We have known each other for decades, and it has been a privilege, a blessing, a godsend, and a windfall to call you my sister friend. If we carry this over to medical terms, which seems appropriate, you have been my ventilator, my antibiotic, my tourniquet, and my Xanax. I’ve told you before that I am vertical because of you.
When the kids were small and our fledgling friendship began to develop wings of trust and reliance, I shared with you how frightened I was of what Jay was capable of. I knew that he was a Pharisee, respected for his religious knowledge, davening in shul every Shabbat, keeping the rules of the Sabbath and kashrut, but lacking fundamental mercy, love, tolerance, and heart. I wasn’t financially independent, I didn’t have the support of my family, and I lived with the pernicious effects of being married to a narcissist who I truly felt was planning on taking the kids away from me the moment they came out of me.
You know so much about me, probably more than anybody else does. The reasons for this vary, but we’ll start with what I have told you directly. The confidences I’ve revealed, both in active crisis mode and in regular casual chitchat, have unearthed parts of my life about which I am traumatized, ashamed, broken. We’ll continue with the DORs (days of rescue) that you have seen with your own incredulous and kind eyeballs, when you have raced to figuratively resuscitate me after the emotional depravity of their actions. The dozens of Explanation of Benefits forms where I saw CT Scans and Ultrasounds for Marissa and Zack, not knowing if they were okay or not. And, adding acid to my already inflamed heart, Jay told them I took them off of my health insurance. NOTHING, obviously, could have been further from the truth.
How about my finding out that I became a grandmother, many times over? I found out in the most unusual ways – a nosy friend, a bill from a hospital, a synagogue bulletin, and my mother’s obituary. And, speaking of my mother’s obituary, nobody told me that my mother died. A lifelong family friend told me days later, because they forbid her to tell me when it happened. I was actually at your house when that call came in.
And, let’s talk about what you know from Rebecca, or at least what she told you, when she approached you, most likely at Jay’s urging, to tell you all of the “abhorrent” things I’ve done. I guess she wanted you, my most trusted lifeline, to abandon me as well. You told her that even if all of the things she said were true, and that you didn’t believe very many of them, it still wouldn’t justify them treating me the way they were and cutting me out of their lives. You knew me. You knew that everything I feared for decades was coming true. You knew that being a mom, being THEIR mom, was my most profound joy, accomplishment, purpose.
But, my sister friend, when you say I am hard to read, you are so correct. And, I apologize to you for that. I also have a reason for it, and the reason is that I’m never telling the truth. I’m not okay, and when I say I am, I am not. How could I be? This has been a suffocating, excruciating, lacerating, harrowing, unendurable, inhumane, and torturous journey, and I am so afraid to show my real pain. I’m so afraid of disappointing those who remain and love me (like you), those who need me (like my students), and, weirdly enough, I’m afraid of disappointing myself. I have hung in for so long, making those around me feel safe, supported, valued, and entertained, and sometimes the load is just so heavy.
But, please know, however, that I’m still planning on carrying this load for quite a bit longer. I’m going to stay in this classroom, on the tennis court, at the casino, aboard the Cunard ships, and I am going to keep Jay’s dream from coming true for as long as I can. With that being said, should anything happen to me, maybe you couldn’t read me, but I know you sure did love me.
I’ve mentioned the Broadway show, Next to Normal, at least one other time in my blog, but, for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about it. It was my favorite and Zack’s favorite, and I’m pretty certain we saw it together twice. Definitely not a feel-good, dance in the aisles, typical crowd-pleaser like Hairspray or Mamma Mia, the impact of Next to Normal was significant and profound.
The show told the story of a mother, a father, a 16-year-old daughter, and a son who was only alive in the mother’s mind and memory. Brilliantly played by Aaron Tveit, Gabe had died from an intestinal obstruction when he was only 8 months old, and Diana, his mom, could never heal. How could she? Can a parent ever heal from the loss of a child?
The dad, Dan, suppressed his pain throughout, never even saying Gabe’s name. The daughter, Natalie, bore the brunt of everything, knowing that her presence magnified Gabe’s absence. Smart, funny, witty, and carrying such hurt of her own, she had to find her own way.
And Diana, the warrior, trying so unsuccessfully to navigate life through those demons that rivaled every one of Odysseus’s monstrous barricades and every level of Dante’s Inferno. Her trauma, her grief, her anguish, her heartache, and her all-around suffering led to a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder (with a side of delusional episodes).
