Art of the Brain Fundto help in the fight against brain cancer.
To date I have celebrated 39 Rosh Hashanah holidays. I have eaten a lot of brisket, chicken, apples and honey. And, after all this time, the celebrations have started to blend together. Dinner at home with the family, followed by services, more services, more food etc… for two days every year. Until this year.
As you know my mother was in the hospital recovering from brain surgery this Rosh Hashanah and since she is our matriarch and master host of the first holiday dinner every year - the Martha Stewart of the High Holy Days- everyone was in a tizzy.
Where would the 22 people that were coming to her house for dinner go? How would they eat? Pray? At first I thought maybe I should just send an email dis-inviting them. Really, under the circumstances they would understand. But my mom would not. Even if she had just gotten out of surgery. If I canceled I was worried she would never forgive me. Not a risk I was willing to take.
I did what any dutiful daughter would do. I brought Rosh Hashanah dinner to her hospital room. Yes, 22 adults and 7 small children crowded her room at Cedars Sinai. She had to sit in a chair; I needed her bed for the buffet. All her personal items and clothing were thrown into the shower; I needed every single inch of area space for drinks, paper goods and desserts. Sitting on the floor was not encouraged, it was mandated.
It was noisy. It was messy. It was crowded. Nurses complained. My mother was overstimulated. The food was cold, the drinks were warm. But it was a holy-day that no one there will ever forget. We lost the formality of the dining room, the stress of dishes and what to wear. No one was just playing along to make the rabbi happy. When we sang, everyone was huddled together, laughing and joyous - no one was too embarrassed. When we ate, the food all tasted good. When we prayed, everyone was present.
When we were just about to end there was a knock on our door. Everyone shushed. An old woman entered. Expecting her to start yelling at us, none of us looked directly at her. Then she spoke. “Was that the shofar blowing I heard?” “Yes, I replied meekly.” “If you get a chance, my husband is down the hall and he would love to hear it, would you mind coming by?”
Yes, this was the most memorable Rosh Hashanah ever.
It has been three weeks and four days since my mother went into the emergency room. I know because each day has felt so long. I keep track without having to count.
Maybe because each moment seems to stick out in my memory. The moment she was in unbearable pain. The moment the Emergency Room doctor told me she had a stroke. The moment I saw my husband’s face when he walked into the ER. The moment she lost consciousness. The moment the nurses took her in for brain surgery. The moment of the code blue because of the heart attack. The moment the oncologist told us she had a GBM (gliobastoma.) You get the picture. Each moment has felt like a lifetime because it has been so painful.
Judaisim worships time. It sanctifies time. Every week we celebrate Shabbat - 25 hours of rest from our lives - to recognize that time is fleeting. We are suppossed to hold onto each moment as if it is our last. Each night before we sleep we are suppose say the S’hma (our proclamation of faith) so that our last utterance of our lips is one of praise to God lest we die. Each second counts.
This is all sounds good and in moments of clarity, I feel grateful for the 64 years and 4 months (to the day) that my mother was healthy. I feel thankful for all the precious moments we have shared. But in my not so good moments, I’m furious. It is still not enough.
Why is it that it never seems like there is never enough time? Could there ever be enough?
I have worn glasses for as long as I could remember. In high school, I thought they made me look mature. In college, smart. In rabbinical school if I had not worn glasses, I definitely would not have fit in. But after umpteen years I was done. I had tried every contact known to human kind. But they gave me allergies. Plus they always began to bother me at the most inopportune times. (Imagine being interviewed by Matt Lauer on The Today Show when my contact suddenly starts to irritate my eye and he asks me if I am winking at him.)So after much thought I decided to look into having lasik surgery to correct my vision. My brother had done it in the early days and he had to have two subsequent procedures to correct his vision, so you can imagine my fear. But after meeting Dr. Arthur Benjamin of the Benjamin Eye Institute many times, I felt I was in the most trusted of hands when the day finally arrived. Fast forward - Dr. Benjamin is preparing my eyes to be lasered. He asks me again if I want a sedative and I say no. But I do make one request; the nurses and staff gather in a circle around me. I pray for the doctor to have the ability to heal. There is silence and he begins by opening my eye with a speculum. Uncomfortable but not unbearable. Then the second part-the actual laser procedure. It smells like burning but I try to ignore the rancid scent. Thirty-six seconds later, both eyes are done.I go home a bit blurry and a bit fearful. What if it does not work? People often come out of the surgery being able to see, but my eyes are still blurry. I ask God for faith before I fall asleep at 7 pm that night. At 1 am I wake up, look at the clock and, annoyed that I am up in the middle of the night, reach for my glasses and start to head toward the bathroom. 1:00? Wait! I saw the time. I saw the clock more than 5 feet from my face without my glasses. I look again. 1:01. Still seeing it. I can’t even remember a time when I could see. 1:02. I love it. 1:03, I should close my eyes and try to sleep again. 1:04. It’s a great night.
I have a ritual. Every Sunday morning I am in town I go to Chad Hamrin’s yoga class at 7:30 am. And every week the same people come because no one would ever get up that early on a Sunday unless he is an insane yoga devotee. So every Sunday, I spend one and half hours in these painful positions which eventually calm my mind, my nervous system and prepare me for the week ahead.
To date I have celebrated 39 Rosh Hashanah holidays. I have eaten a lot of brisket, chicken, apples and honey. And, after all this time, the celebrations have started to blend together. Dinner at home with the family, followed by services, more services, more food etc… for two days every year. Until this year.
It has been three weeks and four days since my mother went into the emergency room. I know because each day has felt so long. I keep track without having to count.
.jpg)
