tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33609493149952361872024-02-20T16:33:05.865-08:00Debbie Shapiro of Jerusalem http://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-5783976713431748432018-02-03T12:02:00.002-08:002018-02-03T12:02:38.419-08:00Battle of the Trees as appeared in the Binah<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’m the type
of person who loves nature. Just the thought of traveling to the mountains,
walking through the forest and communing with the trees brings out the positive
endorphins and makes me feel calm and serene. I grew up in the big city (yes,
San Francisco really is a city), surrounded by concrete, with postage- stamp
size backyards boasting a few shrubs and a couple of blades of grass.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Every once
in a while, my mother would decide to grow some flowers in a window box, but
they never lasted long. Even the
geraniums, which we were told were had a weed-like tenacity and could survive
anything, including my mother’s care, withered away before their time. We lived
with plastic flowers, rather than the real ones, which is probably one of the
reasons I crave nature. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As a
teenager, I would walk the ten long city blocks to Golden Gate Park to explore
its hidden lakes and sprawling meadows, and (oh, how I hate cli</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">chés, but this
one describes it perfectly) taking the time to smell the flowers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My husband,
however, grew up in the suburbs, in a house (yes, a real house, not an
apartment) with a large front and back yard, replete with squirrels, racoons and
other interesting critters. Lots of trees, plenty of nature, which is probably
why (you guessed it) as a teen he would closet himself in the library, and viewed
parks or nature walks as a complete waste of time. After all, </span><span dir="RTL" lang="HE" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">ן</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">f you can
read about it in a book, or see it in a picture, why spend time actually going
there to experience it? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many years
ago, one of our children drove my husband and I down to Massada. The view from
the top of the mountain is so spectacular that there are no words in the
English language, or any other language, that can begin to describe it. The
sheer magnificence takes your breath away. I stood there, the wind blowing in my face, unable
to speak (which is extremely unusual for me) when my husband commented, “Why
can’t they just put all this in a museum, or even better, a book, so we
wouldn’t have to waste our time coming up here?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our children
are more or less divided on this issue. Some see anything having to do with the
great outdoors as a complete waste of time. Others look for every opportunity
to get out of the city and enjoy the beauty of nature. No one really
comprehends the other mindset, but we’ve agreed to disagree on this. </span><span dir="RTL" lang="HE" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All this
brings us to the issue of trees. As mentioned, I love looking at trees, my
husband doesn’t, and my kids are divided on the issue. All that’s fine, except
when it comes to the one particular tree that is right under our living room
window. It’s an olive tree, and my husband is highly allergic to olive tree
pollen, as are several of our children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And just to
make life interesting, every apartment that we ever lived in had an olive tree
in close proximity. Hashem really does have a way of testing us! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And all that
brings us to the battle of the open window. Half of our family loves open
windows. Air. Sun. A light breeze. The other half doesn’t. And when that air is
full of pollen, it’s more than a matter of dislike. It’s a matter of being able
to breathe. Which means that as soon as spring has sprung, the battle’s begun. Between
giggles and exaggerated sighs of exasperation, the windows would either be
flung open or banged close. Throughout the month of Nissan, half the family
would be sneezing from the pollen, while the other half would be coughing from
the lack of ventilation as they cleaned for Pesach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They say
that there is a resolution for every conflict (actually I just made that up,
but it sounds true, doesn’t it?). So although the olive tree is still spreading
its pollen beneath our living room window, thanks to the wonders of air
conditioning, the window is no longer a
point of dissention. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m trying
to think of a moral to this story. Something related to Tu BiShvat and its
being the Rosh Hashanah for the trees.
But all I can think of is how much fun we had battling over the
open/closed window, and that sometimes disagreements can make one closer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s all
about how you go about doing it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-15488906186975114662018-02-03T11:58:00.002-08:002018-02-03T11:58:30.150-08:00It's All a Game of Cards as appeared in the Binah <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Have you ever had a senior moment? It’s so, hmm… one
minute. There’s a word for it. I know what I want to say; it’s on the tip of my
tongue. Not upsetting, no, but… Oh, this is so frustrating. Ah, right.
Frustrating, that’s the word I was looking for: frustrating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The truth is, senior moments are not only frustrating,
they’re also scary. Could this possibly be a sign of something that I dare not
even think about, let alone mention? And when we do speak about it, usually in
whispers, we discover that we all share the same fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I always thought that occupational therapy was all about improving
fine motor skills. Doing things with the hands. Rolling out clay, threading beads,
intricate handiwork. But recently, I learned that an occupational therapist
also works on improving memory skills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Twice a week I attend Tikvah for Parkinson’s four-hour
rehabilitation program. One of our activities is Occupational Therapy. The last
few weeks we’ve been working on various strategies for improving our memories.
Last week, we played a game that had us laughing until our bellies hurt, while
challenging our memory skills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ayala, our occupational therapist, placed eight cards in a
circle. Each card had a different picture: a candle, a funny looking bird, a mushroom,
a shovel, the sun, scissors, a cute duck, and a chair. She gave us a few
minutes to memorize how the cards were placed, and then turned them over. Then
she pointed to various cards and asked us what they were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">We flunked that assignment. Every single one of us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Afterwards, she asked us if we could think of any
strategies to help us remember how the cards were placed. One of the ladies
suggested that we incorporate the cards into a story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ayala added that the more ridiculous the story, the easier
it will be for us to remember. So me, being a writer (who loves anything silly
and ridiculous), came up with the following story based on the cards: Come, my
children, let’s gather around the light of the Shamesh of the Chanukah menorah
(CANDLE) as I tell you about a Chanukah miracle. Once upon a time (isn’t that
how all stories begin?) a very funny looking bird (BIRD) ate a poisonous
mushroom (MUSHROOM). He became so sick that he died and was buried (SHOVEL) in
a shallow grave. Everyone was sad, yet, the sun (SUN) continued to shine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At this, one of the women quipped, “Of course the sun was
shining. That’s because everyone rushed to finish the funeral before <i>shkiyah</i>,
so there would be one less day of <i>shivah</i>.” We all cracked up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On a side note I am a big believer in FUN. Laughter makes
everything sweeter. And so, while we do physical therapy, occupational therapy,
speech therapy and all kinds of other things to keep us healthy, we also share
jokes and laugh. Yesterday, one of the
ladies (in all seriousness) said, “If people knew how much fun we have in our
Parkinson’s group, they’d also want to have the disease.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Enough digressing. Let me continue with my strategy cum story: But then, a woman came and with tremendous <i>mesiras
nefesh </i>grabbed her sewing scissors (I demonstrated with the pair of
scissors that I was using for my needlepoint) (SCISSORS) and pried open the
grave. But the bird was gone. Instead, out popped an adorable duck (DUCK) who
immediately jumped on to the lap of the story-teller, who was (obviously)
sitting in a chair (CHAIR). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was a silly story, one that really makes no sense, but
the crazy thing is that afterwards, when Ayala turned over the cards, all of us
were all able to recall every single one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But now the game became even more challenging. Each time one
of the ladies named the correct item, Ayala replaced the original card with a
new one, which meant of course that we had to change the story. The sun was
replaced with an electric lightbulb (ah, they didn’t manage to make the <i>levayah</i>
during the day, which is why they turned on the lights) the candle with a
carrot (the carrot that we use to check that the oil is hot enough to fry the <i>sufganiyot</i>
on Chanukah), and the scissors turned into ice cream (the bird who ate the poisonous
mushroom, was buried by the light of an electric bulb, escaped the grave and then
ate an ice cream cone. Lo and behold, it turned into an adorable duck). The
story grew sillier by the moment, but it served its purpose. None of us forgot
a single detail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Forgetfulness is not all bad. After all, no one wants
their minds clogged with endless unimportant details? Or with old hurts and
grievances. But it’s good to know that when we do need to remember, there are
proven, albeit silly strategies to jar our memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Just remember to use them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-89499982508613971662018-01-13T20:42:00.002-08:002018-01-13T20:42:08.863-08:00Juggling (as appeared in the Bina)<div class="font8" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Yesterday, I learned something new, and
it was not pleasant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="font8" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">That’s when it dawned on me. The problem
was me, and not the laces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">And she’s right. We do, and we can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-133696735531853472018-01-13T20:39:00.002-08:002018-01-13T20:39:35.363-08:00Expect the Unexpected<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Expect the Unexpected<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I couldn’t wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-9953778638652704572018-01-13T20:36:00.004-08:002018-01-13T20:36:38.148-08:00Our Upgraded Mommy Camp (as appeared in the Bina) <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“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!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was another cockroach. Yup, a huge, shiny black <i>makak</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was looking forward to a delicious combination of <i>ruchniyus</i>
and <i>gashmiyus</i>. 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t bother,” we said with a laugh. “We have to return the
keys by ten a.m.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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!). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, I slipped out of the room and sat outside
on the grass to <i>daven</i>. 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know about you, but my life is extremely busy.
Between writing articles, running my organization <i>Tikvah for Parkinson</i>, 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 <i>seudos </i>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! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-19807355693288405132017-10-03T19:59:00.003-07:002017-10-03T19:59:18.103-07:00A SUKKAH, LARGE AND SMALL - AS APPEARED IN THE BINAH<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We have a most unusual <i>sukkah</i>. Really. When people
come to visit and I invite them to have make a “<i>leishev basukkah</i>,” the
usual reaction is, “Where is it?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Here. You’re in it,” I say with a smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Huh?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In response to their confusion, I point upwards, toward
the ceiling. The sky is visible between the wooden slats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we moved into our apartment ten years ago, we moved
around a few walls to create an extra bedroom and enclosed the porch. Instead
of building a permanent roof over the open section of the porch, the contractor
installed a sliding roof, which could be easily removed to create – voila! – a <i>sukkah</i>.
And it really is “voila!” Erev Sukkos, my husband removes the false ceiling,
slides the roof off, and spreads the slats across the empty space. It takes him
less than fifteen minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our <i>sukkah</i> is tiny. My husband can, and does, sleep
in it, but only on a very narrow mattress, otherwise he might just roll out. We
can, and do, invite guests – four thin people can fit around the table, and two
not-so-thin ones. Because it is so small, I don’t hang decorations on the walls.
Every centimeter </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">is crucial. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But our <i>sukkah</i> is kosher. We can make a “<i>leishev
basukkah</i>” in it. And that’s the <i>ikar</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Before we moved to our present apartment, we had two
fairly large <i>sukkos</i>; one for sleeping and one for eating. Erev Sukkos was
chaotic; I ran a marathon between preparing the meals, greeting our guests, taking
care of the children and desperately trying to prevent the stray pieces of <i>schach</i>
from overtaking our lives. The moment Yom Tov began, I would collapse in
exhaustion on the sofa and sleep until it was time to start the <i>seudah</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I loved every moment of it. Yes, physically it was a huge
amount of work, but it was also exhilarating. I loved the magical evenings sitting
in our <i>sukkah</i>. It was constantly crowded with family and guests, and
laughter, and singing and <i>divrei Torah</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Yes, I loved every
moment of it then, and I love every moment of it today. The small, quiet,
just-the-two-of-us <i>sukkah</i> with an occasional guest is what I need, and
want, now; while the crowded and chaotic <i>sukkah</i>, brimming with family
and non-stop company, was what I needed and wanted then. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Before starting high school (or “<i>seminar</i>,” as it’s
known in Israel) I take each of my granddaughters shopping for a new grown-up school
bag, followed by a tall ice cream sundae (with lots of whipped cream!) in Geulah.
Eight years ago, when I took my oldest
granddaughter shopping for her schoolbag, I really enjoyed the shopping part
(of course I enjoyed the ice cream part as well). We walked up and down the
streets of Geulah, comparing bags and prices, looking for the best deal. This
summer, however, as I stood crushed into a tiny corner of a crowded shop, watching
my granddaughter, together with half a dozen other teenagers, agonize over which
bag was the perfect one, my only thought was, “How much longer will it take?” (At
the cash register, the shopkeeper quipped, “Finding a <i>shidduch</i> is
nothing compared to finding the right bag). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That is part of the challenge of my stage of life. Of
course I really wanted to enjoy some quality time (and an ice cream) with this
granddaughter. It was pure <i>nachas</i> to share her excitement as she stepped
into young adulthood, as symbolized by the purchase of a schoolbag suitable for
a young lady, rather than a school child. And it goes without saying that
spending time with family is top priority. But at the same time, I crave the
safe haven and quiet of my own <i>daled amos</i>. I need my “tiny <i>sukkah</i>”
every day of the year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A lot of construction is going on in our building right
now. Two families are renovating their apartments, and another two families are
building large <i>sukkah </i>porches off their living rooms. A couple of people
in the building suggested that we also add a <i>sukkah</i> porch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But I don’t want to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And the reason is simple.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I like our little <i>sukkah</i>. No, to be more accurate,
I’d say that I love our little <i>sukkah</i>. It’s small and cozy, which means
that we can’t have a lot of company. And that’s perfect for me and my family,
now, at this stage of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-29327096330521286972017-10-03T19:57:00.001-07:002017-10-03T19:57:42.806-07:00CURVED BALLS, AS APPEARED IN THE BINAH<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Last night, I returned home from a four-day trip to Switzerland. No, I wasn’t climbing the Alps (although someday I hope to). Rather, I had been invited to lecture to the <i>chashuve</i> women of Zurich. What did I talk about? Well, I’ll start off with a story I told the women, something that happened to me some twenty years ago, when I was visiting my sister in St Louis, Missouri. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One afternoon, while my sister was busy at the bank, I popped into the neighboring music store to shop for a keyboard. But after having lived in Israel for several decades, I erroneously assumed that since the Hebrew word for keyboard is <i>organit</i>, in English it must be an organ.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The moment I entered the store, the salesman broke into a huge smile. "Sister," he said. "I'm so honored that you have come to visit. How can I help you?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sister? Whose sister? It took me a few seconds before I realized what he meant. I was wearing a navy-blue pinstriped skirt with a matching navy-blue pinstriped vest, a white blouse and a dark blue snood; he automatically assumed that I was a member of a convent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to set him straight. "No, no," I said with a smile. "I'm just a regular lady, and I'm interested in purchasing an organ for my children."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The salesman smiled and bowed his head. “We are all your beloved children."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Tell me, sister," he continued, his smile growing wider by the second. "Where do you live?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Jerusalem," I unthinkingly replied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Jerusalem! The holy city of Jerusalem!" he enthused, stressing the word Hholy. Waxing poetic, he continued, "So you want to buy an organ for your beloved children in the holy city Jerusalem. How beautiful!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I felt faint.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Sister," he asked. "How many children are there?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was afraid to state the number. It might confirm his suspicions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The conversation was becoming more and more ludicrous. Whatever I said, he interpreted incorrectly. He had put me in a box, and I couldn’t get out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, my real sister arrived. I exclaimed, “Oh, my sister is here,” and made a beeline to the door. As we drove away, I told her of my adventure, and of course we giggled all the way home, like real sisters do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Memorable story. But what’s the point?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As I explained to the women of Zurich, the salesman saw me as a nun and no matter how hard I tried to tell him that I wasn’t, he interpreted my explanations according to his assumptions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We are all like the effusive salesman. We put our family, friends and acquaintances into neat cubby holes, make assumptions about them, and then act toward them according to those assumptions<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I once read a story about a teacher who at the beginning of the school year was accidentally given a glowing report about one particular student, when, in fact, this student was barely able to keep up with the rest of the class. Since the teacher assumed that the student he was gifted, rather than barely educable, she had high expectations for him. He lived up to her expectations and became one of the top students in the class.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the truth is, not only do we make assumptions about others, we also make assumptions about ourselves. We limit ourselves, view ourselves according to the boxes we’ve created for ourselves, and as a result, we often don’t actualize our own potential.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, we need a real life challenge to break out of our box, to discover hidden potential that we never even dreamed that we had within us. I know women in my age group, juggling work and family while devotedly taking care of sick parents. Suddenly they discover hidden reservoirs of patience and organizational skills that, had they seen them in others, would have left them awestruck.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our <i>neshamah</i> is well aware that the <i>nisyonos</i> we are given are for our benefit. According to Rabbeinu Bechaya, before we were born, our <i>neshamos</i> accepted all our future challenges willingly, knowing that we would need them to attain our full potential. But it is up to us to find a way to turn our challenges into vehicles of growth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Okay, that was the gist of my talk to the ladies of Zurich, and, I’ll admit, it sounds great on paper, but it’s really not simple. As most of my readers know, I was diagnosed with Parkinson disease several years ago. But what many of you don’t know is that it took a year of my husband telling me, “I think you should see a doctor who specializes in Parkinson,” before I was actually capable of going to see a doctor and receive a diagnosis. But once I was able to accept the challenge, it forced me (and still forces me) to stretch my spiritual muscles, and discover <i>kochos</i> that I never knew I had.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am not alone in this journey of self-discovery. So many friends in my age group are finding themselves in new situations. Some are care givers, and some are being cared for. Some are leaving communities where they lived for decades, to live closer to their children. Some are facing the financial challenge of living on a small pension, while at the same time trying to discover who they REALLY are, now that they are not working full time. As one friend wryly noted, “Just when you think you have life all worked out, you’re thrown a curve ball and see you still have a lot to learn.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-3007906106383888632017-08-09T12:01:00.000-07:002017-08-09T12:01:07.604-07:00 Yes, we can - as appeared in the Binah<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The entire family was rushing frantically to finish
getting dressed and close the suitcases. The van was scheduled to arrive in
less than 15 minutes, the kugel still had to be removed from the oven and put
in some type of a container, and the baby’s diaper had to be changed – again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the midst of what can only be described as a whirlwind
of activity, my 10-year-old granddaughter Fraidy (not her real name) sat on the
sofa, looking miserable and doing nothing. My daughter noticed some funny-looking
spots on Fraidy’s face. A closer look revealed that the spots were also spots on
her arms, and her legs, and, well, everywhere. And they looked like (drumroll)
CHICKEN POX!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My daughter called the car service and asked them to come
later. Then she called the doctor. As expected, the receptionist told her that
there were no appointments available. “The doctor will try to fit you between the
other patients,” she said. “But you’ll have to have patience. It might be a
very long wait.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But this was not an ordinary Erev Shabbos. My
granddaughter, sister of the “poxing” (how’s that for a new word?) 10-year-old
was getting married on Sunday, so this Shabbos was her <i>chassan’s</i> <i>aufruf</i>.
If the as-yet-unidentified spots really were what my daughter thought they were,
then (OH NO!) a lot of well thought-out plans would have to be changed. Quickly.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My daughter explained the situation to the receptionist.
The receptionist giggled at the absurdity of chicken pox <i>erev aufruf</i> and
told her that she would get her in immediately.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My daughter’s diagnosis was correct. Fraidy really did
have chicken pox. Which is how I ended up having, in addition to my
granddaughter, the Kallah, chicken-poxing Fraidy and her mother for Shabbos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Several times during that Shabbos (as well as throughout the
hectic few weeks prior to the wedding), my daughter asked me, “You know, Mom, I
really don’t understand how you did it. How did you manage to take care of all
the details involved in making a wedding and setting up a new apartment without
family to help you?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Truth is, I don’t know. It was hard, really hard, especially
since all my Israeli neighbors had large, extended families, but somehow, we — by
that, I mean all of us Americans who were living in Israel without our families
— managed. And I’m glad that today, my offspring don’t have to go through what
we went through. <span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">’m glad that my children
have it easier than I did, but at the same time, I know that overcoming those
challenges built me as a person. It strengthened my spiritual muscles — <i>bitachon,
emunah</i>, being happy with what I have. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">Every Monday night, I attend a <i>middos</i>
workshop in my neighborhood. (Well, I TRY to go every Monday night, but I’m not
always successful.) It’s a great group of women, from newly married to great
grandmothers, yet, despite the vast age difference, we share a common
denominator: we love to laugh and to talk, and we are serious about our
self-growth. The women are hysterically funny as they honestly talk about their
challenges, and triumphs. It seems that that no matter what <i>middah</i> we
are working on, the path to attain it includes a realization that whatever we
are going through is exactly what we need for our optimal growth. In other
words, what we have, is exactly what we need. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">The challenges I face are the ones I
need to grow and strengthen my spiritual muscles. When I was marrying off my
children, I needed the challenge of living in Israel sans <i>mishpachah</i> for
my personal development, and my daughter needed the challenge of chicken pox <i>erev
chasunah</i> for her personal development. And yes, I survived my challenge, and
even came out stronger for it, and my daughter survived hers. My granddaughter
got married (yes! MAZEL TOV!), and if it wasn’t for the wedding pictures (a 10-year-old
with premature acne!), the story would most probably have been forgotten by the
last <i>sheva brachos</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">Last Shabbos, when I was walking home
with a couple of friends from my Shabbos <i>shiur</i>, one of the ladies shared
a “<i>bubby</i> story.” “Bubby,” her 6-year-old grandson had said, “you’re so
lucky. You’re so old that you don’t have a <i>yetzer hara</i> anymore.”
Although he was right on one account (no, not that his <i>bubby</i> is old, but
that she is one very lucky woman), he didn’t realize that no matter how old a
person may be, he still has plenty of challenges. We all have a <i>yetzer hara</i>,
and we all have work to do. We all have it within ourselves to use those
challenges as stepping stones to growth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">We can do it. Yes, we can. </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-27420227270817223812017-08-09T11:59:00.001-07:002017-08-09T11:59:10.736-07:00Savor the Moment - as appeared in the Binah <div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few days ago, I was rushing out the door, late for an
appointment, when my cellphone rang. It was an old (both literally and
figuratively) friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I really don’t have time to talk now,” I said as I tried (without
success) to fly down the stairs. “Can it wait until the afternoon?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Debbie, this is really, really important.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Okay, shoot.” I really <i>was</i> in a rush, and I did
have a lot to do, but a friend is a friend, so I stopped to give her my full
attention. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“How did you manage to lose the weight? Tell me what
exercise to do. No matter how hard I try, I can’t manage to get it off. Tell me
your secret!” she begged. I could hear the urgency in her voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But since I really
was in a rush, I didn’t even bother trying to be diplomatic. “At this point in
my life, I couldn’t care less about my weight. I’m just doing what I need to do
to stay healthy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Later that evening, thinking back to that short
conversation, it suddenly dawned on me: I had spent the last I don’t even know
how many years of my life worrying about my weight, and trying desperately to
attain the perfect weight (and secretly wishing that the clock would turn back
a few centuries, and fat would once again become fashionable), while at the
same time feeling like a failure at my inability to do so. But now, and I have
no idea when or how it happened, my entire outlook has changed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, of course, I know that it’s important to look <i>mechubadik</i>,
and I take care to dress in a becoming manner, but as far as I know, a perfect weight
has never been a prerequisite for being a true <i>bas Yisrael</i>. In other
words, I’ve stopped trying to be something I’m not. I don’t feel like a failure
for not accomplishing the impossible and am (finally) happy in my own skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wonder if this change of how I view myself is a result
of growing older, a realization that the outer trappings are temporary (yes, we
all know that, but that knowledge becomes much more real with the march of
time), and that it just doesn’t pay to waste so much energy trying to do
something that I can’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Twenty years ago (yup, it was after the wedding of one of
my sons, and his oldest is now nineteen) I wrote an article that appeared in <i>Horizons</i>,
one of the first English-language magazines for the religious public, about how
each of my many wrinkles has its own story. One was earned for the many nights
I sat on the porch, wrapped in a multitude of heavy quilts, trying to help an
asthmatic child breathe; another, for the moments of dread until I finally
succeeded in accounting for all my family members after each bus bomb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I laughingly commented that perhaps I should call myself a
summer chicken, since spring has already passed. Today, I marvel at how I wrote
that when, in fact, I was really so young. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But then again, age is relative; when I was a teenager, I
viewed anyone over forty as being <i>very</i> old, and of course my
grandchildren think I must be at least a hundred, or even, as I overheard one
whisper to her sister, “Bubby must be at least a thousand years old.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Last week, I gave a talk at one of the seminaries in
London. One of the girls asked me how I manage to stay so positive while living
with a degenerative, incurable condition. I responded that every person has
challenges. It just so happens that people are aware of this particular
challenge because <i>Binah</i> requested that I do not use a pseudonym when I
wrote my “Living with Parkinson's” series. Although we cannot choose our
challenges, we can choose how we decide to face them, what we do with them.
That’s our <i>nisayon</i> in life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I told my husband about the girl’s question, he
commented that for a young person on the threshold of life, my challenge sounds
horrific. But part of being older is the realization that life itself is a
“degenerative, incurable condition”! Few of us escape the infirmities
associated with old age, and all of us eventually succumb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Or as my friend Tova who lives in a nursing home often
points out when she hears the other women bemoan their fate, “What did they
think? That they’ll stay young forever?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So I’ll enjoy the freedom of not being young, of not
having to worry about the far-from-perfect figure, or what people think of me.
Instead, I’ll rejoice in every moment, savor the simple things in life and
count my (many) blessings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ice cream, anyone? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-88780113669334222732017-06-14T19:52:00.004-07:002017-06-14T19:52:47.883-07:00 Bubby Blunders as appeared in the Binah<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It’s
for you.” My husband handed me the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
quickly finished the conversation I was having on my cellphone (ah, the joys of
technology!) and turned my attention to the incoming call. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hello,”
I began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “I see that you you’ve tried calling me
several times today,” said a male voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh,”
I gushed, “You must be the <i>madrich l’boxing</i> (boxing instructor). I’m so
happy that you called me back. You’re one person that I really want to speak
with. You can’t imagine how hard I’ve been trying to get a hold of you!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“How
can I help you?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I
desperately need a <i>madrich l’boxing</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
can envision your confusion. Why in the world would an official senior citizen
who is the midst of marrying off her grandchildren and who appears to be
somewhat normal be desperately searching for a boxing instructor? No, I have
not taken up boxing in my old age (although you never know…). But I do run an
organization for people with Parkinson's. We are in process of expanding our
rehabilitation program, and since boxing is an excellent exercise for people with
Parkinson's, we want to offer our men’s groups boxing classes designed
specifically for their needs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Okay,”
he responded slowly. “So how can I help you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We
desperately need a <i>madrich l’boxing</i> for our Parkinson's rehabilitation
program. We’re expanding the program and want to include a Boxing for Parkinson's
class.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Boxing
for Parkinson's?” I could hear the confusion in his voice. “Why do you need
boxing for Parkinson's?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t
you know that boxing is excellent for Parkinson's? I thought you were a <i>madrich
l’boxing</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes
I am, but…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“And
you never learned how boxing can help people with Parkinson's?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Silence.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Did
you learn to be a <i>madrich l’boxing</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Uh..
um, why, yes, of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“But
you never learned about boxing for Parkinson's?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“No….not
really. <i>Mah hakesher</i>?” (What’s the connection)?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Have
you ever heard of Parkinson's?” I decided to get down to the basics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Why
yes, of course,” I could hear the question in his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do
you know what Parkinson's is?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes,
but <i>mah hakesher</i>?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So
as a <i>madrich l’boxing</i> who has learned about Parkinson's, I’m sure you
realize that boxing is good for Parkinson's. Boxing improves reaction time,
balance, coordination, exactness, all that stuff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Not
really.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now
it was my turned to be confused. After all, I had been told that this <i>madrich
l’boxing</i> was an expert in his field, with lots of experience in working
with the disabled. The conversation was becoming “curiouser and curiouser…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
frustration I said, “I don’t understand. You’re a <i>madrich l’boxing</i>,” and
at this point, although “boxing” is the word most commonly used to describe
this particular form of martial art, I decided to add the less-used Hebrew word
to emphasize my point (although I really had no idea what my point was, other
than pure frustration). So I added, “a <i>madrich l’igruf</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Silence.
