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Category: Grace and Kindness
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People are not disposable to me, and the following letter to my former boss proves just that. I am not allowed to send it, which I understand, but I just needed to write it.
Paul,
When we gathered in the library two Fridays ago for an emergency meeting, I linked arms so tightly with Kelly. Steve had summoned us there, and your absence was so palpable. Fearing the worst, we braced ourselves for the shock of hearing that another heart attack had claimed a person we loved so dearly.
Boy, did we get that one wrong! What we heard left us shaken to the core and feeling like one of us just might perish from a myocardial infarction. And, we didn’t even know the real punchline to what we deemed some sort of surreal “joke” at that point.
I have to tell you that never in a million years would I have thought your arrest would arrive this way. Getting in a bar fight, driving under the influence, even doing the dirty with a mommy or a staff member were quite plausible possibilities with you, and there would be nary a flinch from most of us if one of those scenarios came to fruition. After all, you lived life on the edge, and we loved you for it. But, the story that was exposed was so vile, so heinous, so unexpected, and so out of character that so many of us still can’t wrap our heads around it.
Social media is destructive; you told the kids that all the time. You would sit them down and drill through them that what one does on social media can cause lifetime damage. You spoke of sharing with your own kids that they should be hyper-vigilant about posting anything that could be even slightly questionable, even mentioning that Snapchat posts do not disappear after 10 seconds. You would hold assemblies where you would rage with frustration that you had spent the entire day with Seth and with cops, immersed in HIB investigations resulting from cyber-harassment. Pardon my French, but what the hell?
You are everywhere. Somebody sent an email out the other day after finding a pair of Foster Grants reading glasses, and I imagined you answering that email with the old slogan, “Isn’t that you behind those Foster Grants?” When I’m driving and one of Pink’s songs plays, my mind goes to you and to your crush on her. Last week was the Advisory Day Senior Prom, and I just kept thinking about the number of marriage proposals you missed out on from the female octogenarians, who, like us, found you so charming.
Walking into the building and seeing your once vibrant office devoid of even the slightest shrapnel of you is downright eerie. Such a powerful presence for so long, now just a door without a nameplate. Stories spin in our heads as we try to make sense of what will happen to you, to us, to the people of Denville, and, most importantly, to the thousands of children who revered you and who will now forever question even what seems certain to them.
Personally, you were my rock, my friend, and my vault. You were one of the five who knew my story and my pain, and you provided me with a sanctuary. For 7 hours each day, my classroom allowed me to be 100% in the now, with no time to visit my tragic past. I would tell the kids that they were, like Alanis Morrissette sang, “the best platform from which to jump beyond myself.” Paul, your laissez-faire approach to administrating made me a better teacher, and it was a win-win for both of us. You left me alone, and, without sounding egomaniacal, I was able to shine at what I did. God, I miss you.
Valleyview will survive and move forward. Seth will continue to steer the ship, and we’ll all be his first mates and stay afloat. It will take a while, but this story will be replaced by another shocker. That’s how life goes. What will remain, however, are the questions surrounding your hidden heartbreak that led you to a very dark place. May you get the help you need, because so many of us know that it wasn’t our Paul who behaved so irresponsibly, dangerously, and narcissistically. It was somebody who was determined to hit rock bottom, aided by the heavy anchor of a complicated and disturbing past.
God bless you, my friend.
Marla
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I woke up about 5:30 this morning, which is late for a work day but early for a weekend. Though my practical mind was telling me to stay up and finish my SGO, PDP, Domain 4, and PD Log, my lazy self was promoting just a few more minutes of shuteye. It is typically during these “just a few more minutes” moments when the nightmares occur, so I really did combat my lazy self when she told me to go back to sleep.
My Rebecca, also known as my Mishamooey, was in my dream this morning, and she was resting on me. My arm was lovingly around her, as it so often was when she was in my life. There had certainly been palpable tension amongst the various ensemble characters in my dream, but for five or so magical minutes, my Rebecca surrendered and let me love her. I was actually crying when I woke up.
It is Rebecca who is a mini-me in personality. Though she looks just like Jay, her joie de vivre and creative wit mimic mine. Unfortunately, I think that she, too, shares two faces – the animated face for the general world and the injured one for her own mirror. While I am certain that her demons have been blamed on me and the “mental illness” with which they have all diagnosed me, I can’t help but think of Jay’s maternal grandmother and her life in an institution. I’m also reminded of Jay’s youngest brother, who, on Passover, tried to kill himself by slitting his throat at his wife’s cousin’s house. Boy, were they able to answer the question, “Why is this night different from all other nights?”
Today, Trump is rallying his supporters with a new mind fuck. His current mantra is “Investigate the investigators,” which is, yet again, what sociopaths do. Taking his abhorrent and psychotic behavior and projecting it onto the good guys is dangerous and destructive, and he does it so seamlessly. He’s the master of “gaslighting,” a term I learned when my dad, years into his Alzheimer’s, warned me that Jay was doing to me.
