I must admit, I had not been aware of Miss Chast's book until I received an email from JWA. Thank you. I declare it is important to speak, hear, and pray, about places of humanity. Caring for our elders and aging are two such places.
I live on an island in Puget Sound, here on the west coast in Washington state. Monday, I took the ferry to Seattle to have dinner with friends for my birthday. On the drive to the ferry terminal with only minutes to spare, before the ferry was set to sail back to the island--my dear friend was enthusiastically rooting me on--"you're going to make it, you can do it." What I was going to have to do, was climb stairs and run, and I'm not convinced that the 50s are the new 30s. Nevertheless, I decided in order to make the 9 o'clock sailing, it was better to have a mindset with the mantra: yes, I can do it! So I climbed the stairs as though I was in boot camp, ran through the ferry terminal with thoughts of the song--"Don't Rain On My Parade," while imagining that the Red Sea had parted just for me. I arrived at the ticket counter with two minutes to spare--I was greeted with the question: "Are you 65?"
I am always walking through pockets of fog this time of year. My mother's yahrtzeit is June 15th. She was 56 when she died. I'm 54.
I too have the desire to remember . . . I have three parents: my mother, a beautiful and gregarious woman, my father, a passive and quiet man, and then there was my Uncle Ed.
My Uncle Ed was funny, he was quite the gentleman, lover of chocolate, loved Spanish dance and music, he was kind and generous, and he saved everything--the cardboard spools from his adding machines, rubber bands, he had towers of magazines and newspapers that were older than me, empty boxes of Whitman's chocolates . . .
I am an only child. I have had places in my life where I wanted to forget any traces of resemblance to my family, or that I was even part of a larger tribe. Today--I do not want to forget, I want to remember . . .
Oh how I would relish one more visit, and experience the stale and stagnant air that would linger in my nostrils and on my skin for days. I miss the traces of white powder on the floor, that didn't make it onto my uncle's scalp, which was desolate. (right about now my Uncle Ed would say: "careful toots") I miss what seemed like every time we were together, there would be some kind of quirky happenstance. We would burst forth with laughter, and then my uncle would say: "you little gonif you."
My Uncle Ed never married. I was his only next of kin who he adored and loved. My uncle had Alzheimer's disease. For a decade we were lost and trapped in an unearthly system. My plea fell on mostly deaf ears, or ears that were motivated by evil. I had hired strangers to assist with his care. What emerged was horrifying and tragic. They isolated him from me. Changed estate documents and stole financial sustenance. My uncle was deprived his religious civil liberties and rights: he was not permitted to receive religious comfort or blessings from our Rabbi. He was not allowed to be moved to a Jewish nursing facility, but rather was placed in an evangelical Christian nursing center. My uncle was Orthodox. This is where he died.
I want to speak this story . . .
I want to thank you Miss Chast for courage and humor. Thank you for your lovely response to the question: "Was it cathartic?"
I also do not want to forget. I want to remember . . .
I must admit, I had not been aware of Miss Chast's book until I received an email from JWA. Thank you. I declare it is important to speak, hear, and pray, about places of humanity. Caring for our elders and aging are two such places.
I live on an island in Puget Sound, here on the west coast in Washington state. Monday, I took the ferry to Seattle to have dinner with friends for my birthday. On the drive to the ferry terminal with only minutes to spare, before the ferry was set to sail back to the island--my dear friend was enthusiastically rooting me on--"you're going to make it, you can do it." What I was going to have to do, was climb stairs and run, and I'm not convinced that the 50s are the new 30s. Nevertheless, I decided in order to make the 9 o'clock sailing, it was better to have a mindset with the mantra: yes, I can do it! So I climbed the stairs as though I was in boot camp, ran through the ferry terminal with thoughts of the song--"Don't Rain On My Parade," while imagining that the Red Sea had parted just for me. I arrived at the ticket counter with two minutes to spare--I was greeted with the question: "Are you 65?"
I am always walking through pockets of fog this time of year. My mother's yahrtzeit is June 15th. She was 56 when she died. I'm 54.
I too have the desire to remember . . . I have three parents: my mother, a beautiful and gregarious woman, my father, a passive and quiet man, and then there was my Uncle Ed.
My Uncle Ed was funny, he was quite the gentleman, lover of chocolate, loved Spanish dance and music, he was kind and generous, and he saved everything--the cardboard spools from his adding machines, rubber bands, he had towers of magazines and newspapers that were older than me, empty boxes of Whitman's chocolates . . .
I am an only child. I have had places in my life where I wanted to forget any traces of resemblance to my family, or that I was even part of a larger tribe. Today--I do not want to forget, I want to remember . . .
Oh how I would relish one more visit, and experience the stale and stagnant air that would linger in my nostrils and on my skin for days. I miss the traces of white powder on the floor, that didn't make it onto my uncle's scalp, which was desolate. (right about now my Uncle Ed would say: "careful toots") I miss what seemed like every time we were together, there would be some kind of quirky happenstance. We would burst forth with laughter, and then my uncle would say: "you little gonif you."
My Uncle Ed never married. I was his only next of kin who he adored and loved. My uncle had Alzheimer's disease. For a decade we were lost and trapped in an unearthly system. My plea fell on mostly deaf ears, or ears that were motivated by evil. I had hired strangers to assist with his care. What emerged was horrifying and tragic. They isolated him from me. Changed estate documents and stole financial sustenance. My uncle was deprived his religious civil liberties and rights: he was not permitted to receive religious comfort or blessings from our Rabbi. He was not allowed to be moved to a Jewish nursing facility, but rather was placed in an evangelical Christian nursing center. My uncle was Orthodox. This is where he died.
I want to speak this story . . .
I want to thank you Miss Chast for courage and humor. Thank you for your lovely response to the question: "Was it cathartic?"
I also do not want to forget. I want to remember . . .