Pinktober

OCTOBER 2020

PINKTOBER

It really got me this year
Felt like a gut punch
Here we go—

Inundated
Breast Cancer
**awareness**

Pink News
Pink Ads
Pink Washing

Companies making PINK money
Using OUR Ribbons but not funding
OUR research
for a CURE

WE are expected to fund our own cure
with runs and rallies
while Pharma spends OUR money
on finding more treatments
Because Treatment
Equals profit

Clinical Trials
practically impossible to gain access
Especially if you have
Real Breast Cancer
Metastatic
The kind that sticks around
Until it kills you

Clinical Trial Criteria:
Carried over from one FDA approved trial to another

Never a reflection of the actual people
living with the actual cancer

Clinical trials
Should be called
Clinical Trials and Tribulations

Hoop-jumps through fire
Schedules that work for them, not you
Randomized and double-blind
No one can see straight

How I miss the Mundane World
And my life before those three shitty words:
You Have Cancer

1996 - Before Cancer
I was just a mom of two little kids; a beautiful son and daughter and I had a kind and decent husband. And a fabulous career. I was not carefree; I was stressed trying to juggle and manage it all. Kids, work, husband, social life, pre-school, private school, synagogue life, volunteering, PTA, play dates, baby sitters, plan some travel, plan some dates, buy everyone’s clothes, buy birthday gifts, stay in touch with family, send out holiday cards, cook dinner and manage the house. Collaborate with my then-spouse on some design projects and don’t forget to engage my own clients. SUPERGIRL! Federal Express allowed my career to flourish.  It was so very long ago, right after fax machines were invented. 

By accident, I chose the hardest road; work part-time and mom full-time. My design career was the busiest it had ever been.  And if I could bill it, I would do it. My end game was to remain a self-employed design and marketing consultant.  I loved my work and I loved my family.

I ate healthy, I exercised, I got fresh air. At age 38, the last thing I expected was Breast Cancer. 85% of cancers have no family history. I have no family history. But I did have an aggressive little fucking breast cancer drop into my life like a nuclear bomb.

The ripple effect
Went straight through me
Hit my family
Hit my friends
The mushroom cloud still darkens my days

My life would’ve been so much easier
if I’d only known that I would survive for 24 years!
But that’s not how cancer works.

You get three months at a time.
Scan to Scan
Check up to Check up

I’ve learned to live in
“This is the Day I Am Given”
Often scared when making plans
Always wondering,
Will I be here to see milestones?

And here we go-Pinktober once again.
Raising our own funds
Moving the needle through
Unpaid Advocacy Work

Hash-tagging each other to death
Watching our friends die
And wondering if we’ll be next

A vaccine nearly ready for COVID
But for Breast Cancer
Still NO CURE!

The Call to Hell

OCTOBER 14, 2020

Barely two years after burying my mom, the phone was ringing.

Yes, ringing. It was a landline. A beautiful, clunky, Band-Aid-beige push-button telephone. And it was loud. On purpose, so you could hear it throughout the house and answer it.

It was June of 1996 and my dad was over, as often was the case after my mom died, having dinner with us. “I’ll get it” I said as I got up from the table and grabbed the phone. I was expecting this call.

A few weeks prior, while in the shower, I had felt a tiny, hard, pea-sized lump in my left breast, really almost in my armpit. I had fibrocystic breasts and was very familiar with the lay of the land. This thing was a new development.

So, I went to my Ob/Gyn, because once you’ve had a baby, you really only ever see your Ob for all things medical. I don’t even think I had another doctor back then. A pediatrician for the kids and the Ob for me and I guess the dentist.

My Ob sent me for another mammogram, and the radiologist came out to talk to me. That’s never a good sign. He said I should have a biopsy and was going to call my Ob to follow up.

I walked outside, shouted FUCK, burst into tears, and kicked some random car tire. I was surprised by how much it hurt my foot! I also had an instant knowing--I had cancer.

I was referred to a brilliant surgeon, Dr. A. One of the kindest men I’ve ever met, even if he had hair plugs. He did a thorough breast exam, and said “Flori, whatever this is, it doesn’t belong in your body so I am going to remove it”. Well, remove it like it’s cancer, I said to him. “Then you know something I don’t” he replied. After the outpatient biopsy he said he’d call me with results.

Sitting around the dinner table, hearing that phone ring, I knew that call was for me.

 “Flori, the good news is we caught it early. It was very small and the 5-year survival rate is over 90%" He must have said more, but my ears disappeared.