Then, “Oh, excuse me. I must have the wrong number.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now,
any normal intelligent person would have said, “Oh,” and quickly hang up the
phone before getting into more trouble. But me being me, I blurted out, “Wait a
moment. Maybe this is not a mistake. Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’m
the <i>madrich l’bochrim</i> at Ponovezh Yeshivah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
I said “boxing,” he heard “<i>bochrim</i>,” and when he said “<i>bochrim</i>,”
I heard “boxing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then
I did something really, really dumb. Instead of saying, “Oh, you’re right. You
definitely have the wrong number,” I said “Oh, this is not a wrong number. You
must be looking for my grandson.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
grandson, who had been with us for <i>bein hazmanim, </i>had been accepted into
Ponovezh for his third year of yeshivah. As a new <i>bachur</i>, he was
concerned about finding a suitable <i>chavrusa</i> and now, come to think about
it, he had spent quite a bit of time making phone calls this morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
moment the words flew out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back. But
alas, it was too late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Who’s
your grandson?” I could almost hear his unspoken question, <i>And which boy in
our yeshivah would have a grandmother interested in boxing? <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yechiel
Stern.” (a pseudonym)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yechiel
Stern?” He sounded surprised. After all, Yechiel's other grandmother is the
scion of a well-known Yerushalmi family. The type that makes kugels and cookies
and sews clothes for the grandchildren. Certainly not the type that would be
excited to find a boxing instructor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was a strange conversation. Eventually he realized that I was not the other
grandmother, and that I was also not a secret fan of martial arts. He also told
me to tell my grandson not to worry, that his <i>chavrusos</i> were all
arranged for the coming <i>zman</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
hung up the phone and went to the other room to share the story with my
husband. “Do you think,” I asked, only half in jest, “that they would throw a <i>bachur</i>
out of yeshivah because of his grandmother?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
story will probably go down in our family annals as a classic Bubby Blunder.
And the truth is, although there’s a lot we can learn from it – the importance
of communicating clearly, of not making assumptions, of being <i>dan l’kaf
zechus</i>, of thinking before blurting– I don’t want to make this article into
a lengthy <i>mussar shmuess</i>. I just want to share it with you because even
bubbies (or perhaps I should say, <i>especially</i> bubbies) need to have a
good laugh sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s
healthy. Just like boxing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Post
Script: I eventually found a boxing
instructor. Zev is a champion boxer with a heart of gold. Gentle and firm. After
the first session, Rex, a foreign worker who assists one of the men in the
group, came over to me. “Debbie,” he said, “about the Wednesday boxing group…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rex
was blushing. <span dir="RTL" lang="HE"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span dir="RTL" lang="HE" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Well, uhm, ah…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
took a few more seconds until he finally blurted out, “In the Philippines, I
was a champion boxer. And because of Eliyahu (the man he helps) I learned all about
boxing and Parkinson. Can I also work with the group?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So
now we have two boxing instructors! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-38837935440635283952017-06-14T19:50:00.003-07:002017-06-14T19:50:55.051-07:00The Seeds of a Pomegranate as appeared in the Binah<div class="MsoNormal" dir="LTR" style="direction: ltr; unicode-bidi: embed;">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">It's
always so unexpected. I usually hear the music just as I'm in the midst of a
telephone interview, or frying schnitzel for Shabbos, and as much as I want to
rush out of the house, I can't. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">But this
evening, I was lucky. I had just returned home from some errands and was
planning to run out to do some shopping for Shabbos when I heard the loud
rhythmic music of a <i>hachnasas sefer Torah</i>. Only the tunes were different.
No <i>Toras Hashem Temimah</i>, or <i>Mah Ahavti Torasecha</i>, but Sefardi
songs that I was unfamiliar with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I grabbed
my shopping bag and raced out of the house in the direction of the music. And
then I saw it, the large <i>sefer Torah</i> encased in a silver case, held
aloft, swaying up and down to the beat of the music. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">But this <i>hachnasas
sefer Torah</i> was different. No shtreimels or rabbinical frocks. The men –
barely a minyan - were clad in blue jeans and sandals, with small, white satin <i>kippot</i>
perched awkwardly on their heads. Many of the women wore yoga pants, their
stockingless feet pushed uncomfortably into sandals, their dyed, dirty-blonde,
lifeless hair swaying in time to the music. As the music grew louder and the
beat faster, some of the women started waving their hands in the air, others
began rhythmically clapping. The small group, escorted by several police cars
and armed guards, weaved its way through the crowded street. Busses stopped,
traffic was backed up as more and more people — chassidim, yeshivah <i>bachurim</i>,
American tourists — joined the procession, <i>lichvod haTorah</i>, in honor of
the Torah. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Before my
very eyes, the procession grew until it covered almost half a city block. The
men held hands and danced in unity, a rainbow of <i>Klal Yisrael</i>,
proclaiming through their actions their love of Hashem and His Torah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">A few
days later I was invited to speak to a group of medical professionals about the
unique challenges facing Orthodox Parkinson's patients in Israel. I arrived
early and was told to wait in the secretary’s office until the meeting began. I
nodded at the secretary as I entered her domain, but she was too engrossed in what
she was reading to acknowledge my presence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">By her
obviously dyed auburn hair, long, red nails, dark plaid pants and sweater, I
assumed the book on her lap was either a novel or a woman’s magazine (not <i>Binah</i>).
After a few minutes of completely ignoring my presence (How rude! Doesn’t she
see that I – capital I – had arrived?!) she looked up from her book, smiled
warmly at me, and, in a loud voice began
reciting the <i>tefillah</i> for <i>cholim</i> that is said at the conclusion
of <i>Tehillim</i>, followed by a long list of names. When I responded “Amen,” she
stood up, kissed the <i>sefer Tehillim</i> and gently placed it back on the
shelf behind her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Sorry
that I wasn’t able to greet you properly.” She was apologizing to me! After how
I'd judged her! “I like to take advantage of my break to pray for the doctor’s
patients.” I was feeling smaller by the moment (Forget the capital I. Now I
wasn’t even a dot!). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I’m not about
to propose that clothes are not important. Proper dress is informed by <i>halachah</i>. How we dress is a fundamental statement
to the people around us, and to ourselves, of where we align ourselves, of our
basic belief system, of who we aspire to be. But it’s not the only thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I’m over
sixty (gulp. Actually, last Shabbos my grandchildren were discussing my age.
One was positive that I’m “at least a thousand years old,” while the other was
sure I must be over 90), and by now I really should know that we can’t judge a
book by its cover (oh, I HATE clichés!). But I’m human, and I usually do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">I know
this is the wrong season to talk about how <i>Chazal</i> compare a pomegranate
bursting with seeds to the simple man-on-the-street Jew, overflowing with love
of Hashem and His <i>mitzvos</i>. But although I’m considered a senior citizen,
I still have a lot to learn. And one thing I have to remember is that first
impressions are just that; that I need to be open to look beyond the mask, to
find the golden seeds within the pomegranate, even when (or perhaps I should
write, “especially when”) that mask is my own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-59350995274137044942017-05-16T09:15:00.001-07:002017-05-16T09:15:18.470-07:00BOXING FOR PARKINSON<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
TO VIEW MY PARKINSON BLOG, PLEASE GO TO https://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/blog-1</div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
Zev is a boxing champion, a boxing teacher, and a really great guy! During his interview, I felt as if I had struck gold; soft and gentle, yet with a hard core that commands respect! So as of two weeks ago, Zev gives a "Boxing for Parkinson" group at our Wednesday Men's program. The guys love it! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
Boxing is an excellent form of exercise for people with Parkinson. In addition to being a great cardio-vascular workout, boxing strengthens balance and agility. And the men enjoy punching out their frustrations, as they literally -- and I mean literally - battle the disease. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
But thanks to our boxing class, I also discovered a hidden gem: Rex, the aide who accompanies Eliot to our program. Rex is one of those people who stays in the background, never says a word, so I was a bit surprised when, last Monday, he asked to speak with me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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"Debbie," he began. "It's about the boxing class..." </div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
I braced myself, assuming that he was about to give me some criticism. </div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
Instead he continued in his soft, melodious voice, "Well, ah..." he blushed "I'm a boxer. In the Philippines, I was a boxing champion. And since I work with Eliot, I learned all about boxing for Parkinson." </div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
Huh? You cannot imagine how many hours I spent on the phone until I found Zev. And the treasure was in my backyard the entire time! </div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
And to make a story short, that, my dear friends, is why Tikvah for Parkinson now has two boxing instructors, working together, as a team, to fight Parkinson.</div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5em;">
One punch at a time. </div>
<br data-cke-eol="1" />debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-26262248442609252472017-04-25T19:41:00.005-07:002017-04-25T19:41:43.755-07:00EXISTENTIAL PROBLEMS as appeared in Binah, April 19<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I was in kindergarten, my mother taught me to memorize
my address and phone number just in case I would get lost. That was then. Today,
although I have no problem remembering my phone number, I’m really not sure
where I live. Okay, yes, I KNOW I live in Jerusalem. And I do know where my apartment
is located, and I can even give accurate directions. But I don’t have an address,
or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I have three addresses, but,
depending on who I’m speaking to, they can all be wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Until recently, our official address was 7 Shmuel Hanavi Street,
and that’s the address we usually use— at least for mail and other official
things. But the problem is that our building is squeezed between 97 Shmuel
Hanavi and 101 Shmuel Hanavi, which means that logically, 7 Shmuel Hanavi should be over a mile away. And that’s why,
when people rely on their GPS instead of on my detailed directions, they end up
completely lost and call me asking, “WHERE is your building? I see fifteen and
five, but seven seems to have disappeared.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Just to make things a wee bit more confusing, although our
building is on Shmuel Hanavi Street, the entrance is from a small alleyway called
Etz Hadar. There are two problems with this alleyway (at least as far as this
article goes). One is that most people are not aware that it has a name. The
second is that there are three alleyways circling our complex, and all three
are called Etz Hadar. But since the Etz Hadar address works with the GPS
(although not with the Israeli Postal Authority), I usually give that address
to people coming by car. But more times than I can count, the person will say,
“I got so lost trying to find you. Why didn’t you just tell me that you live on
7 Shmuel Hanavi Street?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Because of all the confusion surrounding our address, the
city decided to make things even more complicated and give us a NEW address.
About two years ago, we received an official letter notifying us that from now
on our address would be 32 Etz Hadar (I think. I’m not really sure). Posters
were placed in all ten of our building’s entranceways, and we were given
instructions to place a lighted number above our entranceway, with a warning
that we’d be heavily fined it we didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I think we were the only one of the seventy-five families
living in my building that took this seriously. When we realized that we were
the only ones to do so, we quickly forgot our new address (which no one uses,
including the post office and including official letters from that same office
that informed us about our change of address).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But when the city changed our address, they also invested
in new street signs. So, beneath the name of our alleyway there is now a large arrow
pointing to our building with the numbers 32-40 underneath it, since — I kid
you not — every entranceway in our building was given a different address!
Therefore, when I tell people how to find my apartment, I always have to add,
“Don’t look at the numbers of the street signs. Just follow my directions.” But
more often than not, people do follow the signs and not my directions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To make things even more confusing, my building borders four
streets: Shmuel Hanavi, Etz Hadar, Chativat Harel and a second branch of Etz
Hadar. Although Chativat Harel is a major throughway, most people have never
heard of it. That’s because the street is only a block long! Actually, it’s one
section of a long street that for the last half century has been in the midst
of a major identity crisis, changing its name every few blocks or so. It starts
off as Yirmiyahu Street, becomes Bar Illan Street, turns into Chativat Harel and
finally changes into Sderot Eshkol. People coming to visit me by bus must get off
at the Chativat Harel bus stop, but more often than not, no one, including the
bus driver, has heard of Chativat Harel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But once people finally get to my apartment me, their
reaction is usually something like, “What a great location! You’re right in the
middle of everything.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And we really are. My home is the best location. I’ve
devoted a large portion of my life to creating it. I</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">t took me years of trial and error, of searching and
learning, to realize that the </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">recipe for finding it cannot be
memorized. And as for directions, since each person understands things
according to his own experience, the journey was not always easy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On Purim, a friend called me in the middle of our <i>seudah</i>.
The house was topsy-turvy and grandchildren were everywhere, while their
parents were rushing back and forth bringing food to the table. I was enjoying
every minute of it. “I don’t know how I got here,” I said to my friend.
“Neither do I,” she responded. “It’s amazing! Who would have believed it –
forty years ago we were two young kids, trying to find our way, and today, here
we are. We've succeeded in creating a true Jewish home!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And that’s the real reason why, when you come to my home,
you’ll realize that, like every true Jewish home, it really is the best
location. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-86264192036075993082017-03-26T00:16:00.005-07:002017-03-26T00:16:51.550-07:00BEYOND THE SMILE -- as appeared in Bina Magazine<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A few weeks ago I returned home from our local Shabbos <i>shiur</i>
in an incredibly rotten mood. Ironically, the topic was <i>simchah</i>. The speaker,
a dynamic young woman with a bouncy blonde <i>sheitel</i> and a sparkling,
picture-perfect smile, bubbled effusively, “Our faces are <i>reshus harabbim</i>.
They are public property. When you smile, the whole world smiles with you, but
when you look glum, it negatively impacts those around you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, I’ve heard this idea a million times. And I know that
it’s true. Our emotions are contagious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can almost hear you asking the obvious question. If this
is something the author believes to be true and has heard many times before,
then why did hearing it at a <i>shiur</i> have such a negative effect on her?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Simple. People with Parkinson’s (like me) often develop
what’s known as the Parkinson’s mask. That’s because their facial muscles sometimes
become so stiff that they follow gravity in a downward spiral. And when that
happens, unless they are consciously concentrating on putting on a cheerful
countenance to the world, their mouths slide into a frown and they look, well,
sad, or (even worse), spaced out. So when I am concentrating on something, be
it on my writing, or my exercise, or even figuring out how to navigate
Yerushalayim’s crowded streets, my mouth gets droopy, or, even more
embarrassing, drops opens (without my even noticing it) and I look, well, not at
all like the intelligent, thinking woman I aspire to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s frustrating. According to what I just wrote, if you
see me sitting on the bus looking deep in thought, chances are that I’m just
worried about my appearance, but if I look totally spaced out, then probably my
mind is busy conjuring up ideas for my next article, or I’m solving some
weighty worldwide crisis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Although I don’t want to confuse you, in truth it’s not so
simple. Parkinson’s is one of those crazy on-off diseases. So although at
times, I can be perfectly fine and look like the picture of good health, I can
just as suddenly turn “off” and become incapable of doing almost anything, including
smiling. So that means that when I appear to be an intelligent woman deep in
thought, I might actually be thinking about something important, rather than
concentrating and looking intelligent, but then again, I might not, and when I
appear to be spaced out, I might (figuratively) be landing on the moon, but
then again, it’s very possible that my feet are firmly on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So now that you understand (or, admit it, you really
don’t. But I won’t tell anyone) why a <i>shiur</i> on <i>simchah</i> put me in
a bad mood, I’ll also let you in on a little secret: It didn’t last long. A
Shabbos nap, a bit of ice cream (the panacea for all problems) and I was back
to my jolly old self —- even if I couldn’t maintain a Colgate smile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I write this, I am trying to think of what deep message
this story contains, one that can inspire the reader to greater heights in her <i>avodas
Hashem</i>. And the truth is, I can’t think of anything incredibly profound,
other than the obvious: "<i>Al tistakel bakankan, ela vameh sheyesh bo</i>,
do not look at the vessel but at what is in it." Looks can be deceiving.
It’s the <i>pnimiyus</i>, a person’s essence that counts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And as for the importance of smiling, yes, I agree it’s a
good thing, and I will, if I can. But if I can’t, I won’t. But I’ll be more
than happy to talk with you, and encourage you, and <i>daven</i> for you — and
even more than that, I’ll try to be your friend. I’ll be there for you, in a
real, way. And isn’t that what’s really important, even if I can’t always
brighten the lives of those around me with a happy smile?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-12688297753725289082017-03-02T21:17:00.001-08:002017-03-02T21:17:13.076-08:00Growing in My Yiddishkeit -- this interview was published in 2008 in the Lakewood Shopper<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">an interview with Rochel Trugman </span></b></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">I recently ran into
Rochel at a memorial evening held for a common friend of ours, Meira Burkey
a"h. We sat in a circle and reminisced about the wonderful things that
Meira had done with her life, and how, in her quiet and direct way she impacted
so many people. It was one of those magical evenings spent meandering down
memory lane, looking back with foggy, gold rimmed glasses on a world that was –
at least in our memories. As always, Rochel's comments were sharp and sensitive
and mirrored her rugged individuality.<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie Shapiro: Could you
tell us about your background? <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"I grew up south side
Chicago in a postwar baby-boom neighborhood. Our family attended a conservative
synagogue. The rabbi, Rabbi Eliot Einhorn, was from the 'old country.' He spoke
with a thick European accent and couldn't relate to us young Americans. His
daughter went to public school with me. I thought that she was extremely brave
for refusing to sing goyishe songs before their holiday. I had one friend who
kept kosher. When I was fifteen, I visited her during Pesach and was
flabbergasted when I went into the kitchen. Everything was turned around for
the holiday! There was a record of Jewish music playing on their HiFi that I
really liked. It turned out to be Reb Shlomo Carlebach, who would later have a
very strong impact on my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"In the sixties a
non-Jewish friend and I traveled to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state>
to seek the truth. We visited all sorts of interesting places -- missions,
cults, ashrams – in our search for emes. One of the stops along the way was a
Jewish commune called the House of Love and Prayer in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>. Had anyone told me that it was
really a synagogue, I would have never step foot in the place! I remember walking
into the door and being warmly welcomed by Miriam Succot (today her husband is
a rav in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>).
It was time to light the Shabbos candles. She invited me to light one and helped
me make the bracha. Standing there, surrounded by all the other women lighting
their candles, I felt as if I had finally come home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"The House of Love and
Prayer, Reb Shlomo Carlebach's synagogue in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>, was an odd mishmash of
spiritual seekers and nuts. The people who were looking for emes found it. Most
of us continued to grow in our Yiddishkeit. Some didn't. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"After spending almost every Shabbos at
the House of Love and Prayer, I was determined to move to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I
remember marching into the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San
Francisco</st1:place></st1:city> aliya office, telling them that I wanted to
make aliya to Eretz Yisrael, to the holy city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>. They tried to convince me to travel
there as a temporary resident, to see if I like it before taking such a drastic
step, but I was determined to make aliya. '<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region> is the only place for a Jew
to live,' I insisted. 'I want to ascend to the <st1:place w:st="on">Holy Land</st1:place>.' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"I left <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city> in the beginning of 1970. All
my friends came to the airport with their guitars, drums and tambourines to see
me off. It was very emotional; lots of
singing, hugging, dancing and tears. I was living the dream. I was on my way to
the Promised Land; I was ascending to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>,
the holy city! I was so young and idealistic – and naive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"When I came to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region> my
entire Hebrew vocabulary consisted of just three words: 'ken,' 'lo' and 'shalom.
In the taxi that took me from the airport to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>, I kept asking the driver how much
longer it would take before we arrive in Yerushalayim! That's when I learned my
fourth Hebrew word: savlanut (patience)! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"I found myself a small
apartment near the center of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>
and attended every available English language shiur -- but there weren't very many.
One day Rabbi Refson, Neveh's founder and dean, drove up to my building in his little
motorcycle and asked me if I would be interested in attending the women's
yeshiva that he was starting. I jumped at the opportunity."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie Shapiro: The
following year, 1971, I came to Israel to attend Neveh Yerushalayim Seminary,
which was then beginning its second year.
But first had to go for an interview with the dean, Rabbi Refson. We
arranged to meet in an office above Kikar Shabbos. He walked into the office carrying
his motorcycle helmet! I was flabbergasted and whispered to a friend who had
come with me, "I will <u>not </u>go to a school run by Hell's
Angels!" Then I politely explained to the rabbi that instead of going to
seminary that year, I had decided to volunteer on a kibbutz (that was the only
excuse I could think of at the spur of the moment)! In the end, I attended Bais
Yaakov Yerushalayim, today known as BJJ. As for the motorcycle, I soon
discovered that motorcycles were a much more common mode of transportation than
cars, and certainly not a sign of belonging to a fringe element. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Rochel: "The entire Neveh Yerushalayim campus consisted
of one small top floor apartment in Bayit Vegan. We learned and ate in the
living room; the bedrooms were the 'dorm.' After studying there for one year, I
realized that as much as I loved the school, I needed to learn something that would
prepare me to enter the Israeli job market. So I transferred to another
seminary that issued a State recognized teaching degree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"The first year in the new
seminary I barely scraped by. The classes were in Hebrew. Although by then I
knew a lot more than four words, I was still far from being fluent. The second
year I did much better. At the end of the year I graduated with an official
diploma. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"Armed with an official
teaching degree, I found myself a job teaching art in the Israeli public school
system. The children were from poor homes and very, very rough. Imagine, forty
two kids, absolutely no art supplies; yet I was expected to teach art! But
baruch Hashem by the time I left the job three years later, I was doing great.
During this time I met my husband, Avraham Arieh, and we were married. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"My husband and I dreamed
of living in a rural religious community. Someone told us of an abandoned
Nachal settlement that belonged to Poalei Agudath Yisrael [PAI]. They were
looking for a garin, a seed group, to establish a moshav there. The moshav (which we later called Moshav Meor
Modiin, because the Amshinover Rebbe, Rav Meir Kalish ztz"l, blessed us
with hatzlacha and bracha) was located in the middle of nowhere, not far from
the old Jordanian border. Six (!) different seed groups had tried to settle there
before us – and had failed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"We were a group of seven idealistic
American couples – dreamy eyed and with almost no practical experience. We
moved to our new home – a barren plot of land -- in the summer of 1976.
Originally Moshav Meor Modiin was founded as a moshav shitufi, a cooperative
moshav, which is similar to a kibbutz in that everyone owns everything, yet
different in that families receive a monthly paycheck to use as they see fit
(eventually we privatized). Most people assumed that we'd last just a few
months. Thirty two years later, the Moshav is flourishing! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"Today Moshav Meor Modiin,
bordering the newly built city of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Modiin</st1:place></st1:city>
and just minutes from Kiryat Sefer, is centrally located. But when we settled
there, it was extremely isolated. We were an hour and a half drive from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Jerusalem</st1:place></st1:city>. All around us
were mountains covered with lush forests. What is today the major
Jerusalem-Modiin highway was nothing more than a rarely used two lane country
lane. We did our weekly shopping in the Lod shuk, winding our way between the
vendors selling camels and sheep! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Courier New";">"We
wanted to create a place where we could invite the whole world to taste the
beauty of Torah. We wanted to dance and sing, and recreate the atmosphere of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>'s House of
Love and Prayer, only here, in Eretz Yisrael, it would be centered around
families and children, and everything would be according to halacha."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie
Shapiro: While writing up this interview, I did some research on the moshav and
wanted to share this tidbit, taken from Moshav Meor Modiin's official website,
with my readers. "… The very next day he hitched a ride to Modi'in. When
he reached Gimzo Junction he waited an hour for a ride, hut no cars passed, so
he walked the last five miles." <o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Courier New";">"The
families with children were given small, two room houses that were built like bunkers
to withstand Jordanian bombs. We were housed in a tiny one bedroom (if you
could call it that!) caravan. There were no gardens and only few trees, but if
you were come today, you would never believe it -- the moshav is lush with
greenery, most of which we planted ourselves! At night, we were entertained by
the jackals howling in the surrounding woods. But after we convinced the Jewish
Agency to purchase electric guitars for us, we made enough noise to frighten them
off."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie:
The Jewish Agency purchased electric guitars for you? That's amazing! <o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"The Jewish Agency was a bit shocked at our request for
electric guitars. Most moshavs requested things like tractors or help in
building factories, not musical instruments! The Jewish Agency had purchased a
plastic bag factory for the previous garin. But we were all American hippies
cum baalei teshuva and into health food and ecology. We couldn't imagine
devoting our lives to producing something as mundane as plastic bags, although
tractors would have been helpful for growing our organic vegetables! Eventually
the plastic bag factory was converted into a whole wheat flour mill, as part of
our health food industry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"It took some persuading on our part until the Jewish Agency
was finally convinced that we were really going to use the guitars to support
ourselves, and not just to have fun. Once we had the guitars, we opened a band,
<u>Modiin' L'Simcha</u> and started playing for schools and weddings and
performing at concerts. We succeeded in our goal of spreading simcha and
Yiddishkeit, while supporting ourselves at the same time. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="ETFTOP">In
addition to playing music and producing granola, we also tilled the land. We
planted avocado and apricot trees and grew wheat. </a>We worked hard, but we
were young and idealistic. I felt like a pioneer. I had changed from an
idealistic hippy to an idealistic yet tough pioneer woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"In 1977, the Moshav started working with youth groups,
hosting them for one day programs. Although we did not have the space or
facilities to house and feed groups for overnight or Shabbat programs, in the
winter we hosted programs in the community's shul and dining room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">In 1984 the Moshav opened the Meor Modiin's Medrasha L'Yahudut,
which worked with all sorts of groups all year round. My husband was the Medrasha's director. Our
programs were extremely successful, with over 5,500 participants annually. But
in 1989, with the beginning of the 'Intifada', youth group tourism virtually
came to a halt, and the Medrasha ceased to function.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"When the Medrasha closed
down, my husband and I decided to go to the States for a few years to work in
kiruv. Avraham Arieh got a position in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Denver</st1:city>,
<st1:state w:st="on">Colorado</st1:state></st1:place>, opening a new NCSY
(National Council of Synagogue Youth, the OU's official youth group) region.
Originally we were planning to stay there for just three years, but when my
in-laws had health problems we realized that we couldn't leave and remained for
seven years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"The intermarriage rate in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city> is seventy percent!
We battled that by creating an orthodox social network for Jewish teenagers,
hopefully inspiring them to become more committed Jews. We organized
Shabbatons, picnics, outings, roller skating parties, weekly Torah classes,
retreats, you name it! We also taught Torah classes in the public schools. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"Baruch Hashem, we had a
lot of success. Many of the kids in our group became completely shomer mitzvos.
