Perilously Close to the Edge

We forget how perilously close we are to the edge -- until something reminds us.  My mother has been recovering from her knee surgeries beautifully. In fact, a week ago today we took a road trip to a gloriously scenic part of Virginia, two hours southwest, right near the Blue Ridge, to attend a memorial gathering for a college friend of hers. It was a reunion of friends who had known each other for nearly 60 years.  Even though her second knee replacement was only three weeks old, she was ready to make the trip. She managed just fine with her walker, and sat in the sun for several hours, without incident.

Yesterday she and Michael had a house full of guests, arriving from all over the country for the annual Lipsky seder.  In the middle of the afternoon she suddenly felt extremely cold and unable to move, and also unable to think clearly.  After a few minutes of trying to figure out what was going on, Michael got advice from Gordon:  call 911.  This was a scary move, but we were not equipped to deal with this on our own.  We had never seen her this vague and muddled. Her brain was not working.  She could follow directions but she couldn't really answer questions.  The paramedics came, put her on a rolling gurney and hustled her into the ambulance. I got in the front seat and Michael came in the car.  They said she had a fever of 103.5 -- wow.  When we got bogged down in traffic, the boss paramedic told the driver to put the lights and sirens on.  To me, this was the most unsettling moment of the day. I had no idea why we were suddenly in a hurry. I told myself that there was nothing I could do but stay calm, as this whole thing was out of my hands.  When I asked him later why he asked for lights and sirens, he said he didn't want to use up the window of opportunity, in case of a stroke.  We were all worried about a stroke, but by the time I had a chance to ask him, I had stopped feeling so fearful about that possibility.

We went to Fairfax Hospital and got right into a room in the emergency department, with immediate attention. My emergency doctor friend Hannah called us as soon as she heard what was going on, and she told me to tell Leslie, the nurse, that this patient was a VIP. The first thing the doctor (in the room) said was that it could be a urinary tract infection.  That would never have occurred to us, and it made me feel instantly better.  He did some preliminary testing, just exactly what Alissa has done on us for practice, to see how Mom's brain was, and he was pleased with the results.  When I texted Anna to say it might be a UTI, she said that when old people get those, they are often bonkers. More reassuring still.  They took blood, she gave a urine sample (heroically, as mobility was a bigger issue than usual), and she had a CT scan. Michael went home, reluctantly, to take care of his extended family and lead the seder.  Leslie gave Mom some Tylenol for the fever.  And then Mom fell asleep while waiting for results.  When she woke up from her nap, she was no longer so fuzzy. She could speak in complete sentences and she was ready to go home. 

The results came back: she did have a UTI and antibiotics would solve this.  By the time she was discharged, she was back to her normal self, amazingly.  She was speaking in full, coherent sentences and was completely aware of what was going on.  She had no memory of anything much after she got so cold -- did not remember that Michael and Jacob had carried her to her bed when she said she couldn't move.

We took a cab back from the hospital (as everyone we knew was in the middle of a seder) and she felt well enough to make an appearance. We got out of the cab and onto a golf cart and toodled straight up to the Common House -- she was still wearing no shoes and had her soft bed clothes on. Whatever.  When we arrived, she walked in with her walker and the whole room erupted with cheers and smiles.  We completely interrupted the proceedings.  They got her a big soft chair and she sat down, reassuring everyone with her completely normal smiles.

None of us had ever seen my mother in that state and it was absolutely amazing how instantly she changed into someone else, kind of like my Grandma Hiu.  Smiling, vaguely present, trying to do what was asked, sort of bemused.  I am sure we were all imagining the worst.  But as soon as her temperature got closer to normal, she came back. 

So very close to the edge.  All the time.  All of us.

My Various Jewish Mothers -- a guest post

A guest post from Hana’s friend Nell

Dear Lilah,

As you may know from reading Hana’s blog, my mother died last May.  She has been much in my thoughts since then.  And today as I made matzah balls in preparation for seder, I was thinking about my beloved mother-in-law Shirley, and how much she taught me about being Jewish.  (As you may also remember, I was raised Episcopalian in South Carolina, and like Hana, eventually converted to Judaism after years of living Jewishly.)  I realized that I have been lucky enough to have had a number of Jewish mothers.