FUCK I’m thinking. All eyes are on me, but the ones I see most clearly are my father’s. Thoughts are rushing through my mind, it’s the first time I’m glad my mother isn’t alive. And at the same time, I want my mommy. But I’m the mommy now, so I take a deep breath and put on a slight smile and I turn to face my kids and my father and my second-hand-husband. Taking a deep breath, I repeat “the good news is we caught it early.” I’m going to be fine. Let’s finish dinner.

I don’t remember the air being sucked out of the room, but I remember it being sucked out of me. I don’t remember anything else about that night. I don’t even think my stupid ex or my own father asked me any questions.

And because I seemed in-charge and seemed okay and seemed confident, they all got to keep their bliss and their blinders on. They did clear their throats a lot, the way men do when they are choking on their own emotion.

My head was starting to scream. I had just lost my mother; how much more could I endure?

And the Calls kept coming. Biopsy showed clear margins but close. Dr. A. wanted a wider excision. And a lymph node dissection. More surgery. I hated answering that fucking phone.

Good news-- All lymph nodes are negative, Flori. Bad news-- Small cancer was an aggressive little fuck, although those might not have been his exact words. More calls with bad news; hormone negative, and HER2+ both are associated with a poorer outcome.

And then the worst news of all - I had to do chemotherapy and radiation. FUCK!

I now had an army of doctors. In addition to the Ob/Gyn, the pediatrician, and the dentist, I had an oncologist and a radiation oncologist. I had two second-opinion oncologists and a second-opinion surgeon and a plastic-fantastic surgeon (easily the best-looking doctor in my army).

HOW could this be happening to me? I was only 38! But I took it like a “warrior”. I channeled all my fear and anger into surviving. Chemo? Sure, bring it on! I was sick as a dog. Every day.

Radiation, burning off my skin, sure, bring it on.

I also had a Chinese medicine doctor for weekly acupuncture and herbs. He was the only honest doctor on my team even though I was scared of acupuncture and herbs at the beginning. Each week, he’d write the herbs down, and I’d look up every single herb (in a book!) to see if there were contraindications or if any of them were dead animals, bugs or weird toes. Each week my trust in him grew, and the acupuncture helped to soften my anger, and let out my heat and whatever else he said was wrong with me, my qi, my stagnation, my liver energy, my yin, my pale tongue, my wrist pulse, and my third eye.

In general, I was raging angry, and this served me very well. FUCK YOU cancer, I thought again and again! I have to raise my kids. I will do whatever it takes.

 Yes, of course, I answered the call to adventure. And I’m still answering it today, every day.

Even when that call is a lousy text.

Romaine Hearts

MARCH 27, 2020

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter. It was delivered yesterday, or the day before.  I was too exhausted to wipe everything.  Wrapped in plastic, I thought it possible to have “the virus”.  I couldn’t take the chance.  So, I put it in quarantine, in the extra bathroom, along with other items I did not immediately need. 

In the shower, I have quarantined the extra bags of dog food. Three cans of black beans now stand on the ledge that once held soap and shampoo, razors and shaving cream.  Next to the beans is Soy Sauce, some boxed Almond milk. Pantry items I was too exhausted to wipe, so they are locked in the kids’ tub for safety sake.  

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter.  I can see it from the dining room and I glance nervously in its direction, each time I pass by.  Does this fucking Corona crawl around, looking for a host? Will it hitch a ride on one of the dogs and find its way to me and into my lungs?  I pull the bathroom door shut.  And wipe the handle.  And wash my hands, again.  For safety sake.

My friend Carol is a scientist. Even though I only know her online, I’ve internalized a kind of “what would Carol say” dialogue with myself.  Her two most popular replies of late, “highly unlikely” and “just wash your hands”.  Sometimes, in my mind, she takes liberties and says, “Flori! get ahold of yourself” and other such dramatic statements.  I doubt in real life she’d ever shout that at me. 

]There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter. It is a place holder for all the bad things that I fight in my life.  Cancer.  Anxiety.  My shitty neighbor.  I keep washing and wiping things down.  Staying calm.  Determined.  My mother’s voice, “This too shall pass. This too shall pass, this too shall pass”.  I can’t chant it enough. 

It is nine days since my last infusion and I feel wiped. This cycle came with added waves of anxiety that I can only attribute to the pandemic. By the end of every day I fall apart.  Exhausted and weary.  It’s too much for me to handle on my own.  The cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the laundry, the housekeeping. Despite my carefully culled TV and video playlists, some headlines sneak through.  I feel a sense of dread, for everyone suffering and especially those suffering alone, in isolation, in ICU, away from their loved ones.     

