The Day I Didn't Burn the Book

 

A husband with an unexplained fever. An old manuscript. A curse that wasn't. A little girl who finally gets the answer she deserved.
 

Yesterday my husband had a fever. It came out of nowhere, as he was in his fifth day after the treatment and fever without a cause is a reason for concern. It surprised (in a bad way) and scared us. At first, we didn’t know what to do or how to explain it. And so myself, the pessimistic and anxious person I’ve become, came with an explanation.

I am cursed. 

Whenever I do something I love or enjoy, something bad happens. To myself or to the ones I love. Because of course a curse extends its influence over the ones I care about, too. And this time, it was THE BOOK. 

Many, many years ago when Maya was around two, three years old I began writing a book. To ease my longing for my homeland, Romania, I’d decided to put all those sentiments in a book. I was a “new” second time mother - well, with a 20 years difference between my children it felt like a first time. I was a newcomer in a country I had discovered I didn’t fully understand. So of course, I had done what I knew best – I wrote.

The problem was whenever I wrote something, something bad seemed to happen. Most of the times, it was my daughter getting sick. Time after time after time. And in the end, after she was hospitalized and then had to do so many tests, I’d decided simply to put the book aside. In order to protect my daughter, I said to myself.

And I convinced myself I was cursed. So, if I wanted my daughter to stay healthy, no more writing. The truth? Even with me not writing, my daughter still got sick. My husband still got sick. My son still hated me. My life still got ridden with problems. And among all that bad stuff that kept happening, I forgot about the book.

Until now.

Out of the blue, one sunny day, I decided I had to dig up the manuscript, the research I’d done and continue where I had left.

And what do you think happened? My husband had a fever.

I was so, so upset I decided I would burn the book and my soul with it and just be done.

But before that, I sat down and thought about it, really thought.

About this fear of mine to do things I enjoy and love. About this curse. About why it happens or I think it does.

And I went back in time. To my childhood. Back to the days I had spent doing things to please my mother, to convince her to love me. And because she didn’t give a damn about me, I grew up thinking that something must’ve been wrong with me, making me unworthy of my mother’s love. And that if good things happen to me, I have to pay for them, to be punished, because I wasn’t worthy. I was always afraid to enjoy life because I thought that, for sure, some disaster was around the corner, being my doing, of course.

And I came to this conclusion that maybe, maybe, the book was never cursed. And neither was I. Maybe I am still that little girl trying to understand why her mother didn’t love her. And so maybe I didn’t cause my husband’s fever by returning to write my novel.

And maybe I won’t be burning the book after all…    

And whenever that little girl will nudge me , reminding me that I am undeserving, I will tell her that I love her and that nothing was wrong with her, it was her mother who didn’t deserve her love.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

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.  

 

The Symmetry of Cakes and Words and Love

 

 

Last week we had three birthdays in our family.

My husband’s was on the third. Our daughter Maya baked him a cake. Maya’s was on the fifth. Her boyfriend baked her a cake. His birthday was on the seventh and it was Maya’s turn to bake him a cake.

Three birthdays.

Three cakes.

Each of them with its own story to tell.

Maya baked her father a lemon-pound cake. For her boyfriend, it was Black Forest. Her boyfriend baked her a cheese cake. Each recipient received their all-time favorite cakes.

In the outside world, they were talking about missiles and alarms and wars. We were reminded about things that are out of our control.

Inside our home, small gestures of love. With everything we were going through lately, it felt big and significant. My husband has this awful disease looming over him and the ruthless treatment. Maya has her own worries about her future. Her boyfriend, too. And yet, they expressed their love with cakes.

There is something concrete and practical and centering about baking a cake. Maya once told me that when she is stressed, she bakes. Strangely enough, even though I am no baker, I understand her. Baking gives you something to focus on. Baking a cake has rules. You measure the ingredients; you mix them and put them in the oven. You are in control of the process. And yes, most of the time something good and delicious comes out of it.

Me? I write. I try to transform my anxiety into words, the words into poems. I like to say that both of us create something. Maya – her cakes. Me – my poems, stories, essays. And no matter how much work we put into it, I am sure Maya’s creations are way better than mine. Well, at least tastier.

So, this is the story of our family this past week. Three birthdays and three cakes. Our love to wrap them in. And my words for us to remember.

The Invisible, Suddenly Visible Summer

 

Last night, the summer I thought would be an invisible one for me became visible.

Iran attacked us.

And everything that I was carrying with me for the past weeks, months even, felt like a wave that came crushing over my head.

The sirens are back. The late-night run for shelter. The flashbacks.

And so is the fear. For my daughter. For my husband. The anxiety. The exhaustion of spending so much emotional energy on medical appointments, procedures, tests and uncertainty.  I though I could at least move through them, survive them like I always did. For the past 14 years.

But no. Suddenly, the pre-alarm sounded. The headlines said: “Hey, you have one more thing to add to your piles of worries”.

But I won’t stop living my invisible, suddenly visible summer. I will try to cope, as I always do, by writing. 