I think, actually I know, that Jay told the kids that I was bipolar. I am not, but, if I was, so what? Do you abandon somebody for that? My own mother, when she was in her mid-50s, had a nervous breakdown and spent a few weeks in the Carrier Clinic. I remember my father coming over to either my house or my sister’s house, completely distraught and frightened that she was going to hurt herself. We didn’t abandon her. We got her the help she needed.
Jay’s brother tried to kill himself at his wife’s cousin’s house on Passover. Nobody stopped talking to him; everybody just kicked it into high gear to get him the help he needed. Shit happens.
When I found out that Jay told everybody I was bipolar, I just kept asking my sister friend, Beth, “When does the manic come?” Not minimizing those who are afflicted with the difficult but treatable illness, I wanted to know when the sadness would leave. But, how could the sadness leave when I lost all that ever mattered?
In Next to Normal, there is a song, and the words never left me. The song, Light, shares the message that it is better to feel something, even pain, than not to feel anything at all:
“Give me pain, if that’s what’s real, it’s the price we pay to feel.”
I had mentioned in my last blog that I was going for Evenity injections to build some bone for my osteoporosis. When the lovely Donna was giving me the injections, which were given in both arms and which were more intense than a Covid vaccine, she asked me if they hurt. I responded with, “Give me pain, if that’s what’s real, it’s the price we pay to feel.”
The next line of the song says:
“The price of love is loss, but still we pay. We love anyway.”
My kids were all that ever mattered to me, and I loved so completely, so overbearingly, so adoringly, and maybe so unrealistically. I knew that, from an early age, Jay was contaminating my young seeds and that my perfect sprouts wouldn’t be mine forever. I believed my entire life that I was undeserving, but I stand by the lyric, “The price of love is loss, but still we pay. We love anyway.”
As the school year is about to begin for so many, including myself, I want to express how thankful I am to be a teacher. For nearly two decades, I experienced the unparalleled privilege of staying home to raise my family. Then, these recent nearly two decades brought me to a career and a school that gave me a chance to showcase and share my knowledge and creativity with learners who have always been “the best platform from which to jump beyond myself.” I am so grateful for and to my colleagues, my students, and a district that has allowed me to create a program I’m proud to call my own.
Bob’s grandsons, Griffin and Jimmy, are starting kindergarten this year, and, though I don’t know it for a fact because I was never told of her birth, I think my granddaughter, Emma, is also starting kindergarten. May they all take this first step on their academic journeys with curiosity, with kindness, with playfulness, with enthusiasm, and with friendships.
The irony of much of my life is never lost on me, and the road where literal and figurative meet for me is not a small intersection. For so many years, I have been working on loving myself, believing in myself, trusting that people aren’t going to leave, and finding ways to say, “I’m sorry, but that just doesn’t work for me.” I’ve surrounded myself with good people, smart people, authentic people, and I’ve found places where I can run away, a cruise line where I can luxuriate, and artwork at which I can stare both deeply and mindlessly. I’ve taken 3 steps forward, only to take 2 backwards, but, albeit slightly, I still feel the figurative backbone growing.
Ah, now the literal backbone, which, whether because I’m small, or because I’m Jewish, or because I’m old, or simply just because, that isn’t growing. In fact, it’s shrinking, so next Thursday morning, I will begin my monthly injections of Evenity, which helps build bone. I have seen the commercial over and over, yet now, I’m paying closer attention to it (especially the side effects).
A school teacher’s summer usually starts with a vacation, and, thanks be to G-d, we just had the most posh one. Starting with a few days in London, we toured, we walked, we relished the political peace, and we celebrated Bob’s 70th at the most magical and trendy restaurant. But, Crown Jewels and all, this was merely foreplay, as the star of the show was our cruise through the Norwegian Fjords on the Queen Anne.
Oh, my beloved Cunard, this ship, like the Elizabeth and the Victoria, did not disappoint. Opulent, sumptuous, and lavish, we devoured everything you had to offer. Everything was topflight – the entertainment, the food, the lectures, the ports, the dancing, the service, and the attentiveness and the gentility of crew and passengers alike. It also didn’t hurt that I was probably one of the 50 youngest guests onboard.
Next, a school teacher continues her summer with all of her medical appointments, and wow, has this girl got a calendar full! I’ve actually already started, as this past Monday began with a FibroScan, which is an ultrasound technique to check in on the liver. Though fatty, which I kind of predicted because this chubby chick loves her food and beverage, especially an Alborino on the Queen Anne, everything else concerning the liver was, thank G-d, just fine. And, a fatty liver is reversible, so that’s encouraging.
