I have recently recovered (they tell me) from a serious, potentially life threatening major bacterial infection which affected my brain, leaving me in a state of confusion and my family and friends frightened and bewildered.  I have mostly recovered, and hopefully this poem signals the start of a new chapter.  

And yes, because I do tend to take on new challenges, and it was clearly past time to move out of my three story house into an apartment, I am in the throes of moving over four decades of stuff; clothing, furniture, books and pictures and mostly memories.  At times the task has been daunting, leaving me exhausted and fuzzy; did I really pack the only glass I had left in the kitchen?  do I want to shlepp a large cedar chest that held pictures of trips and family and friends over time?  the chest stays here, given to the family who purchased my house, the albums are neatly stored in cardboard boxes, to be studied, shared with family, hopefully they will be my children's memories in kodak- color now.  

Moving, relocating, even if nearby has changed from a relatively smooth transfer of furniture, clothes, books and pictures.  Decisions are relatively easy; will I still need all those winter clothes when I head south every winter; I haven't used that (bowl, silver services, etc) in twenty years, so pack or donate?  

An added element is present in today's tech, google, facebook, I- everything world.  Its not enough to move the television, you have to return the electronic DVD box to the content provider, order a new one from a different company that is wired in the building and have a computer buddy restore cable cords and boxes with new equipment.  Mail to be forwarded, address change to regular providers of services( alarm system; plumber, heat/air conditioning company, etc.  Newspapers need to be rerouted, trash pickup days re-learned. the list is endless.  but each day that I empty a closet, fold clothing or linens or toiletries into boxes I edge closer to walking away from the physical reminders of 37 years of my life.  Making the move as a widow is particularly hard.  Who do you turn to and say: "remember when we bought that print?  Eight years gone and your bathrobe is still on a hook in the closet, time to wash and donate it."  checking the back of shelves in the kitchen, I come across six or seven "chicken wishbones" dried, wrapped in paper towels, saved for luck? habit? 

And finally, the lists, endless lists: changes to make, calls to stop or reschedule services, notes on when a particular company will come to turn off one service or another, while neighbors stop by to offer a lunch break in a local restaurant, Off I go, remembering to stop at the new apartment house management office to pick up my keys.  I am almost 74 and this is the first home I have ever had with only one occupant, me.  how odd.  

LAND OF LOST TIME

I’m not quite ready for poems that rhyme,

For cute little ditties and such.

My (hopefully) short slide into the land of lost time

Has shaken me right to the core.

I’ve managed my share of medical crises,

Broken ankles, a rotator cuff tear.

I’ve had surgery on more toes than I can count.

Now, that certainly was unfair.

I’ve gained a partial third set of teeth, through crowns, implants, and caps

At least now my smile is reasonably normal, with no obvious gaps.

I pulled through managing Crohns’ disease

In spite of a rare burst colon.

I’ve followed the orders of doctors and dentists

Treated quickly anything swollen.

As much as I love food that’s salty or sweet

I try to contain my weight

It helps to practice the art of Tai Chi

With a focus on feeling fit and great.

So how did I happen to meet with such a daunting challenge?

Silent, no symptoms, no signs.

That managed to totally consume my mind

Bacteria on my brain had designs!

“Let’s not let her realize how dangerous we are,

We’ll sneak into her bloodstream, swim near the left ear,

A bit of deafness to start”.

“We’ll hide in the coils and twists of her brain,

Mess up memory so she seems to be addled.

We’ll short-circuit her recall, her store of knowledge

With confusion she will be saddled.”

And best of all, we’ll be hard to find, and harder to understand

Until a team of great Docs, MRI’s and blood tests

Ferreted out the vandals.

With high powered medicines, lots of rest, to be sure

This was something I could handle.

My memory is slowly reasserting itself, so I’ll know who you are if you call.

I still stop at times when I forget to remember why I’m standing in the front hall.

Of course, the Times awaits outside, and I need that daily crossword

And yes, I walk slowly; walk carefully on side walk and lawn,

The last thing I need is to lose balance and fall.