Words never fail me, they come when I summon them.  

Invisible Summer - The Beginning

 

Sunday

I have to go outside today, to take care of some important documents. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed at home. It’s summer and it’s already hot outside, and it’s not even noon.

I smear sun-protection all over myself.

The first thing I see outside our building is the overflowing garbage bin. They haven’t collected it in almost a week. Is there a garbage-people strike?

Under the unforgiving sun, the stench is unbearable.

On the road, a cleaning machine thingy putters away, doing nothing for the dirt.

There are a lot of people outside. The coffee shops took out on the sidewalk their tables and they are packed. Everybody speaks loudly, about prices and politics. Does anyone go to work these days?

The sidewalk is dirty.

A cat, black and white, a Zorro look-alike face, is waiting near the butcher shop’s door.

A man is looking for his dog, I think, shouting his name. Or his child?

I do some shopping. Mainly milk because there is a shortage of cottage cheese and yogurt, only God knows why. Maybe they want to raise prices again.

The cleaning machine thingy has caught up with me. It still doesn’t clean anything.

Near our building the garbage didn’t magically disappear.

I enter the coolness of the apartment. Klara watches me obliquely with her yellow eyes. “Where have you been?” Pitzi opens an eye and then promptly goes back to sleep.

I turn on the TV. A terrorist attack. One dead, five injured. The perpetrators were two Israeli Arabs.

 

Happy Birthday My Sweet, Sweet Baby!

Today was an emotional day...My daughter's 20th birthday! 

It is hard for me to believe that 20 years have passed since Maya entered my life. I am happy, so happy to see her becoming a young woman, finding her own way in life...and I am also sad, so sad that I am getting old and sometime in the future I will go to wherever God will sent me to and I won't be able to witness her life any more.

But no tears and no sadness today. 

Today I am grateful for being Maya's mum for 20 years, for the happiness and the worry, for the good days and the bad ones too. For the smiles and the tears and the adventures we had together, the books we read, the games we played...

I am grateful for having her in my life, for the lessons she taught me, for her presence, for this entire Universe that she creates with her personality.

Happy birthday my sweet, sweet daughter!

I wish you happiness, health, good friends and may all your wishes come true and your dreams be fulfilled!

I love you with all my heart and soul.

Life's Unpredictable Interventions

I  have talked earlier about God's plans versus mine. Well, that was only the tip of the iceberg. Because, believe me, I had so many things planned, only to be shunned by...divine intervention?

I don't intend to look in the distant past, because it would be pointless, and I presume, boring. I am going to tell you about stuff that's been unfolding since, let me see, about 13 years ago...

First of all, if you are new to my blog, you must know that I have been living in Israel for 27 years. That I am a Christian. And that I had a difficult time adjusting to my life here...After a while I simply didn't pay attention to the exterior world, it was too much for me and I would've gone nuts. After a while, everything seemed, I don't know, routine. One step in front of the other type of life. Keep on going for the sake of my family...

Anyhow, in the beginning I thought someday I would be able to return to my home-country, Romania. I said to myself the deadline would be my daughter finishing high school. I made plans and the thought of returning home kept me breathing easier. You know, the light at the end of the tunnel.. 

But...

In 2013 my husband was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. It came from nowhere and for a while, we were paralyzed by the news. Then, little by little, we made peace with the diagnosis and my husband received his (first) treatment. We had to let go of our dream to return to Romania. The doctors said that with this type of lymphoma there is no definitive healing, only remission. One has to learn to live with this awful disease. Like a form of chronic cancer.

So, yes, karma, God, the Higher being, universal conscience, call it whatever you like decided that we are to stay in Israel. At least here the treatments for lymphoma are the latest and very effective.

I said, OK, it is what it is. At least, I have my holidays. I can go and visit Romania whenever I want, recharge my batteries, soothe my soul and come back here.

Wrong again.

Along came Covid and besides the world-wide no fly no holidays no fun situation we had our own situation at home. My husband got sick with Covid in the hospital, while going through his second round of chemotherapy . Yep, it came back. For the second time. The Covid hit him hard, his defenses very very low because of chemo...

And then we thought we will have a reprieve. We were optimistic. Dare to dream. 

My husband was thinking about traveling to Romania for the 50th anniversary of high school graduation. I said I'll go with him, I needed a reprieve from all the wars we had lately.

But, ironically, again somebody had other stuff put aside for us.

My husband's lymphoma was back. He found out during the time we were already packing for Romania. Meaningless to say we were crushed. Oh God, not again!!!

So, you see my point here. No plans. Not anymore. Not ever. Just wait for whatever life has to throw at me...

I still want to do so many things, even now. But, I fear I won't be able to to any of them. If life keeps interfering with my plans, I may never do them at all. 

I no longer trust life enough to make plans.
Every time I begin to hope, something happens — illness, war, fear, another diagnosis waiting around the corner.
So perhaps it is easier not to dream too loudly anymore.