As I mentioned, the Evenity injections are next week, along with a thyroid ultrasound, and, at the end of the month, we’ll have our colonoscopy. Oh, wait, I forgot something. Just yesterday, I had a coronary artery calcium scan, which is a non-invasive CT scan to see how much plaque is built up around the heart. Again, thanks be to G-d that my score was a 0, so no plaque and no literal damage. Figuratively, however, as we all know, my heart is shattered.
Wishing you all, wherever your summer takes you, the blessings of good health and being with those you love.
I’m not holding back anymore. I just can’t. Reading through all of these letters now, with clear eyes, just shows me how frightened I was at what Jay was capable of and what he was actually doing to me. Setting me up to lose my grown children (though plans began when they were much younger), corralling my sister in the process (which was not difficult), and banking on my weakness and the reality that my mother wouldn’t have my back, showed the precise level of his malignity. Temple Beth Shalom and most of Livingston not only bought his venom hook, line, and sinker, but they couldn’t wait to see or hear about the next bite that the snake would take out of me. My agony was their entertainment.
Let me be clear when I say that I was not a good wife. As an explanation and not an excuse, I only wanted to be loved, and he just couldn’t love me. My spirit was too much for him, so he had to kill it. Again, I will elaborate further if anybody asks, including my grandchildren. Days of secrets are over.
Though I was not a good wife, I did support his career and help him advance quickly in his law career. He was an exemplary lawyer and employee, working round the clock to get the job done. Though not the “schmooze on the golf course type,” he was always the one “chained to the desk,” as the partners used to say.
I have no problem giving a compliment to somebody who has destroyed me. Two things can be true at the same time, and Jay, albeit a monster, was/is a good lawyer. I’ve also said that he was a good father, though I don’t know if a good father would encourage (actually embolden) his children to sever ties with their mother.
On the last Mother’s Day before the divorce officially started, Jay gave me a card that said, “You’re a wonderful mother and make great children.” I’ll post a picture of that card in one of my blogs, along with the cards from the 3 who matter most. How we went from praise to torture in a couple of months just reinforces my belief that the bomb was prepared and primed, just waiting for the go-ahead to pull the lynchpin.
Now, here comes the letter from my first lawyer to one of Howard Felcher’s associates, and it’s important to share. I tell my students that being vulnerable is a strength, but it’s a character trait that I’ve only recently acquired. It doesn’t make somebody weak; in fact, it is empowering.
Please be advised that Ms. Jaffe intends to borrow the money to pay the$25,500 credit card debt, just as she borrowed $2,000 last month to pay for emergent dental care. She is endeavoring to borrow these funds from friends due to Mr. Jaffe’s ultimatum that he would otherwise institute criminal proceedings against her for something that he has been aware of for approximately six years, which he conveniently has decided to pursue during the divorce. To clarify the record, the credit card bills have been sent to the marital residence, not a post office box.
Your statement that Ms. Jaffe has disposable funds available to her to pay the debt is preposterous. Ms. Jaffe’s monthly expenses exceed her approximate $3,600 net income, which is why she had trouble paying the credit card bill. Moreover, in the month of February she was forced to miss a paycheck when she had unexcused time off from work to stay with Marissa during her most recent hospitalization. The credit card debt was incurred to pay marital bills due to Mr. Jaffe’s withholding of support from Ms. Jaffe during the marriage. The parties’ Case Information Statements reflect Mr. Jaffe in control of all of the marital savings available to pay this obligation.
The positions taken by Mr. Jaffe and his threats of criminal prosecution make it clear that he is not interested in reaching a fair and amicable resolution of this matter. He has also ignored my request for an additional retainer to hire a forensic accountant (which is only further stalling the case from moving toward conclusion). Therefore, I will file an application with the Court seeking the payment of these retainers. I will also seek counsel fees related to the motion that is necessitated by Mr. Jaffe’s refusal to cooperate.
It is most unfortunate that Mr. Jaffe s insisting on proceeding in this manner.
So much to unpack here, including the emergent dental care, but that can wait for now. This next line, however, can’t wait.
For the two in Livingston, my real sisters, who stayed, who loved, who gave me Breath and Oxygen and yes, a retainer when Jay did in fact press criminal charges against me (which were dropped the second the judge disgustedly said the charges out loud), I love you and I am vertical because of you. Thank you.
My email address used to be mjmrzjaffe@aol.com. When we bought our first computer, lifetimes ago, complete with dial up modem, I created our email address. Of course, it would have our initials, as EVERYTHING to me was about the family. The kids were so young then, and they created adorable screen names, too. Zack was dragonballzack9, Rebecca was mishamooey (my nickname for her), and Marissa’s was Rissie123.