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter.  And there are parents who are glad their kids are staying at college.  They share no sense of social or moral obligation.  These are the kids who will ruin our world.  Their parents forgot to teach them the tough lessons.  How to sacrifice. How to be resilient.  They will cause others to suffer and probably not be aware of that either.  They lack situational awareness.  I detest lazy parenting and parents who don’t take their responsibilities to heart.

At the same time, there are so many selfless people who continue to keep our services running.  Health care workers, therapists, engineers, pilots, grocers, scientists, physicians, drivers, shoppers, writers, broadcasters, rabbis, priests, mentors, friends---the list of selfless people is remarkable and endless.  The best of humanity.  They are our heroes and who knows if they will be properly celebrated?  I hope so.

I want to sing them a party every day.

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter.  I may leave it there all year.  A small reminder that nothing lasts forever and my proof, that this too, shall pass.    

The Aromatherapy of Comet

MARCH 15, 2020

 Scouring out the sink, I laugh to myself at how comforting I find the smell of Comet. Smells of my childhood. My mother’s sink was always spotless and being told to “comet out the sink” was an expression that needed no explanation.  I shake more powder out, wishing it was still green. 

While the powder is now white, thankfully the Comet-smell remains intact.  The smell of Comet bringing me memories of helping my mom.  She taught me how to clean.  How to dust the “right” way.

“Flori, wipe underneath the table’s edge.  And wipe down the legs, they are covered in dust”.  I attack our living room coffee table, wiping every single weird gold-leaf leg with a can of lemon spray pledge and a dust rag.  Then I finish up with Windex and paper towels for the glass. 

I’m not sure what you’d call that coffee table style. The table had a weird spray of fake gold-leaf florals, soldered to the base like a sad bride’s bouquet with petals as sharp as razors.  Impossible to clean without getting bits of paper towel stuck on every petal, and impossible to remove these bits without suffering a few good scratches.

A design aesthetic sorely lacking in beauty, this barely secured floral arrangement was always about to break from its perch. If my sister and I ran around the apartment, the floral bouquet would start to bang. It was early 70’s ugly. 

I’m speculating that the aesthetic concept was to have something to look at through the glass top, besides the green shag carpeting.  In my household that was unnecessary.  The table was filled with “tchotchkes” (Yiddish for nick-knacks).  There was a heavy green cut glass square ashtray.  A small metal coaster stand, I have to this day.  Candy dishes for filling before company arrived.  An antique French porcelain pink and gold cigarette holder, part of a set of beautiful smoking accessories.  Now I have all these precious tchotchkes, a lovely connection to my parents, my childhood and the 70’s. 

About once a month my parents would host a card game called PAN.  That was the time I really liked helping my mom to get ready.  In addition to the dusting and vacuuming, I would help her cut up the fruit. It was a work of art.  And a labor of love. 

She taught me how to make a fancy watermelon basket, carefully cutting the edge in a measured zig-zag before opening the melon.  And she showed me how to make fruit balls out of cantaloupe, honeydew and watermelon to fill that basket.

The fruit baller had a different size scoop on each end.  We used the large one for most of the fruit and the small one to get the last bits.  We’d cut up a fresh pineapple as well, saving the top to decorate the watermelon basket.  It was the Carmen Miranda of fruit bowls. My mom would carefully remove all the seeds from the watermelon, that was her love for my dad shining through.

I also had the job of putting a fancy party toothpick into the different pieces of fruit in the basket. Alternating colors of fancy toothpicks and fruit and artfully arranging them all.  I still have my mom’s fancy plastic party toothpicks, each one with a different colored plastic rose on the end.  I loved to help create these beautiful arrangements.  I also liked the dedicated time with my mom, feeling kind of grown up.

My dad would get the tabletop out of the storage area from the building’s laundry room.  This was a large octagonal topper that converted our folding bridge table into a PAN table.  Similar to a poker table, or maybe the exact same, I’m not sure. I was just a kid. The multiple decks of cards would be mucked (mixed) and placed on the special spinning deck holder.  Chips were sorted and distributed, and not a speck of dust remained on the felt table top.   Their friends would arrive around 8:00PM, and my sister and I would say hello, and then go stay in our bedroom.  It was grown-up time, and we knew not to bother our parents or their friends. 