I’m going to count my mother and my Granny Nell among them.  Granny Nell (my paternal grandmother) was known for her gracious home (in a great big old Southern house) and her ability to throw together a delightful spread from next to nothing, with little warning.  She also set beautiful formal tables for family holidays; her everyday lunches were pretty fancy too by our standards. (No ketchup bottles were ever allowed on her table; the condiment had to be served in a separate bowl.)  But she was warm and funny and smart, and all your time in her dining room was comfortable and entertaining. So I learned how a good hostess can make a meal special.  Given the Jewish emphasis on hospitality, I think Granny Nell counts as an honorary Jewish mother.

My mother planned and worried about all the little details before entertaining.  Mostly too much so from our perspective as her cleaning/cooking/serving minions, but her perfectionism often paid off in spectacular social successes.  I may have taken those lessons in perfectionism a little too much to heart (just ask Hana!), but those details often pay off.  Count Mama as honorary Jewish mother number two.

Shirley Hirsch was truly a proverbial woman of valor before severe dementia took over.  She had an education and career as a nurse before it was in vogue, kept working as she raised six splendid children, made it look easy to keep a kosher home, treasured her Judaism, cherished her family, and reached out to make everyone feel welcome and included.  Her relationship with Sol became my model for our marriage.  I loved walking into her house because I knew that I would get a huge hug and feel her absolute delight in seeing me – and because that house always smelled like the very best chicken soup.  Shirley was not the least bit pretentious, her table and her cooking were not fancy, but the love and warmth there were genuine. And I learned the practical points of Judaism from Shirley:  how to keep kosher, which foods go with which holiday, traditions, Yiddish-isms, and Jewish identity.  I never cook for a Jewish holiday without thinking about her over and over.

And then there was my Michigan best friend, Arlene (of blessed memory).  Outspoken, smart, full of art and culture, and interested in everything.  I was bowled over by her big personality, but I loved every minute of it.  We shared books, recipes, opinions and stories and worries about our children.  Though we could hardly have been more different, she was my first close Jewish friend, and most importantly, introduced me to the joy of a synagogue community.  I think of her too as I cook for holidays, remembering so many conversations about food and friends.

Betsy Giller was a friend and teacher that I shared with Hana (and many others) before she died ten years ago.  Besides all the Jewish history and Torah that Betsy taught, she embodied the joy of Judaism.  Betsy positively glowed on Yom Kippur, sitting next to me in choir while I felt grumpy about the fasting.  During choir rehearsals, she happily taught me Hebrew and liturgy as we worked through the music.  And over time, I absorbed enough that I began to feel comfortable instead of faking my way through it all – comfortable enough that I finally converted.  Betsy was quite short, but she was a dynamo.  I couldn’t help but succumb to her enthusiasm and joy in being Jewish.  And again, cooking – Betsy advocated brushing honey on the outside of your challah before baking.

This Passover I will think about my five Jewish mother-figures, each so very different from the others, but all strong women.  Each one will be with me as I cook and set my seder table, and I’ll remember how lucky I am.

Four Straight Days of Sunshine

A week ago today, it was snowing a little bit and so cold that we had a fire in the wood stove.  We went to a lovely Bat Mitzvah and felt like that was exactly what we should be doing on a wintry Saturday morning.  In the afternoon I went to visit Nell and worked on finishing my latest knitting project -- a big purple sweater that may end up being big enough for both Jon and me at the same time.  I set it down with about three rows left to go, planning to finish before the warm weather came.

By Tuesday afternoon the cold front moved off and the rain stopped.  I decided to go get the lime that I finally found, after many fruitless phone calls.  It is not usually my job to find agricultural supplies (Jon and Ellen and my mother are the procuring department) but somehow this had become my challenge.  Lime is usually spread by a big dump truck with a spinner on the back -- producing big clouds of grey powder.  We need it so infrequently that it has been decades since a lime truck came to this farm.  In those intervening decades, oversized houses have grown up on every border, and most of the next door residents scarcely know what is happening just fifty feet from their back fence. To make a long story short, I thought it might be impolitic to fill the air with a thick fog of mystery powder, settling quietly on the decks and windows of the local gentry.  And the longer story is that by now there is not an agricultural supply company that will drive all the way to Tysons Corner anymore, for love or money.  But the bottom line is that our plants won't grow very well if the soil is too acidic, and we need lime, even if we do live in the deep suburbs.

Anyway, Heinz helped me find the right place with the right stuff, and it was only an hour and a half away.  I got one and a half tons of the expensive pelletized version, in bags,  so that no one would ever notice when I spread it.  No dust clouds. And ever since the sun came out on Wednesday morning, we have been farming up a storm.  It feels like so much longer than four days.