We had one girl who lived an hour and a half drive from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city>. Her parents wanted her to have Jewish
friends and drove her into <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city>
for all our activities. She was very popular and became regional president.
Today she lives not far from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Haifa</st1:place></st1:city>,
and is part of Zichron Yaakov's flourishing yeshiva community. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"When we returned to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region> in 1995,
I went back to school -- Neveh Yerushalayim, my alma mater from twenty five
years ago! I enrolled in Neveh's counselor program and got my master's degree
in clinical sociology. As part of my course of study, we were supposed to
choose a mentor to guide us. I had read Rabbi Pliskin's books and heard him
teach at our college outreach programs here in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Each time I was inspired
anew, so sought him out and asked him to be my mentor. When I graduated, he gave
me permission to do workshops based on his writings." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie Shapiro: How has learning
counseling changed your life? <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"It taught me to be a
better listener, to be less judgmental and more compassionate of others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"My husband and I were
hired to start a college outreach program called VISA and now we run our own
program called Ohr Chadash. I like to joke that we graduated from high school –
working with the NCSY high school students – to college! Since we started our
college outreach in 1995 we have worked with over 25,000 college students. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Our Shabbatons and classes
include lots of soulful singing and moving story telling. After our students
return 'home' we keep in touch with them through email. Approximately 5,000
people on our email list receive divrei Torah on a regular basis. In addition
we have a website,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><a href="http://www.thetrugmans.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: windowtext;">www.thetrugmans.com</span></a>
that provides audio classes on many topics including parshat hashavua. An
overwhelming majority of the kids we touch end up becoming more religious. They
also become part of our extended family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"Every year our alumni in the
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>
arrange for my husband and I to lecture and give Shabbatons there. This coming
Fall we're running programs in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Washington</st1:city>
<st1:state w:st="on">D.C.</st1:state></st1:place>, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Stanford</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Connecticut</st1:state></st1:place>,
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Denver</st1:place></st1:city> and near <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>. We get
tremendous naches in seeing the strides that our students have made. Many have
become Torah observant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"We currently run a home
hospitality program. Most Shabbosim we have between twenty five to thirty
guests. There's lots of singing and dancing, good food, and connecting. People
know that our home is a great place to be for Shabbos! Sometimes I feel that we
should sell printed T-shirts saying, 'I've spent Shabbos at the Trugmans.' Some
of our guests love it so much that they come back hundreds of times." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie Shapiro: How do you
cope with all the physical work? <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Rochel: Like Jewish women
throughout the world, I start early. Wednesday is for shopping, Thursday for
baking and Friday for cooking. A girl comes on Friday to do the cleaning. <b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"I cannot tell you how much
I get from working with these kids. I feel that the neshomos we have touched
are our extended family, and their children are my grandchildren! Sometimes,
years later our students and guests just pop in unexpectedly – we're family, after
all – to introduce us to their spouses and children. Each time I am moved anew.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"One time one of our former
Denver NCSY kids showed up at our front door with his wife and three kids. He
had just moved to Moshav Chashmonaim, a religious settlement near Kiryat Sefer.
The last time we saw him he was eighteen years old and his father was dying in
a hospice. We did our best to get him through that rough period. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"We've also made a lot of
shidduchim. One young woman who came to us was about to get engaged to a
non-Jew in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
In desperation, her parents sent her to <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Israel</st1:place></st1:country-region>, hoping that she'd find
someone Jewish here and forget about her non-Jewish boyfriend. She met a young
man at one of our programs -- and the rest is history! Today, she's married, religious,
and living in Eretz Yisrael." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Debbie Shapiro: It
sounds like you and your husband have really grown over the years, and are
using your unique talents to impact people. How as the moshav changed during the
last thirty two years? <o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Rochel: "It's much more
beautiful! The children, and the trees, are grown. We're still a small rural
community with only forty families. Most of our members are from the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
with a sprinkling of Israelis. A lot of artists and musicians live here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">"Obviously in the last
thirty two years we've matured. Religiously, our members are much more
mainstream than they were then, and certainly more halachically observant.
We're growing and changing, and hope to continue to grow and change."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-20763298359284370142017-02-15T08:22:00.000-08:002017-02-15T08:22:01.093-08:00Becoming an Activist Binah Feb 15, 2017<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Recently I found myself propelled into the role of an
activist. No, I’m not leading protests or picketing my local grocery store.
Instead, I’m trying to change the reality for people living with Parkinson in Jerusalem.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As anyone who’s been following my articles in the Binah
knows, I have Parkinson, and it is crucial for a person with Parkinson to
exercise regularly. But the problem is that in Jerusalem there is a real lack
of activities appropriate for people like me. So I decided to change that. After
all, since I need this for me health, I’m going to make sure that I have it,
even if it means creating it myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My first step was to speak to the medical askanim in our
community to get an idea of the number of other people who might want to
participate. They told me that many people in our community view Parkinson as something
to be ashamed of, and are petrified afraid that people might discover that they
have this “dreaded condition.” They remain closed up in their homes, with
almost no physical activity, and as a result their muscles soon become stiff and
stop working. The askanim pointed out that the first step to convincing people
to participate in exercise and physiotherapy groups was to break the stigma
surrounding the disease and raise awareness about the importance of physical
activity for staying healthy. Only afterwards would it be possible to set up the
actual programs. “It’s literally a matter of pikuach nefesh,” they added.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s the reason I decided to make an informational
evening about Parkinson for the community. No, not for people with Parkinson
(after all, if they are afraid that someone might discover they have the
dreaded disease, they certainly will not go to an evening just for Parkinson
patients) but for anyone with a friend or relative (and yes, we are related to
ourselves) challenged with Parkinson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So that’s how I ended up convincing the local community
center to donate a hall, as well as arranging for three very chashuva and well
known rabbonim (and excellent speakers) as well as one of the world’s top
Parkinson specialists, to donate their time to speak to whoever might show up. And
to tell you the truth, I really didn’t expect a crowd. People with much more
experience than myself had warned me that I’d be lucky if thirty people showed
up. The medical askanim pointed out that the numbers really didn’t matter,
because all the people who were afraid to come lest someone might see them
there, would somehow find a way to hear what happened. “And don’t forget to
record it,” they added. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few hours before the event, my grandchildren and I got
to work setting up the hall for one hundred people, even though one of the
rabbonim had pointed out that, “Nothing looks worse than a hall full of empty
chairs.” Since the hall is difficult to find, the children made colorful signs with
arrows to point out the way. My children and grandchildren schlepped tables and
my son set up the mechitza. We even placed individual bottles of water on each
chair to add a touch of class. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Well, to make a long story short, by the time doors were
officially opened, there was a line of people waiting to come in! The one
hundred chairs that we had so optimistically put out were soon filled, so my
grandchildren scrambled to add more, and my son schlepped out additional panels
to lengthen the mechitzah! In the end, although we put out 250 chairs, half a
dozen people ended up standing in the back. Although I’m far from being a
teenage, I am not exaggerating when I say that it was absolutely awesome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Anyway, that evening was just the beginning, and now I am
head of an organization to help frum people with Parkinson in Jerusalem. It’s
been a whirlwind of meetings, phone calls, and plenty of surprises. Our
organization, which is still not official, but soon will be, has been featured
in local newspapers, and I’ve even been invited to give a presentation about
the difficulties faced by the religious Parkinson patients to a board of
doctors and government representatives. Oh, and yes, we’ve started support
groups, as well as an evening program for the men and a morning program for the
women! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In a way, I feel like a teenager, trying to find herself
in her new role. It’s a blend of the new and the old, so I bake chocolate chip
cookies to serve to the representatives of a drug company, and quickly get out
of my robe and tichel before the neurosurgeon arrives to meet with me about how
his department can assist us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Life is full of surprises, and sometimes challenges can
lead to new pathways. I don’t know where this path will lead me, but one thing
I can tell you, I’m sure havin’ a lot of fun! And who knows, perhaps by the time I turn 120
I will have figured out what I want to do when I grow up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-44506139336688279702017-02-04T11:32:00.002-08:002017-02-04T11:32:29.059-08:00Adventures with my Blank Screen Binah 519<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> few days ago when I reviewed
my calendar, I noticed that my monthly <i>Binah</i> article was due at the
beginning of the coming week. Since I am never one to leave anything to the
last moment (at least not by choice. As I’ve learned over the years, we are <i>not</i>
in charge…), I spent an entire afternoon at my computer, composing the article..
It was magnificent, a real masterpiece,
which made sense because I'd had lots of inspiration. Earlier that morning, my
grandson came from Beit Shemesh to Yerushalayim to lay <i>tefillin</i> for the
first time. He had come for the tremendous <i>zechus</i> of having Rav Yitzchak
Tuvia Weiss, <i>shlita</i>, <i>Gaavad</i> of Yerushalayim, place the <i>tefillin</i>
on his arm and head. Following Shacharis, my grandson and son-in-law celebrated
this important milestone with a <i>l’chaim</i> in our living room followed by a
festive breakfast. I had to hold myself back from pinching the almost bar
mitzvah <i>bachur’s</i> sweet, apple-pink cheeks (ah, those dimples…). He
appeared so grownup in his new suit, with the slightly too-large hat perched incongruously
on his head.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">The article was beautiful, nostalgic,
filled with warmth combined with a deep and meaningful message. But it wasn’t
meant to be. It disappeared from my computer. Completely. That’s right, for
some reason it ceased to exist, not on computer, not on my backup; it just
disappeared into nothingness. Poof! I
spent close to an hour using advanced search options in a vain attempt to track
it down until finally, I came to the conclusion that the article was somewhere
in cyberspace, and that instead of wasting my time crying over something that
was not meant to be, I should write a
new one. Considering my computer’s whimsical sense of humor, it will most
probably magically reappear on the very day that I decide to retire from
writing forever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">I was stuck. Not only was I stuck
without an article, but I couldn’t even remember what profound message I had hoped
to convey. Since I had worked up a good sweat and it was almost time to go to
bed (and I was beyond frustrated and couldn’t bear looking at the blank word
document taunting me beyond belief), I went to wash up. And that’s when, with
the steamy water cascading from the faucet and fogging up the bathroom, I came
up with a whole new article, even better than the first, from an incredible
catch-your-imagination opening to a meaningful hold-back-the-tears ending. I
had no doubt that it was a real winner, but first I had to set it to paper
before I’d forget my newest masterpiece (When will someone create a keyboard
that is waterproof?). So I rushed out of the bathroom, soap hopefully all
rinsed off, and sat down at the computer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">That’s where I am now. And once
again, blank. I can’t remember what I wanted to write. Just a few moments ago,
it was clear and organized in my mind, but now it’s disappeared. Completely. Poof!
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">As my kids would say (they’re
Israeli), "OOOooofffff!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">My mind is like my computer. If a
thought is not properly saved before being pushed off the screen, it is lost,
gone forever. Irretrievable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">Erev Shabbos</span></i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;"> my granddaughter and I were sitting at the kitchen
table, composing the shopping list, when, just as I was about to add another
item to the list, she recited a loud <i>bracha</i> and waited expectantly for
me to answer “Amen.” My train of thought was interrupted, and to tell you the
truth, I still have no idea what it was that I had wanted her to buy. But whatever it was, it obviously was not that
terribly important, because we had a beautiful Shabbos without it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">From what I’ve heard from other women
in my age group, forgetting is a normal part of the aging process. But it also
has a silver lining, because for the most part, the things forgotten are really
not that important. I might forget what I wanted to put on that shopping list
or the name of some acquaintance that I barely know, but that gives me more
room in my overcrowded brain to remember the people I love and the things that
I really want to do. I might forget the reason, or even existence, of old hurts
and grudges — and that, of course, makes it easier to forgive and move on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">And although I might forget the words
I wrote, I most certainly won’t forget the lesson I learned: Important things
must be properly saved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-76588235393690769282017-02-04T11:31:00.000-08:002017-02-04T11:31:05.768-08:00LEAVING MY COMFORT ZONE Binah<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s challenging to be a bubby. For those of us blessed
with a large family who in turn are themselves blessed with large families, we are
often forced </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-language: HE;">to decide how to divide </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">our
very limited time and resources among our growing tribe. And when we are
bubbies challenged with a chronic illness, well, those decisions become even
more difficult. I host my children often, and I love taking my grandchildren on
outings, but I also pay the price. The <i>nachas</i> leaves me both invigorated
and exhausted — invigorated with a combination of gratitude and pleasure,
exhausted from the physical exertion combined with the sheer noise level of being
involved with so many little, and big, people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I took my exhaustion to a new, unprecedented, level and
traveled halfway across the world, from my home in Yerushalayim to Portland,
Oregon, where I attended the World Parkinson’s Congress, a four-day learning
experience for medical professionals, paramedical professionals, Parkinson’s researchers
and plain, old ordinary people with Parkinson’s. Although I was the grateful
recipient of a grant that covered most of my expenses, the decision to make
this journey was not an easy one. The congress concluded less than a week and a
half before Rosh Hashanah, which meant that after traveling for close to
twenty-four hours, I returned home and literally plunged headfirst into my <i>erev
Yom Tov</i> preparations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, the trip was exhausting, and jet lag made it
difficult to fully take advantage of everything that was offered during the
four days that I was there (I had a tendency to doze off at the lectures). And
of course, returning home so close to Rosh Hashanah was far from ideal. Yet,
despite the fact that it took me close to a month to finally return to normal, I
am glad I went, and would do it again if I had the opportunity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Think back to when you had your first baby, and how you loved
connecting with other new mothers. They, too, were juggling a whole slew of new
roles while attempting to remain rational, balanced human beings. They, too, struggled
with nights that seemed to begin at dawn, and tried to keep to a schedule that can
only be described as a consistent variable. In their company you felt
understood and validated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s how it is with Parkinson’s. There’s a part of me
that no one, except other people with Parkinson’s, can understand. During the
four days that I spent at the World Parkinson Congress, I met dozens of people
from throughout the world determined to live a rich, full life, despite their
Parkinson’s. I was motivated by their enthusiasm, and learned from their
experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Thanks to Sparks of Life, a Lakewood based organization
devoted to helping Orthodox Jews living with Parkinson’s, I enjoyed <i>glatt</i>
kosher meals and was able to connect with other <i>frum</i> people sharing the
same challenge. Yes, the lectures and workshops were both enlightening and fascinating,
and I even learned a few interesting tips, but what I really found exhilarating
was being together with others who truly understand that unique part of me,
even though it left me exhausted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And that was a real lesson for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t know about you, but I tend to get into a rut. I
have a schedule, I stick to it, and I try my hardest to avoid anything that
takes me out of my comfort zone. Traveling across the world is challenging.
Coming home right before Yom Tov is even more challenging. And, of course, it
turned my entire schedule completely upside down (Literally! There’s a ten-hour
time difference between Jerusalem and Portland.). But I stretched myself and
took the plunge. It wasn’t easy, and I paid for it dearly, but had I not done
it, I would have lost immeasurably. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Waiting for the bus this morning, I met one my “writing
friends,” and asked her about one of her neighbors, a woman whom I view as a
very dear friend, although we almost never manage to speak with each other.
“Oh, Sarah?” my writing friend smiled, “I just got an email from her. She wrote
it in Singapore (Singapore?!) while waiting for her connecting flight to New
Zealand. She’s visiting her son there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Wow!” I responded. “This fits right in with an article
I’m writing for <i>Binah</i>. I admire Sarah so much because she refuses to let
her schedule take over her life. Although she’s well into her sixties, she
continues to grow and experience new things, even though she knows that she’ll
have to pay the price. The importance of that vibrancy, that willingness to
explore and grow, is what I want to convey to my readers.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friend nodded. “I hope you succeed,” she said. “It’s
such an important message.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And that’s exactly what I am doing now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-194688140764360962016-12-20T22:08:00.006-08:002016-12-20T22:08:53.579-08:00Life Ain't Boring as appeared in Binah December 19,2016<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Life is never boring. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Even if you’re over sixty. Really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">If you don’t believe
me, well, let me tell you about Yaakov, the man who cleans our stairwell each
week <i>lichvod Shabbos kodesh</i>. In addition to washing floors, he works at
the zoo, where he’s in charge of feeding the lions and tigers and bears. Every morning, rain or shine, he gets up at 3
a.m., when normal people are still sound asleep (and <i>others</i> are lying in
bed, wishing they could sleep!), so that he can get to the zoo by four. When I asked
why these particular animals partake of such an early breakfast, he explained,
“Savta, you have to understand, we can’t feed the lions and tigers and bears when
the zoo is open because they eat meat — sometimes live meat. It’s bloody…but I
won't go into all the gory details.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was glad he didn't. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yaakov is one of the kindest people I have ever met. He’s
profuse in his praise and rushes to help anyone with anything. Every time he
catches me schlepping a bag of groceries up the two flights of stairs to my
apartment, or running (okay, hobbling) down those same stairs to take out the
garbage, he grabs whatever it is I’m schlepping and booms, “Savta, it’s my
pleasure! I love helping you. Save your energy for your grandchildren, Savta. <i>Halevai</i>
when I reach your age, I’ll be as active as you are…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I never know whether
to laugh or cry, but I always accept his help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hoshana Rabbah afternoon, I was on the verge of collapse
from the constant cycle of cooking, cleaning and serving. The floors needed to
be washed (aka, <i>sponja</i>), while my body craved sleep. Suddenly, I heard a
loud knock on the door. It was Yaakov, requesting asking for a bucket of
water to clean for washing the stairs.
I had an epiphany. Perhaps Yaakov was the answer to my dreams, or should I say,
my desire to be in dreamland? Yaakov literally jumped at the opportunity to <i>sponja</i>
my floors. “Savta, really, at your age you should be saving your energy for
your grandchildren. Isn’t that what we’re here for, Savta? To do <i>mitzvos</i>
and help each other?” I couldn’t (or wouldn’t)argue with his logic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">One Thursday evening I had just returned home from walking
two granddaughters to the bus after tutoring them in English and math, when a
grandson walked in to inform me that he and his older brother (who are learning
in yeshivah here in Eretz Yisrael) will be staying with us until the end of <i>bein
hazemanim</i>. I was in the middle of defrosting the chicken for Shabbos, so I removed
a couple more pieces from the freezer, <i>lichvod Shabbos kodesh</i>. Big
pieces, because <i>yeshivah bachurim</i> like to eat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Half an hour later, the same grandson informed me that in
the end, he and his brother would be spending Shabbos with their <i>Rosh
Yeshivah</i> in Bnei Brak. I was just about to put the still-frozen pieces of
chicken back in the freezer when my daughter called to ask if her two teenage
daughters could spend Shabbos with Bubby and Zeidy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The chicken was not returned to the freezer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The phone rang again. “Mrs. Shapiro,” said the sweet but
slightly hysterical seminary girl. “I know it’s kind of late to ask, but could
me and my friend come for the Shabbos morning meal?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I took a few more chunks of cholent meat out of the freezer.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I really wanted to start cooking, but first I had to finish
my <i>sponja</i>. Yawn. I hate <i>sponja</i>. I’d much rather sleep. Or cook.
Or do anything else, but…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then, like in one of those <i>Eliyahu Hanavi</i> stories,
there was a loud bang on the door. It was Yaakov, asking for water to wash
the stairwell. Of course I asked him if he could finish my <i>sponja</i>, and
he was more than happy to comply. “Savta,” he boomed, “it’s a <i>mitzvah</i>. I
love to help! You just stay healthy, Savta. <i>Halevai</i> I should be so
active when I’m your age…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As Yaakov squeegeed the last of the water out the front door,
into the stairwell, he began to talk about his job feeding the tigers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly, I had another epiphany. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The window box outside my kitchen has become Jerusalem's
main pigeon facility. Somewhere in the city there must be signs posted in
pigeonese informing all birds that they can do their thing at the Shapiros. Now,
I have nothing against pigeons, as long as they stay far away from me… but I
really have no idea how to clean the mess, nor how to permanently close the
facility. But I was sure that Yaakov would know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not only did Yaakov know what to do, he offered to come by
next week and take care of the problem. “Savta, don’t worry. It’s no big deal, Savta,"
he boomed. “Savta, see that house over there?” he pointed to a brightly lit
window on the third floor of the building across the street. “Last week, a rat
the size of a large cat was hiding in their kitchen closet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I turned white. My grandchildren, who had been listening to
the whole conversation in amazement, had to hold their stomachs to stifle their
laughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, Savta, there’s no reason to get upset," Yaakov
said when he saw my expression. " I didn’t mean to make you sick. There is
no rat in your house. It was over there, Savta, across the street. I got rid of
it for them by pretending to be a cat. Listen, 'meow, meow.'” He really did
sound like a cat. “The rat wanted to get away from the cat, so it ran out of
its hiding place and I—” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I won’t go into the gory details of how Yaakov managed to
extricate the rat and cause its early demise, but the moment he closed the door
behind him, after promising, of course, to return next week to take care of our
pigeon facility, my grandchildren almost fell off their chairs as they broke
out into hysterical giggling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Bubby,” one of them
gasped between bursts of laughter. “These things only happen in your house.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know if that’s true. I really don’t know what goes
on in other peoples’ homes. But one thing I do know. Life in my house is never
boring. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Even though I’m over sixty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-53749271878661116332016-12-14T20:58:00.000-08:002016-12-15T02:10:00.904-08:00MY NEW Project I have been working very, very hard on this project. Anyone who can assist in any way, it's a HUGE mitzvah! I can be contacted at tikvah4parkinson@gmail.com<br />
<br />
PLEASE.IF YOU CAN ASSIST ME WITH FUNDS...I AM IN THE PROCESS OF BECOMING A REGISTERED NFP, BUT UNTIL THEN, I NEED SOME MONEY TO ADVERTISE THE EVENT ON JANUARY 3. I CAN BE CONTACTED AT TIKVAH4PARKINSON@GMAIL.COM<br />
<br />
AND HERE IS THE NEW WEBSITE:http://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/<br />
<br />
Here's a write up I made for the WPC:<br />
<br />
<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_xzs" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
How the WPC Inspired Me</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Debbie Shapiro, PwP, Jerusalem, Israel</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Parkinson is a very isolating disease. Your world grows smaller, and slower, while around you, the people you know, and love, are rushing, accomplishing, doing, at what for you is now a dizzying pace. It’s hard to explain to anyone not battling the slowness and stiffness of Parkinson what it’s like to wake up in the morning and have to literally force your feet to move. You want to crawl into bed, curl under the covers and do nothing, but you know that doing that would be a death sentence, that it’s crucial to get up and go, be with other people, exercise, work, and accomplish.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
At the WPC I was together with thousands of others like me. I didn’t have to feel embarrassed if it took me a few moments to find the courage to step on to the escalator, or walk across the room. The people there understood me. They were there, together with me. We were battling the same enemy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
But it wasn’t just the camaraderie, the sense of belonging. There very air was charged with optimism. It pervaded every conversation, lecture and workshop. We felt unified, and that it is our obligation to do everything in our power to keep ourselves healthy, to continue living our lives to its fullest, despite our limitations. It was like being part of a gigantic cheering squad, urging me to stretch to my utmost.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
The lectures and workshops touched on almost every aspect of living well with Parkinson, but even more, they gave me, as well as the thousands of others who had come because they believed that it’s possible to continue living well, despite Parkinson, a feeling of hope.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I returned home inspired to share what I had learned with my community. Sadly, in Jerusalem many people are embarrassed that they have Parkinson and as a result, they remain at home, isolated and sedentary. In addition, there are almost no programs available in Jerusalem for PwP, and none that are sensitive to the specific needs of the Orthodox community. As a result, I opened an organization, “Tikvah (hope) for Parkinson” for the Parkinson community in Jerusalem. Our vision is to educate the Parkinson community about the need to be proactive in their own care, organize support groups and Parkinson exercise/physical therapy groups, and advocate for better care for PwP in Jerusalem.</div>
<div style="display: inline; margin-top: 6px;">
Our first event is planned for January 3, 2017 and includes lectures by Professor Nir Giladi, head of the Department of Neurology at Ichalov Hospital and Rabbi Gedalia Finkel, Rosh Yeshiva in Yeshivat Mirr, Jerusalem. To learn more about what we do, please go to <a href="http://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/" rel="nofollow" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.tikvah4parkinson.org/</a> or contact me directly at tikvah4parkinson@gmail.com</div>
</div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-50983989301311792032016-12-07T11:10:00.001-08:002016-12-07T12:23:24.345-08:00Exceptional Times <div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Exceptional Times <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Motzoei Shabbos, I was sitting with my
husband, nursing a steaming cup of tea, wondering what in the world I was going
to write for my upcoming article. “It’s due in two days. Give me some ideas,” I
said to him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">“How about
something on how to buy an <i>esrog</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">“Ah, c’mon.
That’s not for the ladies.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">“Well, maybe
something about the <i>sukkah</i>. Lots of interesting <i>halachos</i> there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">I rolled my
eyes. Obviously he was not getting it. That’s because, well, as they say, men and
women are from different planets, and besides, although the article is due in
Elul, it will only be published in Cheshvan. By then, even Martians won’t be
terribly excited by an article on Sukkos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">But Hashem is
very good to me, because Sunday morning I had an interesting conversation with
a seminary principal about what it was like to come to Eretz Yisrael in 1971
and that, of course, got me thinking, which, in turn, turned into material for
an article. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Life in Eretz
Yisrael was so different back then. On a physical plane, it was like going back
in time to when my parents were young (and that really was a long time ago!).
Yes, refrigerators had recently replaced ice boxes and almost everyone owned a
washing machine, but dryers (and disposable diapers) were still unheard of. Two
burner gas stoves had only recently replaced the primus, a primitive camp
stove, as the standard mode of cooking, and ovens were an almost unheard of
luxury; people baked in little round pots call “Wonder Pots.” In 1974, when I became
an <i>olah chadashah</i>, the primus was included as part of my <i>aliyah</i>
package, together with a <i>sponja</i> stick and <i>shmatta</i>, a straw broom,
a metal bed, a straw mattress, a stool, a table and a roll of toilet paper!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">The first
time I traveled to Yerushalayim I was shocked by the absence of street lights
on the narrow two-lane highway connecting the Holy City to the rest of the
country. Yerushalayim boasted only one traffic light, on the corner
intersection of Yaffo and King George, but it was really only there for show as
there were almost no cars on the roads. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="NoParagraphStyle" style="mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: justify; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">A friend of
mine once got into a minor traffic accident with another woman driver. When she
said to the sergeant at the police station, “The other woman suddenly stopped,”
he interrupted her story to let her know that he already knew the other
driver’s identity because (I kid you not!) there were only two female drivers
in the city! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Physically,
Yerushalayim was much smaller. I was friendly with a family that lived in the
old (which at that time was the new and only) Kiryat Sanz neighborhood. The
eight story apartment blocks sprouted incongruously from surrounding empty
hills. At night, when I walked from Rechov Eli Hakohen down the hill to Kiryat
Sanz, I would hear foxes at the side of the road (and occasionally, I even
caught a glimpse of their eyes!), while from the zoo on the other side of the
road (now Minchat Yitzchak) the lions roared (and I quivered inside!). But
there were other animals too; it was not uncommon for an Egged bus to stop to
allow a flock of sheep to cross the street. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Readymade
clothes were expensive and difficult to find. There was but one dress shop in
all of Geulah and Meah Shearim; we called it the “hole in the wall.”