As much as I liked helping, the gem of the evening was listening to the banter.  Borscht belt humor prevailed, and the dirty jokes and innuendo were comedy supreme.  Jewish humor and kibitzing.  Half the punchlines in Yiddish.  Some of it went way over my head, but some of it I understood.  My parents and their friends were hysterical and there was no better feeling than listening to a house full of laughter as I drifted off to sleep.

Back in my kitchen, nervous as hell about this coronavirus pandemic, I’m done loading the dishwasher and now it’s time to “Comet out the sink”.  And that familiar smell somehow calms me.  I laugh to myself and think this is weirdly Jewish neurotic of me, to feel calm after smelling Comet cleanser.  I miss my mom so much these days.  I think it’s natural during times of stress or when we are ill, to “want our mommies”.  I am back to having conversations in my mind with mine.  “Ma, it’s funny about the comet smell, don’t you think?”

I know many of my friends believe in aromatherapy.  Especially the calming effect of lavender and other essential oils.  But what about the calming effect of Comet?  I wonder about research on the smells of childhood.  Stream-of-consciousness-girl while she cleans the kitchen. The smell of Comet…breathe in, breathe out.  Maybe not so close to the powder. 

I’m thinking about the smells that comfort me.  What about the smell of brisket when the foil first comes off and all the love pours into the air? What about Potato latkes frying and all that they imply (Chanukah, presents, candles, gelt)? Don’t forget Peppered steak; the smell of onions and peppers slighting burning and the steak definitely burning! That smell was a sure sign Grandma Molly and Poppy Al were visiting from back east and making MY favorite Peppered Steak.

Our upstairs neighbor’s homemade gefilte fish; a smell that my mother loved, (me, not so much).  Reminders still the same; neighbors were family, and the smell of love and caring easily overrode all else.  And the Big Kahuna of smells----the smell of Chinese Food every Sunday night!  Just typing this sentence brings my Uncle Irv’s face clearly to mind.  A mischievous gangster badass type, he was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known.  Whatever our family needed was provided a week later.  He loved my family unconditionally, deeply, fiercely. 

Treating my family to Chinese Food every Sunday night, all 8 of us squished into that coveted back table booth, sharing dish after dish from the lazy-Susan.  Spareribs were my favorite along with sweet and sour anything.  The restaurant was jam-packed with families and friends from the neighborhood.  So much laughter, noise and the sounds and smells of happy times.

It’s late and my sink is clean.  I do feel calmer and realize I’ve made it through another day.  I hope for everyone that the comforting smells of childhood are enough to see us through the terrifying smells of this pandemic.  And as I wipe the counter, I note with a grip in my stomach that I’m on my last can of Comet.  In my mind, I lock eyes with my mom and we both smile and shrug.  Tomorrow is another day.

Last Song I Sing

JUNE 29, 2020

The last song I sing
Will be a Song of Gratitude
Not a song of Bitter Grapes
Not a song of Salty Tears
I will sing a Song of Love

The only lyrics,
The names of my children
The chorus, the names of my parents
All in the Key of Life

And when my words are not enough
Or my voice too weak to hear
I will sing my song
With paint in every color

Bold and gorgeous
Colors of sunset
Soft and intricate
Splashed onto the paper with my last breath!

Flori; the sun is shining, paint!

I will paint my Song of Love
Twenty-four years ago
I Wailed my song to God
Please God, let me raise my children!
They deserve a mother

My Song leaking out of my eyes
Every day, all day
Chemo. Cancer. O God!

I sang the song of the
Breast Cancer Warrior
With painted eyebrows
And my hand-painted silk scarf 

Six years in remission
A Song of Grace for all to hear

Then my song - dead silenced
My breath taken away as
Cancer came at me again
Recurrence!
The music changed
Beethoven’s 5th

Chemo. Cancer. God.
SURGERY!
Why me? I sang so loudly
Maybe I screamed
Why me, God? WHY?

So I changed my song to a
Song of Prayer
And I changed my name
To trick the evil spirits

And I sang my name in Hebrew
So that God could find me.
And I Sang my Hebrew Prayer
Everyday.
Please God. Please.

Surgery. Chemo. Cancer. God.
Remission.
Thank you, God,

Again, I sang out Gratitude.
I wrote and rewrote my song;
My symphony of life
I did it all!

Raised my kids
Raised a glass
Raised awareness
They walked the aisle, Graduation!
Two times each child.
I walked the aisle, a wedding, my youngest child!

