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.
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 just returned from a magical Spring Break in Portugal, but, after 7 days, I turned to my person and said, “I’m ready to go home.” Being the “Overthinking for 300, Alex” type that I am, I probably shouldn’t have said that, because it weighed on me throughout the entire flight back to New Jersey. Where is home? What is home? If nobody is waiting for you, is it home? I think the turbulence in my mind was even more frightening than what we were experiencing as we crossed the Atlantic on United flight 145.
I will turn 60 in January, and as I enter what would generously and fairly be called the last third of my life, for some reason I recall what David Cassidy, Keith Partridge himself, said to his daughter on his deathbed. He was only 67, so he only experienced a bit more than two-thirds of the 90 years with which I think everyone should be blessed. He said to her, “So much wasted time.” Imagine that, Keith Partridge, a heartthrob and icon at 20, talking about wasted time?
Was David Cassidy just thinking he could have done so much more with his life? Perhaps, but David Cassidy and his daughter, Katie, were estranged for a significant amount of time. He was obviously contemplative on the extra and deserved time, for both of them, that they could have and should have had together. Fingers weren’t pointed, blame wasn’t assigned, he was just commenting, with his daughter right next to him at his bedside, while he was about to officially “go home,” that so much time was squandered.
I spend substantial time thinking about my own mother, and how much I miss her and regret the time we never got to share. As I have written before, several times in fact, my mother was flawed. But, she was mine, and though I try to show grace and let go of the detestation I feel for my sister, my sister forbade my mother from having any contact with me. Let’s be clear and understand that my mother was fully at fault, and again I will reiterate how seamless Sophie’s Choice was for Barbara Starsky, but she was given an ultimatum by my sister. She was afraid and she was a coward, but she was threatened by a mobster who orchestrated a gang mentality against me.
My mother was an extremely pretty lady, stunning at times, and I was always surprised she didn’t have any work done when she got older. She was vain, which is not a bad thing, as looking attractive matters. It’s not everything, but pride in one’s appearance, especially when one begins showing those unrequested though inescapable signs of aging, conveys a zestiness and an “I’m not going down without a fight” vibe.
I saw my mother for the last time in 2016, though she didn’t pass away until 2021. She got in so much trouble from my sister, or, as she liked to say, she “paid the piper” when I went down to Florida to spend time with her. Pathetic, isn’t it, that she got in trouble from her one daughter for seeing her other daughter? I reached out to her after that, but we rarely connected. I did get a birthday voicemail from her in 2019, on my 53rd birthday (I am crying hysterically right now, as I just listened to it), and she told me that she loved me, that she wanted to hear my voice, and that she wanted to see me. I was actually playing Mah Jongg when I saw and heard her voicemail, and when I called her back and after we spoke a bit, I put her on speaker so that she could say hello to a couple of my friends whom she knew. I was so happy that she had called, and I told her I would LOVE to see her and to just name the place, date, and time. I suddenly felt resurrected, visible, valued, loved. My mommy wanted to see me. I mattered. I had a home.
She never reached out after that.
On April 6th of 2020, a few weeks after the world went into lockdown, I sent this to my mom:
Dear Mom,
There’s a quote by Maya Angelou that I’ve thought about a lot over these past years. Powerfully and impactfully, she wrote, “I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it.” With that said, I’m reaching out to you.
Mom, I don’t know that you are going to get this; perhaps Lisa intervenes and has control over everything in your life. I’m actually hoping that you’re at Lisa’s right now so you don’t have to be alone. Regardless, we’re in a pandemic, and I care about you. You’re my mother, after all.
I’m not going to be emotional, political, intellectual, accusatorial, or banal. I’m just going to tell you that I love you, that I hope you’re safe, and that if you need anything at all, just let me know.
Marla
This was her response:
what a nice surprise! I love you too and hope you are safe…mom
Between March 24th and June 9th of 2020, I received 16 Explanation of Benefits statements for Zack. He was still on my insurance, and, because his birthday is in January, he was able to stay on it until he was 26 years and 356 days old. I was terrified by these constant EOBs, as I had already been receiving 5 years of them, many of which were for services and tests a young man in his 20s should not need or have to suffer through.