So to all of my friends, The Florida crew, the Columbians I’ve known for years,

My family, my children, my neighbors.

Without your support I could never get through

To what I hope is a fruitful life, with poems and classes and movies too.

And I sit now, indoors, with my house in a shambles,

Moving boxes, filled with stuff, empty walls surround me.

And outside the woods, the stream and the brambles.

But they’ll be close by my new abode

With no stairs! One level!  A treat to behold.

I’m moving, downsizing, to an apartment that’s right sized,

For myself and my lifestyle today

But I carry my memories; they all fit in my heart,

And I’m only a few minutes away!

May 23, 2015

Susan Kleinberg (I think)

lost and found

Lost and Found

When we suffer the loss of a loved one we grieve, often retreating to memories of moments in time; the sound of a whistler on an empty snowy street in Greenwich Village in the early morning hours; turning a corner in Paris to see the Eiffel Tower lit with thousands of sparking bulbs as the sun set; watching our son brave the ocean waves for the first time, watching our daughter in awe at the birth of five tiny kittens under our dresser. Moving from a house called “home” for 37 years has reopened older worlds of loss but also of laughter, memories of our Christmas ritual of cheese, salami, chips and monopoly with the dog bent on resting atop the game board, displacing the carefully placed houses and game tokens. 

As I packed each book or painting, making decisions to keep some in a downsized apartment, pack some for Florida, donate the rest, I often found myself reliving the experiences attached to each.  This home has been witness to all our transitions: children leaving home, sometimes returning after a change of job or boyfriend, or school; rooms changed from bedrooms to dens or home offices; CD’s replacing dozens of albums of music; basement rooms mostly abandoned and empty.

By the time I checked the house a final time before leaving for Florida, it was a shell of its former self; bookshelves empty, kitchen counters uncluttered and bare, walls devoid of pictures and tapestries and their memories, closets empty but for random hangers. 

Two days later, after a long train ride down the East coast, I reclaimed my car and drove through warm Florida towns to my Condo apartment in St. Petersburg.  What a welcome!  Here was my other home base, one acquired 15 years ago and fully furnished by Ben and me to reflect our changing status as a two-some; shared office and guest room, photos and albums open and waiting to be scanned again, filling memories.  I moved through the familiar rooms, shelves filled with books most recently read, paintings and art work purchased only within the past decade, I came across a sketch of a Spanish style house Ben had drawn sitting on the grass of our favorite Bayou, watching birds swoop and dive for dinner.  I have returned there as well remembering past visits.

I have revisited the beach again, able finally to walk with comfort and certainty, watching the tide tease the many seabirds with its foam and fragments of shells.  There is a bell hanging on the deck of the beach patio.  It is, by tradition, rung each evening by a volunteer to signal the end of the day, sending the birds home to dinner.  Ben was recruited one day to be the toller of the bell, and more recently, after his passing, Zackary, our grandson was visiting.  I asked the women in charge of this daily tradition if he could have the honor that day, and like his much loved Poppy, he rang the bell with energy and gusto.  

This second home, our joint sharing of time within its walls and on its nearby waterways, has embraced me, welcomed me into its midst. I feel in balance again, centered and home within myself and my memories.  

BLOG POSTING 

October 5, 2014

Journey through the past: downsizing and discoveries.