I was there, I did it all.
Showed them how to be stand-up, 
and how to stand tall
Showed them how to show up
how to answer the call

Taught her to drive, him to drive a stick
Got them ready for prom
Not an easy trick
Sang Gratitude with the Chorus
Couldn’t believe my good fortune.
Everything back then seemed some kind of distortion

Healed what wounds I could
Showed them a mother who worked hard to do good
I helped them with their college apps.
And I moved them to college-
Chemo again, so many naps.

Time went on
They each found their way
Thank you, God,
What else could I say?

My last song filled with
Gratitude not tears.
I lived to see it all
Plus an extra 24-years
Everyone Dies, Last Goodbyes
My song of Love and Gratitude.

Read if I Die

AUGUST 28, 2020

Sitting on my desktop is a folder called “read if I die”.  It’s been sitting on my Mac for 13 years. My kids know about it, they’ve never opened it, but they know it’s there waiting for them.  It’s mostly filled with practical information.  To make things easier when I’m gone.  From time to time I open and read through the one letter I wrote to them.  I know that no matter what words I leave them, it will not be enough. 

I write of my never-ending love for them and my pride in being their mother; and for the last time I apologize for having had breast cancer.   

I’ve tried very hard to find purpose in life. Especially since June of last year when I received such a terrible blow.  After 13 years of living with metastatic breast cancer - cancer which leaves the breast and spreads/metastasizes to other organs (in my case brain, lungs and bones) I was additionally diagnosed with Leptomeningeal Disease (LMD). 

 LMD is when the cancer cells spread through your CSF (central spinal fluid) up around the lining of your brain and is aggressive as fuck. And difficult to treat.  Blood brain barrier.  It’s complicated.  LMD has a terrible prognosis. I was given 6 mos. to a year.

At City of Hope, I looked into a clinical trial, but it was risky and involved putting an Ommaya Port in my skull and then pouring chemo into the port.  Sounded awful. I am not about life at all costs, I am about Quality of Life, and the cost has to be reasonable.  Even so, I signed the consent forms; my grown kids and their big brown eyes were there with me.  Ultimately, City of Hope did not accept me on the trial.  I was relieved. 

I began exploring end-of-life options, including California’s “death with dignity” legislation. Talking to hospice, giving away my best purses, and sorting jewelry with my kids. Breaking news to family and friends.

On Amazon, I ordered a large leather-bound Art Journal, imagining that my last few months would be spent making memories. My idea was to take pictures of me and whomever visited and write my thoughts and feelings along with pasting a photo in that journal. Kind of old school.  Maybe even some original art. A way to hold space for goodbyes; love, friendship and shared good times. That was my plan.

Around that same time, I had a talk with one of my friends, actually with a very logical and smart friend whose opinion I respect very much. I needed perspective on quality-of-life and asked his opinion.  I wanted to know what things he’d be willing to give up, and still be okay with being alive.  He shared his views on “reasonable” quality-of-life. I took his words to heart and tried to think about what I would consider a reasonable quality of life. What I’d be willing to accept.

I put all the pieces together for an end of life that had some reasonable quality of life. And I was okay with that plan.  It included spending time with family and friends, the dogs, some writing and some art. I realized I would have to give up Dance; I just didn’t have the stamina. But I still had my friends from dance and I still could enjoy music.

I was trying to stay in front of the light, even in my impending death, I didn’t want to give in to the darkness.  I spent too many of my early teen years feeling invisible, feeling obscured.  Eclipsed.  I prefer the lights on.  
n orchestrating my last days, my plan was to hang out and be seen.  And when pain and vanity took over, and when dignity left, I’d execute my END OF LIFE OPTION ACT, as allowed by the state of California. 

Then in a last-ditch effort, I was accepted onto a Phase I (first in humans), clinical trial looking at using two novel drugs in combo. Thankfully the dose escalation phase was finished, and the MTD (maximum tolerated dosing) was established. By the second cycle I could see that the clinical trial was working. Small cancer nodes melted away flat.  Fire-ants nerve pain improved.  Along with killing cancer, the trial was killing my quality-of-life.

From my first infusion on December 26, 2019 forward, I was not well and had debilitating side effects.  I was over-shadowed by cancer…something I was not used to enduring. 
After going thru 3 cycles on the trial, the one drug I was most interested in received FDA accelerated approval.  I left the clinical trial and returned to my local oncologist to continue on the single drug in hopes of improving my Quality-of-life.

Then--just at the time I was feeling strong enough to resume living a reasonable quality of life-- Corona-Abscura shows up.  And just like that I’m thrown back in the darkness. Filled with fear, I went into double lock down mode and here I am six months later feeling very disconnected and again searching for something reasonable in my quality-of-life. There has got to be meaning along with reasonable quality of life, for me to get up every day. Something to look forward to other than side effects, housewivery and taking care of my Mini dog.