After the 16th EOB and nobody answering me about what was going on with Zack, I called my mother. Apparently, my niece had just arrived there and was going to be bringing my mother to Atlanta, where my sister lives. My mother screamed at me that Zack was okay, but that she was not well. She kept screaming at me, told me that she was down to 88 pounds, and she asked why I hadn’t called her. She said Jay had called her. Jay, the monster who tried to and successfully separated me from both of my families – the nuclear one I created with him and my nuclear one from growing up. Jay, the person she couldn’t stand because she always felt he undermined me, especially and most delightfully in front of her. Jay, the person who destroyed her daughter …
At the end of the conversation, she screamed, “I love you.” I was shaking, crying, alarmed, and confused. Why did she have to yell at me? What was going on with her health? I would never know.
After that day, their story was that I learned my mother was not well, and I never reached out. The truth is, I wasn’t allowed to. I had tried to reach out PLENTY over the years.
I don’t know what my mother looked like at the end. My mind still thinks of her looking like she does in the paperweight I keep in the desk where I write. She is barely 40, with a magenta blouse and a face that really did look like she could be Elizabeth Taylor’s twin. It was school picture day, and, back then, the teachers received a paperweight with their picture package. I asked her if I could have it, and I haven’t let go of it since. After all, she was my mom. She was my home.
Ten years ago today, my life ended. How then, you’re probably asking, can I be writing this blog? Fortitude? Resolve? Resilience? Self-torture?
I still play his voicemail from the night before he left me; many of you have even heard it. So chipper and stoked, he shared that he got the internship at ADP, the one for which he so desperately hoped. Mentioning that he was going to surprise me with the news when he saw me, he just couldn’t hold back the well-deserved announcement. I’m glad he didn’t hold back, as his delivery was so ebullient and precious. I can actually say every word of it in my sleep, but that’s what happens when you listen to something every day for 10 years. That’s actually 3,650 times, and, while I know it’s unhealthy for me, it’s all I have.
He was going to his dad’s for the first night of Passover, and he was supposed to come to me for the second night. He never showed.
Zack and I were always so close. The quintessential mama’s boy, he was so easygoing and warmhearted. His compassion and altruism were apparent from such a young age, and I remember going to see The Iron Giant with him when he was only 5. He cried and cried, and Jay turned to me and told me that I was turning Zack into a sissy, a wuss, a girl. It was only the first of dozens of times Jay would tell me that, but I could never equate humaneness with a lack of machismo. In fact, I’m not sure anything enhances the Y chromosome more than tenderness.
I miss my children so much. My mother used to say, once my sister and I gave her grandchildren, that we kind of took a backseat to them. I learned that firsthand from her, as I was so easily scrapped, dumped, discarded, and junked. For me, however, and keep in mind that I’ve never met my grandchildren, it is my kids whose backs I will always have, even now. Even now, as I want to post the voicemail that Zack left me 10 years ago, and I want to post the last birthday card he gave me, I won’t.
A dear friend of mine recently tried to find Zack for me, and she left a letter for him inside of his mailbox. Her beautiful husband had actually written the letter, chronicling his somewhat rocky relationship with his own parents and the pivotal and profound reconciliation that followed. Regretting the time he lost, he was grateful for all that he found. He left his phone number in the letter, with fingers crossed that Zack might reach out.
My friend never imagined she would get such a toxic and threatening phone call from an enraged and boorish woman. This woman had clearly read the letter, but said she had no idea who Zack was (her bestial tone begged otherwise). She told my friend to never show her face anywhere near there again, and my friend was shaking. Believe me, this friend is no Sensitive Susie; she is a tour de force and a force of nature and she does not cower easily. She was rattled.
I don’t know who this person was, but I know who my son isn’t. Maybe, as my mother said, Zack is brainwashed, but I pray that he is not surrounding himself with such uncouth people. I pray he is living his best life, being true to his benevolent soul, smiling when he thinks of all of the concerts we saw and all of our inside jokes, and getting ready to settle down and have his own family.
Zachary Daniel Jaffe, I love you and I miss you. Know that you will always be my Iron Giant, and may your gracious soul find its way back to me one day.
My mother used to say that she hated leap years, and they really made her panic. In fact, as the ball dropped to usher in 1988, her spirits did, too. Though sometimes a drama queen, she did have an uncanny sense of knowing when the stars weren’t aligned or something wasn’t kosher.
On January 8, just 8 days after that damn ball dropped, my Grandma Mollie died. She was 88, and she had lived a full, albeit difficult, life. She had five children, 10 grandchildren, a dozen of what would be 18 great grandchildren, no money, and a husband who was ill and died young. Even more remarkable, however, was that this uneducated little woman from Poland, who worked in a factory and who wore support hose before they were cool, was more insightful than those with multiple degrees.