For now though, I will think of my dream and of my Rebecca. I will smile as I think of my little Mishamooey in her favorite crab outfit, the one with the turquoise top and spandex pants. I will cherish the memories of my Beckles with her bottle hanging out of her mouth, wearing only tights and her guitar. I will laugh at my Boo pretending to be Taylor Swift and singing into her hairbrush, and I will stare at her prom pictures, in shock that somebody could be that beautiful. Most importantly, I will pray that she is well and happy, pregnant if she wants to be, and that maybe one day I’ll actually be able to hug her for real.
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Zachary left me four years ago today, and I’ll never understand why he didn’t show up at my house for the second night of Passover. I have his message from the night before, telling me he was jealous that I was heading to the Billy Joel concert and that he couldn’t wait to see me the following evening. I never heard from him, and he never showed.
It’s getting harder for me to deal with my “tragedy;” the more time that passes just hurls more reminders at me. Tonight was going to be an Olive Garden night, but all I hear in my head is Rebecca, with her way of making everything funny, saying the name “Gardin de Oleeve.” She would get so excited when she could get her Chicken Scampi, and I just miss her so much. I miss them all so much.
My mother has been writing me one sentence emails lately. Today she wished me a good vacation and sent me all her love. She thinks that makes up for the ostracism, abandonment, humiliation, and not loving me. I was going to send her what I’ve posted below, but instead I just wrote, “Happy Passover.”
Mom,
My vacation begins on the 19th.There is no therapist, medicine, partner, or salute to my strength that can take away my pain of not having my children in my life. Reminders are everywhere, from the Humira commercials to the Uncrustables in the supermarket to the children on the streets saying any version of my favorite word – Ma, Mama, Mom, or Mommy. Against your guidance, my entire identity was wrapped up in being a mom, and I did a darn good job at it (regardless of whatever fabrications have been told and altered to support this ostracism).There is also no ersatz message of love from you that can make up for the fact that you break bread with my ex-husband, a man who sought and still seeks to destroy me. You made the choice you did, deciding to be a part of Lisa’s story. Sadly, the moment I came into this world began Lisa’s unhealthy fear that I would infringe on her value and her due, and we never really connected as siblings should. For that reason, I encouraged my children to be a team and to always stick together.I’ve reached out to you over the past months and years because I love you and I wanted to believe that you loved me. I actually needed you to explain to me how your Sophie’s choice was so effortless. I miss all of my children so completely, and my love for them was always and still is unconditional. And, I’d give my eyeballs for one of them to write me an honest note like this and end it with, “I love you, Mommy.”Wishing you a happy and enlightening Passover with your growing family. -
The flu was going around my school in February, and many were down for the count, including me. A 104.4 degree temperature had me at the doctor, where I tested positive for Type A and Type B flu. My cough was constant, as was my general feeling of malaise.
I wasn’t getting better, even with Tamiflu, and I went back to the doctor. Turns out I had a side of pneumonia with my double flu, so antibiotic, steroids, and an inhaler were prescribed. Missing almost 2 weeks of school, I was miserable.
On February 28th, a day that has never been a lucky day for my family, I received a lengthy Explanation of Benefits for Zachary. There were sheets of doctor visits, and the progression of the entries left me paralyzed with worry. From the many physician appointments, another CT Scan of his breast, bloodwork (including pathology and toxicology), and a procedure/surgery, my mind went to a dark and terrifying place. I just prayed and prayed that my son would be okay, highlighting that his health was all that mattered and that even if it meant I would never be in his life, I only wanted him to be healthy.
This past Thursday, Jay wrote me a lengthy note in which he shared that Zachary was having trouble with the insurance company. He told me that he knows that Zack’s health is of the utmost importance to me, and that Zack had been to many doctors, along with the Emergency Room, for headaches and fatigue. What Jay didn’t mention was the CT Scan of the breast or anything about Zack’s health throughout the 4 years since Zack walked out of my life. Per our divorce agreement, Zack was supposed to keep me informed. After all, I held up my end of the agreement and kept Zack insured.
It turns out that Zachary had Epstein-Barr and another virus that was similar to herpes. Relieved doesn’t come close to describing how I felt, as I had been thinking the worst since February 28th. I’m not sure why he had the CT Scan of his breast; I’ll assume all was okay with that, just as I had to do with the CT Scan he had three years ago.
Jay’s note explained that Horizon needed to know (from the primary insurance holder) if Zack or I had any other insurance. Apparently, the doctors were telling Zachary that the claims weren’t paid, as the Coordination of Benefits needed to be updated. Jay told me that obviously I would need to call, and he wrote that he and Zack really appreciate my taking care of this.
It baffles me why my 25-year-old son couldn’t reach out to me himself. Zack and I were so close, and, per a colleague at school, “I don’t think any mom ever loved her son more.” Jay reached out, but it wasn’t to inform me. It was merely because he needed something from me. The thought that he would have to pay those balances was terrifying to him, and I’m sure that he told all of the family that he wrote me such a gracious letter as he continued to keep me updated on Zachary’s health. That’s what sociopaths do. They lie, they manipulate, and they project.
I made the phone call. The claims are being adjusted.
The father of one of the Sandy Hook children committed suicide today. They say you never really get over the loss of a child. How about the loss of three?
