Juggling (as appeared in the Bina)

Yesterday, I learned something new, and it was not pleasant.

It began with a torn shoelace, which meant, of course, that I would have to replace it. I was lucky; I had a pair of spare laces in the closet. But for some strange reason, the new laces did not fit through the holes.  The original laces were rounded while these were not, so I assumed that that must be the problem. I asked one of my grandchildren to run across the street to buy me thin, spaghetti-like, laces that would fit done the holes. Instead, he took the laces that I thought were too big to fit into the holes and, within less than a minute, the laces were threaded through the holes and my shoes were ready to wear.

That’s when it dawned on me. The problem was me, and not the laces.

I know that Parkinson effects fine motor skills, but because the changes are gradual, I didn’t realize just how much. Yes, I make a lot more typing mistakes than I used to, and yes, it takes me longer to get dressed in the morning, but still, the shoelace incident was a not so pleasant revelation.

The day after I discovered the extent of my lack of dexterity I attended my Parkinson rehabilitation group. After we finished doing hand exercises with a special claylike material, Ayala, our wonderful occupational therapist, handed out sewing cards and laces, and instructed us to put the laces through the holes. Almost all of us had difficulty with this task.

Ayala explained that as we grow older, tasks involving fine motor skills become more difficult. That is true for everyone, and even more so for people with Parkinson, as Parkinson speeds up the normal degenerative process, in other words, aging.

All of that is absolutely fascinating, at least on an intellectual level, when the process refers to someone other than myself.  But when it translates into ME losing these capabilities, it’s hit a bit too close to home for comfort. I like myself just the way I am, thank you very much. No changes (at least of those kind), please.

That afternoon I had my semi-annual appointment with the neurologist at Hadassah. Of course he told me that I was doing great, but he also instructed me to graduate from a cane to two walking poles (all the better to walk, my dear), and upped my medicines. And that didn’t sound so great to me.

I work so hard to keep the status quo, but I don’t always succeed. It’s as though I am racing up the down escalator.  

Racing up the down escalator has caused my life to become extraordinarily busy; and sometimes, I feel that it’s a bit too busy for comfort. Tikvah for Parkinson, the organization that I opened to help people with Parkinson in Jerusalem, has grown at a dizzying rate. It seems as though the moment we open a new program, there’s need for another one. And as crazy as this might sound, although I opened these programs so that I could get the therapy I need, instead of participating in the program, I am constantly called out to take care of various emergencies.

It’s really a paradox. I truly and honestly believe that a person with Parkinson must make his health a top priority. And yet, I was so busy helping other people with Parkinson, that I lost my sense of priority. Forgot to take care of myself. I created a whole program to help people with Parkinson, myself included, yet I was rarely able to enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Did you notice that I wrote the last paragraph in the past sense? That’s because, after my shoelace wakeup call, I decided to become nasty and mean, well, kind of… Chessed needs borders. I am learning to say no, to tell people that they are going to have to wait until I finish what I’m doing before I can speak with them, to carve out time for myself, so that I can continue to be myself. 

We Jewish women are amazing jugglers. We spend our entire life multi-tasking, juggling our responsibilities to our families, to the communities, and to ourselves as we try to keep our priorities straight. And even as the number of flying balls become less, it’ remains an incredible balancing act.

At our Tikvah group, whenever Gili, our physiotherapist, challenges us with a difficult balancing exercise, she says, “You ladies are capable. You’re strong. You have so much hidden strength. I know that you can do it.”

And she’s right. We do, and we can. 

Expect the Unexpected

Expect the Unexpected

Sometimes (or maybe I should say, most of the time) things don’t do the way I expect them to go. And although sometimes (um, well, to be honest it’s not just sometimes…) when that happens, I get upset, or even angry, I’ve learned from experience that I shouldn’t. More often than not, I discover, either immediately or several years down the road, that what I thought was an unpleasant turn of events was, in reality, a surprise gift,

This last Rosh Hashana Hashem presented me with one such surprise gift. It was not one that I would have chosen, and to tell you the truth, it was only thanks to a shiur that I attended erev Yom Tov that I was able to keep reminding myself that if this is what Hashem is sending me, then that is what I need, and that it’s my job to focus on the avoda of Rosh Hashana.  But it wasn’t easy.

Okay, I know that you’re waiting to hear the story, so I won’t continue to keep you in suspense. Every year, my husband travels to Uman for Rosh Hashana, and every year, one of married daughters and I make Yom Tov together. This year, since neither of us were feeling well, I decided to splurge and go with my daughter and her children to a heimishe guest house for Yom Tov. I had heard from people who had been there in previous years that it would be a perfect blend of gashmiyus and ruchniyos: a slow, hertzidig chassidishe davening, lots of heimishe families, and traditional (Ashenazi) food. “You don’t have to bring a thing,” said one women.  “They take care of everything for you.”

I couldn’t wait.

  

The large “Bruchim Haba’im l’nofish Rosh Hashana” sign at the front desk was the first clue that I should expect the unexpected. We were a bit surprised at the very casual dress code – lots of teenage boys in cut-off jeans and thongs, and a number of women were (gasp!) smoking.

The elderly chassidishe couple sitting in the lobby looked as shell shocked as we were. “The hotel rented out all the rooms to two groups,” the man explained. “One’s a mesorti group from Kiryat Gat, the others an organization for divorced women and their children called ‘Em Habanim.’” The man shook his head and added, “I have no idea where I’ll daven.”  

Since davening “nusach Morocco” was not really an option for us, we opted for the Em Habanim minyan, comprised of half a dozen avreichim, a few bar mitzvah bachurim, lots of children, most under the age of ten… and one elderly chassid.