Easier than living with the heartbreak of watching those dreams collapse again and again. Better this way. To avoid heartbreak and that sense of doom that keeps following me everywhere.

  

Did You Ask About My Day?

 

The only quiet time I had was in the morning, the half hour when I drank my coffee.

Then, the day just took off, like a crazy carousel, dragging me along.

First, I had to call the social assistance company representative. They e-mailed me some papers and I didn't know how to fill them in. 

Then, I had to go to the pharmacy to pick up my husband's medicine. On the way there I was so absorbed in my own thoughts I simply continued walking, well past the place where I had to go to the right in order to reach the pharmacy. At the pharmacy there were 13 people in front of me in the line. The pharmacy is small and really cramped. The noise was infernal. Everybody was speaking at once, pharmacists and patients, in a mix of Hebrew, Russian and French. I waited for 50 minutes and when I finally reached the counter, the pharmacist told me they don't have one of the medicines my husband had on his prescription. I saw red before my eyes. I asked what to do and she told me I have to go to another pharmacy, at the other end of the city. They had the medicine there. I kept my mouth shut in order not to say anything I would regret.  I took what they had and returned home.

Cooked lunch. Fed the cats. We also ate, then I helped my husband with some letters to doctors and various institutions. We tried to find the missing medicine on-line, in another town.

Because of his illness, my husband is very limited physically in what he can do. If he drops something on the floor, he has to wait until I come and get it for him. So, I am in constant motion...

My daughter came home but had to leave for her monthly laser hair removal thingy. I went with her. It wasn't very far and so I had the opportunity to spend some time with her. I try to do this whenever I can. I accompany her to the gym, for example. For the same reason. It is now the only time when she is mine, only mine. 

As I was in the vicinity, I went to the supermarket afterwards. We needed some cucumbers. I left with two huge shopping bags. I was on foot and, of course, the bags were very heavy. By the time I got home, I was shattered. My back hurt. My knee, too. I had a terrible stomach ache also. Was it something I'd eaten earlier? Too much stress, maybe? I drank some Cola zero.

I prepared dinner. Took out the garbage. Fed the stray cats. Hoovered a bit.

When I was younger I had this vision of older me: sitting in the sun, with a cold lemonade and a good book, watching the sea...  But NO, no rest for the wicked. I am sixty and my life is still...life. Full of problems, some bigger than the others... some good moments, too. But it is hard to think happy thoughts at the moment. Everything is too hard and complicated right now...

Life Hurts

My husband is in the hospital. With the treatment that he receives, because it is something new, he has to be hospitalized . 

He calls me. He has a fever. "I have the shakes", he laughs. I can feel it in is his voice, in the way it quivers. 

"Not to worry", he says. "I had them before. It'll pass".

We hang up. 

I begin to cry. A huge weight presses on my chest. I can't breathe. Yeah, it is my anxiety, kicking in. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself. It is difficult as memories flash before my eyes. .. We went through this so many times and it still makes me nauseous.

I know he has it a million times worse than me...

I know I have to be brave - for him, for my daughter. 

I know I have to plaster that stupid "positive vibes" expression on my face. I know I have to say "It will be all right. ". I know and it is still so, so difficult.

Still cannot breathe properly. Still crying.

This feeling of helplessness is crushing me. It hurts. In my body. I don't know what to do with myself. I beg time to pass quicker, for my husband to tell me he is fine, everything is fine, we are fine. 

My cat jumps on the desk and is looking straight into my eyes. His way of demanding to be fed.

I stand up and go in the kitchen. 

Life goes on. 

Or does it?  

Writing in Order to Exist

Why do I continue to write this blog when (almost) nobody is reading it...

Why do I do it? 

Why do I bother? 

Why do I care if people are reading it or not? 

The truth is, I don't want to care. But I do. In a sense. The thoughts I have in my head and then transfer them to posts are mine, and are important to me. Do they mean anything for anybody else? I don't know...

Why do people write blogs? I have no idea. Maybe they have something to say. Maybe they are alone and don't have any friends in real life and maybe pouring one's thoughts on a virtual sort of diary helps them cope. I know it helps me. 

I just let the words be free and wander around in the internet - I almost see them, swimming in the ocean of information...and maybe they'll get caught in somebody's attention net. 

Maybe somebody will read them and resonate with them and with this burning desire to write and to be read.

Writing is a blessing. It helps me survive. But it is a curse, too. If I don't write, the words just go round and round in my head until I let them go, be free, to say what they want so badly to say...

I am trapped in this infinite loop of writing and feeling and writing some more and the words building themselves in my mind, ephemeral sand castles...

How do I get myself free? Do I want to be free? Would I survive if I were be free of the words in my mind and my soul? 

I am sure that without words I would die. Without being able to make them speak for me I wouldn't be able to make sense of my existence.

So, I write in order to exist. to be alive. To remember. To dare to dream a bit more. To breathe. To be amazed. To feel. To cry. To hate. To love. To live.

And if I am the only one reading them. So be it. They are mine, anyway.