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Dear Rabbi Fellner,
I hope this note finds you and Judy well, and I’m wishing the both of you, along with Michelle and her family, the happiest and healthiest 2019.
Rabbi, as you know, the grapevine in Livingston is interminable and unforgiving. You
might have heard the news that Jay and I went through a vicious and tragic divorce several years back, and I lost all that ever mattered to me – my children (my adult children). I’ve been living in the 11th circle of Dante’s Inferno, the one reserved for moms who gave their all and devoted their lives to their children, only to wind up humiliated, ostracized, and abandoned. This circle is for the moms who changed their daughter’s ostomy bag, but won’t get to change their grandchild’s diaper. This circle is for the moms who were the cheerleaders and contributors throughout their kids’ educations and relationships, but who never got to see weddings or college and grad school graduations. This circle is for the moms who didn’t have any self-love.Rabbi, my friends call me the warrior, tell me that I’m the strongest woman they know,
and ask me how I manage to smile all the time. My students tell me that my passion for
teaching and my compassion for them make coming to school a joy. My therapist thanks me for making her feel special. I withdraw when I need to, but I usually show up to life every day, crack a joke or two, and somehow make a difference.Rabbi, you may recall that I wasn’t the religious one in the Jaffe household. I didn’t grow up with much religion; my interest was, at best, social and cultural. We moved to Livingston because it was a Jewish town and because it was the only place where Jay “allowed” us to live that wouldn’t require my kids to have to go to day school. Our house needed to be in walking distance to shul, and I had to promise to make the synagogue and Judaism the main focus of our world. As long as I abided by these rules, he wouldn’t harm me.
I can remember walking into Temple Beth Shalom twenty-two years ago, and I was awestruck by this erudite man who reminded me of what I imagined Oz to be. His voice was powerful yet soothing, his words were brilliant yet relatable, and his presence was intimidating yet welcoming. He became the reason that, week after week, year after year, I felt connected to a higher power. This man officiated at both my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and at my dad’s funeral, and, though this man faced his own personal tragedy, he remained stoic and steadfast for all those who needed him. I miss that man dearly, so I’m writing to him.
Rabbi , the entire synagogue turned its back on me once my divorce was underway and
Jay started spewing his hatred towards me. Eighteen years as a member of a synagogue, and not one person cared about me or my side of the story. Jay was soft-spoken, wore a suit, and went to synagogue every Saturday, which was clearly enough for the clergy, the congregation, and even my comrades to also attach the word Abandoned on this Hester Prynne’s letter A. Believe me, I am not claiming innocence or purity of actions. I do, however, claim that I have never actively and intentionally sought the destruction of another human being. It became Jay’s life’s mission to destroy me, and, with the help of my children, my mother, and my sister, he nearly did.My Homeric epic has shocked most who know me, and the many Books of my tragedy would prove so heinous and inhumane that you would immediately know I couldn’t make the stories up. Even criminals eventually get pardoned, but I remain jailed in this proverbial prison from which I can’t escape. They and my love for them are everywhere. I am, after all, their mother.
Rabbi, I write to you to ask if we could meet for a cup of coffee. You see, I have no
connection to my religion whatsoever (except, of course, for my Fran Drescher voice and my unyielding adoration of Barney Greengrass Nova). I struggle to understand how disposable I was to my entire family, including my synagogue one. As Jews, we have been persecuted for thousands of years, and we remain incredulous that so many people turned their backs while generations were destroyed. Why then was I persecuted by my own people? -
Every day, without fail, I get a reminder that my kids are no longer in my life. Whether it’s a colleague getting married, a little boy in the mall crying for his mama, passing the Uncrustables in the supermarket, or a commercial on television for Ulcerative Colitis or Crohn’s medications, the alarms of sadness are deafening.
Today, I had two blaring reminders, but only one was consequential and crippling. You see, I still insure my two younger kids on my health insurance. My daughter, who is 26 and a married lawyer, is on my plan, and my son, who is 24 and an accountant, is also on my plan. It was part of my divorce agreement, and, quite frankly, whether they’re talking to me or not, I wish that I could insure them forever. My insurance is that good, and their health is paramount.
That said, their Explanation of Benefits come to me, and seeing one in my mailbox sends me into a panic. I start begging God to not let it be an oncologist; last year, Zachary, who is on the immunosuppressant Humira, had a CT Scan of his left breast. I nearly passed out, as any mother would, and I recited my mantra, “Just let them be healthy and happy, even if I’m not a part of their lives.”
Jay is supposed to keep me updated on the kids’ well being, but he doesn’t. It is far too enjoyable for him to let me have all of the pain and none of the pleasure. No graduations, no weddings, no babies for me; I only get the torture of seeing that my kids went to doctors and not knowing why.
Today, Rebecca’s Explanation of Benefits and a reimbursement check to a radiologist arrived. All I could dissect was the doctor’s last name and that Rebecca had x-rays of an upper extremity. Again, this keyboard dances with my shaking fingers, as my mind runs wild and my palpitations blare.
Inhumane? Damn right it is.
A Martini Toast 