When my mom died, my sister and I went through her condo, packing and discarding most of her "stuff".  We each kept some mementos but would never know the stories behind these donated objects; photos and books and vases, with no dates recorded, no history of their purchase or meaning. Lost memories.  My generation, born during or just after WW II has lived through many momentous changes in the world, transitioned from the age of radio and live entertainment, books with hard covers owned or borrowed from local libraries.  Communication changed from rotary telephones, often with party lines, and written letters to the multidimensional world of computers and smart phones, e-mail, scanning and twitter and texting; instant and encompassing information.  
I am now in the process of going from a three story, four bedroom home we moved into in 1977.  I had considered the option of moving to smaller space, but it remained a sketchy, vague plan.  I came home from Florida with a swollen foot, which ended up needing major ankle and heel surgery.  Instead of a summer filled with friends, and trips and thinking more about moving, I found myself  confined to a bed or sofa in the living room for more than 10 weeks.  The need to shrink my living space and move toward a one floor, accessible apartment became suddenly real.  Exhausted after surgery, feeling helpless and vulnerable, I returned to my home, now retrofitted to allow for single floor occupancy.  The kitchen, front door and small bathroom were all on this floor, only a bed was needed.  I would not, could not rent a hospital bed.  I had watched as my darling husband spent the last 6 weeks of his life in that same corner, penned in by his illness and the multi-runged side rails.  So there I was, lying in a bed purchased hastily to be able to stay on the main floor. I spent the first night in anxiety, sleepless and drained. How would I, could I stay in this state, using a knee-propelled scooter to get from bed to bathroom to kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, maneuvering to reach in for basic foods like milk and bread without tipping the scooter over, took time, patience and care. 
 Friends, family, neighbors quickly filled in the gaps for me, visiting regularly, acting as my legs to move things closer, put in a wash or empty the dishwasher, bring in the mail Mostly they came to visit, bring food and talk, share stories and life histories.  Such quiet, intimate times might not have happened in our ordinary, busy, complex lives. I am grateful for that opportunity. 
And yes, I also needed to sort through all the stuff in my house, my life; 2 five drawer metal filing cabinets; 5 book shelves filled with an enormous variety of books and reports read and written by Ben and I, preserved and available but rarely visited anymore.  How much easier it is now to google Shakespeare’s plays, or Cummings poetry; Jewish history, a compendium of all the major world religions, Art books by artist, or genre, or both, even the Diaries of Anais Nin. (Yes, crossword puzzle addicts, we know this book probably without reading it, because it’s so often used  in clue construction.) The most incredible find was a book written in the 1950’s, a mock chronicle of a broadsheet newspaper of the days and events in 1200 BCE through to 500BCE,  complete with OpEd columns, travel specials, caravan sales, and gossip.
The most memorable finds have been old photographs, letters and poems written I’ve written throughout my life.  The earliest find was a poem my sister and I wrote to our parents on their Anniversary in 1955 when I was 14 and she 11, and an A+ paper I wrote in creative writing class in high school, adding a chapter to a Jane Austen novel.  I found a poem I wrote the night before my son was born, in early labor, welcoming him into the world. I found sweet notes written by my daughter, who was then nicknamed the Kleinberg Turtle, for her propensity of slipping into our bed from the footboard, slowly creeping upwards to our pillows. I even found a photograph of my grandfather, as a young man with a beret, standing in a field somewhere in Poland.  Context and content make this available to my children and their children. 
I am sorting, scanning, saving and sending much of these finds to my children and my sister.  I know the stories behind these memories, the context and meaning of a place or experience captured in film or journal entry. If I had left the task of sorting out my life for my children to manage after I passed away, I’m not sure if their import, their context would be apparent.  I sit now, again able to walk through the house “un-casted” among boxes of books, bags of recycled papers and pamphlets, old tax returns to be shredded. 
I am ready for the move, ready to keep treasures with me for now, knowing I can explain their context and meaning to my children now, hoping they will share them with their own children. 