Between mincha and maariv, instead of words of hisorerus, an avreich told the children a simple story, a mashal about our love for Hashem. At first, I found myself bitter and angry. “Will I be spending Yom Tov listening to children’s stories?” But then I decided to stop fighting the inevitable and focus on Rosh Hashana. I was startled to find myself moved to tears. And although the davening was much, much  faster than I would have liked (after all, how long can little children sit?), the cries of these little children, growing up without a father, evoked a depth of emotion that I didn’t know I was capable of.

Throughout both days of Yom Tov, my little granddaughters sat at my side for most of the davening. Every few minutes, one of the madrichot, oblivious to the fact that they were not part of the group, patted them on the head or stroked their cheeks as they handed them a coupon (to be redeemed after Yom Tov for a prize) or a candy for davening nicely. Each time the children yelled “Amen,” or sang one of the traditional Rosh Hashana songs, I had to wipe away the tears.

I admit, this gift wasn’t without its challenges. We ate in the main dining room, together with the group from Kiryat Gat. The atmosphere was very (VERY) different from anything I had ever experienced. And of course the food was far from heimishe. Yes, we had our moments; one night two of the children vomited all over the hotel room. At some meals, we couldn’t take the noise and left after the first course. Sunflower seed shells were EVERYWHERE. By the third day, people were throwing chairs at each other.

But on the other hand (Debbie, remember, focus on the positive…)  I met some incredible women and made some new friends, hopefully for life. I am in awe of their bravery, raising children alone, instilling them with yiras Shemayim while providing them with a stable home. Shabbos, one of the boys celebrated his bar mitzvah. He wanted to make it there because, as he told his mother, “Em Habanim is our family. They’ve been there for us, and now I want to share my simcha with them.” After the davening, the men and children sang and danced as they accompanied the bar mitzvah boy and his radiant mother to the dining room. I understood how the boy felt. It really was one large, warm family.

This morning, one of the women that I met over Yom Tov sent me an email, It said, “When life hands you a script, write a better one.” Rosh Hashana I was handed a script that could have been a disaster. I could have spent the entire Yom Tov ranting at the unfairness of it all. Instead, I decided to rewrite the script, to focus on what I had, not on what was lacking. In doing so, I discovered precious gifts, women who can teach me lessons in courage, and who will hopefully become friends for life.

Our Upgraded Mommy Camp (as appeared in the Bina)

“Look, there’s another one!” My daughter quickly jumped up and threw her shoe at it. But before she could sit down, my daughter-in-law screamed, “Over there! Get it quick!”

It was another cockroach. Yup, a huge, shiny black makak.

Every year I host a “mother-and-daughter retreat” for my daughters, daughters-in-law, and, more recently, married granddaughters. It’s usually an overnight affair, in our house, in which we all sleep (or to be more accurate, don’t sleep) on mattresses spread across the living room floor. This year, I didn’t feel up to hosting so many people, so when I saw an advertisement for an overnight women’s retreat with a full program of top-notch lecturers, I decided to splurge.

I was looking forward to a delicious combination of ruchniyus and gashmiyus. And I was not disappointed. The food was delicious and the lectures were both practical and inspirational. That night, after we retired to our hotel rooms, instead of discussing the latest child-raising fad, or the pros and cons of using a microwave, our conversations centered on bringing the concepts discussed at the lectures into our daily lives. I was humbled by my children’s s desire to grow in their Yiddishkeit.

Let me add just one more detail: many of the lecturers talked about how challenges are good for us, as they act as an impetus for growth. Well,we certainly had our share of (minor) challenges that night. The cockroaches; the shower faucet that fell out of the wall the minute the water was turned on, bruising my daughter’s foot; the hotel room door that would not close. Oh, and the bath that was clogged, so that instead of going down, the water went up…and up.

After killing the seventh cockroach, we realized that we were vastly outnumbered and phoned reception to bring in reinforcements. Dudi arrived bearing a huge can of bug spray. He moved furniture, killed cockroaches, and the promised that the hotel would fix the shower and front door the next morning.

“Don’t bother,” we said with a laugh. “We have to return the keys by ten a.m.”

By the time Dudi left, it was after midnight. I tickled my two infant grandchildren, said goodnight to my two daughters, and returned to the adjacent room that I shared with two other daughters. And then we stayed up until close to two in the morning, laughing as we reminisced about the “good old days” when they were growing up (it’s amazing how we view our past with such rose-colored glasses!).

The next morning, I slipped out of the room and sat outside on the grass to daven. When I finished, I quietly opened the already partially opened door (the one that couldn’t close) to see how my two other girls and their two babies were faring.

The room was empty! Even the suitcases were gone. After they were found in the dining room, eating breakfast, my two missing daughters told me that after killing several more cockroaches, they realized they had no choice but to accept the hotel’s offer to move them to a different room without “pets.”

The crazy thing is that despite the cockroaches and the showers that didn’t work, the blister on my foot that made walking difficult, and the colicky baby that had to be held the entire time, we all felt that the getaway was a real success. We had been together for close to two days, spending quality time bonding and creating memories.

I don’t know about you, but my life is extremely busy. Between writing articles, running my organization Tikvah for Parkinson, taking care of the house and spending time with the grandchildren, I often find that I don’t have the time to just sit and talk with the people I love the most. Yes, my kids come for Shabbos, but between the seudos and being busy with the grandchildren, there’s little time for deep, meaningful conversations, the type that comes so much easier when it’s the middle of the night and you’re half asleep!

So take your own family on an upgraded mother-and-daughter camp. If you’re really lucky, you’ll also get to stretch your spiritual muscles with a few cockroaches and blocked drains, creating zany unforgettable memories that will leave you giggling at two o’clock in the morning, as you spend some real quality time bonding with your daughters and granddaughters.