Seamstresses would make home visits to sew the family wardrobe. The entire
family was recruited to help, and of course it was considered a valid excuse
for all the girls to remain home from school. Faded outfits were turned inside
out and resewn. Old sweaters were unraveled and the wool recycled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Phones were a
very difficult-to-attain luxury, which made life very complicated for us
seminary girls hoping to get a taste of the country via Shabbos invitations.
Postcards were sent out weeks in advance, and sometimes we’d travel across town
to ask if we could come for Shabbos, only to be told to, “I have to ask my
husband. Come back tomorrow for an answer.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">But although
the country was small and undeveloped, the people I met were giants. They each
had their own personal story of <i>mesirus nefesh</i>. They had journeyed to
Eretz Yisrael via Auschwitz, or Siberia, or on a camel, or had miraculously
managed to catch “the last boat.” They had learned in the great yeshivos, under
the Chafetz Chaim or HaRav Elchanan Wasserman, <i>z”l</i>. They had studied in
Cracow under Frau Sarah Schenirer. They had lived through exceptional times,
and I was jealous of them. After all, I was living such a mundane life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">But looking
back, I realize that I had been wrong. These giants had lived in an exceptional
era, but I also lived in an exceptional era. And today, we are also living in
amazing times. Fifty years from now, we will look back at our <i>nisyanos</i>
and marvel how we not only managed, but how we succeeded in growing and
becoming greater as a result. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">And
hopefully, by the time this article goes to print, all of us will be able to
look back at Elul, which is when it is being penned, and wonder how we survived
without the <i>Urim v’Tumim</i> and the <i>Sanhedrin</i> to guide us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">And even
Martians or Plutonians, as well as those of us from Jupiter or Venus, will be
able to relate to that. <span style="letter-spacing: -.25pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -1.2pt;">———————————————</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.25pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; letter-spacing: -0.25pt; line-height: 107%;">Debbie Shapiro is a wife, mother,
grandmother and longtime Jerusalem resident. Her latest book, “Women Talk,” is
a compilation of interviews with great Jewish women. Debbie can be contacted
via Binah Magazine. She’d love to hear from you.</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-47781883766486534332016-11-29T06:48:00.001-08:002016-11-29T06:48:53.517-08:00The World Parkinson Congress <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What did I gain from the WPC?” Parkinson is a very
isolating disease. Your world grows smaller, and slower, while around you, the
people you know, and love, are rushing, accomplishing, doing, at what for you
is now a dizzying pace. It’s hard to explain to anyone not battling the
slowness and stiffness of PD what it’s like to wake up in the morning and literally
force your feet to move. You want to crawl into bed and do nothing, but you
know that doing that would be a death sentence, that it’s crucial to get up and
go, be with other people, exercise, work, and accomplish. Parkinson’s forces
you to live in a slower reality. Things that once upon a time you were able to
do without thinking now requires total concentration, which is difficult for others
to understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At the WPC I was together with thousands of others like
me. I didn’t have to feel embarrassed if it took me a few moments to find the
courage to step on to the escalator, or walk across the room. The people there understood
me. They were there, together with me, battling the same enemy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But it wasn’t just the camaraderie, the sense of
belonging. There very air was charged with optimism. It pervaded every
conversation, lecture and workshop. We felt unified, that we were in it
together, and that it is our obligation to do everything in our power to keep
ourselves healthy, to continue living our lives to its fullest, despite our
limitations. It was like being part of a gigantic cheering squad, urging me to
stretch to my utmost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The lectures and workshops touched on almost every aspect
of living well with Parkinson, but even more, they gave me, as well as the
thousands of others who had come because they believed that it’s possible to
continue living well, despite PD, a feeling of hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Of course all of this was possible for me, as a religious
Jew, thanks to Sparks of Life. I don’t know how I would have survived without their
three glatt kosher meals (with a mashgiach tamidi!) each day. And it was
wonderful to have a quiet area of my own, in the middle of this enormous, busy
conference, where I could relax and socialize with other frum Yidden, who, like
myself, were facing the challenge of Parkinson from a place of emuna and
bitachon. Thank you Rabbi Gruskin. Thank you Sparks of Life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-47630969591422189942016-11-03T05:13:00.000-07:002016-11-03T05:13:55.210-07:00Entire Living With Parkinson's series, as it appeared in the Binah.<div class="MsoNormal" dir="LTR" style="direction: ltr; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; unicode-bidi: embed;">
<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">by Debbie Shapiro, a fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I sat opposite the doctor, waiting for the words that I didn't want to hear. I knew what he was about to say, but I continued to reassure myself that my weakness and difficulties with balance were nothing more than a figment of my rich writer's imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then he said the words I had been dreading to hear. “I’m afraid it’s Parkinson’s, Mrs. Shapriro.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I blinked – hard – to keep back the tears. My hands were shaking. But then again, they had been shaking a lot these last few weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Very mild," he continued, trying to boost my spirits. "I'll give you some medicine to help keep it under control. Meanwhile, it's important for you to exercise – I suggest Tai Chi – and of course, you should try to lose some weight. That will help with your sense of balance and will prevent you from falling."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I pointed out that I had recently started going to water aerobic classes. And as for losing weight, well, attempting to do that has been the story of my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Excellent, but try Tai Chi."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Several months before that, when I could not continue to ignore the fact that I was having difficulty with my balance, I spent an afternoon researching Tai Chi classes in Jerusalem. Most of them were held in public gardens, and all were co-ed, certainly not appropriate for an Orthodox woman, at least one who would write for the <i>Binah</i> Magazine! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The doctor was still smiling. "And I'll see you again in another three months,” he said. “Hopefully, your disease will progress slowly." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Great</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, I thought to myself. <i>I don't want to live in a wheelchair! I have so much more to accomplish!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My mind was flooded with questions. Should I continue working full time? Perhaps I should devote myself to the things that are really important – take time to grow spiritually, to learn more, to share my strengths with my husband, my children, my grandchildren, while at the same time doing everything physically possible to battle this disease? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But then, if I stop working, how will we manage financially?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The tears began to flow. The last few months had been a nightmare and I was drained from it all. When I came home from work, I was completely exhausted, lacking the strength to even make supper. After a trip to the supermarket, I would just want to climb into bed and forget about the world. Instead, I'd stuff myself with junk food, deluding myself into thinking that it would give me the energy to put the groceries away. Overcome with embarrassment at my sudden show of emotion, I smiled wanly as I said, "I'm probably the only idiot to burst into tears in your office." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Actually," the doctor continued, still smiling (I couldn't help but wonder if it was pasted on), "most people have a total melt down. But look at the bright side. Now that we have a diagnosis, we can start treating you. That will slow down the rate of deterioration."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Deterioration<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>. What a horrible word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What about my children?" I asked. "Should I tell them? And how do I tell them?" I couldn't bear the thought of causing my children pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From the doctor's smooth response, I could tell that this is a question that most patients ask. "Mark Twain wrote that the best way to stay out of trouble is to tell the truth. Of course you should tell them. Don't keep it a secret."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> At those words, I recalled a visit that I made to an elderly friend of mine who lives on the other side of the city. After a few minutes of chitchat, her husband said, "Rachel, I think you should tell her what the doctor said." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rachel smiled at me, but her eyes were liquid. "I'm in the first stages of Alzheimer's," she announced without emotion. Knowing how temporary our time together was, I became determined to visit her more often. And today, I treasure our time together, knowing that it will soon come to an end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the privacy of the stairwell, I phoned my husband. "I'm finished at the doctors." Pause. "He said it's Parkinson's. I knew he would, but I cried anyway."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I decided to walk home. I couldn't face getting on a bus, and besides, I thought, I might as well start following doctor's orders and get my first daily dose of exercise. During the forty-five minute walk home, I had an almost overwhelming desire to stop in at any one of the dozens of shops on the way to buy a creamy ice coffee – my favorite comfort food. But I didn't. Instead, I gave myself a virtual pat on the back. I was proud of being proactive in my battle to remain healthy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had plenty of time to think during the long walk home.. In my mind, I wrote a battle plan of how I would cope – or at least attempt to cope – with my new reality. One of the coping mechanisms that I came up with is what you are presently reading: rather than retreat into a shell of isolation, I would share my new reality with others, and through that sharing, I would give myself – and others – support. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But then I had a problem. On one hand, it is important for me to be upfront rather than expend energy that I don't have in trying to hide my Parkinson's. On the other hand, however, I didn't, and still don't, want to define myself by my disease, and certainly don't want people around the world to know me as Debbie Shapiro, "the lady with Parkinson's." Which is why I thought at first I would write this column under a pseudonym.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I discussed this with the editor at <i>Binah</i>, her response was that she feels that by using my real name, I would be making a statement to other people with degenerative illnesses that there is no reason for them and their families to go through all the trouble it takes to keep their illness a secret. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I jokingly responded that perhaps my byline should be, "Debbie Shapiro, who is first a woman, and second a person with Parkinson's."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The editor thought that was a great idea, and, in a subsequent email wrote, "You are such a fun and inspiring person." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hmmm… I was really beginning to enjoy this, and since I have always been the paragon of humility, and of course, us writers always love to inflate our word count (in addition to our ego), I responded in jest, "How about, 'By Debbie Shapiro, a fun and inspiring woman, and a great writer too, who just happens to have Parkinson's?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She loved it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was shocked. But the truth is, that is who I am. I am me: a wife, mother, grandmother, writer, speaker, <i>cholent</i> maker, laundry sorter, and an amazingly funny clown (just ask my grandchildren). I can make up silly songs at the drop of a hat, and in three languages to bat (hmm... there I go again!). I juggle at least a dozen roles while attempting to keep my priorities straight and do the right thing at the right time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And now, I have just been handed a new hat. It's not one that I would have ever chosen, but now that I have it, I will be wearing it constantly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But I will not let it define me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is going to be a huge challenge. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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Subtitle: Putting on my new hat<o:p></o:p></div>
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Byline: <span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">By Debbie Shapiro,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">a fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">There's nothing like family.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">The moment I returned home from the doctor, I plunged straight into making lunch, and not just any lunch: a three-course meal, including soup and desert! I needed to prove to myself, to the world, and yes, even to my husband (or perhaps I should say,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>especially<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>to my husband!), that I am really, truly, capable of doing anything and everything, and that I WILL NOT, I repeat, WILL NOT allow Parkinson's to get in the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Not me! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">I'm the girl who can whip up a Shabbos for ten in two hours, including homemade <i>challos</i>, gefilte fish, and fresh <i>chrein</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">In truth, though, I was fighting an almost overwhelming desire to throw myself in bed and stay there for the next ten years (okay, that's an exaggeration, but certainly until the next morning).</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">That evening, I asked my husband how he was feeling. I was sure he wouldn't be too upset. After all, not only had he suspected it, he even suggested that I see a Parkinson's specialist. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"I'm worried how I'll be able to take care of you," he answered. His eyes were liquid.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">My retort was an instant, "YOU WILL NOT TAKE CARE OF ME. We'll take care of each other."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">We were both floored by the other's response.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">But I still had to tell the kids. And I was petrified. I’m their MOTHER. Mothers should be there for their children, not the other way around.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">So I — brave woman that I am — let my husband do it.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">And he did. He made sure to tell them when I was not home. But between going to work and going to the gym (research has shown that exercise, especially lots of aerobic exercise, significantly slows down the rate of Parkinson's deterioration), he had plenty of opportunity. That's because, crazy as this might sound, after being diagnosed I found myself busier than I had been in months, though I knew that would have to change. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">A couple of days later, I was at the gym, resting between the water aerobics class and the dance class (yes, those first few days I really did overdo the exercise thing!) when my second-to-oldest son called.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"Hi, Mommy. How are you feeling? Everything okay?"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"Sure. I just finished with the pool. In five minutes, I’ll be dancing!”</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"You sound great. Are you sure you're<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>really<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>okay?"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"Yup, I'm fine…." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Boy, were we beating around the bush!</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Cough. Pause. Cough. "Ah, hmmm, Tattie spoke to me last night. I told the other kids about it. We're all upset, and worried. We think that it's important to be with you now. So tonight we’re all coming to Yerushalayim. So it won’t be hard for you, we’ll meet at the bagel restaurant."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"It's okay," I countered. "Nothing has changed since yesterday, only now we understand why I've been feeling so rotten. No reason to put yourselves out for me."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">"But we want to. We want to be with you now, as a family. Together."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Aren't my kids the greatest? <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>"Look at what your mother has to do to get you guys to come visit me!" I quipped.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">It was a beautiful evening. We all crowded into the enclosed smoking section of the restaurant so that we could have some privacy. And when we were all seated, and my kids sat there, squirming, waiting for someone to say something – anything – I blurted out, only half in jest, "Okay, so what's this all about? You want to ask about the will?"<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">Everyone laughed. Then we talked, and ate, and ate some more, and yes, we really had a great time together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif;">At the end of the evening, the kids unanimously agreed that once a month we'd get together for <i>melavah malkah</i>. Nothing fancy, just the couples, without the grandchildren; time to bond as a family.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">One of the reasons I am writing this column is to educate my readers about the challenges of having a neurological disease. Since most of the time I look perfectly healthy, people don't realize that certain things are difficult for me, such as multi-tasking. I discovered this when, as part of my initial assessment, I was asked to walk slowly down a corridor while responding to very simple arithmetic problems. It was impossible. I could either walk, or problem solve, but I could not do both at the same time.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">And that brings me to the supermarket disaster.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> One afternoon, instead of spacing my activities, I went straight from the gym to the supermarket. And there I had to wait on a long checkout line, which, because of my balance issues, was extremely difficult. Just as I started placing my groceries on the conveyor belt, my cell phone rang. It was the hospital asking for my email address to send me the results of some tests I had taken there. I told the secretary that I couldn't talk at the moment, but she insisted that she must have the information NOW.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Never, and I repeat, never, try to give an email address over a cell phone to an Israeli who doesn't know English, especially not in a busy supermarket, and especially if you have Parkinson's. That's because when people with Parkinson's go into overload, they often crash, and that's what happened to me. The room started spinning, and I thought I was going to faint. I had to get home, NOW!<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">In the midst of telling the lady from the hospital that my address begins with a B, like in <i>bais</i>, and not a D like in <i>dalet</i>, while holding on to the shopping cart to keep myself from falling as I attempted to place the groceries on the conveyor belt, a woman who was only buying a few items asked if she could go ahead of me.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">I said, “NO.” The woman from the hospital asked me if I had just said, "O."<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">The woman who asked to go ahead of me was complaining to everyone that I was a horrible, self-centered person. The lady from the hospital kept on asking me to repeat the letters. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>The man at the counter was ringing up my groceries. I was shaking uncontrollably and trying not to burst into tears.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Just as I was about to leave, the cashier instructed me to bring a form to the to the service counter. The clerk there stamped it and told me to put it in a box about five meters away. “If you want, you can do it. I can't," I answered and shuffled away. I lost my balance twice.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> I heard him laugh. He probably thought I was on drugs.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">Somehow, I managed to get home. As the car service driver placed the groceries on the curb and my husband came downstairs to greet me, I ran upstairs and threw myself into bed. I felt like a bowl of not quite jelled jelly. And then to top it all off, my husband, was upset that I had disappeared on him instead of standing outside to keep an eye on the groceries while he brought them upstairs. Without me there to watch them, he had to carry several heavy bags at once up two steep flights of stairs, not an easy task for someone who is an official senior citizen. He couldn't understand why it was impossible for me to wait downstairs for another five <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">minutes</a></span><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 8pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;">But how could he understand? How could anyone understand? Or, as a <i>shomer Shabbos</i> woman in <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">Australia who also has Parkinson's responded</a></span><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 8pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;"> responded when I told her this story, "That's what your Parkinson’s friends are for. They're the only ones who know what you're going through."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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- Finding My Balance while Off My Noodle<br />
Byline: <span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";">By Debbie Shapiro,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";">a fun and inspiring woman, and a great writer too, who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It's funny, because sometimes I feel as though my Parkinson's is actually forcing me to become healthy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve begun an exercise program to delay the progress of my disease. That’s because Parkinson's is caused by the slow death of the dopamine-producing neurons in the area of the brain that controls movement, and it is the resulting shortage of dopamine that causes the tremor, stiffness, and general slowness associated with Parkinson's. Researchers believe that exercise causes the brain to use the existing dopamine more efficiently, which translates into less medication for the same effect.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Many people, including myself notice that after a good workout, their Parkinson's symptoms disappear for several hours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some 15 years ago, I attended a wedding where HaRav Nosson Tzvi Finkel, <i>zt”l</i>, was <i>mesader kedushin</i>. It was painful for me to watch his body twisting and turning as he struggled to recite the <i>brachos</i> and I was in awe of his perseverance and devotion to his <i>talmidim</i>. At the time, I thought that this was Parkinson's. Now, I understand that what I saw was dyskinesia, a side effect of the medicine levodopa that is used to treat Parkinson's, rather than part of the disease itself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A well-known neurologist in Israel tells his newly diagnosed patients that it has been his experience that patients who exercise regularly are often successful at controlling the symptoms without needing to take levodopa. And that is the reason that I have made exercise a top priority in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As one of my friends told me, "Debbie, that's your <i>mitzvah</i> right now. To do whatever YOU can to stay healthy. It's a wise investment."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I started out by joining a water aerobics class, which I dubbed, "Off My Noodle." That's because while the other women were able to follow the instructor's rapid directions while gracefully balanced on their noodles – a cylindrical foam tube used for water exercises – I would end up spending most of the class off to the side, propped against the edge of the pool, struggling to position both feet on the noodle, or (after finally succeeding with step one) losing my balance and, with an enormous splash, falling into the water. Although I never managed to get further than step two, I eventually learned to stand on the noodle, an accomplishment that I am really quite proud of! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(But despite all my attempts to impress my husband with a vivid description of my newly discovered talents, he still has no idea what a water noodle is – only that it is not related to his favorite supper, spaghetti!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Although I loved the water aerobics, it left me so exhausted that I spent the rest of the day in bed, either craving chocolate, or giving in to my cravings and eating chocolate, which is definitely does NOT fit ino my plan to be proactive about my health. Instead, I joined a hydrotherapy group. Imagine my delight when we were told that we were going to practice our balance by standing on a noodle. While the other ladies struggled unsuccessfully to maneuver themselves onto to noodle, I gracefully stood in the middle of the pool, without falling off… at least until we started to exercise! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Keeping my balance is one of my biggest challenges. In one physiotherapy session, the physiotherapist instructed me to walk along a straight line, heel to toe. It's a good thing she was standing at my side to catch me when I fell – several times! Although I joked that if I was pulled over for drunk driving, I'd fail the test and end up in jail, the experience was really very humbling. I had been going to work every day, leading a very busy life, without ever realizing that I had lost the ability to do something as basic as walk on a straight line!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">That's why, every day, as per the therapist's instructions, I devote several minutes to walking heel to toe along the lines of my floor tiles<i>. </i> At first, I was constantly giggling as I lost my balance and had to grab onto one of the dining room chairs to keep myself from landing on my nose. Now, however, I am proud to say that I can actually walk the length of my house, not only heel to toe, but also on my tippy-toes as well as balancing on the back of my heels(clap, clap!). But just to keep my ego from getting too inflated, even my youngest grandchildren are still better at it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The physiotherapist also recommended that I spend time at the gym working out on the cross trainer (also called an elliptical trainer), treadmill, and stationary bicycle. So twice a week I walk 25 minutes to the gym (it's really not that far; I'm just a slow walker. In better days it took me only 10 minutes!), work out for an hour, and then walk back home. It's not easy for me, but each time (which is basically every time!) that I prefer to stay home and cuddle under the covers with the latest copy of <i>Binah</i>, I remind myself of something a friend told me. Her cousin, who has Parkinson's, came to Israel for two weeks, and during that time ignored his exercise regime. All his symptoms became much worse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So, I guess I had better run!<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:user" datetime="2015-03-26T21:52"></ins></span><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:user" datetime="2015-03-26T21:56"></ins></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I'm having a lot of fun sharing my experiences with you, the reader. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those of you facing a neurological disorder, I'd love to hear from you- your challenges, triumphs, and yes, disappointments. Although I have not (yet) written about the koach of emuna, I can honestly say that my knowledge that whatever Hashem sends my way is custom made for my personal tikkun and growth is what enables me to face this challenge head on without (too much) bitterness and anger. So please, take this as a personal invitation to share with me, and, with your permission, with the wonderful growth orientated women of the Binah Family! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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Living with Parkinson's #4 - We All Need Support – and Understanding<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">By Debbie Shapiro,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">a fun and inspiring woman and a great writer too, who just happens to </span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> have Parkinson</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">'s</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I've always been the type of person who likes to talk, talk, and talk some more (which is probably why I became a writer). My best friends are good sounding boards, who will listen quietly as I rehash with them whatever it is that I'm going through and then enlighten me with their insights and feedback. Then, once I'm all talked out, they give me the space to think things through. Sometimes, it takes just for a few hours; more often, it takes a few days, and occasionally, it might even be a few weeks until I digest all the information and am able to form my own opinion. And of course, as a friend, the relationship is reciprocal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">But now, although my friends are really amazing – they empathize with my challenges and encourage me to do whatever I need to do to stay healthy—they cannot really understand me. I need to connect with people facing the same challenge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">That is the reason why, on the very same day that I was diagnosed with PD, I contacted the Israeli Parkinson's Society to find out if there's a Parkinson's a support group in Jerusalem. "Yes," I was told. "There is one, and it's in English! This Thursday they will be meeting for the first time after a two month hiatus."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">But the meeting was a real disappointment. Four elderly patients, two with full time aids, had come together to discuss who would be the one to run the future meetings, since the person who had been doing it until now was unable to continue<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- for health reasons, of course. And then, since my tremor and lack of balance are not obvious, the women were curious to know why I thought I have Parkinson's. After I finished listing my symptoms, one of the ladies commented, "Oh, yes! That sounds exactly like what Sara K. had. The doctor also thought it was Parkinson's, but he was wrong. She really had…" and with that she named a much more serious and usually fatal degenerative disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"Right! I remember her. She was such a nice lady," added another. "What ever happened to her?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"She died."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"Why yes, of course. How could I forget. Nebuch…"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"She suffered so much! But it was still a shock when she passed on."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">All four women nodded. "Those poor orphans," sighed the woman in the wheel chair. "She left two teenage sons, and a married daughter."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"And do you remember so and so, what she went through?" asked another. "The doctor also diagnosed it as Parkinson's. But of course he was wrong."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"Well," I felt bad interrupting their reminiscing but this was not the type of support I was looking for. "Let's hope I 'only' have Parkinson's." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Everyone laughed. But it was bitter laughter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Although I did not find the support and friendship that I was hoping for, the evening was not a total waste. I learned some very important information: that if I don't want to lose my Bituach Leumi Disability payments (akin to America's Social Security Disability payments) I must apply before the official retirement age, which is presently age 62 for a woman and 67 for a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the following day, I contacted Rabbi Goldental of Degel Hatorah's Public Assistance Program for his help in navigating the enormous amount of red tape involved in dealing with Israeli bureaucracy. Although at the time of my writing this column I am in the midst of getting my application approved (hopefully), I want to publicly express my gratitude to Rabbi Goldental for both his empathy as well as his assistance, and recommend that anyone living in Israel in need of help in dealing with Bituach Leumi contact him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">When I returned home from the "support group" I felt empty and sad. But according to a famous saying, ice cream cures all woes (ok, I admit, I just made that up - but<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it's true, at least sometimes…),<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so after a few hours of self pity and (a minimum of) one ice cream cone, I decided to stay away from support groups that do not provide me with positive support. Instead, I'll focus on maintaining my health, without worrying too much about the future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">And the truth is that without being over-optimistic, there really is a lot of hope for the future. The Michael J. Fox Foundation, the Parkinson's Foundation and the Parkinson's Disease<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Foundation, to name a few, are presently investing millions of dollars into finding a cure for <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>PD, and there are several that appear to be very promising, including vaccinations, drugs to stop the progression, light therapy, and stem cell research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I wrote in a previous column, I am doing everything in my power to control my Parkinson's. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it really is exhausting to go swimming or to work out at the gym every day and when I come home I need to rest in bed for at least an hour, but at the same time, it's also a lot of fun!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">So what am I doing for peer support? I am grateful to have found a couple of creative women, both writers who are leading a busy and fulfilling lives while staying proactive about PD. Like me, neither of them have the time or energy to keep their PD a secret. As one so succinctly told me, "Being upfront about what I'm going through gives me the freedom to do what I must do to stay well. I don't have to waste precious energy coming up with all kinds of excuses for saying 'no,' or for missing a family simchah. People understand, and they're not upset with me." And the truth is that to the uninformed, finding time and energy to go swimming or exercise at the gym while missing a close friend's bar mitzvah or ordering takeout food appears, well, WEIRD – which is why it's so important that we remember to judge people favorably. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">That reminds me of something that happened some twenty five years ago. I had returned home after being hospitalized for blood clots in my legs. Since my blood was continuing to clot, I was under strict doctor's orders to remain in bed with my legs elevated or – believe it or not - walk briskly! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor actually told me that I must take a 45 minute power walk each day, but that the moment I stopped walking, I am to return to bed with my legs propped up above my heart level with a minimum of three pillows! Each time I left my house, I wanted to wear a huge placard with the words "Dan L'kaf Zechus," "Judge me favorably" written across it in huge neon red letters. I could only imagine what people must have been thinking. Since I couldn't cook, we were receiving meals from the local chessed organization. Since I couldn't clean, seminary girls were coming to help out in the house. And what was I doing? Gallivanting around the neighborhood!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Judging our friends and neighbors favorably is really the greatest support that we can give them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being surrounded by friends, neighbors, family, and even strangers who can look beyond the externals and realize that they might not be aware of the full story, that they might be missing important pieces of the puzzle, really does make all the difference. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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Living With Parkings #5 I Can(e) Do IT </div>
