7 October

Today is a day of remembrance.

Today I remember.

The date, 7^th of October, will be forever inscribed in my memory.

A day I will never forget.

It was a sunny Friday morning. Simchat Torah, a Jewish holiday. We had recently returned from our holiday. Little did we know what would be awaiting us at home.

6.30 in the morning. We were still sleeping when the Red Code alarms began, their up- and-down, high-and- low pitch shattering our dreams. One after another after another. Endless. No respite. We had never had so many alarms in a row.

We had gone through a lot of wars and confrontation with Hamas over the years. Living in the south of Israel, we could say we were used to the alarms, the run to shelters, being woken up in the middle of the night, being scared by them while driving or shopping. Alarms were part of our “routine”.

But that October morning was different. The alarms wouldn’t stop, neither would the explosions – the Iron Dome intercepting missiles from Gaza.

I know now that this was a cover for the massacre taking place near the border, in the kibbutzim, on the roads, at bus stations, at the Nova music festival.

We didn’t know.

And then we turned on the TV, checked the news apps.

And the horror began to unfold, minute after minute, hour after hour.

I don’t want to recall the magnitude of the pain and suffering and helplessness and desperation of that day. It still makers me sick just thinking about it.

I will just bow my head, honoring the lives that were lost that day and in the days that followed.

Let us all remember 7^th of October.

The day that changed this country forever.

The day the darkness won. 

The Cockroaches Are Not The Problem

 

Today I was so angry. So, so angry. Like a toxic cloud, the anger descended upon me. It was triggered by a stupid thing, an announcement tapped on the building’s door about a disinfection that will take place someday next week. For the cockroaches.

It happened so many times in the past. They came and did whatever they do and for a while the air would choke me and then I would find dead cockroaches all over our building, on their back, feet in the air. The survivors would try and sneak in our apartment, to the delight of our cats, who would chase them, play with them and then, of course, kill them.

I hate cockroaches, just like everyone else. But, look around, so much trash everywhere.

The first thing you fell when you enter our building is the smell of mold, of things rotting away in corners. Nobody knows what really lurks in our basement. People drag their trash bags from the elevator through the lobby, leaving a wet streak of slops. Sometimes, they throw the trash bags from a distance, missing the trash can altogether, the litter spilling everywhere. Nobody ever cleans it. In the summer the stench is unbearable.

Sometimes the sewerage is clogged because people throw all kind of stuff into their toilets, from diapers to clothes.

On the third floor it is impossible to pass through. There is a bike there, chairs and lots of carboard boxes. In case of a fire, a death trap. On the fourth floor, a broken, I assume, washing machine, a couple of small tables with pots filled with dead plants. And a heartfelt thank you to our neighbor who stopped smoking. Congrats! Before that, he used to throw on the window the still burning cigarette butts. Many of them landed on the roof of our car that was parked under his window.

There is so much filth and neglect around us.

Nothing works. The elevator is broken almost all the time, the water doesn’t have enough pressure to reach the upper floors. But we decided to wage a war against cockroaches. Not for a minute to ponder and ask ourselves why do they love our building so much. According to some tradition or other, it is forbidden to throw bread in the bin, so people put plastic bags filled with bread on the lid of the trash can or on the ground. It stays there until it rots. But they determined the cockroaches are to blame. Who knew?

We decided to kill the cockroaches. Their bodies will litter the staircase and the lobby for many days afterwards because nobody will bother to sweep them. We’ll feel a sense of righteousness every time we will look at them. We exterminated the roaches, they’ll say. While, in one corner, they are already scuttling. They would survive an atomic bomb, did you know?

 

Not Yet

 

 

The last visit to Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital was supposed to be less depressing (if a visit to such a place can be called less depressing). My husband’s treatment was scheduled for the afternoon this time, so there weren’t as many patients in the department.

But we still had to wait, because there were fewer staff members, too.

Waiting is how you spend your time in a hospital.

Waiting for your turn for blood tests, for treatment, for your appointment with the doctor.

Nobody is in a hurry and most of the staff is speaking in hushed tones. At least until the woman across the room starts shouting into her phone arguing with her daughter, that she isn’t raising her own daughter properly.

You finished one appointment, only to wait for the next one, for another test, another consultation. 

In between I try to read but I always end up watching the hospital’s life unfold in front of me.

People of every age, color, religion, social status.

Illness forgives no one.

The endless trickle of people, some walking briskly through the corridors, others merely shuffling their feet, gets me thinking about old age.

Why do we have to go through it at the end of our lives? Why can’t we leave quietly while we are still young and strong?

Or better yet, why don’t we have it backwards?

Why don’t we arrive in this world as old people and then grow younger and younger with every passing day until we disappear into the clouds of Heaven or the pits of Hell?

I watch frail old bodies, barely able to walk, yet still clinging to life.