If I’m honest, I’ll tell you that it was my Grandma Marian, my mom’s mom, who was my favorite. She and my grandpa were more fun, but they were younger, they were a couple, and they had the means to spoil us. We were also their only grandchildren.
In the wee hours of the morning on February 28th, only 7 weeks after Grandma Mollie died, Grandma Marian dropped dead of a heart attack. She was 72, and nobody expected it. Oh, sure she had been to handfuls of doctors in the months prior because she wasn’t feeling well, one of whom even told her that she was a ticking time bomb. Oh, sure her face was downright ashen and her tests came back indicative of heart disease, but, no joke, her energy, her sense of humor, and her willingness to love and forgive everybody had us all drinking the denial flavored Kool-Aid that she and my grandfather were knocking back.
2024 has been a pretty woeful and wretched leap year, especially these last few months. With the car accident, the insurance debacle, the stolen purse, and last week’s vertigo episode, I’m counting the seconds until 2025. Sure, there have been sprinkles of tinsel and dashes of glitter, and good fortune has come in the form of passport stamps, student smiles, and hugs for and from many whom I love and who have needed me as I’ve needed them. I’ve even somehow mustered up the courage to see pictures of my children and all of their sweethearts. I didn’t think my fractured heart could handle it, but, oddly enough, seeing them healthy and happy was reassuring and reposeful. I am their mother, after all, and nothing will ever change that.
As this year comes to an end, may we all hold onto hope. May we take a step back and not have to be in the center. May we apologize without caveats, and may we understand, appreciate, and thank G-d that we don’t know and so often can’t relate to what another person is going through. Believe me, the person going through it wishes she wasn’t going through it, either.
Wishing you all grace, love, and light in the coming NON-LEAP year.
I’m not one to write twice in a week, but I think that will be the only way for me to get out of this darkness. Having just shared my blog with one of my young and beautiful colleagues, I watched her look at me with such shock and such grace. Her reaction mimicked those of so many who learn my story, perplexed how this person who shows up to life with energy and zeal is, in reality, so completely severed. The person and the vicissitude do not match up.
Today would be my dad’s 91st birthday, and, as I have written before, my life wouldn’t look like it does if my dad had been around. My dad was a warrior, not a coward; a peacekeeper, not an agitator. So aware of Jay’s gaslighting, even as the Alzheimer’s progressed with unsolicited velocity, I often wondered if he knew how much my sister hated me.
My birth announcement was a notecard, and on the front of the notecard, it said, “Lisa Has a Sister.” My name and information about me were on the inside, but, even back then, I didn’t have an identity. My parents’ world was completely about my sister and her feelings, and they willingly laid the lifelong path of eggshells on which they would walk around her.
It is not hyperbolic when I write that there was only one picture of me from when I was a baby. Growing up, it was customary to enlarge a baby picture for one’s Sweet Sixteen, as the guests would sign it and share their affectionate best wishes. Going through the pictures with my mother, it was a symphony of, “No, that’s Lisa. No, that’s your sister. Oh, here. Nope, that’s your sister again.” I have no idea if the one we did find is even me, but it looks so very much like my Zack that I’ll have to keep the faith that it is me.
My mother used to tell me how sickly I was as a baby, that I was yellow and needed gamma globulin shots. Who knows? Maybe that’s why there were no pictures of me, either that or because they didn’t want to upset Lisa.
Gosh, how Lisa would love when I got in trouble! Probably her happiest moments were when the belt would come for me, yet I would cringe when she would get in trouble. I would try to protect and defend her. She was my sister, and when the neighborhood kids picked on her, I was up in their faces, with my chubby hands on my chubby hips, imploring them to get away from her.
I can’t remember if I was 17 or 19, but my parents were away on vacation with another couple. It was summertime, Lisa was watching me, and we were both temping in the city. On the bus home, I had, what I didn’t know at the time, was a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe, and I felt like the walls were literally closing in on me. I told Lisa, and she took me to the hospital. Immediately confirming that it was indeed a panic attack, Lisa asked them to drug test me. She was so proud of herself for doing so, telling my parents the minute they got home. How disappointed she was when the test came back clean! I had never even done drugs, and still don’t, but she so desperately wanted to tell my parents that I had.