The rhythms of Healing

Almost two months past surgery and Ive thankfully graduated to walking with a removable boot cast, being mostly independent around the house. I can finally drive again and I’m working with a physical therapist to strengthen my ankle and associated tendons and bones.  I relish my daily showers and find joy in small steps forward, such as bringing in the mail and morning newspapers.  Using a shopping cart as a walker, I ventured out to Trader Joe’s and was able, carefully, to transfer the packages to the car trunk and then a rolling shopping cart into the kitchen.  And yes, exhaustion crept in and it was clear a nap would be next on the agenda.
So I go through the days with increasing optimism, looking forward to a nearby time when walking becomes an unexamined routine and forgetting something on another floor an “oops” rather than an “expletive deleted” as I trudge back up or down the stairs slowly.
I find it hard to settle into a rhythm, a steady movement through space and time.  Waves of sadness can devour me, leaving me longing for the nearest bed or couch.  Will this ever end?  Will I ever be able to move through space led by my muscle memory and not my hyperactive awareness of space and its many roadblocks?
On a good day, moving through the house with purpose and plans to pay bills, do the laundry, read a book or write a poem, I’m filled with optimism: look how much I can do now. I’ve been cleaning out old files, work long finished and out of date; reports written for programs I helped start to provide mental health services to children and their families; planning for and overseeing the construction of a new, state of the art pediatric rehabilitation hospital; minutes of committee meeting to create a way to transform one Maryland County’s drug abuse services from jail time to rehabilitation.   I can still think, and stay invested in making improvements in health care, turning my focus to adults like me, facing new sets of challenges. 
And then it hits me without warning and I suddenly feel helpless and hopeless, looking at how much I still can’t do given an aging body and a very broken health care system. When I’m lowest, I try to remember what a young boy said to me when he was leaving the hospital with the prospect of a life lived while tethered to a ventilator so he could breathe.  “I can do more things than I can’t”. 

So can we all.  Carefully, one foot at a time, one task at a time, one life breath at a time.

September 7, 2014

THE THREE “R’S”

August 24, 2014

Repair, Reboot, Rejoice.  Finally fitted with a removable boot, I can now ambulate with a walker, navigate the stairs and, blessedly, take a shower.   This has been a remarkable eight weeks, adjusting to strict limits on my activities, the frustration of reaching for most things that are too far away, too high up or too close to the floor.  Using a gripper to extend my hand helps me retrieve fallen papers, boxes of tissues, items deep in the refrigerator.  The only challenge was the day the gripper fell out of reach! 

Confinement, combined with a drastically narrowed range of activity and mobility can set off an array of emotions:  frustration, depression, boredom and loneliness, low energy combined with anger at myself for being hasty, impatient and unproductive.  So much that needs doing; dirty dishes piled in the sink, newspapers read and discarded and left on tables and chairs needing to be transferred to outdoor recycling bins.  Easy tasks, except when you can’t independently move the rolling scooter over the doorway frame and overreaching can lead to a tipping of the scooter dangerously close to the sidewalk. I’ve watched as the summer weeks slipped by, an abundance of thick-leaved trees, the birds visiting my bird feeder in vain, the sudden darkness as another thunderstorm approached. 

I’ve been blessed to have an array of family, friends and neighbors offer their help, drop by with gifts of favorite foods, call from supermarkets asking if I need more milk, or bagels, or fruit from a farmers market.  I’ve written in earlier blogs about the gifts of both giving and receiving, and find I am trying hard to live out what I suggested then.  So when I ask for help, I try to match my request to the capacity, ability, interest, comfort level of friends or neighbors.  So some of my visitors have cooked meals for me, some have instead brought food from our favorite restaurants; some offer to drive me to the Doctor if my son is not available; all regularly call to check in on my status.

At times, a friend would appear at the door, just to visit and within minutes, another friend arrived, as well as my neighbor with the day’s mail.  Often, these unplanned drop-ins led to amazing discussions among us; about world events, books we have read or plan to read, updates of family plans. I’ve cleaned out filing cabinet drawers with help from an old friend since moved to New Jersey, but visiting for the weekend. We shared memories of actions taken to change children’s health care services, finding reports and draft legislation in old dated notebooks; projects planned and executed, notes from a weekend convention or conference dating from the 1980’s. When two members of my book club dropped by, we looked through one of my many bookcases talking about the books we had read and how many we have kept over time.  Among the lessons I have learned is the one I call “ask for help now, so you don’t need it later”.  I used this when a friend’s husband came to pick her up and I asked him to carry a bulky package that had arrived in the mail to my bedroom.  Or asking the man who delivered my “order by computer, food delivery service from a local supermarket” to reach deep into a high shelf in the kitchen and retrieve a large bowl.  I had a friend once who said “It’s the little things that get you down” and I find myself reframing it: “It’s the little things that make life worth living, that ‘get you up’”.