One more step.

One more day.

Why?

I look at my own hands.

Old woman’s hands.

I am getting old.

Fortunately, I wear trainers, so no one has to see my ageing toes.

Old age is such a humiliating burden.

Not yet.

Not yet, young polite nurse. I don’t need you to hold up my trousers because you took my belt on the way to the MRI machine.

Not yet, young cheerful doctor. Please don’t make silly jokes while you guide me through the corridor as I stumble along, pretending not to notice how unsteady I am.

Not yet.

I don’t need you to lift a cup of water to my lips because my hands tremble too much to hold it.

I don’t want anyone tending to my old, failing body. Not when they roll their eyes after leaving the room. Not when they laugh behind my back because I am not able to pronounce my words properly anymore because my dentures no longer fit.

We never think about this when we are young.

Why would we?

We believe we are strong and independent, with quick feet, steady hands and clear minds.

We never imagine what we might become.

A collection of trembling bones.

Weak muscles.

A mind slowly disappearing, lost in pain and memories.

I am terrified of old age.

Sometimes I think it would be better to leave while I still can walk without a walker.

 

I Am a Blur

 

 

Lately, the days pass so quickly one after the other they are all a blur. I am a blur. I feel like my edges are smudged, the image I see reflected in the mirror is not clear. I don’t recognize me anymore. I am not me. I am a blur.

And I feel this toxic cloud surrounding me, sending its tendrils towards me, sucking all my strength, my will, my everything.

I am a blur. An image you see in the window of a train, inconsistent, an impression that lasts a few seconds and then it’s gone.

I am a blur. A cloud of tiny insects, annoying for a while, buzzing and flying around your heads. But then a strong wind just blows them away.

I am a blur. A lonely figure in the desert, in the middle of a sand storm. Now, I’m here. You blink and I’m gone.

I am a blur. A lonely light in the dense fog on winter mornings.

A single beat of a wing.

One breath of a tree.

The sight of a setting sun.

I am a blur. Inconsistent and fragile. Forgettable.

Soon I’ll become a shadow, no blood will flow through my veins, just pain, acute and unbearable pain.

And after a while, tired and beaten I will transform into a stain on the sidewalk. No life, no feeling, just a smudge of lost humanity.

Until I Get To Be Me

 

I am tired, so tired of all of this. Weary and drained. Fed up. Had enough.

Oh, did I offend you? Did you want something nice and cheery and motivational, to help you deal with the crap in your life? You’re in the wrong place, pal. I don’t do any of that. Not today, anyway.

Today I write of pain and disappointment, disease and anxiety, anger and frustration, fatigue and anguish. And so many more feelings that fight to be acknowledged.

I feel like all I do these days is fight something or someone, real or imagined. And I am just tired. Sometimes I think I fight with myself and it is not a pretty sight. I don’t have a very good opinion of myself, so I hurl obscenities at me and try to make myself small and insignificant. And I keep bringing up the mistakes I’ve made, the stupid things I did, and I try to humiliate myself and make me suffer.

Sometimes I think I am my own worst enemy. Sometimes I wonder if I am my best one.

When I was young, I used to harm myself.

In order to mute what I felt inside I had to make the physical pain louder.

Not that it helped.

Pain is pain is pain.

And now I have the scars to remind me.

I am so tired.

And I would like nothing more than to lie down under a mighty tree in a deep forest somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains in Romania.

To feel the soft wind on my face and to listen to the sounds of nature: leaves rustling, birds twittering, millions of insects, tiny constellations buzzing in the warm air.

To push my cheek to the ground, to smell the rich moist aroma of the earth and the fresh, green scent of the grass.

To soak the soil with my tears and for the moisture to reach the roots of the tree and then to erupt with the sap in the leaves and to be dried by the sun.

I want to lie there and forget about everything, to rest until I don’t remember who I am anymore, to be born again, new and untainted, not as myself, but as something special, remarkable. A flower, maybe. Or a strange bush. A medicinal plant. To ease and to sooth. To nurture.

And then to begin again. And again. Until I get it right. Until I get to be me.

Nobody Cares

 

 

The world is not a good place for me right now. My husband isn’t feeling well – they say the treatment is working but he is still in a lot of pain and discomfort. It breaks my heart that I cannot to anything to help him. I listen to him, I give advice, but that’s all I do.

My daughter has her own problems; there is a lot of grief and tears and all I can do for her is to listen and give advice when asked.

That’s me, the great listener and giver of advice! Goodness, it destroys me completely, this.

Outside our home, the whole world has gone mad. Literally. The amount of craziness going around is overwhelming. It feels like a conspiration of mad clowns decided to conquer the planet.

We have these neighbors who, from time to time throw this huge parties. When I say parties, I mean they gather on their balcony, all their friends and family and God knows who else and take out their speakers and take turns singing. Well, not exactly singing, more like the sounds dying wild animals would make. Sorry dying animals, no offense intended.