The most valuable and nurturing entity for me is human connection. In real life.  Especially NOW.  With time running out.  I need to see people. And their whole face. Being able to hug. Laughing freely, sitting side-by-side. Driving together. Cooking and sharing meals.  Sharing life’s experiences. In person. In real time. And without fear of a horrid and disconnected death by Covid. My time is running out!

I am dying to leave this quarantine.

I just cannot act on those feelings…that is the divide.  Sometimes my anger at this predicament blows up…into rage, into that ring of fire.  And sometimes my anger turns inward, into sadness and great longing for times past when I could have physical closeness. Be held.

But even a hug would not be enough right now.  Years ago, I remember my wise therapist saying “baby, when you’re starving for a meal and all you’re getting is crumbs, you will never feel satisfied.”

I am starving for a meal. And nothing is enough.

Pandemic Dining - Day 162

AUGUST 30, 2020

I eat all of my meals out of a bowl; same as my dog.

It started with this pandemic dining, me eating alone, quarantine style, in front of the tv. One large serving bowl is quite convenient. It holds a lot of food. Nothing runs off the side.

I also started cutting up my food ahead of time, similar to how I fed my kids when they were little. Easier that way. Now all I need to eat a meal is one bowl, one fork and a napkin.

Over time, I realized that using a dish towel was better than a cloth napkin. Since I’m eating on the couch, in front of the tv, out of a jumbo bowl, my food already cut up - it’s safer to have a dish towel in my lap. In case of spills.

I feel like a toddler as I load up my bowl. I no longer bother to pour my water into a glass with ice. Too risky, to have a full glass while I’m hardly paying attention to my meal, my eyes fixed on reality TV. So, in my efforts to keep order, and mitigate waterfalls in my living room, I now drink my water out of a water bottle. All that’s missing is a bib.

 This week, after chemo and feeling nauseous, I noticed that it turned my stomach to have my food touch. And a deeper weirder level in pandemic eating was reached.

Larger bowl, smaller portions. No food touching another category of food. Same dish towel but drinking bottle was swapped for jumbo red plastic beer-pong cup filled with crushed ice, water and topped with a bendy-straw.

I’m my own Assisted Living Director in my own Assisted Living Room.

When I was a little girl, it was a huge treat to eat a Swanson TV dinner (fried chicken was my favorite) in front of the television on a TV tray. Which we called a Snack Table.

I still remember the rickety metal tray and the way it snapped down on the simple frame. This TV dinner dining treat was reserved for the rare occasion when my parents were going out for dinner and we had a babysitter coming to watch me and my little sister. 

Swanson’s tv dinners; the cute compartments of food, the greasy and delicious fried chicken, the triangle of oddly-smoothed mashed potatoes, the little compartment of corn and the scorching apple cake in the upper right corner. Food lover’s heaven, if you’re eight years old!   Still, eating out of a tray, on a tray seems more civilized than eating out of a jumbo bowl, balanced in my lap. 

And until I was unloading my dishwasher just now, these past 162 days of plate-less eating almost went unnoticed!  If a bowl falls in the sink...

Tonight, I cooked a yummy dinner. Comfort food. Skillet-style cooking. Real Mashed potatoes with browned onion, ground turkey, peas and corn. Seasoning. And of course, topped with ketchup.

I decided enough was enough. It was Saturday night, time to be fancy. I took down a plate to serve myself, nicely arranging the food. Scoop of potatoes, topped with a spoonful of skillet turkey, peas and corn. Salt and freshly ground pepper. Voila! Filled a glass with crushed ice and water. Got out silverware; fork, knife, spoon. Walked halfway to the dining table and then thought to myself - uh, nope. Don’t want to sit there. Never mind.

Grabbed a big bowl, scraped the pretty food from my plate into the bowl. Grabbed my dish towel and a straw. Found the TV clicker and got comfy on the sofa.

Well, I thought to myself, at least I’ll have one plate in the dishwasher this week.  Hard not to self-judge my digression in dining habits. Hard not to self-judge period.

Maybe from now on, whether I eat out of bowls or serve myself food on a plate, I’ll stop the inner-critic-bitch from giving me such a hard time.  It’s my picnic after all.  A plate of food; a bowl of ice cream. A glass of ice-water, a bendy straw and thou. 

Just eat, drink, and enjoy!

Easter on Pinafore St.