The account was under Jay’s name, since he paid for it. He paid for everything, as he reminded the kids and me so often. I had no money, as I didn’t work, and what we had was marital (or so I thought). Now I’ll be clear and tell you that I am awful with money and I spend it like I’m going to the electric chair. Nothing has changed on that front.
That email address contained about 15 years of love. There were hundreds of letters from the kids from the time they were small, spanning to when they were young adults in college. Words of laughter and love and gratitude and adoration, I should have printed every one of them. But, true to my “perfect storm,” once the divorce was underway and the plan for this longshot of a pony was clearly to be put down, part of the process was to take away that email address and all of its contents. I called AOL, but they said that the account wasn’t created in my name those 15+ years back, and thus, I no longer had access to it.
I did have a few notes on my work email, but nothing major. And, recently, I plugged in my very old MacBook. I can’t do much on it, but I can access Microsoft Word to read. The dinosaur doesn’t connect to anything, but I do have some files to peruse. Some of the kids’ college and grad school application essays are here, along with some essays I wrote about life and several letters I wrote as the divorce process was beginning. I’ll begin by sharing this one, as it’s important for me to show who I am so that maybe, just maybe, this tapestry of terror that Jay and my sister wove for me can begin to unravel.
My Dearest Jay,
I’ve been listening to that song, John Denver’s Seasons of the Heart, over and over, and I think it’s a true depiction of our story. Our story was such a good one, especially 3 particular chapters, and I know that we will both make sure that both sides of the book jacket stay strong and in tact to weather the storm ahead and protect the contents of those 3 very special chapters.
I know you have been waiting for me to “file the damn papers already,” and in my quest to figure out why you wanted me to do it so desperately, I thought that you might go ahead and do it. I know that you went to see Gary Skoloff (I didn’t realize you needed the biggest gun in the East, but maybe there is more to this than I know), and the reason that I know this is because I will be using Betsy Bresnick at that same firm. She is a childhood friend of Jackie’s, and she gave me a free consultation.
Speaking of Betsy, her retainer is $10,000. You know how this stuff works better than I do, but if we work things out quickly, we can get some of that back. As you know, I do not have that kind of money, and it would be unfair for me to ask my mother for it when you will be using our money for your person’s retainer. Whilewe are far from millionaires, I know that you make a decent draw at the new firm, and the car and expense perks are generous. I also know that you have many bank accounts from which you pull, deposit, and transfer money, so I’m sure you’ll be able to finance the retainer that I need to give. After that, I know it is a 50/50 spit of everything, with many years of documents, bills, and bank accounts needing to be presented.
If you haven’t figured this out yet, I am not planning on being difficult here. I am fully aware that a third of the dissolution of our marriage is my doing, a third is your doing, and another third are the other issues (family, people, money, and illnesses) that interfered along the way. Maybe we were too young when we started our story, but man, those 3 chapters made everything worth it, didn’t they?
Nothing will EVER change the fact that I will ALWAYS love you. “It’s just some things that mean so much, and we just don’t feel the same.”
Marla
Folks, keep reading this blog. Keep sharing it. Keep commenting on it.
Folks, get your tissues out. I actually have one of my dad’s old handkerchiefs in my hand right now, and it, like my dad, is strong, sturdy, and reliable.
Many of you ask me why I never get fully angry in my blog and don’t speak unkindly of my children, even though they have certainly put me through the unspeakable. I’ve written so many times that the pain in lacerating, but it’s more than that and is probably best relayed through a line in one of the songs in Zack’s and my favorite Broadway show, Next to Normal. The line asks, “Do you know? Do you know, what it’s like to die alive?” Well, folks, I do know, because I do it every single day.
I am flawed and I have made mistakes, and I will share those mistakes with anybody who asks. I am not, however, vengeful or retaliatory, and if I knew somebody was in such harrowing and unendurable pain, especially at my doing, I would feel sad, sorry, and, quite frankly, ashamed.
So why then? Why do I still portray them as perfect, brilliant, and even heroic. Yes, they’re my kids, and I’m a mom, their mom, and I will always be here waiting for them, but why do I remain gentle, gracious, hopeful? I’ll tell you.
I do this for my grandchildren. I do this for Emma, and I do it for Marissa’s second daughter, whose name I don’t know, and I do it for Stephanie, whose name I learned in my mother’s obituary, and I do it for Alexis, Rebecca’s second daughter whose name I saw in a memorial donation they made to Temple Beth Shalom on the High Holidays. I do it for any other grandbabies I might have, hoping, just hoping, that one day, they’ll find me and want to learn about me. Maybe they’ll have questions about me and for me, and hopefully, I’ll still be somewhat young and mentally and physically healthy. The words, “Hi, Grandma!” will probably be restorative to this Deaf Darlene’s hearing, and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to live and not just exist.