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Byline: <span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Debbie Shapiro,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">a fun and inspiring woman, and a great writer too, who just happens to have Parkinson</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">'s</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I have always loved walking, especially in Yerushalayim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my greatest pleasures was to wake up very early on Shabbos morning, before the heat began to set in, and walk to the <i>Kosel</i>. During the week, whenever I felt a bit down, I used to take a break for an hour or two (or three, or four…) to explore my very special city. Each neighborhood is so unique, and for a history buff like myself, full of historical treasures. Even the names of the streets — Chessed L'Avraham, Shmuel Hanavi, Yechezkel, Ohel Yosef — awoke within me a feeling of awe, and the various neighborhoods — Bucharim, Meah Shearim, Shechunat Hateimanim – are a potpourri of distinctly Jewish flavors and smells.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Today, I still love walking through the streets of Yerushalayim; only now, my walk looks very different. That's because today I use a cane (Gulp! I said it. Don't I deserve kudos for being so brave – and honest?).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I had initially been prompted to see a neurologist — which had led to my Parkinson’s diagnosis — because of serious balance issues. Walking had become so difficult that I tried my hardest to avoid it whenever possible. And when I had no choice, I was so unsteady on my feet and afraid of falling that more often than not I could barely put one foot in front of the other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">At one point, I "just happened" to notice that not only did my gait become faster when I was pushing a stroller, I was also able to enjoy myself. That little bit of support was what I needed to be steady on my feet, and with that boost of confidence, I enjoyed walking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">That's why, a few weeks after being diagnosed with Parkinson's, my husband and I had the following conversation over supper:</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> You know, perhaps we should consider adopting a baby. Babies are SO cute....</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Him: </span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">(Quickly swallowing his toast as he tries not to choke and keep a straight face) Don't you think we're a little old for that?</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">But if we had a baby, then I could push the carriage. And it's so much easier for me to walk when I push a baby carriage.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Him:</span></b><i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Well you know, there really is another solution. It's called a….</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">(with visions of a little old lady with her grey <i>sheitel</i> pulled back into a bun, stooped over her….) Don't say it. I can't stand the word. I will never, ever become a sweet little old lady, or even a cranky old lady, with a walker — UGH! I can't believe I actually said that word! And if I ever do have to use such a thing, <i>chas v'shalom</i>, it won't be until I'm at least 95! Only then, I will call it a runner, 'cause I'll <i>run</i> with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Deep breath. Wistful smile.) And besides, I really do like babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I'll look much younger pushing a baby carriage.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Him:</span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> (with a hint of a smile and a mischievous twinkle to his eyes) Actually, I wanted to suggest a cane.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"> No way! Me? A cane? (Flush of anger.) I'll only get one if you get one. Then we can fence together. Touché! (I wield my soup spoon as an impromptu sword.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Actually, the idea of using a stroller instead of walker is not so far-fetched. Here in Jerusalem it's common for older women to push empty strollers to steady themselves. But I just can't see myself doing that, unless, of course, I were to place a large teddy bear inside – then I could laugh at all the reactions I'd get. (That's my wicked side coming out. And besides, we’ve married off all the kids, so who cares what the neighbors say….)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">A few weeks after my husband and I discussed the pros and cons of adopting a baby, I had an appointment in Yad Sarah, the national volunteer and medical supply organization, and decided to surreptitiously take a look at the different types of walk… — oh, excuse me, I meant runners — available, "just in case I should ever change my mind." I studied the various models, but although some of them were really practical, with built-in chairs and baskets for holding groceries, none of them had the "look" I wanted: bright red, shaped like a race car, with a huge fog horn attached to the front, or at the very least, something disguised to look like a shopping cart. I didn't even bother looking at the canes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The following day I had an appointment with the physiotherapist. She told me that it was important for me to walk as much as possible, and encouraged me to go for long morning walks. I countered that although I have no difficulty walking in the house, outside was another story. The sidewalks are uneven; and for some reason that I have yet to understand, people often park their cars or motorcycles on the sidewalk. And then there are the kids who cut in front of me with their bikes, and the mothers pushing strollers who bump into me – and all those things throw me off balance. A few days before, I had almost been run over by a Hatzolah motorcycle. I had been so intent on keeping my balance while crossing the street at a busy pedestrian crossing that I didn't hear the approaching siren and continued plodding forward. I don't know who was more startled – me or the Hatzolah medic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The physiotherapist suggested that I purchase two hiking poles at a sports store — you know, the long poles with straps on the top, most often used by mountaineers wearing boots and carrying heavy backpacks for conquering the Alps — and use them to steady myself on my morning walks. I could not imagine myself trekking through the center of Yerushalayim with two hiking poles for support, so I decided to purchase a cane instead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">A few days after having made that brave decision, I organized to meet a friend at seven a.m. for a brisk early morning walk. As we circled the hilly neighborhoods of Ezras Torah and Kiryat Sanz, I kept on thinking how wonderful it was that now, with the support of my trusty cane, I could concentrate on quickening my pace rather than on remaining upright. But at the same time, there was this niggling feeling of embarrassment. How could I be using a cane IN PUBLIC?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">After all, I certainly don't look disabled, and with the little bit of extra support that the cane gives me, my gait was completely normal. When I mentioned my embarrassment to my walking partner, she retorted, "<i>Halavai</i> that everyone would be so smart." She then proceeded to tell me about a relative of hers with Parkinson's. Despite having had several painful falls, she is too embarrassed to be seen outside using a cane. So instead, she avoids walking whenever possible – which means that in in trying not to look like an invalid, she has really become one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">When people point to my cane and ask, "Hey, what's this?" I respond that I need it to keep my balance and prevent myself from falling. Falls are dangerous, especially as we get older. I think a cane is preferable to a cast, and besides, more often than not, many people with casts also need a cane, or crutches, or even (gulp) a walker. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, of course, canes really are a lot of fun. I use my cane as a prop (pun intended) to perform fun dances with the grandchildren (anyone reading this ever heard of Jiminy Cricket?), to press the stop button on the bus without having to standing up, and, most important of all, to once again enjoy exploring the streets of Yerushalayim.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Oh, and I almost forgot! Canes really do make great make-believe swords. Touché</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 18.4px;">Living With Parkinson’s #6 Bringing the Goat In</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px;">Debbie Shapiro,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 16.8667px;">a fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer, too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Hashem really does work in amazing ways, and although we sometimes tend to forget it, He really, truly knows what He is doing. Okay, I know this is no <i>chiddush</i>, at least not for <i>Binah</i> readers, but there are times when something happens that brings this idea home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">This year, my son with his amazing wife and beautiful (pooh, pooh) family invited my husband and I for the entire Pesach. On one hand, with so much on my plate and limited energy, the idea of not turning over my kitchen for Yom Tov (and no matter how organized I might be, those 36 hours when everything is topsy-turvy are always much more exhausting than I could ever imagine!) really sounded enticing. Yet, there's something incredibly uplifting about making Pesach. At the end of all that hard work, we really feel as though we are LIVING the exodus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Everything is so sparkling clean, and the Pesach kitchen is just, well, so <i>Yomtovdig</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">There's nothing like sitting around the table on Chol Hamoed cracking nuts while cracking up with the grandchildren. And of course, what’s Pesach without my special Pesach kugels or the beet preserves that I make each year from a recipe that was handed down through the generations in my mother’s family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I vacillated between the two options, until finally, at the urging of our children, I decided that this year we really would go away for the entire Pesach.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">It was a very good decision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I'm sure you are all aware of the villager who went to his Rebbe complaining about the crowded conditions in his house. The Rebbe instructed him to bring various animals into his home. A few weeks later, when the Rebbe told him to send the animals away, he suddenly realized that his home was actually spacious. Well, that's how I feel right now. No, my home has always been more than adequate, but if I ever felt overwhelmed from dealing with Parkinson's, now that the proverbial goat has been brought into my home in the form of a different medical crisis, I realize that everything is relative, including health challenges.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Right now, as I write these words, I'm stuck in bed with cellulitis and multiple blood clots in both legs. This is after spending a total of 10 days in the hospital! Less than a month ago I had found it challenging that the balance issues associated with Parkinson's was making my walking difficult. Now, however, it is no longer difficult; it is downright impossible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I can barely hobble to the bathroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Exercise, especially dancing, is out of the question.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">My home has been turned into a miniature hospital, with intravenous antibiotics and an entire staff of nurses and modern day blood suckers (you know, the fellow guys who stick that needle into the arm to draw blood) to take care of me. And my poor husband, who faints at just the thought of blood and becomes nauseous from the smell of antiseptic, has taken on the role of an amateur nurse replete with the sterile pads and syringes necessary to hook me up to the intravenous antibiotic drip several times a day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">By the time you read this, Pesach will be long gone, and hopefully this whole painful nightmare will have become nothing more than a vague memory, but for me, technically at least, it is presently the day before <i>bedikas chametz</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few minutes ago I looked out the window to the very large parking lot and adjacent playground underneath my apartment. Surrounded by four large buildings, each with over 80 families, the area is always brimming with life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, however, there are even more people than usual, and they all seem to be in a mad rush, somewhat like a film in fast motion. While the world is hectically racing against the clock, trying to somehow complete the endless number of things that absolutely must get done before the <i>bedikas chametz</i> deadline, I am relaxing in bed, reading books, or, when I have the energy to sit up, writing articles and responding to emails.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The crazy thing is that I actually miss being part of the Erev Pesach race. I have a deep desire to scrub the kitchen sink and start cooking! And to add insult to injury, this morning I received an email from a friend saying that knowing me, my entire Yom Tov is most probably in the freezer and I'm sitting on the sofa, relaxing with the <i>Binah</i>. Hah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">My head is foggy from the combination of pain, pain killers and massive antibiotics. This is definitely NOT how I envisioned spending Erev Yom Tov. I keep on reminding myself that if, despite my doing whatever is necessary to try and make the situation better, this is the way it is, then this is the what Hashem wants for me, and it’s obviously the best thing for me. And of course what better way to remind myself of that truth than by writing an article about it. Hopefully, some of my words of <i>bitachon</i> will actually rub off on me!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">One of the great things about writing is that you can put an article aside for a few days and then continue at a later date, which is exactly what I’m doing now. So although you’re most probably busy with the blintzes and cheesecakes, I’m still finishing up the last of my Pesach laundry and sending grandchildren to the stores to restock my pantry. And yes, I am still spending most of my time either sitting or in bed, with my legs elevated, trying to curb my desire to get up and DO something.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Pesach was wonderful, although very different from what I had expected. Our son and daughter-in-law were (and still are!) the greatest. They treated my husband and I like royalty. During the eight days of Yom Tov, my every need was taken care of, so all I had to do was lounge on the sofa and enjoy being part of a busy and noisy household. And since my daughter-in-law had arranged for us to to stay in a neighbor’s empty apartment, when things got to hectic for me, I could just close the door and savor the quiet. <span dir="RTL" lang="HE"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">These last few weeks have been an incredible learning experience. One of the first things I am discovering is that when you are not feeling well, you need to look as though you are very ill, at least when you go to the doctor, otherwise you will not be taken seriously. The morning after I returned home from the hospital, a visiting nurse came to my house to assess if I was eligible for home care. After speaking with me for half an hour, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “You’re problem is that you look too healthy. You’re sitting on the sofa, dressed nicely and smiling brightly while telling me that the pain is so intense that you can’t put your leg down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I hadn’t examined the leg and read your discharge papers, I would have never guessed that anything’s the matter with you. You have to learn to moan a little.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Talk about challenges (sob, sob)!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The other thing that I’ve been reminded about from this entire experience is how quickly things can change. One morning, I was literally dancing and feeling on top of the world, and had the next three weeks all planned out in my head. That same night, I was so sick that I couldn’t even stand up without fainting, and, of course, by the following day all thought of those well-thought out plans had flown out the window. I had been feeling so smug about sticking to my exercise regime and was finally beginning to see the results of all my hard work – in addition to losing 10 pounds, my walking had actually improved, at least most of the time, and I was shaking less. But now I’m back to step one, or, to be more accurate, minus step one. Being immobile has exacerbated my Parkinson’s symptoms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again I am reminded that our duty is to do our utmost, yet understand that we are not responsible for the ultimate outcome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">So (kvetch) I’ll finish off this week’s column (moan) with another insight. Life is full of challenges (oy), so we should never feel smug about our accomplishments. One little naughty germ can topple a million dreams. But then again, when the going gets rough, and things seem down, there’s only one way to go – up (but don’t forget to kvetch a bit well you’re scaling the new heights!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Or as my good friend Chavie always says, “Oy veys mir, NISHT.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Living with Parkinson’s 7 - Tough Questions</span></span><br />
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By Debbie<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Shapiro, <span style="color: #222222;">a fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer, too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A few weeks ago, I asked readers coping with a neurological disorder to share their challenges. The following letter I received brought me to tears. <span style="color: #222222;"></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Hi Debbie,</span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’m so grateful for your new series, though I’m sorry to hear about your situation. I have recently been diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Although it is very different from Parkinson’s, I think the one thing it has in common is the degenerative aspect. I am 63 years young and used to be a real go-getter. I’ve slowed down a lot and it has made me be so angry. It’s not anger at any particular person or Hashem, but feel more like I want to throw a temper tantrum at life in general. You seem so accepting of your diagnosis. Is that really the case? Are you never angry?</span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Also, I have begun to have so many fears about the future. I’m worried about being a burden on my family (much as I know they love me) and frankly, I’m not ready to die yet.</span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Unlike you, I’m too ashamed to write my name, but I allow you to print my letter as I really need your </span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">chizuk <i>and look forward to hearing your response.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dear Anonymous,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As I read your letter, I remembered something that happened to me over twenty years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was lying in the recovery room following an emergency C-section when the nurse, accompanied by a doctor, informed me that my baby had died. The pain was overwhelming. I was drowning in a searing sense of loss, and it was compounded by the fact that, due to medical complications, this baby's death signaled the end of my child-bearing years. As the tears flowed, I had a strange sense of cognitive dissonance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that my child had accomplished her <i>tikkun</i>, I knew that I had had the <i>zechus</i> of enabling her to do so, I knew that there was a reason that I had to go through all of this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Yet this knowledge did not mitigate the pain. I was in emotional agony, grieving for both the loss of my baby and for the loss of my ability to have more children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We grieve over a loss – any loss – including loss of our health and cognitive abilities. I feel pretentious even discussing what I'm going through in dealing with my Parkinson's, as Alzheimer's is a totally different ballgame. You ask if I was accepting of my diagnoses, and the answer is that it took a while until I was able to even say the P word! Even though it was clear to both my husband and I that I was having neurological difficulties that pointed to Parkinson's, I waited over six months until I was emotionally ready to make an appointment with a neurologist. During those months several times my husband gently suggested that I see a Parkinson's specialist, but each time I countered, "I will when I'm ready." Even though I intuitively knew what wrong, I couldn't face the finality of hearing the words, "You have Parkinson's." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I'll let you in on a little secret: there are aspects of Parkinson's that terrify me. Parkinson's is often associated with dementia. It can be a side effect of the pills that are given to lessen the dyskinesia, and dyskinesia is a side effect of the pills that are given to relieve the symptoms of Parkinson's (Chad Gadya, Chad Gadya…), while at other times it’s part of the disease itself. In addition, people with Parkinson's often lack facial expression, causing them to have a "blank look," which makes them appear to be lacking in intelligence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">However, since by nature I am very pragmatic, and at present I do not yet have to deal with these things, I try to focus on what I CAN do. On a <i>ruchniyus</i> level that means <i>davening</i>, strengthening my <i>emunah</i> and looking for ways to grow spiritually and emotionally through this <i>nisayon</i>, which includes using my experience as a <i>chessed</i> to help others going through a similar challenge. On a <i>derech hatevah</i> level, it means doing my<i> hishtadlus</i> to slow the disease's progression and maintain my health.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes, however, I am given no choice but to face the monster, and to put it mildly, it is not a pleasant experience. Last week, while waiting to see a doctor (where else?), I got into a conversation with a woman whose husband was in a wheel chair at the far end of the waiting room. His aide was there to take care of his every need, including giving him to drink and wiping away the spittle. I assumed that he had suffered a stroke.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The woman shared that her husband had Parkinson's and then proudly continued, "He founded the Israeli Parkinson's Foundation sixteen years ago." Although outwardly I continued smiling while holding up my end of the conversation, inside I was shaking. This man must have been a real powerhouse, yet today he can barely control his head. I couldn't help but ask myself, "Is this what I’m going to look like in another sixteen years?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Somehow I found the courage to walk over to him to thank him for what he had done for the Israeli Parkinson's community, explaining that since I have Parkinson's, I am one of the beneficiaries of his <i>chessed</i>. He broke out in a lopsided grin and then, with slow and slurred speech, asked me what I'm doing for my PD. I responded that I'm taking minimal medication combined with lots of exercise .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"That's great. You're doing the right thing," he said, but then added, "But in the end, nothing really helps."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">When I came home, I was NOT in a good mood. I would probably call it anger, although I wasn't angry at anyone or anything (it’s a good thing I didn't break any dishes!) So yes, I guess you could say that I'm normal, at least most of the time, and normal people do get angry and upset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It's frightening to think about the world continuing on without us there trying to control it, but that is reality. I have so much more that I want to accomplish, so much more living to do, so, in a way, knowing that my time is limited (which, of course, it is for all of us, but we tend to forget that) impels me to try, despite the slowness and exhaustion, to grab more of those things that are important, as well as find a way to convey to my family the precious things that I want them to remember, including an ethical will and a family history. Being aware that I need to do this as the clock is running out (for all of us.) is a <i>chessed</i>, a bitter <i>chessed</i>, but still a<i> chessed</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> We don't understand why Hashem put us in This World, what we have to contribute, or what is our <i>tikkun</i>. But what we do know is that the things we have to go through, however difficult they may be, are the tools that enable us to complete our task and accomplish our <i>tikkun</i>.</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But then again, there is a huge gap, for me, at least, between understanding that this is <i>darchei Hashem</i> and bringing that realization to an emotional level, which, I would imagine, is our main <i>avodah</i> at this point.</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">B'hatzlachah</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> and a <i>refuah sheleimah b'toch kol cholei Am Yisrael</i>,</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Debbie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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Living With Parkinson's # 8 Lady, it's All in Your Head </div>
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b<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";">y Debbie Shapiro, a <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222;">fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer, too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span><span style="color: #222222;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Am I the only person who needs to be validated, to have someone tell me that what I’m experiencing is real, and NOT the result of an overactive imagination? A couple of weeks ago I wrote that I had been hospitalized with cellulitis and blood clots in my legs, and although I’m definitely on the mend and hope to be up and dancing in the very near future, at present I’m still spending a large portion of the day in bed with my feet elevated. And yes, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this sounds crazy, but yesterday, when the doctor told me, “Cellulitis combined with blood clots is EXTREMELY<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>painful,” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was relieved that what I'm feeling is normal, and that no, I’m not a hypochondriac (at least not most of the time). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Since Parkinson’s is literally is “in the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" style="mso-comment-date: 20150429T1226; mso-comment-reference: B_1;"><span style="mso-comment-continuation: 2;">head</span></a></span><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-size: 8pt; line-height: 11.4133px;"><a class="msocomanchor" href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3360949314995236187#_msocom_2" id="_anchor_2" name="_msoanchor_2"></a><span style="mso-special-character: comment;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">,” when I am feeling good, and my body works the way it’s supposed to, I can’t help but ask myself if the original diagnosis was a huge mistake, and that I am perfectly healthy (or at least as perfectly one can be at my age), albeit a bit of a <i>kvetch</i>. And sometimes, when I’m shaking or having difficulty keeping my balance, I wonder if these symptoms are psychosomatic. After all, during dance classes, when I’m fully focused on following the instructor and keeping up with the beat, balance is not an issue, and my short, choppy steps disappear. And walking down the street, when I sing under my breath, “Big step, big step, right, left,” my steps become bigger and faster.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Shortly after my diagnosis I volunteered to take part in a research study funded by the Michael J. Fox Foundation at Ichalov Hospital in Tel Aviv. Mr. Fox is a famous actor (who I had never heard of prior to my Parkinson’s diagnosis) who developed Parkinson’s at age thirty. He established a foundation focusing on research to stop the disease’s progression, as well as vaccinations to prevent it in people with an elevated chance of developing it. I feel that if I can do something to advance research without causing myself harm, then this is a <i>chessed</i> that I can do to benefit others (and hopefully myself, as well).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">My part of the research project consisted of spending a morning with a Parkinson’s specialist to assess the impact the disease was having on my day-to-day functioning, followed by a DAT scan, a very expensive scan that measures the amount of dopamine – that’s the neurotransmitter that is destroyed with in Parkinson’s – in the brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several months later, I met with the head of the research project, a world-renowned neurologist specializing in Parkinson’s and other movement disorders.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">After about a quarter of an hour discussing my symptoms and the proactive steps I was taking to maintain my health, he said, “I think the doctor who made the original diagnosis of Parkinson’s was mistaken. You don't seem to have any of the symptoms of Parkinson's."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">I felt as though the rug had been pulled out from under me. Were the difficulties I’m having with walking and keeping my balance nothing more than a figment of imagination? And what about the tremors that overtake me when I'm trying to rest? Was it nothing but a result of my belief that I have Parkinson's?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What did the scan show?" I asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">He hadn’t looked at it yet; his comment was made solely on clinical observation. But then, after looking at the results, he informed me that the scan was consistent with Parkinson’s, "So yes, you really do have the disease.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry! I felt validated – yes, it’s true. I am not imaging all these crazy symptoms! But to tell you the truth, I really would have preferred to be shown as a fool. However, his words reminded me that I am just at the start of my Parkinson’s journey and that as degeneration progresses, and more dopamine is destroyed, the path will become more rocky. I just hope that by the time the going gets really rough, a cure will be discovered (which, of course, is the reason I joined the research study), and if not, that I will have the courage to face the challenges head on, with <i>simchah</i> and <i>emunah</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Once the doctor was convinced that I was not a hypochondriac, I shared with him that my children had pointed out to me that my voice had become softer and the pitch lower<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(no more screaming, at least most of the time!). Yet, when I really <b>focus</b> on speaking loud, for example, when delivering a lecture, I am able to speak loudly and clearly. The doctor suggested speech therapy. I asked him what he thought about my joining a choir instead. He thought for a few moments, and then, with a big smile, told me that it was probably a very good choice. It certainly sounds like a lot more fun!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">As part of my proactive approach to dealing with Parkinson's, I try to keep abreast of the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"> many different research projects taking place around the world. Among the many things that I've learned is that not only is exercising important in treating Parkinson's (which I’m sure I have mentioned on the odd occasion!) — something which was not known a decade ago, by the way — but according to the Movement Disorder specialist at Ichalov, it is even more important than medicine for treating the disease.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">I’ve also discovered that when it comes to improving balance, there’s nothing like Tai Chi, and Baruch Hashem I was able to find an appropriate class. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one study, a group of patients with balance issues were divided into two groups. One group received physical therapy, while the second group was given Tai Chi lessons. The Tai Chi group had 80% less falls.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Studies have also shown that both cinnamon and green tea have a positive effect on Parkinson's, so I'm drinking lots of green tea with cinnamon!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there’s Dr Greg Willis </span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">of Australia, who is using light therapy combined with minimal medication to treat Parkinson's, with excellent results, and is presently doing clinical trials using minimal dosages of dopamine delivered via the optical nerve straight to the part of the brain affected by Parkinson's. I am presently in touch with Dr. Willis and am working on arranging to receive the therapy in Israel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">There’s also been a lot of research about the importance of fun in battling illness, although not specifically with Parkinson’s. Laughter really is the best medicine, which is the reason I participated in a local women's play that took place right after Purim. As the only actress over the age of 30, I was given all the "older" parts: a rabbi in a girls’ seminary, an elderly Shabbos hostess (who sang a solo about how girls are not what they used to be), a rebbetzin who delivers <i>shiurim</i> to newly married women, and (yes, I kid you not!) the <i>yetzer hora</i>, who is very old indeed!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">But my claim to fame was when I went onstage as the rebbetzin, I promptly forgot all my lines (can I chalk that up to the Parkinson's?). So I adlibbed it, telling my<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> “students,” "Ladies, I have something very important that I want to convey to you, but I have to make sure that I get it right, with all the details. Please excuse me while I get my notes." My notes, of course, was the script! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although my friends immediately saw through my ruse, most of the audience assumed these were my lines. And I had a really good laugh, which is the reason I joined the play to begin with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Although I was exhausted that night, and lay in bed shaking like a leaf, it was worth every second of it. Sometimes, we just have to have a good time, even if we end up paying for it later.</span></div>