APRIL 12, 2020

I think almost everyone who lived in our apartment building on Pinafore Street was Jewish. I really didn’t know what it meant, except I knew that my family was Jewish.  I also thought that anyone with an east coast accent was Jewish - and that they were also my relatives.  That fact took me many years to sort out, and to this day I have an over-familiarity feeling towards any New Yorker. 

I was just a little girl back then, the years somewhere between kindergarten and second grade.  1963-ish.  I definitely have memories of cooking and celebrating Passover, being excited about finding the Afikomen. The brisket, the jello-molds, and gefilte fish.  Boxes and boxes of matzah; egg, egg and onion, and plain water.  Everyone had a preference. 

Anyone without a place to go was invited to Seder at our tiny apartment. My mother’s talent for inclusion was achieved by simply adding a bridge table dominoes style.  But this is not a Passover story.  This is an Easter story, my Easter story and some of my best memories right after we moved to California. 

Today, on Easter Sunday, during this coronavirus lockdown, I keep seeing my grandma Sadie’s face. She always looked and smelled freshly washed.  Her white wavy hair cut short and set so the bangs would curl down on her forehead. She rarely wore make up, maybe a little coral colored lipstick, her skin was good, smooth, moisturized.  She wore metal glasses and had clear light gray blue eyes. She also had the softest most silky skin I’ve ever felt.  I don’t have her light eyes, but I have her silky skin. 

She was very sharp, but quiet and not too outspoken.  She’d mutter a comment under her breath, but mostly kept to herself. She had a funny habit of holding on to her purse, even at our house, it sat clutched on her lap. I have that same habit too.  Grandma Sadie was quick to laugh and jump in on any joke, often in Yiddish so my sister and I would not hear the dirty words.  But I would nag until they told me the real joke.

Her smile was quick and tight; I think she was self-conscious and didn’t often show a big grin. But the feeling I got from her was a beaming smile, along with a look of pride and the feeling of unconditional love. She hugged often, and when I slept over at their house she often laid down in bed with me until I fell asleep.  I was her first born grandchild, and she was smitten with me her whole life. That feeling was mutual. 

On Easter Sunday, Grandma Sadie and Poppy Harry would come over with Easter baskets.  The baskets were huge; one for me and one for my little sister.  They were hand assembled and lovingly hand-wrapped in Jewish cellophane (saran wrap). I’m sure that Grandma Sadie worked on these baskets for weeks.

Because I loved white chocolate there was usually a very tall boxed White Chocolate bunny standing on the top of the basket. The bunny’s box had a cellophane window so you could see the actual bunny inside.  None of these details escaped me.  There were several foil-covered bunnies, the bunny foil-stamped and wrapped in side view. And several in flat view, all wrapped in bright foil outfits. So much candy!

Robin’s egg chocolates were buried throughout the basket.  Jelly beans, unboxed, fat and brightly colored hidden everywhere.  Milk Chocolate bell shaped lollypops that came in a flat white box where each lolly fit into its own slot. These milk chocolates melted in your mouth and I usually ate one of these first.  As a little kid it was one of the highlights of my life. 

And the baskets were so heavy! There were always plenty of pennies hiding in the bright plastic Easter tinsel at the bottom. I’m certain there was some Hanukkah Gelt (chocolate coins) mixed in as well. 

The true treasures for me were those magical sparkly hard sugar-eggs with the little window scene preciously cut out.  These eggs were by far the prettiest candy I’d ever seen.  I can remember studying them in detail, just in awe of the cuteness of the little baby animal scene inside the egg. 

I loved the little peek-in window meticulously decorated in pink and yellow piping.  The raised adornments on the outside, peaked dots and flowers and textures and swirls and it was all amazing. I would save the sugar eggs for weeks, and only eat them when they had dried out and were starting to break apart. 

We ate Passover leftovers on those Easter basket days. I remember having plenty of time to take apart, trade, show off, admire, count candy, count pennies and reassemble the beautiful baskets.  It was a mixed message delivered with ease and no commentary.  Matzoh and brisket, yes, Kosher for Pesach. Easter candy--definitely not Kosher for Passover. But we were little and never questioned the Easter part of Passover.     

I was 29 when my grandma Sadie died. I wrote out a small story about what she meant to me, and what I received and learned from her.  I realized that she taught me about unconditional love. The gift of feeling totally loved, accepted and not judged. 

Something hard for our parents to give; they need to teach us, and so appropriate conditions need to exist. But unconditional love is almost a natural job for the grandparents.  I can see my grandma’s face as if it was yesterday. I can hear her laugh, and I can feel her love.  You never know the gifts you get from other people.  