But, to my hearts, my friends, my sisters, if something should happen to me before I can become whole and meet my grandkids, tell them about me. Tell them how much I loved them, how they were a part of my every day, even though I never met them. Please show them the blog, share pictures of me and stories about me, tell them about my sense of humor and that I showed up to life every day, even when it was nearly impossible.
Happy Mother’s Day to all who are blessed to be a member of the best club out there!
“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.
When I wrote my last blog entry, a tribute to Dr. DeGraaff, I went into my treasure trove of pictures from the past. I was looking for the picture of Doreen, holding Marissa a few hours after she was born. I hadn’t submerged myself in that reservoir of riches since 2023, when my friend, Janice, patiently and heroically helped me box up pictures, letters, projects, and albums for the kids. She was dual mission oriented that night – the first being to complete the task at hand, and the second to keep me from finally succumbing to the implosion of my heart.
Rebecca lives 4.25 miles away from me, so, naturally, Janice’s plan was to bring everything to Rebecca’s house. All 3 kids would receive their childhood honeypots in brand new Samsonite suitcases, each filled with immeasurable valuables and a chamber of my heart. I have to especially note a storybook Rebecca created in the 2nd grade, illustrating and sharing the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The dedication was to me, and it read, “For my Mom, who, despite everything, thinks I’m just right.”
For those of you who don’t know, you might be guessing correctly in that the delivery of the swag bags was an unsuccessful one. Rebecca’s husband did answer the door, but Rebecca stayed far away. Janice was pretty certain that Scott had been grilling on the deck, and that there was a beautiful cherub playing nearby.
It is important to mention that Scott’s grilling was not limited to the meat on the Weber. He had a bunch of questions, (how could he not), and he told Janice that Rebecca and I are estranged. Janice said she was well aware of that. He asked her, “Why now?” and Janice spoke correctly when she explained that now that Rebecca is a mom herself, I thought she might want to have her valuables. Maybe they thought I was dying, and maybe they were hoping for that, but my friend, Janice, just like other friends, some lifelong and some new, was shaken to her core seeing firsthand the reality of my pain and of this door that the kids have bolted shut.
I don’t know my son-in-law, but he looks like such a lovely human being. I know he’s a pediatric nurse, which is telling, and, as the world is a small one, Bob’s friend, Mike, is the head EMT at Chilton Hospital and knows Scott well. Over dinner one night, he was emphatically praising Scott’s kindness and skills, and I think he was surprised to hear that Scott is my son-in-law. Perhaps conversations between them, which I’m certain consisted of Scott’s justifiable boasting about his three beautiful girls and, sadly, his dad’s passing so young from ALS, led to talk about parents and grandparents. Mike and his wife recently became grandparents, and maybe Scott mentioned that his kids only had 2 – Rebecca’s dad and his mom.
That treasure trove did hold joy, memories, blessings, love, warmth, and life, but it also held 3 documents. One was a letter I wrote to Zack, telling him how sorry I was for all the pain the divorce was causing him (and my role in it for being so needy and reliant on him). I even signed a contract saying that I would pull back on that. Next, there was a letter I wrote to Zack’s therapist, with the help of my therapist at the time, Dr. Rhonda Greenberg, figuratively gutting my innards to get him to (as a therapist should do) help reunite Zack and me. Dr. David Velder, yet another Orthodox Jew allowing himself to be an active and pathetic pawn in Jay and his lawyer’s plan to get me to Thelma and Louise it. I would get those EOBs weekly from my insurance company, grateful that his visits were to the therapist and not to medical facilities where he was having CT Scans and MRIs and terrifying diagnoses. G-d knows and Horizon Blue Cross and Blue Shield of New Jersey knows I’ve suffered through way too many of those, not knowing if my son was healthy.
And, speaking of insurance companies and not knowing if my child was whole, on June 30th, 2015, I received a call from my car insurance company. They wanted to talk to me about the accident, but I hadn’t had an accident. Beginning to shake because I quickly realized that Zack must have been in an accident in his car that I leased and insured for him, I just remember crying and screaming into the phone, “Is my son alive? Is my son okay? Please, tell me that my son is alive.” They had no information for me.