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Living With Parkinson's #9 To Tell or Not to Tell (Only Her Neurologist Knows For Sure…)</div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Writing this series has given me an opportunity to get to know, via email and phone calls, other women living with Parkinson's. I never cease to be amazed by these incredible <i>nashim tzidkaniyos</i> who continue to be positive and function as wives, mothers, and yes, even professionals, while coping with a debilitating medical challenge. I've also been exposed to outlooks and ways of coping that are very different from my own, yet totally legitimate, for just as Parkinson's manifests itself differently — for some, the first signs are tremors, for others, it's walking issues, or problems with balance, a dragging foot, or difficulty with fine motor tasks — each woman has her own unique way of dealing with the disease.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I'd like to share with you an exchange of emails and phone calls that I had with a lovely woman who decided to keep her diagnosis a secret. I am sharing this with you after receiving permission from this reader and minor changes were made to protect the writer's privacy:</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Hi! I'm a young(ish) mother with early-onset Parkinson’s and am wondering if we could correspond. I haven't told anyone about this (even my children don't know) and it is sometimes very difficult not to talk about what I'm going through.</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">From a, </span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">baruch Hashem<i>, coping (although a bit tired) mother</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My response:</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dear Coping but Tired Mother,</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It would be my absolute pleasure. I would also be interested in organizing a telephone support group.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Waiting to hear from you,</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Debbie </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Her response:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Dear Debbie,</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";">I would like to ask a few questions. How did your children react when you told them about your condition? I'm afraid that mine will become hysterical. And since none of my children are married </span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";"> my oldest will be coming out of the freezer this summer while my second is graduating sem </span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";"> I'm worried about </span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";">shidduchim<i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than my husband and one or two other people, no one knows about my condition. I admire your incredible courage to put into words the emotions I go through, but at the same time I am worried that people will recognize me through your very moving description of your (our) condition.</i></span><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A coping (although a bit tired) mother.</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Following this above exchange of emails and a very meaningful telephone conversation where we both articulated our struggles, we continued corresponding. Although most of the subsequent emails were private, but I can share the following excerpt from a longer email she sent me:</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I always feel strange when I hear people talking about people with Parkinson's saying things like, "</span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Nebech <i>her husband has Parkinson's," or "She's busy looking after her mother who's sick with severe arthritis AND Parkinson's." I just nod dumbly, not daring to say what I really think: "Hey, what's so </i>nebech<i> about it?" Parkinson's can, with Hashem's help, be managed and </i>im yirtzeh Hashem<i>, hopefully there soon will be a cure for it. It's not a tragedy, for heaven’s sake!" But I don't say it; I just feel uncomfortable. I sometimes think that if they would know my secret, they would jump a mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, you never know, Parkinson's might be contagious....</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">About the same time as I received the above email, a different reader put me in touch with an Israeli woman, my age (we actually share the same birthday!) who just "happens" to live around the block. She was diagnosed nine years ago, at age 52. Since then, she's married off several children, will be marrying off a daughter before Sukkos, and has a high-school age daughter still living at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is very upfront about her condition; she informed her friends and family about it almost as soon as she was diagnosed and has educated her family about the many different symptoms. When I asked her if this impacted her children's <i>shidduchim</i>, the response was, "<i>Shidduchim</i> are in Hashem's hands, but <i>baruch Hashem</i> my children all found excellent spouses." She did point out, however, that when she started using a cane, her then twelve-year-old daughter was concerned about what her friends would say and was very upset.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A few days later I received a phone call from an amazing woman who, despite her illness, continues to teach half a day. As she explained to me, "At work, no one would dream of what I'm struggling with, of how I return home shaking with exhaustion, barely able to cope. Although my immediate family is aware that I have Parkinson's, I don't want people outside the family to know. I'm afraid that once people would find out, I'll lose my job."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As you can see from the above three women, there are many different ways of coping with a diagnosis, and all of them are perfectly fine. As for myself, although I had symptoms pointing to Parkinson's, it took me over six months before I was emotionally ready to see a doctor, but once I got over that initial hurdle, I was also ready to tell my family and close friends – although, to tell you the truth, I never considered going public about it. Originally, I planned to write these articles under a pseudonym, but changed my mind after one of the editors convinced me that the impact would be greater if I use my own name. And from the many letters that I have received, she was right. My favorite was from a woman whose thirty-year-old husband has Parkinson's (and yes, Parkinson's is not only for old people, although it is more common in older people – and I hope to write about that in a future article): "My husband never used to read <i>Binah</i>, but now, every Monday morning, he opens up to your article and feels validated and understood! I told my husband, 'You don't get it. She's a famous author, not just a random lady....'"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If my not being a random lady will give <i>chizuk</i> to others, then I am grateful that I am using my real name. (When I showed the email to my husband, his response was, "I would never have just married some random lady," and that, of course, made me feel great!)</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But having the world know definitely has its drawbacks. Sometimes, when I'm feeling absolutely wonderful, full of energy, with a youthful spring in my step, I'll meet an acquaintance and the first thing she'll say is, "Debbie," accompanied by a barely audible under-the-breath <i>oy</i>, "How <i>are</i> you? You're looking great. I would never know…amazing!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the truth is, when I feel great — and since early-stage Parkinson's has very definite ups and downs, I do often feel perfectly (while, almost perfectly…) fine. I really don't appreciate people asking me how I'm managing, and of course it goes without saying that I never appreciate being the object of anyone's pity. I am managing perfectly fine, thank you (at least most of the time, and that is probably true for most of us), and when I'm not, I'll let someone know. I am not a martyr.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">On the other hand, when I am struggling to balance two bags of vegetables while desperately attempting to fill another bag with onions, and someone who knows me offers to hold my groceries while I choose the onions, or when I get on a bus and an acquaintance takes my bus card and hands it to the driver so that I can quickly get a seat down before the bus starts to whiz around the corner, I am grateful that my condition is no secret.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So the question remains: Should a person disclose that he has a degenerative disease before the symptoms become obvious? I really don't know. I would imagine that whenever one chooses to makes such a revelation, the people we're close to will be shocked and upset. Coping but Tired Mother" wrote, "</span><i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif";">How did your children react when you told them about your condition? I'm afraid that mine will become hysterical." <b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b></span></i><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I totally related to that, as it was not easy for my immediate family to accept my diagnosis. One daughter cried for hours until eventually she came to accept the fact, but I imagine that would have happened no matter what stage the disclosure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as for <i>shidduchim</i>, for me, at least, that is not a deterrent, as we are, <i>baruch Hashem</i>, well past that <i>parashah</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">However, as one woman with a different degenerative disease (who I "met" via email as a result of these articles) pointed out to me, "<i>If Hashem wants to make a miracle, it usually comes when only a few people know."</i> Although I have no doubt to the truth of that statement, I also know that as a result of my being open, many people are <i>davening</i> for my recovery. I am sure that that is having a powerful impact <i>b'Shamayim, </i>so thank you to all those who mention my name in their <i>tefillos</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Living with Parkinson's #10 - Getting Rid of the Tight, Pointy Shoes </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Okay, folks, I have some earth-shattering news to tell you. I know this will shock you, so please, if you are standing, sit down. I would hate for anyone to get hurt. Are you ready? Okay, so here goes: I am NOT courageous, I am NOT an amazing woman, and, (gulp) I am NOT a <i>tzadekes</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Almost every day, and sometimes several times a day, I get a phone call from a stranger or am stopped on the street by an acquaintance who starts gushing about my articles in <i>Binah</i>. The conversation usually goes something like this, "Debbie, I loooove your writing. It's the first thing I turn to when I get the magazine and it gives me such <i>chizuk</i>." So far, so good. Actually, I am flattered to receive such positive feedback (after all, I DID tell you that I'm not a <i>tzadekes</i>!). But then, almost every time, the conversation continues, "I am amazed at your courage and at how you are so open about what you're going through. You're an incredible woman, a real <i>tzadekes</i>. I.…"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">At that point, I feel like screaming, "HEY! Do you honestly think that I chose this? If I had been asked, I can assure you that I would have said, 'No way!' I am NOT courageous. I am simply dealing to the best of my ability with what Hashem gave me." And as for being open and honest about what I'm going through, I'll let you in on a little secret: I only write about universal things, those emotions that are common to people with Parkinson's or anyone facing a physical challenge. Most of us are human, (at least I hope so because if we’re not, well, the opposite of human is inhumane), and I can assure you that I have a long way to go to reach the lofty <i>madreigah</i> of <i>tzadekes</i>. I am still very much a work-in-progress, a real live human being who too often gets upset or even angry. On too many occasions I rush through my <i>davening</i> or <i>bentching</i>, and (gulp) I'll even finish all the ice cream when no one's looking. And on Yom Kippur, I need to <i>klap</i> "<i>al cheit</i>" just like everyone else, because just like all the other people in shul, I have what to do <i>teshuvah</i> for (and that is rather personal, so as curious as you might be, that will remain between me and my Maker).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I'm dealing with my Parkinson's in the same way that I deal with any new challenge: First I learn everything I can about whatever it is that I have to deal with, which, since I tend to analyze things rather than emotionalize them, is my way of coming to terms with and learning to accept the challenge. Empowered by my knowledge, I do whatever I can on a <i>gashmiyus</i> level to improve the situation. At the same time, I <i>daven</i> and try to improve myself spiritually so that I will become a <i>kli</i> worthy of a true <i>yeshuah</i>. Finally, I work on my <i>emunah</i>, on my confidence in the idea that if despite all my <i>hishtadlus</i>, things don't work out the way I had hoped they would, it's really okay, because there's Someone here in charge, and He certainly knows what is best for me, even if I don’t.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">If, for example, I were to suffer from an ingrown toenail (which I don't), I would read anything I could on the underlying causes of ingrown toenails (IT for short), various methods to deal with IT, including researching possible cures, practical advice for coping with the symptoms, and measures to prevent IT from reoccurring. I would contact the Fictional Association of People with Ingrown Toenails (FAPIT for short) to hear what they suggest, as well as the Imaginary Foundation for Ingrown Toenail Research (IFITR) to read about the latest results of medical research. I would also try to find the nearest chapter of SSIT (Silent Sufferers of Ingrown Toenails, who thanks to their very popular support groups are no longer silent about their suffering) to connect with local PWITs (People With Ingrown Toenails) and see if there are any activities in my area that might educate me or provide me with skills to cope with ITs. And if I was really brave, I might even consider joining WAIT (Women Against Ingrown Toenails) to lobby for laws to be passed against the shoe manufacturers who produce shoes that cause ITs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Then, when I would go to the podiatrist for treatment, I would be able to ask educated questions about how to care for my toes. And I would have sufficient knowledge to know that even if he doesn't mention it (and he probably won't, as there's only so much that a doctor, or podiatrist, can say in a fifteen-minute appointment) I would throw away all my tight, pointy shoes and make sure to cut my toenails properly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">On the <i>ruchniyus</i> side I would ask close friends and family to <i>daven</i> that my IT be miraculously cured. I would attend to <i>shiurim</i> to develop my <i>emunah</i> and <i>bitachon</i> so that I could accept the IT challenge in a way befitting a true <i>bas Yisrael</i>. And of course, I would turn to Hashem to ask Him for a <i>refuah shleimah</i> while trying to become the type of woman who deserves to be able to walk on two healthy IT-less feet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">And then, if, after doing everything possible to get rid of my IT, if it would be resistant to all treatment and become a permanent painful feature (known as a RITS, or Resistant Ingrown Toenail Syndrome), I would be content in knowing that had done my utmost to remain IT free, and that this is what Hashem has planned for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">But not everyone deals with challenges in the same that that I do (and I'll admit, I am somewhat obsessive in my hishtadlus), and that's perfectly legitimate. Plenty of people prefer to blindly follow their doctor's advice without empowering themselves with the knowledge to ask educated questions. They need to understand, however, that they might inadvertently continue wearing tight, pointy shoes, never realizing that that was the underlying cause of their problem. As for being open about my condition, let's just say that I'm basically a coward who is in need of as much <i>chizuk</i> as she can get!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Here in Yerushalayim, and I have heard that it is the same in most other places, neurologist appointments are scheduled at three-month intervals. Between appointments, if I have any questions about symptoms (is this really normal?), there is no one to ask. And as for turning to one's general practitioner, most have very limited experience with Parkinson’s (I'm my doctor's only PD patient!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">So where do I turn when I have a question, be it about my symptoms or my medication? One amazing source of information is the PDF (Parkinson’s Disease Foundation) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hotline (</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">phone: <span class="Heading5Char"><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-weight: normal;">800- 457-6676 email: </span></span></span><a href="mailto:info@pdf.org" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">info@pdf.org</span></a><b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">)</span></b><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">. Their team of information specialists answer questions about Parkinson's disease, symptoms, treatments, complementary and alternative therapies as well as provide information on the latest scientific studies. Personally, I was, and continue to be, impressed at how the information specialists at the PDF respond with a unique combination of empathy and professionalism. Each time I have called them, my inquiry was followed up with an email providing additional information, phone numbers and links of helpful resources in the community and, when applicable, an informational webinar providing in-depth information relating to my question.</span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"></span></h5>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And when you do call them, you have my permission to let them know that you got their number from the <i>nudnik</i> in Jerusalem. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Well, at least I'm an educated <i>nudnik</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Living With Parkinson's #11 -- I'll Win the Nobel Prize! </span></span><br />
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Byline: Debbie Shapiro, <span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer, too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">A few nights ago, I attended a lecture sponsored by the Israeli Parkinson Association on the history of pharmaceutical treatment for Parkinson's and the various medicines presently under research. The speaker, Dr. David Arkadir, a neurologist at Hadassah who specializes in movement disorders (that's medical jargon for the guys who treat Parkinson's and similar neurological disorders) managed to make what I had assumed would be a boring lecture into something absolutely fascinating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Dr. Arkadir pointed out that although in the early 1950s scientists already knew that dopamine existed within the brain as well as in organs other than the brain, no one thought it had any real function. They assumed that it was simply "there," a little something or another that permeated our brain and organs, and yet had no use whatsoever, a decorative thingy placed there by our Creator to stump scientists and provide them with an opportunity to do research.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Then, in the late 50s, a researcher somehow succeeded in removing dopamine from brains of rabbits, and much to his amazement, all the animals developed a form of Parkinson's. At that point, the scientific community realized that dopamine actually did something, and it wasn't long until they came to the conclusion that a lack of dopamine caused Parkinson's. Now the challenge was to find a way to put dopamine back into the brain.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It took almost another decade until researchers gave levodopa to humans. Levodopa is the precursor of dopamine (which means that the body uses it to manufacture dopamine), and is able to penetrate the blood brain barrier, a wondrous protective wall surrounding our brain that prevents contaminations in the blood from entering our main nerve center! Although levodopa was touted as a "wonder drug" that could completely relieve all the symptoms of Parkinson's with negligible side effects, the scientific community realized from the beginning that it could also cause serious side effects. Yet even today, fifty years since its discovery, levodopa remains the stellar treatment for Parkinson's. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Toward the end of the lecture, someone asked, "Is there anything out there that has been proven to slow down the deterioration associated with Parkinson's?" And I know this will not come as a shock to you, at least if you've been reading this column, but Dr. Arkadir's response was, "exercise" (now wasn't that a real <i>chiddush</i>?). Then he said something that for me was an epiphany, one of those "ah hah!" moments. Researchers believe that the reason exercise is so beneficial for Parkinson's is that exercise causes our bodies to produce a chemical called serotonin, which somehow (and don't ask me how. I'm a layman, not a doctor) enhances dopamine levels in the brain. So far, so good. Then he mentioned as an aside that scientists believe that one of the reasons people like chocolate is that it somehow causes a surge of serotonin in the brain, which in turn provides us with a surge of pleasure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Well, I could certainly relate to this. Chocolate! Pleasure! The two certainly go together, no matter what the weather (oh, come on, Debbie, stop it already. This is a serious article). Suddenly it dawned on me: if increasing the serotonin in our brain can help control Parkinson's, and scientists believe that chocolate does just that, then it would stand to reason that (please applaud me when I win the Nobel prize! This is incredibly ingenious!) CHOCOLATE CAN CURE PARKINSON'S!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Can you imagine? I will be able to spend my days relaxing on the recliner that I will buy for the sake of my health (now that is what we call real <i>mesirus nefesh</i>) while eating bar after bar of fine Swiss chocolate (if I'm going to do it, I'll definitely do it right). I will cancel all my exercise classes and buy colorful tent dresses to hide my bulging waist line. Who cares? I wouldn't mind being fat (or, perhaps, to be more exact, <i>fatter</i>), as long as I'm healthy. Isn't that what really counts?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">But my bubble was quickly burst after I emailed an abstract of my theory to the doctor. Dr. Arkadir's response: <i>There are theories that chocolate increases serotonin production, but this form of serotonin is a different compound than the one involved in Parkinson's disease. So, as far as I know chocolate is not suggested as a cure for Parkinson's. Still, it tastes good.... </i>At least he agrees with me on one point!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Another interesting thing that happened at the lecture was that Dr. Arkadir, a prominent movement disorder specialist, brought his <i>mother </i>to hear him speak, and he even introduced her to the audience! During the lecture, I surreptitiously turned around to glace at her several, and I could literally see her <i>kvelling</i> with <i>nachas</i>. At the conclusion of the lecture, I went over to her to compliment her on raising such a wonderful son and then raised her <i>kvelling</i> level by liberally praising him for everything he does for the Parkinson's community. Her response floored me: "I get on the 4:20 a.m. bus to the <i>Kotel </i>every morning. At the <i>Kotel</i>, I <i>daven</i> for his success, and that all his patients, together with all of <i>Klal Yisrael</i>, have a <i>refuah shleimah</i>." With a mother like that, it's not surprising that the doctor is so successful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The main focus of Dr. Arkadir’s lecture was an overview of the new Parkinson's drugs either presently on the market, or in the process of receiving FDA approval. They are all based on levodopa and include patches, large capsules containing numerous mini-capsules, accordion-shaped pills, and even a pump, similar to an insulin pump, which slowly delivers the medicine straight to the blood stream. These products were created to solve the problems that occurs when the effect of the levodopa wears off, leaving the PwP (that's the standard acronym for Person with Parkinson's) not able to function until he receives his next "fix." And yes, I am using the word "fix" <i>davka</i>, despite its association with drug addiction, because, as one woman with Parkinson's so eloquently described it: "When the medicine wears off, I feel like a junkie must feel, all shaky and unable to cope, just waiting for the time that I can get my next fix."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">People often find it difficult to understand that PwP have on and off times, and that their "off" times are often caused by the effect of the medicine wearing off. A PwP may be functioning perfectly normally, and then, suddenly, CRASH, he can barely place one foot in front of the other or even lift his fork up to his mouth. The experience of being off is one of a thick, heavy, exhaustion, a palpable darkness. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack">Very often, people react with comments such as, "Oh, come on, you're<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>really okay," or, "Just hold out another five minutes, then you can rest." But the person isn't okay and can't continue functioning for even another five seconds, let alone five minutes. </a></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Just to end this article on a </span></span><span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">positive note, an acquaintance of my husband's who has been following this series in the <i>Binah</i> sent my husband an email stating that every Wednesday morning he drives into our area of the city to do his family's shopping at one of the major supermarkets, and that he would be more than happy to do ours at the same time. He didn't even give us a chance to say no; the following Tuesday night I received an email asking me to please send my order, and that delivery should be somewhere between 11 to noon! <i>Mi k’amcha Yisrael</i>! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">And in case you’re interested: yes, the doctor reviewed this article and gave his haskama.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Living With Parkinson's # 12 -Rising to the Challenge</span></span><br />
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Byline: Debbie Shapiro</div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Once a week, on Thursday mornings, I climb the hill to a nearby women's gym to do aerobic dancing along with dozens of other women, most in the early twenties. Although I modify the teacher's instructions to suit my own fitness level, which means that while the other women jump high in the air, or spin around the room, I step spritely in place, I still manage to work up a good sweat. I don’t particularly care for the music they have accompanying the class, but the fast tempo of it impels me to move fast, which is just what the doctor ordered.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">One of the most amazing things about Parkinson's is that since it's really all in the head (as in it is neurological, not psychological), although walking is difficult, dancing is a pleasure! (There are people with Parkinson's who cannot walk, yet, because a different part of the brain is responsible for these tasks, can play tennis, or ice hockey or dance unassisted!). The instructor, a sweet young girl with hair pulled back into a curly pony tail, often throws me a huge smile and gives me the thumbs up (that's E for Effort).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Sometimes, during the few seconds that we have to rehydrate ourselves between dances, a few of the women in class tell me how much they admire me for sticking with it, and for trying (with emphasis on the word "trying") to keep up with the teacher. One women breathlessly asked me if I was a certain well-known <i>rebbetzin</i>, so even though I have no doubt that I look ridiculous (I mean, really, Debbie, can't you act your own age?) at least it’s a respectful-looking ridiculous!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Just to give you an idea how incredibly <i>young<b> </b></i>most of my fellow-dancers are, a couple of weeks ago, I stood waiting for the elevator together with five absolutely adorable women from the class, each pushing a stroller containing an equally adorable baby. They were having a very animated discussion on (I kid you not) how incredibly old their husbands had become (it took a long time for the elevator to come as the women were so involved in their conversation it never occurred to them to press the button). "I can't believe it," said one. "My husband turned twenty-six last week!"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Amidst gasps of amazement at the passing of time, another continued, "And mine just turned twenty-five. He's so, so ooooold!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conversation continued in a similar vein until I finally pointed out that the elevator will never arrive if no one presses the button. Then, when it did arrive five seconds later, I quickly slipped into the open door while the others continued their discussion, this time about various strategies to fit five women with five strollers into a two by four elevator. As the door was closing (with only me in it!), I turned to the women and said, "Let me give you my blessings that someday you be married to old men!"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Yes, I realize that the above paragraph really has nothing to do with Parkinson's, but I had to share it with you because (a) it really is a very funny story, (b) it demonstrates the age difference between me and the other women in the class and (c) I secretly hope that that the women who were standing there will read this and, much to their horror, discover that the decrepit old lady who can barely keep up with the class is really a famous woman in disguise (yes, this last sentence contains plenty of literary license).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">One morning, after a particularly grueling hour trying to keep up with the young folks, I decided to relax in the lounge before returning home. As I stood at the water cooler, waiting for my disposable cup to finish filling, I <i>kvetched</i> to a grandmotherly looking woman, who, instead of jumping around like a <i>meshugenah</i>, was sanely sitting on the couch, knitting something, most probably baby booties. “<i>Oy</i>, <i>ein li koach</i>,” I said. ”<i>Oy</i>, I have no more strength.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">The woman stopped her knitting for a moment, looked me straight in the eye and retorted, “<i>Al tagidi she’ein lach koach</i>. <i>Tagidi, 'Hashem, ten li koach</i>.’" “Don't say that you don’t have any <i>koach</i>. Instead, say, ‘Hashem, give me<i> koach</i>.’”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">As I dragged myself home, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman’s words. It suddenly dawned on me that I was so focused on my doing whatever is in my power to overcome my physical challenge, I was forgetting Who gave it to me, and that together with the physical aspects of the challenge is the spiritual hard work of using this <i>nisayon</i> as a tool to grow in my connection to Him.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">But the problem is that I am – well, um, (blush, blush) lazy. I am not one of those amazing women who spend their Shabbos afternoons learning the <i>parashah</i> with several different <i>meforshim</i> or fervently reciting <i>Tehillim</i>. I need a <i>shiur</i> to inspire me, and that, too, has become a problem. I have what's called a resting tremor, which means that when I am relaxed, my arm is not. And since I am afraid that the other women at the shiur will stare at me, I end up concentrating on trying to stop the shaking, usually without success. Then, to top things off, when I sit for any length of time, I often feel like a kid with ADHD – it's as if there's an electric current running inside my limbs and I need to tap my feet and move my hands and arms around (this is aptly called restless arm/leg syndrome, and is typical of Parkinson's disease). Since I really can't give into that urge, a lot of my energy goes into keeping myself still, which, of course, takes away from my level of concentration.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">But several months ago I was asked to speak to a group of Bais Yaakov girls on a tour of Eretz Yisrael. In preparation, I downloaded <i>shiurim</i> to my MP3 player and then listened to them at every opportunity – while walking to the gym, sitting on a bus, waiting for doctor, washing dishes, folding laundry and dusting the furniture. On Friday night, instead of immersing myself in the latest <i>Binah</i>, I reviewed the <i>parashah</i> with <i>Rashi</i>. Shabbos morning, my questions on the <i>sedrah</i> at the <i>seudah</i> were the catalyst for an interesting family discussion. That entire week I was thinking over the ideas I had heard in the <i>shiurim</i> while deciding what concept I wanted to convey to these girls and how I would use <i>inyanim</i> from the <i>parashah</i> to get my point across. Through formulating my own thoughts, the ideas became very concrete to me, and because of that, I couldn't be complacent with my level of spiritual growth. Suddenly, I found myself <i>davening</i> with just a bit more <i>kavanah</i> and being more careful about many of the things I too often do by rote. Maybe I am onto something!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Like most of us, I need something to impel me to grow, be it writing for <i>Binah</i> or giving a <i>shiur</i>. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>So thank you for allowing me to use these pages to formulate my thoughts. Who knows, perhaps with all this <i>chizuk</i> I am getting through writing to you, I might eventually transform myself into someone actually worthy of sharing my thoughts with the <i>chashuve</i> women reading the magazine!</span></div>
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LIVING WITH PARKINSON'S # 13 -- SWITCH<br />
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Last week, I attended a webinar on Parkinson's, where I heard something that totally shocked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A research project following a group of people with Parkinson's over a period of several years discovered a direct link between people’s sense of loneliness and their rate of deterioration. As one doctor on the panel explained, "We used to think that support groups and social activities were nice additions. Now we realize that they are crucial to the health of the person with Parkinson's." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, it's healthy to have friends.</div>
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've always been a people person. I take tremendous pleasure in connecting with other women, sharing our lives and discovering common interests. But now, more often than not, I just want to crawl into a ball and hide under the covers. I want to be alone. That's because I'm always so, so tired. It's an overwhelming deep-in-the-bone exhaustion that leaves me gasping. But I push myself. I know how important it is to remain active and engaged in the world, so I get out and do things. And when I'm out doing things, be it dancing, sitting in the park or pumping the noodle at water aerobics, despite this pervading sense of exhaustion, I am still (usually) able function normally, and even have a good time.</div>
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But then I return home and collapse. Literally.</div>
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And do you know what happens when the woman of the house collapses, at least this particular woman? Well, let's just say that my household is not running the way I would like it to. More often than not, I'm too tired to make myself something healthy for lunch, so I just grab some crackers or binge on ice cream. As for the floors, please don't look. The dishes? Well, that's become my husband's job. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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For someone like me who was always particular to run a clean, well-functioning home, this is downright depressing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I definitely don't want to fall down THAT slippery, slimy slope. Although I am by nature very positive and upbeat, I now have to work really hard at maintaining that status quo. I'm not alone. According to the medical resources that I've read, people with Parkinson's tend to become depressed. It's a result of the chemical changes in the brain together with the challenge of coping with a progressively debilitating disease.</div>
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This does not at all surprise me. It's been my personal experience that physical health has a huge impact on mental health. The first clue that I'm coming down with the flu is an all-pervading sense of, "Life is too much for me. I can't cope."</div>
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That's how I'm feeling right now. Down. Way, way down. I keep on reminding myself that it's not ME, that what I'm feeling is nothing more than a physical reaction, and that I have every reason in the world to get up and dance. And yes, I actually force myself to get up and dance, and when I do, the endorphins kick in and I feel great. But then, I stop, and once again, I feel miserable. Tired; no, exhausted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I push myself, hard, to do something, anything, to remain active.</div>
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Sometimes I succeed, and sometimes, well, let's just say that I'm human, and I don’t.</div>
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There's a problem with writing about being depressed. Just thinking about it makes me feel as though I am standing on the brink of a huge vacuum with the capacity to suck me into deep emptiness. And I don't want to go there. It's too scary. The one tool that I use to climb out of depression is to do a major SWITCH and talk/think about other things, which is what I am about to do now<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(isn't this an amazing way to change a topic?).</div>
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Lots of <i>Binah</i> readers have contacted me with different <i>eitzos</i> about alternative treatments for my Parkinson's. First of all, I'd like to say that I really do appreciate each and every phone call and email. It means so much to me that there are so many wonderful people out there who are actually concerned enough to make effort to get in touch with me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I really do check them all out. However, I must admit that there are times that the advice is comical, like the time a woman contacted me in great excitement to tell me about her naturopath practitioner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she asked the practitioner if he could help me, he told her that he has had such tremendous success in helping Parkinson's patients that their blood tests for Parkinson's actually return to normal. I thought that was really amazing, especially since there is no blood test for Parkinson's.</div>
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One of the biggest difficulties in figuring out if something really is effective, be it conventional medicine or alternative treatments, is something called the placebo effect. A few weeks ago we hosted a very sweet seminary girl whose father works for the FDA (Federal Drug Administration – that's the government body in charge of testing new drugs and medical procedures for both safety and efficacy before giving their approval for use in the United States).</div>
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Somehow we got into a discussion about what the FDA requires of a pharmaceutical company to attain their approval on a new drug, which is a prerequisite to its becoming legal in the United States. To prove a drug's efficiency, it must first go through a double blind study. That means that some of the participants are treated with the real drug while the remainder are treated with a placebo. Neither the participants nor doctors know who is receiving what. Interestingly, a substantial percentage of participants receiving the placebo will see an improvement in their condition (and some will even experience the negative side effects associated with the medication!).</div>
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Considering everything we know about the mind-body connection, we would expect some subjective improvement (Hey, my arms don't ache the way they used to!). However, objective improvements, such as the measurable reduction of a tumor, or lowering of cholesterol, also occur. Since all this miraculous improvement is the result of nothing more than a sugar pill, it makes it very difficult to sift viable claims from hocus pocus.</div>