Before we can plant, we have to mow the cover crop that has been growing so juicily all winter.  Then Carrie spreads compost (with the Oliver 880 tractor and skid loader and a cute little compost spreader, many trips to empty and refill). Then I spread lime and some custom blend dry fertilizer (one of our workers called it multivitamins for the soil) -- again, many trips to empty and refill the small spreader, ten 50 lb. bags at a time.  And finally, the first pass with the spader, churning it all up.  Generally, we try to get all these activities completed two weeks before the plants go in so the soil can be at its best.  This week we have been pushing and pushing.This afternoon Jon and I wrestled biodegradable plastic mulch onto the still lumpy ground -- he is the one who makes all the adjustments to the machine while I sit on the tractor and wait patiently for instructions.  He is a perfectionist and I am not, so our roles are right for us. The chickweed is fighting back -- it has had a whole winter to grow some vivacious roots and it is not leaving quietly -- and Jon fidgets with the machine constantly to get the edges of the plastic covered smoothly.

Anyway, on Tuesday morning I was feeling like a fake farmer.  Didn't have any lime yet, had only prepared ground for the earliest crops, and it looked like winter.  Around the edges of all that focused farming, we went to Arena Stage to see a play about LBJ (very good), I got some sort of food poisoning or something and spent a long night and day living with the aftermath, Jon and I went into DC to see one of my favorite NPR personalities, Krista Tippett, and we picked for the first market weekend of 2016.

You already knew I was going to say this -- the purple sweater has not been touched in a week.  But I am going to finish it pretty soon.  I am thanking my lucky stars that we are not having the same weather as Denver: they are getting a foot of snow right this minute. Argh.  The farmers must be gnashing their teeth.

Bragging About My Mom

In my birth family we know we are not supposed to toot our horns, nor are we even supposed to disproportionately notice when our children do something good (like graduate from college).  We take it in stride.  Apparently this low-key approach to achievements came down through the generations on my mother's side.  And our own children have grown up with that expectation of no fanfare.  But, it must be noted, we did attend all of their graduations, both high school and college -- Jon's side of the family has had some influence.

My brother's wife Lee Lee has managed to change the cultural expectations in their nuclear family:  they are outspoken and appreciative about everything, none of this hiding your light under a bushel. They are not stingy with their praise, and their children are well-adjusted and charming, so there don't seem to be ill effects.

Anyway, I am going to go outside the usual family culture and brag about my mother.  She is doing great.  Anna said tonight, "I want to be like her."  Nell said recently, "I want to grow up to be like her."  She continues to be a healthy, calm, cheerful patient, doing as much as she can for herself.

She had her second knee replacement surgery on March 29 and they sent her home on April 1.  The doctor decided she was ahead of schedule in her rehabilitation and she would just be bored, lying around at the hospital over the weekend.  So she came back to her bed in the living room, very pleased.  The second time around was easier than the first time -- she requested less anaesthesia (and they complied), the surgery was quicker because the surgeon had already seen her other knee two weeks before, and her leg didn't swell up and turn all purple this time.  So, she has been getting better and better, working her knees while lying on her back on her bed, using a big rubber band for resistance. The physical therapist is happy with her progress.

Recently I went over to say hello, and I brought my piano books with me so I could show her what I am working on (she is always ready to listen to my unpolished practicing) and see if she wanted to play duets with me.  By the time we got to the piano, after an hour of conversation, it was already pretty late in the evening. But she eased her way out of her chair, got the walker and made her slow way to the piano bench.  It is so much fun for me to have a mother who can play any music I bring over.  She can do much more than that, but I only need the basics.  So we squeezed onto the piano bench together and played some duets.  She doesn't mind playing the same thing over and over (having spent the bulk of her childhood practicing and probably most of her awake hours at college).

But I digress.  I just want to say that my mother is an amazing patient.  I guess we should not be surprised. But she is so mellow and fine, happy to be where she is, happy to have visitors, unperturbed about pain (which must be a constant), and interested in everything. Michael L. is so glad that she has been less fuzzy and drugged this time around. 

It is hard for me not to say, "I knew she would be like this."  But I actually did not know. I was worried that she would have trouble recovering from the anaesthesia. I was never worried about her capacity to tolerate pain and I knew she would do her exercises diligently. I am so pleased that she seems to be the same person she was before the surgery, and that she will be walking on straight legs before we know it.