During this weird social-emotional period of isolation, how lucky that I am feeling so emotionally close to my grandma Sadie. That is more proof that love never dies.

###

Countdown

AUGUST 13, 2020

TIME
I’m on the countdown
to the end of my life.

Hey! don’t sad-face-crying-emoji-me
you fucks

You are on the
Exact
Same
Countdown

The difference;
my countdown is LOUD
Messy
Full of grief
FEAR and vulnerability

TIME
I see it
I wear it
I feel it
I eat it
I breathe it
I drink it

I love it and hate it
And whatever it is - I Need More

You & you & you
all try to hide the time you have

You diet and dye it
And lift it and tuck it
You Botox, you fill
Shots or a pill
You whiten you brighten
but mostly you frighten
You falsify eyelashes and fortify nails
Hiding time passed however you can.

How do you expect to be awarded more time
when you clearly show The Universe
how uncomfortable you are
with the time you’ve had?

And shameful!
Your reluctance to SEE me
naked and raw

“Wow, you sound so great!”
THAT is the same as telling Stevie Wonder he doesn’t sound blind.

How I sound and how I feel
are two entirely different categories.

SOUND!
Noise
Laughter
A baby cries
A bomb goes off,
people are shattered,

Corks pop
New Year’s Eve
Celebration

Laughter
Joy
Music

Sobbing
Sobbing
I can’t breathe
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Help!
Help help me
Help me please!

I am dying
Something is profoundly wrong inside of me

Oh...on film I look good
says radiology
Breast cancer activity
slow and low

(Ooooo on film, I look good).
Once I’m dead,
cancer activity
none
I will finally be cured!

FEELINGS
Something is profoundly wrong inside of me
I don’t feel good
Hear that
Hear me

SOUNDS
Tick-tock
Life clock

WORDS
I’m on the countdown
to the end of my life

###

Trees

MAY 9, 2020

Last May my doctor said 6 months, maybe a year.  I stopped talking to the Universe. I didn’t ask for any signs. I didn’t ask the Universe for help. I just wanted to clean out my house and get my affairs as much in order as I could. I wanted to ease the burden for my kids.

Almost every day, I noticed yellow birds in my backyard. Gathering on the old stale wall fountain. Swooping around, undoubtedly to get my attention. Shut up Universe, I thought to myself. I don’t believe in signs anymore. 

Fountains are very finicky.  I couldn’t decide if I wanted to fix the old wall fountain or add a bird bath.  I imagined I’d soon be confined to bed. At least I could enjoy the garden view, especially the Birch trees, a favorite hangout for the backyard birds.  I also noticed that not a single bird was interested in the new bird bath I had purchased. They all still sat around the old murky wall fountain. 

From my bed I have a pretty nice view.  Peaceful.  I can see my garden and the old wall fountain filtered through the long graceful branches of the silver birch trees.

I watch the Birches every year as they lose their leaves and the tree fills with hanging lantern-like stacks of seeds.  Eventually these seed stacks will unwind and blow all over the yard. But before that happens, tiny brown finches, no bigger than the missing leaves, will fill the bare tree in the late afternoons, feasting on whatever bugs are now exposed. It’s a charming show right outside my bedroom window. Birds as leaves. Seeds as lanterns, then flying saucers and I notice the fountain needs water. 

Every spring when the Birches burst green again, they are a jungle gym for the Roof Squirrels. All afternoon the Birches host a variety of birds, squirrels and flying insects. 

One year a friend was over. We were in the backyard and she looked at the naked Birches and stated “your trees are dead”. With a great grip of fear in my stomach, I looked at them too, and wondered if she was right. Did the Birches die right before my eyes and I missed it? It had been a year of drought and alternate day watering. Everything in the yard looked a little dry.

I decided I would try watering them a bit more.  Every other evening, I would turn on the soak hose, quietly, hoping my neighbors didn’t see me breaking the water usage rules. I also started to talk to the Birches. Asking them not to leave me. Telling them I was sorry I had not noticed their thirst. 

After a few weeks, I could see new buds and soon they burst forth again much to my relief. I love these birch trees. They’ve been keeping me company for over 20 years.  The year that my friend thought my birch trees were dead, reminded me of something my mother told me many times in life. “Flori, don’t write the ending.”

So, while I am suffering, and I am afraid, while the whole world is suffering and it is afraid, it is good to be reminded. Take things a day at a time. And don’t write the ending. Because birch trees and people can burst back to life.