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But the truth is, this really shouldn't surprise us. We know that the One who makes oil burn can also make vinegar burn, but that first we need a make a <i>kli</i> to contain the <i>brachah</i>, and that <i>kli</i> can be a sugar pill or expensive medication!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or as I've heard so many times, if you believe something will work, then it has a better chance of being effective.</div>
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That is one of the reasons I decided to try acupuncture. According to one of the panelists on the webinar that I attended from the Michael J. Fox<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Foundation (every three weeks they hold an excellent, informative, and most important, free, webinar for both professionals and laymen) at least one double blind scientifically controlled study showed acupuncture to have a positive short term effect on Parkinson's symptoms. Then, when a person I trust raved to me about her practitioner, I decided to give it a try.</div>
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So that's how this somewhat normal (well, I guess that depends on who you ask!) and usually sane woman ended up lying on a hard, narrow table, with pins in my fingers and pins in my toes (and yes, there was also music coming out of the walls). After the practitioner finished positioning all the tiny needles, she told me to just relax and enjoy myself (Huh? Have you ever seen a pin cushion relax?) before leaving the room, closing the door tightly behind her. I was much too petrified to move, let alone enjoy anything. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, it felt as though electric currents were racing through my body – as if I was going into super-Parkinson's mode, and it was not a very comfortable feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty minutes later, when the practitioner returned, I asked her if this was to be expected. She responded that although everyone reacts differently, the needles stimulate the magnetic pulses within my body, so it would make sense for me to react that way. "But it will take another two sessions until I'll know if you're a candidate for acupuncture, if it can help you or not."</div>
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I'll let you know if this really works, but one thing I do know is that it is NOT beneficial for our bank account, and that really is depressing. Oh no, here we go again…SWITCH!<br />
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Living With Parkinson's #14 Final Pearls of Wisdom<br />
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">By Debbie Shapiro, </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">a fun and inspiring woman (and a great writer too) who just happens to have Parkinson's.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">CRASH! I stared in horror at my kitchen: shattered glass was everywhere. I was just about to finish putting our weekly grocery order away when I stood on tippy toes and to reach up to open the door of my upper cabinets. My elbow bumped into the large glass container that holds our pasta, sending it flying off the counter with an enormous bang. Glass shards were stuck to the goo that covered my countertops and perched on tiny pieces of tomato and toast crumbs, the remains of breakfast still clinging to the dishes piled on the table. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">There were long strands of uncooked spaghetti floating in the murky water that filled my chulent pot (and it was already Wednesday!). And my kitchen floor, which until a minute ago was only littered with leftovers of suppers, lunches and breakfasts, was now covered with glass shards intermingling with long, thin strands of raw spaghetti.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">This was the last straw. "That's it," I yelled into the empty kitchen, trying to hold back my tears of frustration and exhaustion. I marched into my husband's study. "You can make your own lunch. I can't cope with this. I'm going to sleep. Goodnight" I slammed the door behind me, ran to the kitchen to quickly down a sandwich and threw myself into my bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Within minutes, I was sound asleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">When I woke up, I STILL couldn't deal with the kitchen. It was beyond disgusting, and there was only one person to blame – me. So instead, I read the Binah, ate some ice cream (isn't that a healthy supper?), and then left the house to go to our neighborhood Neshei event. "I'll deal with it tomorrow," I thought, hoping that "tomorrow" I would find the energy that I hadn't had, today, yesterday, the day before and, well, you get the picture.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">On the walk home later that night,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept on repeating under my breath, "I will remain calm. I will ignore the mess. I will not get upset. I will not feel worthless. I will survive this, and tomorrow, I will feel wonderful and have plenty of energy…" but to tell you the truth, I wasn't very convincing, even to myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I took a deep breath before entering the kitchen. If I couldn't conquer the kitchen, at least I'll conquer my own irritability. But the kitchen was immaculate! The dishes were washed, the counters were spotless, the table was cleared and the floor was shining!" Yes, I know it's a cliché, but it's the truth: I couldn't believe my eyes. Really.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">"Who did all this?" I asked in amazement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">My husband had that cat-that-ate-the-canary look on his face. "It really wasn't a big deal. I just did it between doing other things."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Ah, yeah… Well, I can tell you that it WAS a big deal. In the many decades of our marriage, my husband has never, ever washed a floor. And as for countertops, he believes that the reason they exist is to provide a surface for piling things, and has yet to understand why I despise clutter. And yet, he had gone completely beyond himself to make me happy. Not because he thinks it's really important – he could care less about the mess, as long as there's food on the table – but because he understands how difficult it is for me; that I'm floundering; that what was once so easy, is not challenging, and that it's difficult for me to juggle all my medical appointments, keeping up my exercise routine, and running a household.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">The following Shabbos, my husband and I went away to a small heimish hotel by the ocean. What bliss spending Friday afternoon sitting at the seaside, watching the waves crash with such intense vigor and then disappear into froth, changing, and yet constant. I need this, it's balm to my neshama, time to sit, think, daven, and just <b><i>be</i></b>; by myself, but not alone. I was intensely aware of the greatness of Hashem's chessed, of how wonderful it is to be a member of the Am Hanivchar. I realized just how important it is for me to find the time to get away and do something for me; not for my health, not for my family, but for my essence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Shabbos morning I faced a new and unique challenge: the Morning Coffee Bar. To give you an idea of what it's like, try balancing yourself on one foot as you hold a disposable coffee cup under the hot water spigot, while at the same time people are bumping into you and thrusting their arms in front of your nose to grab things. Oh, and don't forget, there are plenty of kids of all ages darting back and forth just below cup level. Then (don't forget, you're still balancing on one foot) hold the cup steady as you maneuver yourself away from the hot water urn, wait (impatiently – I assume you're also human) for the golden opportunity to grab a small plastic, difficult to grasp plastic spoon from the basket and then, the moment the coast is clear, add the coffee and sugar, all this without once putting the cup down (no room for that!). After that, it's another hop to fight it out at the milk jug before somehow finding your way around all the people standing in the middle of the room and the carriages blocking the small area between the people in the middle of the room and the walls, to the safety of the nearest table and chair. All this without falling, fainting or saying something not nice to the woman who grabbed the milk jug away from you, almost sending you flying! I don't know how you'd fare, but let's just put it this way, by the time I got my morning coffee, I REALLY needed it! And brave person that I am, I even went back for seconds (and thirds…) although by then the coffee bar was relatively empty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Parkinson's, like everything else in our lives, is an opportunity to learn, and grow, and change. I'm learning about myself, my strengths and weaknesses. I'm learning to give up control and that it's okay to be vulnerable. I'm discovering kochos in myself, and in my family that I never knew existed – oh my goodness, my husband can actually wash a floor! And I'm beginning to internalize something that I always knew intellectually: hishtadlus can only go so far. Yes, we are responsible to do our utmost, in both gashmiyus and ruchniyos, but we are not in control. Sometimes, our tefilla is to ask for the strength to accept that which is difficult. And yes, I am also learning how to make coffee at a hotel coffee bar: very, slowly, very carefully and with a large dose of patience, and when that becomes impossible, I will also learn to swallow my pride and ask for help.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">This is the final installment of Binah's serial, <b>Living With Parkinson's</b>, but for thousands of women and men around the world, living with Parkinson's will remain a daily struggle. For some, their struggle is obvious, while with others, it would take a fine and sensitive eye to discern that there is a problem. Some people are upfront about what they are going through, while others keep it under wraps and hope that no one notices, until, of course, the natural progression of the disease makes that impossible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">When I set out to write this serial, I hoped to give people a glimpse into what it's like to find the mundane challenging (think coffee bar!), and to live with the knowledge that derech hateva, that challenge will get gradually worse. I hope that through sharing some of my personal trials and triumphs, you will have greater sensitivity for other peoples struggles, even if no problem is evident.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I also hoped to share the results of my research, with the hope that perhaps someone reading it will find a to'eles. And speaking of medical research, I want to share with you that I just read an article about how over a decade ago fetal stem cells were transplanted into the brains of PwP – people with Parkinson's. No improvement was seen for two years, so the researchers thought the trial was a failure. But then, after two years, the PwPs started seeing an improvement in their symptoms and eventually all, if not most, became completely free of any symptoms. New clinical trials (that means they use real human beings with Parkinson's) are presently being held in Europe. So yes, hope for a cure really is on the horizon. In my last article, I discussed depression in Parkinson's and how it's believed to be a result of changes in the brain chemistry. One of my readers pointed out that a powerful and effective class of drugs for treating Parkinson's known as dopamine receptor agonists causes brain chemistry changes that can result in an overwhelming desire to engage in compulsive behaviors, such as compulsive gambling and compulsive shopping! I've heard of people who, after taking these medications, lost their entire savings at the casinos! This is important information for PwP, for if they begin to have such tendencies, just knowing that it's caused by a drug is in itself comforting (Whew! I'm not crazy!) and it goes without saying that they should speak to their neurologist about changing to a different medication without this side effect. For people without Parkinson's, it's important to understand that diseases and drugs impact behaviors and emotions, and that that spouse/friend/child might not be experiencing psychological difficulties. He might just needs different meds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">Quite a few PwP or spouses of PwP have told me that they would really like to participate in a frum support group. I would like to organize a monthly conference telephone support group for frum women with Parkinson's or caring for someone with Parkinson's. If you are interested, please contact me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">And one last pearl of wisdom: Remember, people facing challenges, be it a disease, a divorce, a death, or whatever, are still normal. Life might be complicated, but we still want to have fun; to talk about normal things, like our children, or housework (or lack of housework!) or whatever. Or, from the email of one very wise and delightful woman whose husband has Parkinson's: "Yes i do like to talk abt shopping cuz im normal. Can i act shallow wen life isnt?????"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18.4px;">I cannot close this series without extending a personal invitation to my readers. I live a half hour walk from the Makom Hamikdash. Please, when you come to Yerushalayim to bring your Korbonos, stop in to visit me. Together, we'll run (without my cane, of course) to the Bais Hamikdash to sing a Shira to Hashem. Hopefully, today, and if not, then tomorrow. Ani ma'amin… <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-35011718788341414942016-11-01T22:18:00.003-07:002016-11-01T22:18:54.336-07:00Shattered originally published in Binah, 2010<div class="MsoNormal" dir="LTR" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Cambria; text-align: justify; unicode-bidi: embed;">
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;"><i><b>I consider this one of my best pieces. Enjoy, and I'd love to hear your comments. </b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Part I</span><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel fidgeted nervously with the top button of his collar as he opened it. He took a deep breath, and almost choked on the heavy black smoke billowing out from the bus behind him. It didn't faze him, though. He just shrugged his shoulders and continued staring into nothingness. He noticed a half deteriorated sparrow lying inert in the gutter. At least some cat's going to have a decent supper, he thought. Lucky cat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">At the thought of food, even if it was nothing more than a twisted and bloody sparrow fit for a cat, Shmuel's stomach started rumbling, and he realized, with a start, that he <i>really</i> was hungry. It had been a long time since he had sat down to eat a real meal, at a table, with a knife and fork, surrounded by his family. For months now (was it only months? It seemed like forever) his meals consisted of nothing more than hot dogs and instant mashed potatoes, and, for Shabbos, some canned gefilte fish, cold pastrami and, if he remembered, and had the money, a bit of store-bought cholent. Sometimes, when he was completely broke, he would eat nothing but day old bread and a bit of margarine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">He tried to picture the last time he had actually sat down to eat. Mushroom soup, thick and heavy with <i>pareve </i>cream, freshly fried turkey schnitzel and green beans, oh, and chocolate mousse for desert. His mouth watered at the memory. It had been two and a half months ago, when life was still normal. Before the ultimatum. Then, he had money, a home — everything he ever dreamt of. Now, all he had was debts and a vague feeling that things could have — should have — been different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">For the umpteenth time – for who could possibly count such things? – Shmuel relived the events of that night, the night that Rena had told him that he must make a choice. "This time," she warned him, "it's for real. No false promises. As much as you want to keep them, you can't. If you don't go to a rehab facility and get treatment for your addiction, then that's it. We're finished. I can't continue this way." He shuddered at the memory of the tears coursing down her face, tears that belied the assertiveness of her words <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Don't you trust me?" His question was tinged with anger. "I promise never to set foot in the casino again. I know that it'll take time, but I promise to pay back every penny of the money that I borrowed, and I'll never, ever gamble again — ever. I promise. There's nothing more important to me than you and the children, and I want to be a good father to them, to be part of their — of our — lives." But although these words were uttered with painful sincerity, he knew, deep, deep down, in the deepest recesses of his being, that they were false. His addiction was holding him tight in a suffocating hug, and despite his promises, he knew that he was incapable of extricating himself from its golden tentacles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">He recalled how Rena had looked at him with a sad, wistful smile, trying to appear strong as she blinked rapidly to contain her tears. "I wish I could believe you," she said. "But I can't. You've tried too many times, and I see that you can't possibly do it alone. You need help." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The honking of a passing car brought Shmuel back to the present. He noticed that an ugly black cat, with half an ear and little more than a stump of a tail, had picked up the sparrow's carcass and was carrying it away in its mouth. In the distance, he could see his bus coming. He slowly picked himself off the bench and started to walk along the platform. He was so, so tired. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena walked into the kitchen and counted to ten. She was so, so tired. The kids were finally in bed, but the house looked like a tornado had hit it. And she was hungry; although it was after nine, she still hadn't eaten supper. After nursing the baby, giving the older children supper, their baths, helping them brush their teeth, getting their clothes ready for the morning, reading them a story, saying <i>krias shema</i>, giving a good night kiss, and then lights out, another glass of water and an extra blanket — there was very little time left for her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena began cleaning up the mess. Avrumi had finished only half his egg; almost mechanically she gobbled up the other half. Rivki had barely touched her yogurt; Rena finished it, as she deftly piled the dirty dishes into the sink. She washed her meager supper down with three half finished cups of lukewarm cocoa. Once the table was cleared, she poured herself a cup of hot coffee, and took the box of cookies down from on top of the refrigerator. Half an hour later, the cookies were almost finished. She thought “I really should cook myself a normal meal.” But she was so tired, and there was so much to be done. And besides, she hated to sit by herself to eat. So she made do with cottage cheese and whole wheat crackers. At least that's not fattening, she thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena felt old and beaten, like a cast off piece of wood. Life was a dull, overcast gray. Without realizing what she was doing, she twisted her wedding ring off her finger. Her mind flickered back to that day —almost ten years ago — when she had returned home after her first date with Shmuel. Racing up the front steps, she had tried to hide her smile as she walked through the doorway. Her parents were sitting in the living room, pretending to read the paper as they waited for her to return home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">“How'd it go?” her mother asked, focusing her eyes on the unread newspaper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">“Yeah, he's nice. I had a good time,” was her noncommittal reply. “I guess I'm willing (willing? She was hoping against all hope...) to see him again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel was also willing. Two weeks later, Rena couldn't believe that she — the plain, ordinary girl who blended into the wallpaper, the sweet girl that no one ever noticed — was a <i>kallah</i>. And to such a boy! He had a special way about him; when he spoke, everyone automatically paid attention. Her mother described it as “charisma.” Whatever it was, she knew that she was really lucky. She had won the jackpot! He was so sincere, so real, so sure of himself — everything that she wasn't, everything she wished she could be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The first year of marriage was idyllic. Rena was on cloud nine. Shmuel was so polite. He bought her beautiful presents. She felt so important driving through the neighborhood in his brand new sports car. Although he almost always slept until close to noon, missing morning <i>kollel</i>, she knew that it was because he was a real <i>masmid</i>, a <i>tzaddik nistar</i>, who spent his nights immersed in <i>limud haTorah </i>— well at least that's what he wanted her to believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena's parents, however, were confused. They enjoyed it when Rena and Shmuel came to visit. He knew how to tell a great story when the younger children became rambunctious at the Shabbos table, and when to break the tension with a well placed joke. He sang every song in perfect harmony and he always thanked Rena's mother for the delicious meal. He was slick and polished and knew how to behave. But although she couldn't put her finger on it, Rena's mother was worried. Something didn't seem right. If he was learning in <i>kollel</i>, how could he afford a fancy car? And why didn't her husband ever see him at shul in the morning? A few times she had even found the courage to question him about these things, but his responses always sounded plausible and she certainly didn't feel like playing private detective. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel succeeded in maintaining his charade for three full years. Rena's dreams were rudely shattered shortly after the birth of their second child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">It all began with a telephone call. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena heaved herself up from the rocking chair, gently placed Motti in her cradle and raced across the bedroom – almost tripping on Avrumi's brand new fire engine - to answer the phone before the automatic answering system picked up the call. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Before she even had a chance to say hello, a brusque voice asked, "Is Mr. Shmuel in?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"No, he's not. Can I help you?" she responded, wondering who in the world would call her husband ‘Mr. Shmuel’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"This is Rick. Tell him I called, and that he'd better bring me the $3000 he owes me, or else…"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">At first, the phone calls were few and far between. But eventually the trickle became a torrent, and Rena found herself trembling each time the phone rang. It didn't matter who it was – Bill, Jack, Harry, John – to Rena, they all sounded the same and they always left her shaking with a strange combination of fear, fury and pain. After every phone call, she found herself walking, robot-like, to the cozy comfort of the kitchen to calm herself with a chocolate bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The first few times she confronted Shmuel about the phone calls, he just laughed them off and told her not to worry her pretty head with such nonsense; it was just a jokester playing a weird practical joke. Then he'd quickly mumble something about having to get back to his learning and race out the door, leaving her feeling confused and, strangely enough, humiliated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">But then the calls became more frequent – and more threatening. And then it wasn't just Bill, Jack and Harry; men with names like Dovid, Shimon and Yechezkel were also calling and politely asking her to please inform Shmuel that they had called, and that the loan he had taken from the <i>gemach</i> was long overdue, and that if he didn't come in to take care of it, they'd have to request the money from the guarantors. For some reason, she found these polite phone calls even more jarring than the threatening ones. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena either numbed her fear with chocolate or escaped into the world of fantasy, staying up until the wee hours of the morning reading novels. Occasionally, she dived into her housework with a vengeance that left her dizzy. She couldn't face seeing her dream — her life — shattered into shards. So she continued to pretend that everything was normal. But she knew it was a farce. She wasn't just scared, she was petrified. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel and Rena continued to pretend that everything was normal for over half a year. Then — it was so sudden that it almost seemed unexpected — the bubble burst. Shmuel left in the evening, as usual, to learn, but he forgot to return home. Rena was hysterical. She called the <i>kollel</i>. No, he had never arrived that evening, but then again, why should he? He hadn't learned there for over a year… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">By the time Shmuel appeared at the front door two days later, armed with a crazy story about how he had been so immersed in a question on an Akiva Eiger that he lost all concept of time, Rena was no longer the gullible girl he had married. She had spent the last two days making innumerable phone calls, and she was shocked at what she had discovered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">That night was the first night in the close to four years of their marriage that Shmuel actually spoke — but really spoke — with his wife. When he told her how much money he owed — money that he had borrowed to cover his gambling debts — she let out an involuntary gasp and broke into tears of anger and frustration. He cried, and he pleaded, and he promised that he would never, ever gamble again — ever. He assured her that he would find a job and start paying back all the money he owed, and that although they would have a few rough years ahead of them, eventually they'd get back on their feet. He was so sincere, so real and so sorry for what he had done, that she believed and trusted him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena didn't realize that gambling is an addiction. It's a disease, and once a person is infected, without professional help, all the good intentions in the world won't cure him of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">After that conversation, Shmuel seemed to turn over a new leaf. He found a job and managed to hold it down for close to eight months. But then, the lure of easy money, the excitement, the adrenalin-rush, beckoned him and he was helpless. He <i>had</i> to gamble again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">As he walked through the automatic glass doors of the casino, he was overwhelmed with a strange, almost euphoric feeling. He had no doubt that today would be his lucky day. I'll just make enough to cover my debts, and then I'll stop forever, he promised himself. As he entered the cavernous coat room, he removed a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and transferred it to his back pants pocket. "This is for <i>tzedakah</i>. Please Hashem, for my children's sake, for my wife's sake, and for my own sake, let me win," he mumbled. Now that he had made sure that Hashem would be on his side, he quickly hung up his hat and jacket and strode to the betting tables. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">This time, it took him four days to return home, minus his car — he had sold it for cash, which he had gambled away. Rena was devastated at his betrayal. "But you promised," she kept on repeating. "How could you do go back on your words?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel tried his best to placate her. "I don't know what came over me, but I was positive that Hashem would have <i>rachmanus</i> on me and that I'd win enough to make up for all my previous losses — and then I'd never have to gamble again. It was stupid of me, and I was wrong. I promise that I'll never, ever enter the casino again." With those last words, Shmuel's voice broke and the tears started to flow. How could he live without gambling? But when Rena saw how bad he felt, she forgave him, and took him back into her life and heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel found a seat on the bus and sat, staring out the window with unseeing eyes. The streets of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> were gritty and black, the building facades lining the streets smudged with graffiti. The icy, drizzling rain outside mirrored his emotions; he had put them on ice, like a capped volcano, rumbling within him, waiting to explode. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Whenever he wasn't <i>there</i>, at the gaming table, watching the lighted wheel spin round and round, that horrible scene when he had said goodbye to his wife, his children, his job, <i>normalcy</i>, would play over and over again in his mind. And then, to drown his longing and pain — a deep, searing pain that took his breath away in its intensity — he'd somehow find some money and run — no, race — to the betting tables. There, at least, were people who appreciated him and looked up to him – at least until his money was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Deep inside, he realized that Rena was right for giving him that ultimatum. How many times could she forgive and forget? Yet, although he knew he was wrong, still, he was angry. He needed to gamble, he needed his family, and he wanted to have it all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The bus veered to the left. Shmuel, still slightly unsteady from an all night fling, almost landed in the lap of the man sitting next to him. "Excuse me," he half mumbled under his breath. I might be a<i> nebach, </i>but I'm still a<i> mentch</i>, he thought to himself. The man, wearing an immaculate black overcoat topped with a yeshivah-style hat, smiled politely and continued staring straight ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel recognized him immediately – it was his old friend Chelky. They had gone to the same <i>yeshivah ketanah</i>, and then continued on to the same yeshivah high school. Shmuel felt something sharp twist inside of him. Chelky was always so — so — plain, so simple. Definitely not "<i>shpitz</i>" material, like Shmuel was. Shmuel always felt superior. But now, the tables were turned. Chelky was married and had a good job at an accounting firm. He had seen Chelky's name in conjunction with various <i>tzedakah</i> funds, and had heard that he was a "<i>macher</i>." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Levi Bernhard strode ten steps across the room, pivoted on his left foot, and then strode ten steps back. Back and forth he paced, waving his hands for emphasis as he talked. "The whole situation is completely ludicrous, totally, one hundred percent ridiculous. We can't just abandon him like this. It's a crime; it's not right. If we don't help him, then who will? We're his parents, after all." At the word "parents", Levi stopped for a moment and banged on the side of the bed for emphasis. "He's our <i>bachor</i>. We can't <i>not</i> help him and just leave him to flounder. We must do something for him. He can't <i>starve</i>!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved Bernhard looked at her husband and sighed. This discussion had been going on since last week, when Shmuel had phoned — again. "Ma," he began. (Oh, how her heart melted at those words; her beloved <i>bechor</i>). And then he began crying, sobbing actually. "Ma, I'm sorry," he repeated over and over again. "I promise that I'll never do it again — ever. But now — I promise, it'll be the last time — I need a couple of thousand dollars to cover a debt. I don't even have money to buy food. I'm starving." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved had felt her heart breaking, but it had been broken so many times before. It was always the same story, the same promises, the desperation, the tears. And each time, when Shmuel had ended up gambling their hard earned money away, she felt as if someone had taken a knife and plunged it into her heart. As much as she wished it could, her heart refused to turn into stone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">It didn't make any sense. But then again, nothing made sense anymore. How could anyone take money and just throw it away? How could an intelligent, successful person be so stupid? She felt so sorry for her daughter-in-law, Rena. But she was so helpless. There was nothing she could do. Absolutely nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Last week she and Levi had gone to Benny Reichman, a counselor specializing in gambling. They had hoped that he would give them some type of a plan – something, anything, to hold on to. They had tried so many things. They had given Shmuel money with conditions, stipulated in writing; they had given him money for his rent, his food, his carfare — and each time, they were shocked anew to discover that all the money they gave him was used for gambling. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The counselor had told them that they could — and should — do nothing. "That's right, Mr. and Mrs. Bernhard,” He repeated when he saw their shocked faces. “Nothing. The greatest help is to let him solve this problem himself. Every time you bail him out, you're teaching him that he doesn't have to take responsibility for his actions; that there's someone there to pick up the pieces. He must hit rock bottom; reach a point where he's so low that even <i>he</i> realizes that this is the end, or — and for this we can only pray — the beginning of a new life. Then we can help him get into a good rehabilitation program."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"But what if he falls so low that he'll never be able to pick himself up?" Yocheved asked. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"It's possible that that might happen. But if you keep on helping him, you're just making it worse by abetting his addiction. And if you keep on helping him, he'll never get out of it, ever. Letting go is your only chance." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved and Levi listened, and argued, and listened some more. Finally, they understood what the counselor kept on telling them: their son – their talented, charismatic son -- was addicted to gambling. All their rational arguments, all his promises and sincere pledges, it was all worthless as long as he was under the influence of his addiction. "He's got to really, really want to get better; to realize that recovery is a matter of life and death— which it is. And as painful as it is for you, his parents, to watch your son suffer, he'll only come to that realization if you allow him to actually hit rock bottom."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">It made sense, at least in theory. But now, it was different. It was their son – their son! – who so desperately needed them. How could they let him go hungry? How could they let him be evicted from his tiny rat-infested apartment? His creditors were threatening him; his very life was in danger. The situation was desperate; there was no way he could possibly climb out of it. Yet – the very realization brought a sharp pang of pain to Yocheved's heart – no matter how bad the situation, he always managed to find money to gamble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">As difficult as it was, Yocheved understood that they would have to let their son find his own way, that they could not continue to help him. She walked into the next room and returned with two small white pamphlets – sefrei Tehillim. She handed one to her husband. "Only He can help. Let's daven that our beloved son makes the right decision."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel got off the bus and started walking home. Home? How could he call that dingy, one room flat a home? Last night, two men had appeared at his door and warned him that he had better pay them the money he owes. He had called his parents in hysterics, explaining that his life was in danger, but instead of offering to pay his debt (okay, they always made lots of conditions, but in the end they came through) they told him that they were very, very sorry, but they could not give him any money. Shmuel was furious, and started arguing with them. "You call yourselves <i>frum</i>?" he screamed. "What <i>frum</i> person would refuse to help a starving Jew – and especially if that Jew happens to be their son?" But strangely enough, this time his parents didn't respond. Instead, his mother spoke slowly, with a strength that he had never heard before. "The only help we'll give you is to help you get into an addiction facility." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"I'll go to a facility. I'll get the help I need," Shmuel promised. "But I can't possibly overcome my problems when I'm drowning in debt." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">But the counselor had warned Yocheved that he'd probably respond that way, and Yocheved refused to fall into the trap. "I'm sorry, but we can't help with your debts. You'll have to do that yourself. The only help we can give is to help you get into an addiction facility." With that, Shmuel had heard the phone click.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel was frightened. The world was closing in on him. Everywhere he went, he met people who wanted their money — now. And he couldn't even turn to his parents for help. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena stared at the dishes. She felt so alone, so taken advantage of, and so, so, so fat. The kids needed clothes for the morning, and she still had to prepare their lunches for the next day, and finish cleaning up the supper dishes. She wanted to crawl into her bed and never leave, but she couldn't. She had much too much to do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Without thinking, Rena mechanically took another chocolate bar out of the cupboard. Then she looked down at her housecoat that barely closed; it had been loose when she bought it just a few months ago. "I can't go on like this," she whispered. Somehow, she found the courage and the strength to leave the kitchen and collapse in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">With shaking hands, she called her best friend, Sarah Friedlander. "I can't go on anymore," she began. And then the tears came. "I can't control myself. I can't control my husband. I can't control my eating. I can't control my life. I'm a loser – except when it comes to my weight, of course – and with those words she giggled despite her tears –I feel that I'm on a rollercoaster that's speeding out of control, that there's no way out. I'm trapped." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Sarah listened quietly. There was so much pain hidden within each and every word. She wanted to hug Rena and tell her that everything would be all right, but she intuitively understood that that was not what she needed. Rena didn't need magic; she needed something real. And so she waited until Rena was finished, and then she talked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel felt that the world was falling apart; there was no way out, no place to escape to. He was terrified: terrified that his creditors would find him; terrified that he would spend the night sleeping on the street, hiding under a dirty, old newspaper; terrified that he would end up starving to death. He was startled to realize that even greater than all these nightmares was the fear of not having the money to gamble. It was a fear worse than death, and even as he shook from terror, a tiny voice of sanity within him told him that he had gone mad. And that was really frightening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">----<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved glanced at her husband. His knuckles were white from grasping the small paperback <i>sefer</i>, his face was red from concentration. She was so immersed in her <i>tefillos</i> that she wasn't at all embarrassed by the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. Time seemed to stand still. She had never felt such despair, and yet, amazingly enough, it was intermingled with a sliver of hope. For the first time in her life, she was praying with every fiber of her being. As she gently closed the <i>sefer Tehillim</i>, she suddenly started speaking to Hashem in her own words, begging the only One who could help her son, to put it into his heart to ask for help.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena listened, and she was speechless. When she finally got her voice back, she said incredulously. "You mean to say that the reason why I'm not coping is because I'm trying to cope, that the situation really is too difficult for me? And that instead of trying to manage on my own, I should start asking for help?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Yes," her friend replied. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you for the last half hour, but it seems like you're a bit of a slow learner…" She heard Rena laugh. "Rena," she continued, suddenly serious again, "you're collapsing. You're in an impossible situation, and you can't do it alone. You have to reach out and get help." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"But that would be saying that I'm no good, that I can't manage. People will think that I'm a failure."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Who ever manages? And why is success or failure defined by what other people think of you?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"I guess… well, yeah, you're probably right," Rena somehow managed to get the words out, to admit that she's human. "I certainly can't continue the way I'm going. And you know, Sara, it suddenly occurred to me that here I am, telling Shmuel that he had better change his life around; get help for his addiction, and yet, I can't even stop myself from eating chocolate. Whenever life gets to be too much for me — the kids start screaming, I'm too exhausted to continue —I turn to it. I must be a chocoholic… a real chocolate addict…" by now the two women were laughing hysterically at the crazy comparison. "Do you think there's a rehabilitation center for chocolate addiction. Who knows? Maybe Shmuel and I can go to one together… wouldn't that be sweet… how, how… well, how… it'll be like being newly weds all over again…" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">But even as she shook in laughter, Rena felt another emotion welling up within her: hope. "Sara, this is going to sound totally insane…" But really, it just occurred to me, maybe… maybe if I try to change something about myself, then somehow it'll give Shmuel the koach to also make changes. I mean, we are married; there's a deep spiritual connection between us, even if he doesn't live in the house with me. I can't force him to go for help, but just the mere fact that I’m willing to get help, to admit that I'm not perfect, maybe that will give him the strength to get the help he so desperately needs.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Okay, Rena," Sara said. Rena could hear Sara's smile over the phone. "Tomorrow I'm arranging for some Bais Yaakov girls to take the kids to the park so that you can get some rest. It's impossible for you to anything when you're so exhausted." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved was exhausted. For the first time in her life, she had prayed with a painful intensity that sapped every drop of her energy, and yet, strangely enough, left her feeling both refreshed and hopeful. She pushed herself up from the plush, deep cushions of the sofa and walked to the other room to wash her tear stained face. It was late, and they hadn't eaten supper yet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Twenty minutes later, over scrambled eggs and toast, Levi and Yocheved were still so exhausted from the intensity of their emotions that they ate in comfortable silence. It wasn't until Yocheved stood up to clear the table that Levi finally spoke. "We've done whatever we could. Now we just have to accept that it's not in our hands and…" his voice broke, "continue davening." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">At the thought of gambling, Shmuel felt the adrenaline surge through his body. It wasn't that he wanted to gamble, he <i>needed</i> to gamble. But he didn't have a penny to his name. He was standing outside a hardware store. A crazy thought flitted into his head: I'll walk into that store, pocket a few gadgets and sell them on a street corner. It's not stealing – I'm just borrowing it until I win. Then I'll return it, and I'll give twenty percent to <i>tzedakah</i>." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Look at how low you've fallen<b><i>,</i></b> another, quieter voice piped up within him. Look at how far you've fallen! You're nothing more than a common thief. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel gasped. The realization of what he was about to do – what he was aching to do – hit him so hard that he turned sharply around and started running. He had to get away, quickly, he knew that he couldn't hold out much longer before the compulsion would overcome him and he wouldn’t be able to escape.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Right now, the only way out was up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;"> PART III</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Mrs. Bernhard, you must understand that your husband is sick. It's not about you, or the kids, or your relationship. It's about him and his sickness. He needs help, and when, someday — hopefully sooner than later — he asks for it, you are going to need to help him. I'm not referring to giving him money for food, or letting him back into your life; that's actually counterproductive. I'm talking about real help; forcing him to face his problem head on, and to begin taking steps toward recovery. And for that, you have to be strong, and happy with whom you are."</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena's friend, Sara, had encouraged her to speak with Dr. Tahl, a world famous addiction specialist. At first she had balked at the idea. Shmuel was the one with the problem, not her. Eventually, she allowed herself to be persuaded to go and hear what he had to say.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"But Doctor," she interrupted him, "sometime he tells me that he has no money for food, or that his creditors are going to kill him, or that he'll end up in jail. It's all so, so terrible. I can't let him starve, or go to jail…"</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"What will happen if he goes to jail?"</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"It'll be terrible. He'll be stuck there. How humiliating…" </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Is that any worse than what's happening now?" The question was sharp, but the tone was gentle, and the eyes radiated compassion.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">She didn't answer, but her silence said it all.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"It's possible that he might fall that low, and if he does, it might force him to face his problems. But hopefully, it won't get to that point. Mrs. Bernhard, you're a religious woman. You believe in G-d. Put your faith in Him and pray that your husband reaches out for help. And when he does – and not before that – stretch out your hand to help him climb out of the abyss."</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">When Shmuel stopped running, he was gasping for breath and could barely stand from sheer physical exhaustion. He had never been so frightened in his life. And the source of that fear was an ominously dark side of him that threatened to drag him lower and lower, to a place where he knew – and he shuddered at the very thought – he would never be able to pull himself out of. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">His hand automatically went to his front pocket, to his cell phone. But then he remembered; last night he had sold it for a few more dollars – enough to play one more round at the casino. He didn't even bother opening his wallet. He knew it was empty.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel looked around and saw that he was lost, and the very thought made his lips turn up into a half-smile. "I'm really lost," he muttered to himself. "Really, really lost. But I'm goin' to find my way home…I'm really goin' to find my way home." At the thought, his smile became real and he started to chuckle. He was going home! Home, to Rena and the kids and a normal, happy life! For the first time in months, he walked with firm, strong steps, hoping that he'd soon find a recognizable landmark to begin the long trek back to where he belonged.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Levi Bernhard gulped down the last of his coffee and with a thump, banged the empty mug on the blue and yellow checkered tablecloth. Yocheved looked up from the magazine she was reading. She had been married long enough to know that when her husband put down his coffee like that, he was really upset. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"It's totally ridiculous," he began.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">There was no need for him to explain what was ridiculous. For the last two months almost every conversation revolved around Shmuel and his addiction.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"I also feel helpless," she said. "But what can we do?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">“Nothing," Levi almost screamed the word. "Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!" he repeated, pounding on the table for emphasis. "So here we are, sitting in our lovely home, enjoying ourselves, eating delicious food, and… and watching our son slowly commit suicide — and our hands are tied. But is he coming around? No! Is anything different? No! Yocheved, we <i>can’t</i> leave him like this. It's crazy."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved sighed. How many times had they rehashed this? When, oh when, would Shmuel finally reach rock bottom? And when he did, would he actually try to climb out of the abyss?</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Levi, we have no choice. We just have to wait for him to come back, and when he's finally ready to go for real help, to be there for him; to support him on his journey toward recovery. To give him the things he needs – love, support, commitment – rather than the things he wants."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Levi couldn't help but smile. "You'd make a great therapist, Yocheved; you sound exactly like that addiction counselor, what's his name? Oh, Benny Reichman. But seriously, how long can we wait? And what about our <i>tzadekes</i> of a daughter-in-law; she needs a husband…and our precious grandchildren…" his voice cracked, "how long can they be without a father? It can't continue like this. It can't…"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena was enjoying the quiet. The supper dishes were soaking in the sink, thanks to the Bais Yaakov girl who had helped her with the evening bath and pajama routine. From her easy chair in the living room, she could hear Avrumi and Rivki giggling in the bedroom. "I must call Sara and thank her again for sending these girls to help me," she reminded herself. Life was looking good, and she was startled to realize that she was actually enjoying being alone. And that that moment of clarity was, in itself, exquisitely painful.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel slowed his pace and thought, I'll call my parents and tell them that I don't even have money to get on a bus. They'll help me. They'll never let me starve. At the thought of money, his heart began pumping faster, and his palms became sweaty. Money!<b><i> </i></b>The solution to all my problems. With money, I can do anything. With money, I'll be a somebody. He looked around him at the crowded sidewalk, and held out his palm. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The phone rang. Yocheved jumped out of her chair and rushed to answer it.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Ma…"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">She'd recognize that voice anywhere. Shmuel.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Ma, it's me. Shmuel."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved looked at her husband.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Shmuel?" he mouthed. She nodded her head.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Yes, Shmuel. How are you?" Remember what Benny said. Don't enable him. Don't give in to him.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Ma, for the last two weeks I've had nothing to eat but stale bread and hard boiled eggs. I don't even have money for a bus ticket. I'm beyond miserable. I can't go on any longer. Please help me, Ma. I'm desperate." </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved took a deep breath. "What type of help are you asking for?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"I need a couple of hundred dollars, for groceries and bus fare. I promise, <i>mamash</i> promise, that I won’t use any of it – not a single penny- for gambling. I want to find a job, and start living a normal life. Go back to my family. But I can't do that if I don't have anything. I can't walk around looking like a beggar. It's not…"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Yocheved grasp on the telephone was so tight that her knuckles had turned white. "I'm sorry, Shmuel," she interrupted him in a calm, cool voice. Benny would be proud of me, she thought. "Tatty and I can't give you money. I'm so, so sorry. But you're always welcome to vis…". She stopped. She was talking to herself. Her son had hung up on her.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel walked out of the phone booth in disgust. He felt this insane urge to walk into a store and pocket something- anything. Instead, he stood on the corner and held out his palm. With a start, he realized that he was trembling.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"I hope I did the right thing. How could I…" The tears were coursing down Yocheved's face, but she didn't even bother to wipe them. "Who knows what will happen to him now?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Levi tried to smile. "Right now, there's only one way he can go – up."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">@ @ @</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Three hours later, Shmuel plopped down on the curb and began counting the money – thirty seven dollars and seventy five cents. Not bad. He separated the bills to fit them neatly into his wallet, and discovered among the green notes was a smudged sheet of paper, carefully folded into eighths. It was a letter.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><b><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Dear Friend,</span></i></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><b><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">I know what you're going through, because I've been there too. Then someone gave me this number, and this guy, Arnie Wexler, really helped me pull my life back together. I want to pass on the good deed, so from one gambler to another, call 1-888-LASTBET (1-888-527-8238) and begin the road to recovery.</span></i></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><b><i><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">From someone who understands and cares about your welfare.</span></i></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel gave a short, cynical laugh as he crushed the letter into a tiny ball. With a vengeance, he thrust it into the deep recesses of his pocket.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">But two days later, after losing the thirty seven dollars and seventy five cents at the casino, despite his promise to himself to move forward, begging on the street for more, losing that, and then spending the night on a dirty park bench, wondering how he'd ever make his way to his dingy one room apartment – he refused to call it home — he managed to beg a few quarters from a passerby and started walking toward the bus station. Then he remembered the letter.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Arnie was just about ready to jump into the shower when the phone rang. It was the hotline. "Hello," he boomed in his warm, welcoming voice. "Thank you for calling. This is Arnie. How can I help you?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"I... uh.... I got your number," Shmuel began. "I heard you help people stop gambling," he continued, feeling strange and silly.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">But twenty minutes later, he somehow found himself agreeing to meet the following day with Arnie and some Rav cum psychiatrist. And when he hung up the phone, he was surprised to find that his cheeks were wet.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"You know, Sarah…" Rena was sitting on her favorite easy chair in the living room, one hand wrapped around a steaming hot mug of lemon tea, the other holding the telephone receiver to her ear. "I really feel that I've grown over the last few months. I'm not the same person that I was just half a year ago. I used to think that my whole being – my entire identity – depended on what other people thought of me, especially on what Shmuel thought of me. This <i>nisayon </i>has really shown me just how strong and capable I really am, and that I don’t need that confirmation from others. I can get it from deep within myself.”</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Sarah’s happiness was genuine when she said. "You know, Rena, you're a pretty great you! And I have no doubt that when Shmuel gets over his problems, he'll be pleasantly surprised to discover what a wonderful woman you've become. You're strong and happy with yourself and you'll be able to share that optimism and strength with him. " </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">For the first time in months, Rena felt more than a faint glimmer of hope. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;"><br />Shmuel was shocked. Arnie looked just the way he thought he would; clean shaven and balding, his face lit up with a warm, gregarious smile. But the psychiatrist — with a wispy gray beard and <i>peyos</i>, looked more like a Rosh Yeshivah than a <i>shrink</i></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">When Arnie stood up and extended his hand, his face crinkled into an even wider smile, much to Shmuel's astonishment. "Arnie here," he said, his handshake firm. "And this is the psychiatrist I told you about, Rabbi Abraham Twerski. He's a world-renowned expert on addictions, and he's helped hundreds, if not thousands, of people like me and you."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel gave a nervous cough. "I'm not an addict. I just like to gamble It's not as if…"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Have you ever tried to stop?" Rabbi Twerski interrupted him. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Of course, but…"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rabbi Twerski didn't let him continue. "Did you?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Yes, for a while. But then…"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rabbi Twerski looked directly into Shmuel's eyes and asked, "Shmuel, what has gambling done to your life?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel didn't answer; he couldn't.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Here, take a look at this," said Arnie, handing him a sheet of paper. "Does any of this sound familiar?"</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">A compulsive gambler is someone who:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">1.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">is preoccupied with gambling (e.g., preoccupied with reliving past gambling experiences, planning the next venture, or thinking of ways to get money with which to gamble)</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">2.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">needs to gamble with increasing amounts of money in order to achieve the desired excitement</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">3.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">has repeated unsuccessful efforts to control, cut back, or stop gambling</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">4.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">is restless or irritable when attempting to cut down or stop gambling</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">5.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">gambles as a way of escaping from problems or of relieving a dysphoric mood (e.g., feelings of helplessness, guilt, anxiety, depression.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">6.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">after losing money gambling, often returns another day in order to get even ("chasing" one's losses)</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">7.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">lies to family members, therapist, or others to conceal the extent of involvement with gambling</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">8.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">has committed illegal acts, such as forgery, fraud, theft, or embezzlement, in order to finance gambling</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">9.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">has jeopardized or lost a significant relationship, job, or educational or career opportunity because of gambling</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;">10.<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span dir="LTR"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 14pt;">relies on others to provide money to relieve a desperate financial situation caused by gambling</span></span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel found himself nodding as he read the list. "That's me all right," he admitted. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Shmuel," Rabbi Twerski began, his expression suddenly very serious, "Addictive gambling is a degenerative and very dangerous disease. Without treatment, you'll either end up in jail, or dead, and in the process, you'll end up ruining lots of other people's lives too. Even if you want to stop, without professional help it's impossible, yet no one can help you unless you really, truly want to get that help. It's only once you realize that you're powerless over gambling, and that your life has become unmanageable, that you can begin the road to recovery. You have to know what you're dealing with; it's a compulsion that's much greater than yourself."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel nodded. Rabbi Twerski had articulated what he sensed to be true.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Arnie grasped Shmuel's hand. "You know, Shmuel. I've been there. It's a slippery slope leading straight downwards, but as much as you want to stop, you can't. You have no control over it."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Shmuel," Rabbi Twerski looked straight at him. "Gambling is an addiction, just like any other addiction. As time goes on, your body needs it in greater amounts to experience the thrill it experienced before." He paused for a moment, before continuing, "T hat's a medical fact. So just like an alcoholic can never become a social drinker, and a drug addict has to swear off all drugs, a compulsive gambler can never, ever, <i>ever</i> gamble – even a seemingly harmless game of Bingo can trigger the compulsion." As Rabbi Twerski spoke, Arnie slipped out of the room.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"So what you're telling me is that there's nothing I can do? My body craves that high, and I'll end up a slave to that compulsion forever? There's no way out?" Shmuel felt depleted; worthless.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"That's the paradox," Rabbi Twerski continued with a twinkle in his eye. "You can't recover until you realize that you can't. It's so simple; <i>you</i> can't – it's much too big for you — but Hashem can. Stop trying to be in control, turn it over to Him, and then get the help and the support that you need so that you won't end up a slave to your addiction. It's simple, but it's far –very, very far - from easy."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena had almost finished with putting away the last of the laundry when the phone rang. She quickly finished pairing the last of Avrumi's socks and raced to answer. She didn't recognize the number.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Is this Shmuel's wife, Mrs. Bernhard?" a stranger asked. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena felt a wave of fear and despair. Not another debt, another warning, she thought.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Yes," she replied. “But Shmuel doesn't live here anymore." <b>And I'm not responsible for his behavior</b>, either.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"This is Arnie Wexler," the man continued. She could sense the care and empathy in his voice. "My colleague, Rabbi Twerski, is speaking with your husband right now. He's hit rock bottom, and now he needs our help in climbing the slippery road to recovery."</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rena plopped down on the edge of the couch, stunned and confused. This is what she had been <i>davening</i> for, but, was she ready? "Wh…what do you want me to do? Am I supposed to accept him with open arms, after everything he's done to me and our children? How many times can I have my hopes dashed when he returns to gambling, after giving me his solemn promise that he would stop?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"Mrs. Bernhard, no one is asking you to accept him with open arms. But he has to know that you care for him, are cheering for him – and most important of all, that you are praying for him. He's probably going to have to spend about half a year in a rehab facility, and when he comes out, he'll have to continue going to meetings and support groups for the rest of his life. It's not going to be easy – not for you and definitely not for him – but if you're strong, he'll sense that strength, and then, with G-d's help, I'm positive that you'll both succeed." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"It won't be easy." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Shmuel had to lower his eyes from the intensity of Rabbi Twerski gaze. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"You're going to have to rip open your innermost being and rebuild it from the bottom up. But when you're finished, you'll be a different man. You'll realize your shortcomings and try to correct them, and you'll do what is necessary to stay clean of gambling. Shmuel, I have no doubt that you can do it!" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">Rabbi Twerski began leafing through an address book as he looked for a phone number. "Shmuel, if you agree, I'd like to call the treatment center and ask them to admit you. But I can't do that without your permission. Are you willing to go to whatever lengths are necessary to free yourself from your addiction?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">"You bet," he responded, with a twinkle in his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">And he won the bet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "courier new";"><i><span style="font-family: "courier new"; font-size: 14pt;">The author would like to thank Rabbi Abraham Twerski and Arnie Wexler for their reviewing the manuscript and providing their professional input. Arnie Wexler can be contacted at <b><span style="color: black;">1-888-527-8238.</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<br />debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3360949314995236187.post-54942540544091864342016-10-31T01:01:00.000-07:002016-10-31T01:01:11.157-07:00The Day Bubby was (Almost) Arrested<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jerusalem’s light rail is amazing, really. It takes me to
where I want to go in minutes. The busses — they jerk their way through traffic
as I hang on for dear life. More often than not, as I place my magnetic public
transportation pass on the little machine that takes my fare while
simultaneously grabbing the receipt (we women are born jugglers!), the driver abruptly
pulls away from the curb, only to jam on the brakes a moment later to let a car
through. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But the light rail! Ah, the light rail speeds smoothly
through the city. The cars are immaculate, the air conditioning is just right —
not too hot, and not too cold — and its big, wide, clean windows let me enjoy
the scenery, which of course is magnificent. After all, it’s Yerushalayim Ir
Hakodesh. What could possibly compare to the towering walls of the Old
City? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, the light
rail really is wonderful. Yet, each time I alight, I secretly tremble that <u>I
might</u> have another encounter with (rolling drum sound, this is dramatic)
THE TRAIN GUARDS. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jerusalam’s</span></u><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> light rail operates on
an honor system. There are several automatic ticket readers at the entrance to
each train, and it’s the passengers responsibility to pay by placing his Rav
Kav (a magnetic public transportation pass) over the ticket reader upon
entering the train. I’m an honest citizen – I pay my taxes, I pay my library
dues, and I even somehow manage to pay my grocery bill – and I have absolutely
no desire whatsoever to cheat the train system. At least not on purpose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And here begins my tale of woe. It all started out when I did
something really stupid: I went to a doctor when I wasn’t feeling well (Nothings
worse than dealing with </span><a href="https://www.google.co.il/search?safe=strict&biw=1600&bih=799&noj=1&q=bureaucracy&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjKzP3MrcTOAhUFWxQKHcZSAVUQBQgZKAA"><span style="background: white; color: windowtext; font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">bureaucracy</span></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> when
all you want to do is lie in bed and groan). The problem was that a huge <i>levayah</i>
was taking place at the same time that I finished my appointment. Many streets
were closed off, and I knew from experience that traffic would be a nightmare. It
would be much easier, and faster, for me to get home with public transportation
rather than with a taxi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Of course I paid my fare upon entering the bus. The fare
included an automatic transfer to the light rail, which is probably the reason
why, when I placed my Rav Kav on train’s ticket reader, I didn’t really notice
if it was followed by a green light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The two train guards, a young man and woman, strutted into
the car at the Shivtei Yisrael station, one stop before I was supposed to get
off. I saw them coming toward me, checking Rav Kavs, and since I was afraid of
missing my stop, I quickly handed my Rav Kav to the female guard, before she even
requested it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The guard placed it in her electronic ticket reader. But
instead of handing it right back to me, the second guard immediately appeared
at her side and together they ordered me to get off the train. “That’s exactly
what I’m doing,” I replied. “This is my stop. Please give me back my Rav Kav.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> “You’ll get it back
when, and if, we decide to give it to you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Huh? This was not what I was expecting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The woman sitting across from me whispered, “Run quickly!
These guys are dangerous.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me? Run? I could barely walk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What did I do?” I wasn’t feigning innocence. I really had
no idea what they wanted from me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The female guard glared at me and pulled out her cell
phone. “Come with us. We’re calling the police. You rode the train without
paying.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Huh? What are you talking about?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I still didn’t get it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I struggled to my feet, she shouted, “You got on the
train without paying.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Around me, there was utter silence. Everyone was staring
at me. I was afraid that she’d handcuff me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I tried to argue. “But
I DID pay. And besides, if I was a thief, I would never have shoved the Rav Kav
under your face. I would have stood by the door and raced off the train.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“You can tell that to the judge.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By this time we had gotten off the train and were standing
on the platform. “The judge?” I gulped. “You mean for two shekels, eighty
agurot (the equivalent of about $0.60) you’re going to take me to court? That’s
insane.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Ah, so you’re claiming that we’re insane! You’re going to
have a lot of explaining to do in front of the judge.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I was speechless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The guard extended her hand. “<i>Teudat zehut</i>,
please.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Gulp. “I didn’t bring it with me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The guards looked at each other. “Well, now,” they said
with a smirk, “how often do you travel on the train?” Every day?” It was
obvious that they were thinking, “Without paying.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I don’t know. Not that often.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Another smirk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By now I was feeling really, really sick. I was beginning
to see double. The world was turning black. I wanted my Rav Kav back, and I
need to get into bed, NOW. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I respectfully asked the guards to please return my Rav
Kav and let me go home. I was about to continue to say that I’d pay whatever
fine they’d want me to pay, just let me go home so that I can get into bed, but
before I had a chance they started to laugh at me, and then repeated that I
could tell my whole story to the judge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In their eyes I was a convicted criminal, and all because
of two shekel, eighty agurot! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I really didn’t plan to burst into tears. It just happened.
I had a total meltdown. “I don’t feel well,” I managed to blurt out between heaving
sobs. “I’ll pay the fine, I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t make me
stand here any longer. I have to get into bed, NOW.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The two guards glanced at each other. “You really aren’t
feeling well. I guess that’s why you forgot to pay (hmmm….).” The woman gave a
slight, almost imperceptible smile. “Just don’t do this again. You have to pay
each time you get on the train. Make sure that the green light goes through.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The male guard interrupted her. “We’ll let you go. But
first, you have to pay. I’ll get on the next train and put the card through for
you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The next train wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another ten
minutes. By now the tears were coming fast and furious. I really, really needed to get into my bed. Immediately!
“I can’t wait another ten minutes. I don’t feel good. I need my bed. PLEASE let
me go home!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A train traveling in the opposite direction was pulling
into the station. The male guard ran across the tracks in front of the incoming
train, jumped on the train to put my pass through, and then gallantly ran
across the tracks to return my Rav Kav to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> “<i>Refuah shleimah</i>,”
he said <u>with a smile as he</u> me my Rav Kav. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">. <br />
“Just don’t forget to pay next time you get on the train,” the female guard
added. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I thanked them and then turned around to walk home. I went
straight to bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I learned an important lesson that afternoon: Tears can
penetrate even the thickest walls and hearts. After all, the gate of tears is never
closed. Even <u>if it’s</u> after Hoshanah Rabbah. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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debbie shapirohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09611764362213769387noreply@blogger.com0