For now, my biggest challenge will be to keep myself from catching up; overdoing things, moving in haste, and the dreaded: doing two or more things at once!  Three more weeks with a large boot and a walker, enjoying the pace, moving away from multitasking to making each task, each activity an end in itself. Making peace with myself and my body.  Just being.

the power of friends

The Power of Friends

Throughout our lives we relate to others, meet and make friends on all the paths we walk; early friendships on the playground or at parent-planned “play dates”, school friends from early day care programs through high school, college and beyond.  “Friends” are those we invite to parties and sleepovers, visit beaches and parks with our parents, meet at school and in the neighborhood.  Friendships form the roots of our social life, our networks and connecting links as we move from childhood to adolescence to adulthood.  All friendships are unique, but there are some common features; likes and dislikes, favorite games, similar interests in theatre or the arts, politics and sports, school subjects and mostly a sense of safety:  friends “have our backs”; they are our supporters in times of danger or stress and we can trust them to guide us if needed; to hold us up, or calm us down but mostly to be there.  

Beginning week three of my (very) slow recovery from ankle and heel surgery, still in a cast, still unable to ambulate without my mostly trusty roll-about I have had a lot of time to spare and spend.  Living alone and limited to one floor with tricky corners and turns, I’ve had more than enough time to reflect on the power of friendship, the dance between friends of giving and taking, asking and doing, following and guiding and mostly just being there.  Friends call to check in and ask what they can do to help; some remember a favorite food I usually purchase at one of our many grocery outlets and call to ‘take an order.” Others stop by to delivery the mail, or share fresh fruit from a local farmer’s market.  The most helpful moments are the ones when a friend calls to ask:  What do you need? What can I do?” I’ve found that this is the time for me to take stock of what I do need, what I can do alone, and honestly ask for specific help.  At first I felt uncomfortable making specific requests, such as: could you wipe down the kitchen counter and put away dishes in the dishwasher; or could you open that case of water and put a few bottles in the frig.  Some requests seemed too personal, such as help with getting clean underwear from the upstairs bedroom, doing a laundry and remaking my bed or shampooing my hair.  What I have found is that I can and now do make those requests with simple statements:

 “Can you take a few minutes and bring me something from upstairs: or “My hair feels so dry, could you do a quick shampoo?”    

One rule I learned early that has helped me a lot:  I am usually very specific about what I ask for, making sure it is comfortable and doable for the friend, and I am careful to check when they visit how long they can stay. If I am clear that I need a nap in an hour, say, or have someone coming later, the time lines for each visit fall naturally in place.  Likewise, its helpful to clarify what a friend can, wants to do when visiting, and how long they will stay. 

The most satisfying times come when a friend joins me for a meal, and we share stories about our past lives, decisions we made, how we got to where we are today.  At other times, a friend will drop by with my favorite sandwich from the health food store, grilled Portobello and eggplant, and other friends or neighbors stop by.  In effect, I feel a bit like Dorothy Parker at the Algonquin roundtable, listening, adding a thought or two, and enjoying the stimulation and the support these visits provide. 

I’ve got two weeks to go before the cast is removed, and yes, I am chaffing at the bit, wanting to get out, to be more independent.  Learning the art of patience is, for me, harder than any other skill.  I remember back in the 1980’s when my Crohn’s disease acted up again and I was briefly hospitalized.  One morning I got out of bed, washed up for the morning, and found myself simultaneously pressing  one remote to put the TV on while the other hand held a remote to raise the head board of the bed.  Multi-tasking at 8am with nothing more to do the whole day! 

Today is Sunday: papers to read, crossword puzzles to decipher, a friend bringing lunch to share.  Another day crossed off the calendar.