Suffice it to say that the ensuing hours were terrifying and scarring. I’m not sure how I even found out that Zack was okay, but I will say that the person with the most grace was the lady from Liberty Mutual, who called me back later that day to check on Zack (and me). I had told her, through tears that only another mother could understand, that I was going through a heinous divorce and that Zack had left me. I said I didn’t even know how to find out if he was okay, as the divorce was so contentious.
Now, let’s get to that third letter, the letter that Jay’s lawyer, Howard Felcher, wrote to my lawyer after my lawyer wrote him a letter saying how nefarious and repugnant it was not to tell me that Zack was in an awful car accident. My lawyer’s partner, in practice for nearly 7 decades, said that it was, by far, the most odious and repulsive letter he had ever read.
Allow me to insert the beginning of the letter:
Dear Mr. Knapp,
Your client certainly had to be aware that the issuance of such a letter would engender a response. My client has been constrained throughout the course of this litigation not to make your client’s conduct with respect to her children an issue to be openly litigated. Your letter of even date has compelled a specific and direct response.
This letter, which I will share with anybody who wants to see it, goes on to launch such ridiculous vignettes. It’s as if he took 2 thimbles of the truth and created a vat of humbug. This letter was in the queue, and he was waiting for some reason to get it to the front of the line. It was hateful and spiteful, and, reading it those weeks ago with eyes that are now both fearless and clear, I can’t believe that I let it send me into a spiral of darkness and terror. It did just what it was intended to do.
Howard Felcher is a bully, but he got Jay’s job done. It’s everything you read about him in the reviews online. I can certainly put those here as well, but, to summarize, they mention losing jobs, losing custody of kids, losing lifelong savings, and, in some cases, being jailed.
I’ll end today’s blog by saying that, after Zack’s car was fixed, I took the car away from him. I listened to a former friend of mine, who, like many with whom I surrounded myself, was a bully. I don’t know why I always looked to the bully, but I think it had something to do with feeling protected around and by them. Truth be told, these bullies never had my back; they were merely disturbers looking to have a front row center orchestra seat in a play in which I didn’t want to be performing.
It was uncharacteristic of me not to give the car back, as I only wanted my kids to love me. Even though it was so inhumane that I wasn’t told about the accident, I was still willing to be an emotional doormat. Judge Casale, who was our judge and who never missed an opportunity to verbally abuse me and make me cry, said he wouldn’t talk to me either if I took his car away.
On December 7th, 2015, almost 3 years after first filing for divorce and after Howard Felcher didn’t respond for almost 6 months to my lawyer’s letters and settlement proposals, Judge Casale said, “I’m beginning to think that maybe Mrs. Jaffe is not the problem here.” Sure, my life was ruined as I knew it, losing all that ever mattered to me, and he first realized it then? He said we would be divorcing that day, but, there were some last minute fixes to be made on the paperwork. Proposing that we could just write the changes in by hand, my PTSD armor of sadness said, “Absolutely not!”
Two days later, on December 9th, 2015, Judge Casale wrapped up our case saying how difficult it had been and to keep in mind that there are kids involved and hopefully, somehow, healing could take place.
On June 13th, 2016, Judge Casale joined Jay’s law firm, Greenbaum Rowe Smith & Davis.
I only know one of my sons-in-law, and, though I haven’t seen him in just about 12 years, I still feel that I know him well. Quirky, loyal, adorable, hyper, aloof, supportive, and creative are only a few of the many adjectives I’d use as descriptors, but, if I’m honest, I’d probably put brave at the top of the list (I’ll get to it later).
Marissa met Louis at post-prom. She had actually gone to prom with somebody else, but her date wasn’t available for the after plans. Marissa’s group was going down to Long Beach Island, where they were staying at the beach house of somebody’s friend, Matt. Matt was a classmate of theirs, and though Roo didn’t know him well, her friends did.
The kids drove down to LBI after the prom, and Marissa called me pretty late. I knew that she had arrived safely, thank G-d, and I only wanted her to have a good time. I was always worried that a flare of her Ulcerative Colitis was forthcoming (she still had her colon at this point), and I panicked when I heard from her so late at night.
Her voice was so peppy, so happy, and so melodic as she asked, “Mommy, is it okay if I date Matt’s brother?” I asked her about him, and she told me how cute he was, that his name was Louis, how seamless their chitchat was, and how comfortable he made her feel. The resounding, “Yes!” I gave her on the phone was followed by Jay storming down the steps, getting right up in my face, and, to my memory, though this is the ONLY sentence in this blog for which I wouldn’t sit for a polygraph, shoving me in the shoulder. Through gritted teeth and in the most demonic voice, he threatened (and this is verbatim), “Don’t you ever tell my daughter that she can date a shegetz.” For those of you who don’t know what a shegetz is, it’s a non-Jewish male.
