 |
living on
the front page
as time goes by |
I hereby announce, humbly, that I’m a live-by-the
calendar sort of person. I schedule-in just about everything, and pride
myself on fitting more into a day -- and possibly a lifetime -- than most
people.
However, before I was this kind of person I was a procrastinator: dreaming
big, doing little, bemoaning much. Ruing the loss of hours, days, years.
Upon the demise of my marriage, I quickly learned that sitting around
and waiting for good things to happen was futile. I started my own business
by converting my small kitchen into a wig salon the moment the children
finished their Cheerios and left for school. That same kitchen tripled
as a writing studio over time. (I recently learned the term ‘Cottage
Industry’ and experienced a personal “aha” moment.)
For anyone anxious to learn more about time-biding (New School Catalog,
Course #1153, “Patience 101”), I’d highly recommend
deeply loving someone who is a hospital patient. This experience parallels
nothing on earth because health and healing march to their own genetic
or fate-filled drummers and no “time-freak” on earth can dictate
to our God in Heaven about personal agendas and time-management.
In November of 2002, my dearest friend entered the hospital in order to
receive a potentially life-saving bone marrow transplant. I rescheduled
almost everything in my life to share this time with Glenn. Because we
were both writers, we brought laptops in order to record the experience
and plan the post-treatment future.
But hospital time moves differently and we actually only spent one afternoon
writing in all of the three weeks he was there. A lot of the time we watched
movies. We played Spider Solitaire and Scrabble. When he wasn’t
too weak or drugged to listen, I’d read aloud from some of the terrible
fiction he favored.
I walked the halls and met other patient-families. There wasn’t
a cafeteria worker or coffee machine I didn’t recognize. Since Glenn
was in an Isolation Ward, I spent those weeks observing the world for
him and reporting on “The Great Beyond” in a manner which
I hoped would bring him joy and inspire him to survive.
When he died, I couldn’t compute the sudden glut of time which,
in the unreal world of Hadassah Hospital Ein Kerem, had had its own shape
and rhythm. I hadn’t just lost Glenn. I’d lost the family
of patients, fellow ‘waiters’ who were still standing amidst
the ‘hopeful’ after my Club-Card had been rescinded. My home
seemed eerily empty but this was only a mirage; Glenn had never lived
there. But six a.m.’s no longer sounded like gum soled nurses or
the bleeps of a digital heart-monitor.
Candy-stripers weren’t bringing me any more sandwiches. I’d
have to re-introduce myself to the corner grocer.
It is four years later I find myself back at Ein Kerem because, as opposed
to the ‘death-watch’ of 2002, this afternoon I am waiting
for a grandchild to be born. A prayer-book graces my lap but my eyes can’t
seem to focus. I keep taking breaks but at the rate I’m hitting
the snack bars, I’ll have to undergo stomach-stapling before I can
fit onto a public bus. You’d think that I’m the expectant
father! Pacing, phoning, crying, and eating.
When my son-in-law came out to report on Yael’s status, I was alarmed
to see him wiping away tears.
“It’s so hard for her. I can’t help her pain. It hurts
to see her suffer.”
Why am I so shocked at this display of empathy? Is it his ultra-orthodox
garb which has caused me to judge him unfairly? Am I no better than other
anti-religious finger-pointers? Do I secretly believe that my ‘modern-religiosity’
is higher on the ‘sensitivity scale’ than those ‘medieval’
ghetto types?
Shame on me.
Unexpectedly, I’m called into the birthing room and it is all I
can do not to shout for joy.
Some things are better than others for a mother to witness. Blowing out
birthday candles, ballet recitals and soccer goals are winners in my book.
Watching a beloved daughter receive an epidural after laboring for eight
hours does not equal a Kodak-moment.
Intimacy takes all forms and, in this era of internet relationships and
scattered families, there is something to be said of a grandmother being
allowed to participate in the birth of a grandchild. Hugging my baby-girl
while she, in turn, pushes her beautiful son out into His glorious, promise-filled
world.
For feedback, contact editor@sdjewishjournal.com.