I try to cope with my existential problems, my husband is in pain, my daughter cries herself breathless and outside my window the jungle howls into a microphone.

The world has gone off the rails. The amount of carelessness, callousness, insensitivity, and shamelessness -along with every other synonym the dictionary can provide, is at times, unbearable.

I try to mute the noise, to hide from all the insanity, but they really creep in through my defenses.

What the Hell happened to us?

This question has been haunting me for some time, now. When doctors shrug their shoulders, when passers -by look on the other side and nobody does their job the way they should.

The truth is, nobody cares. Our reality has changed. People had changed, or they were always this way but now it shows more clearly on their behavior. I don’t know. I looked for answers in books, TV programs, words said by clever people. In my opinion, they don’t have a clue either.

But what really hurts the most is not the fact that nobody cares. Because that’s not entirely true. Some people care. They care so much they lose sleep over stranger, family, over stray cats and the state of the world.

The problem is caring doesn’t solve problems or stop pain. It can’t quiet loudspeakers, cure illness or wipe away tears. It simply means that while others walk past, someone stops. Someone listens when nobody else does. Somebody keeps showing up even when the room is empty.

Today, that someone is ME.

I say nobody cares.

But I do.

A Place of Pain and Miracles (Notes from a Sunday at Hadassah)

 

Every Sunday my husband has to have his treatment at Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital in Jerusalem. Although it is not a merry occasion, I have to say I enjoy travelling to Jerusalem. Yes, I know, shame on me. But just hear me out and you’ll understand and even agree with me.

First. The road. The feeling that with every kilometer traveled I get closer to the city I love with all my heart and soul. When I see the Jerusalem’s hills my heart skips a beat… Then, as we get near I see the hospital and above it, the golden domes of the Russian orthodox church.

At the hospital entrance, the security guards always have a smile for you.

People from all layers of society mingle in the huge entrance hall.

A tall old man stooped over a piano plays soulfully. Somebody is recording him. A group of young men are surrounding another young man with an amputated leg. Friends? Family? They are talking all at once and laughing together.

Haredi men in their black suits, white shirts, and black hats.

Jewish women. Two dressed from head to toe in black garbs, only their eyes showing. What sect are they, I ask my husband. Lev Tahor? Maybe, he shrugs. A secular woman wearing a miniskirt. A religious woman reading from a prayer book.

Two white nuns in white habits, waiting their turn in reception.

People getting in and coming out from elevators, talking in French, English, Yiddish, Russian, Hebrew. Me and my husband, in Romanian.

Arab women, young and old, patients and workers, doctors and nurses. Young and old. Traditional and secular. Arab men, Bedouins dressed in their traditional clothes, with white keffiyehs held on their head with thick black cords – agals.

A hospital - especially its oncology section - is a sad place to be. And yet, somehow, a hopeful one, too. A quiet place for people to come and be healed.

Shevael. I liked the name of the nurse who administered my husband’s treatment.

Among machines that make annoying noises, and medicine and drawers filled with stuff I don’t know and scary medical equipment, she has a warm smile and a kind word for everyone. She knows that people that come to her are scared, terrified. So she assured them with a smile. That there are in good hands and not to worry. God willing, everything would be all right.

After I leave this place of pain and suffering and miracles, I feel hopeful for us, as individuals and as communities as well. Until Shevael has a smile for everyone, we’re good.  

 

Peeking Through Pain

I know I promised I'd blog more often, but, as a Romanian proverb says "He that reckons without his host must reckon twice" (that's the English equivalent anywayt, in Romanian it sounded better somehow)...
And this time it was really true...
We were sick. Again...it never happened in our household, so much sickness. I mean, my husband has pneumonia, I've got tonsilitis and Maya has a sore throat and is coughing...On top of that, I have some serious problems with my teeth, problems that translate themselves into pain. As in A LOT OF PAIN. The doctor said I cannot take care of the teeth problem until my infection clears up (throat and teeth, as well) so I have to suffer quietly for now...Believe me, I am no stranger to pain and I bear it well, but this time...oh boy, my teeth hurt so badly even after painkillers that I cried. Me, a grown up woman that gave birth to two children, cried...
I am taking antibiotics, of course and I feel like s**t most of the time, and I also have to take care of Maya and my husband (he was in a bad shape also). And there is food to be cooked (well, we mainly eat sandwiches these days), laundry to be done. The house is a pigsty again, but I couldn't be bothered, no way... I sleep when not in pain after being knocked down by the painkillers, I cannot concentrate to read or write...I forgot what writing my book means...
So, you see, that is the reason it has been so quiet in here. But, with God's help (and the antibiotics, and the dentist) I'll be right as rain in no time...