I always hoped and assumed my kids would marry within our faith, but it certainly wasn’t grounds for disownment, like Jay would forewarn them. Of course, for the girls, matrilineality would prevail and their children would automatically be Jewish, but not for Zack. Actually, in Jay’s eyes, it wasn’t for the girls either, but more to come on that.
Nothing in the world was more important to me than my kids being happy, especially since I didn’t really have a happy childhood. I’ve already touched on quite a bit of that, and, if The Guardian or the Huffington Post accepts and publishes my submission, you’ll really understand so much more. But, for now, know that I overcompensated for my sad past by trying so hard to make sure my kids were safe, heard, protected, and indulged.
I covered for Marissa for months, lying to Jay about her whereabouts when she was with Lou Lou. The first time he came to pick her up, all of Thurston Drive was shaking from the “vroom vroom” of that black Ford Mustang (sans muffler). Here I was, completely willing to be the figurative (and probably literal) shield for my girl, but what was I to do with the “vroom vroom?” We managed, until we needed to sit down with Jay and tell him the truth.
Needless to say, I was to blame. By telling her it was okay to go on one date, that led to the same “slippery slope” that he often mentioned when I tried to bring something not explicitly marked kosher into the house. He was so angry at me (no surprises there), and he told her that, should they continue seeing each other and become engaged, he would need to convert. He also made it crystal clear that, when they had children, the children were not permitted to go to Louis’s parents’ house for Christmas or any religious holiday. Labeling it harsh and unreasonable, I tried to intervene, but, we all know how life ended up for me. Ironic, right?
I know that Louis converted, which is why I referred to him as brave before anything else. It isn’t easy being Jewish for those of us born into my often tackled and targeted religion , so making the choice, even if it is for love, should be lauded and saluted. And, with the extra restrictions and directories placed upon him by my ex-husband, my son-in-law’s bravery should be recognized.
May we all show our valor and begin to heal wounds, fill chasms, repair rifts, and clear consciences. May we have the resolve to say, “That’s not okay,” and “It’s time to not just break the literal and figurative ice, but actually melt it.”
It has been too long since I’ve blogged, and I’m not sure if it’s laziness, exhaustion, denial, progress, or just simply getting older. This Friday is the day – the day I’ve dreaded for so long, the day that first number turns from a 5 to a 6, the day I have earned, and the day I didn’t think my heart would survive until. As a profound believer in rites of passage, I am pulverized that these wrinkles, these body aches, these reading glasses, these stretch marks, and this plethora of gray hairs are not accompanied by the giggles of grandchildren and their precious handprints and mini-Picasso artwork on my refrigerator.
As most of my readers know, it’s also my Zack’s birthday. He’ll be turning 32, but I only had him for 21 of those years. My Sportchop, the Most Handsome Man on the Planet, and my forever Chuckles is living a life about which I know nothing. I pray it’s a happy and healthy one, and I remain so grateful that we share the same birthday and that G-d blessed me with him and his sisters.
Friday will not go without hoopla, and I’ll be celebrating with friends who have become my family. Our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, will be the location for the festivities, and there will be no shortage of booze and schmooze. With a couple of surprises up my sleeve, I will honor my New Year’s resolution to be completely in the moment, embracing those who stay, love, support, hope, console, encourage, and continue to be my pillars and buttresses.
It has been a year, and last month alone brought the anti-semitic atrocities of the Bondi Beach carnage, the egregious Brown University shooting, and the senseless and shocking stabbings of Rob and Michelle Reiner. Then, 35-year-old Tatiana Schlossberg, JFK’s granddaughter, tragically passed away from cancer, leaving 2 babies behind and sustaining the Kennedy curse. Prices and hatred are up, morale and decency are down, and each day brings vile, toxic, threatening, and vengeful social media posts from the White House. The cost of healthcare has become prohibitive for so many, and our president and his clown car of cretins are deriving such pleasure from the suffering of others.
We just returned from a cruise on the Queen Victoria, where I honestly felt like a princess for 7 days. The people, the cabin, the entertainment, the food, and the ports of Bruges, Amsterdam, and Cherbourg were downright enchanting, and the civility and cordiality of all with whom we fraternized were noteworthy and remarkable. It was never lost on us how fortunate we were to be on the voyage, and we blotted up every ounce of the luxury that Cunard was serving.
One particular highlight came in the form of meeting the lovely Karen and Paul. Gorgeous inside and out, we first met them at the Gin Bar and bonded over way more than the cocktails. We spoke of triumph, truth, and tribulation, and I felt as if our friendship was so much more than fledgling. The laughs were so frequent and fluid, and the conversation was so real. It’s funny, because we had exchanged phone numbers and emails one morning early on in the cruise, and I told Karen that I would send her my blog when we returned home. I didn’t need to though, as she found it on her own and had read it before we met that night for drinks. I’m not sure how she found it, but I was glad that she did. For so long, I have kept my story and myself so guarded, but now it and I can be found. And, as I thought about it, I decided that maybe I can be found because, for the first time in my life, I’m not lost.
Happy New Year to all, Happy Birthday to my Zack, Happy Birthday to me, and peace, love, and grace all around.
We all have different ways of dealing with stress. Some people go to the gym and treadmill their trauma. Many will scream and confront, while a fair portion might retreat. Some eat too much or too little, while others befriend a Bellini and a blackjack table. For me, I write. It doesn’t happen immediately, as I need to internalize everything first, making sure I’ve completely and adequately tortured myself in the process.
This summer began with an enchanted and elegant Alaskan voyage on the Queen Elizabeth, guaranteeing Cunard a customer for life. Proudly taking on the role of the “youngest old person” and relinquishing my role as the “oldest young person,” I basked in the magic of every glacier, every fjord, every whale, every afternoon tea, and every British accent.
We returned home in time for Bob’s birthday, and 2 of his grandsons came to celebrate. Oh, did we have fun! From the slides to the toys to the books to the rocks to the Oh, I Don’t Think So chasing game that I used to play with my own kids, this chasm inside of me was temporarily cushioned, insulated, sequestered. And, taking everybody to our favorite restaurant, Aldo’s, brought even further joy as people there unknowingly addressed me as Grandma and commented on the state of delight and pure bliss into which these children clearly escorted me.
When the kids left, and before I headed back to my house, Bob looked at me and just said, “tragic.” Though I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, I still asked for clarification and elaboration. He said that he knows how much I suffer without my kids and grandkids, and he knows that it’s tragic that I don’t have them in my life. “But,” he said, “what’s the most tragic is that your grandchildren don’t have you in their lives. They’re the innocent ones here, and they are missing out on a grandmother who is so young, so fun, so caring, so vibrant, and so big-hearted.”
The rest of July has been difficult, and the majesty of the Queen Elizabeth and Alaska seems like so very far away. Though I won’t elaborate too much here, I seem to have had a setback in my voice. It’s not my Fran Drescher or my Marvelous Mrs. Nasal physical voice that has been impacted, but my “you can’t talk to me or treat me that way” voice that has taken a hit.
I have worked so hard on loving and respecting myself. With the help of my therapist, my job, relationships, and loyal friends who are truly the sisters I never had (and I do have a sister), I have learned that I have value. I am flawed, damaged, broken, and incomplete, but I have value.
We were recently in Florida, (yes, we went from the invigorating chill of Alaska to the damaging heat of Florida), and the last day of our trip brought us to where my mother had lived and a couple of her old stomping grounds. Both of us were agitated, the feeling having nothing at all to do with each other, and when we walked into my mother’s beloved Flakowitz of Boynton, positively starving, I wasn’t fully surprised when I couldn’t stop crying.
My mother’s house was next, and sneaking in the side gate of Platina felt both illicit and wonderful at the same time. I showed Bob the outside of 5139C Europa Drive; knocking on the door seemed wrong and intrusive. I was feeling so paradoxical, as the nostalgia and reminiscences of the idyllic time I spent there with my kids was darkened by the reality that I never got to say goodbye to my mother. It still eats away at me, and I don’t wish this feeling on anybody, especially the three who matter most.
The Seminole Casino at Coconut Creek was our next stop; my mom loved that place and I wanted to show it to Bob. We had a drink at the bar and were heading to play a little, when all of a sudden I heard a man telling a story to somebody. The words, “and that Jew,” stunned and halted me, and I questioned him on what he just said. He admitted to saying it, and when I told him that I was Jewish and incredibly offended by his label, he could’t stop apologizing. It had been a difficult week where I stifled my voice and swallowed my self-worth, and now this vignette of anti-semitism just had me shaken to my core.
Folks, don’t ever let anybody rip out your proverbial vocal cords. Speak up for your neighbors and for all of the communities that are being persecuted. Speak up for yourselves. We are living in such challenging times, and our voices are not only being edited, but actually deleted.
I’ve got to go find a Bellini and a blackjack table. Happy August to all!