There is so much more to write about Lisa, and I will. From her hateful and harmful relationship with Jay, to the merging of their black souls in their effort to destroy me, I’ll write it. Her post at Rebecca’s college graduation, which was captioned, “So glad the whole family is here,” when I wasn’t there, immediately identifies who Lisa is. She never wanted me to succeed, to be happy, to have any of my parents’ attention (or money, but we’ll save that for another day).
For now, as the new year begins and Jewish people around the world head to synagogue to ask G-d to inscribe them in the Book of Life for another year, I’m doing it my way. I haven’t wronged anybody this year, and I really don’t need to apologize, and all of the magic of the holiday sadly no longer exists for me. But, for the first time in my life, I am standing up for myself, ready to begin sharing my book and my story. It’s the only way that I’ll be around to hopefully ask G-d in the traditional way to inscribe me in his book next year.
This is part two of the March 20th letter, where I referenced that I heard two songs on Country Radio. I told you about I Loved Her First, but now I need to tell you about Don’t Take the Girl. Don’t Take the Girl is Tim McGraw’s song about a relationship between a boy and a girl that began when the boy didn’t want his dad to take the neighborhood girl with them on the guys’ fishing trip. He asked his father to take any one of his friends, but to please not take the girl. The song continues ten years later, with the boy and the girl dating, only to be held up at gunpoint. Bargaining with the robber that he can have his watch and his money, he begs him please not to take the girl.
Miss, the end of the song, which is so sad and powerful and which takes your breath away in the awful meaning of the word, has the couple married and the woman in labor. The doctor comes out to tell the man that the baby is just fine, but the wife is going to die. He drops to his knees and begs God to take him, but to please not take the girl. I’ve been there.
Miss, I used to pray every night for God to inflict me with Marissa’s illness. Telling him how nobody deserved the pain less than Marissa, I bargained with him throughout every hospital stay, every flare-up, every blockage, and every surgery to have us trade places. The agony of seeing my little beauty suffering so was gut-wrenching, and the hours waiting for her to get out of every surgery were torturous. Mount Sinai had the names of those in surgery on a board in the waiting room, and one time, after about 7 hours, I no longer saw her name on the board. It had said her name all along, and then her name just disappeared. I ran as fast as I could until I found her, terrified that something had happened to her.
Miss, when Marissa’s colon was removed during her first surgery, and she woke up with an ostomy and a bag at the ripe old age of 20, it wasn’t easy for her (to say the least). For an entire year, until she could have a reversal, she would have bowel movements in a smelly bag attached to a stoma. This gorgeous and sweet child, who had been so emotionally strong, began to melt down. She was, understandably, horrified, and it didn’t get easier. I don’t want any accolades, but I was her cheerleader. I kept her going.
One of Marissa’s college roommates was celebrating her birthday down in Atlantic City about a month and a half after Marissa’s first surgery. We encouraged Marissa to go, and she picked up a friend from Marlboro on the way down. About an hour after she picked up her friend, while driving,her bag exploded all over her. It was a nightmare, and she didn’t have extra supplies with her. She called me hysterical, inconsolable, telling me she couldn’t do it anymore. I talked her through it, packed up her stuff, and, facing her father’s disapproval, raced down the parkway to meet her. She was a literal and figurative mess, but I helped her clean up (she had stopped at a local hospital), and I encouraged her to keep going. I ALWAYS encouraged her to keep going.
God didn’t take the girl from me literally, thank Goodness, but on February 24th, 2014, he took her figuratively. That was the day she walked out of my house for good. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.
It is all around me, in every place I go and everything I do. I was just driving home, and two beautiful songs came on the radio, back to back. As I listened closely to the lyrics on my favorite country station, back to the past I went. The first song was called I Loved Her First, by Heartland, and it was a dad singing to his new son-in-law at his daughter’s wedding. Throughout the song, he tells the man that, although he is now married to his daughter, he was the one who was there at the beginning, who was always her number one. He urges the young man to take care of her, and tells him how he fell in love with her the second she was born.
Miss, the day my girl was born was the happiest day of my life. My wedding was NOT the happiest day of my life, as the drama and the control were already beginning. I knew that I didn’t love him, and his mom and grandma were so unkind and unfriendly. The wedding was my mother’s show, and I was fine with that, even though the night before my wedding, my parents had had the biggest fight and said they were divorcing. My cousin, Gina, was up from Florida, and she and I had to leave my house because of how my parents were fighting over this guy, Armando, who was the new husband of one of my mother’s friends. Al felt he was a pompous ass, and Al never liked that. Maybe I didn’t feel well at my wedding because, unbeknownst to me, my little peanut was already growing inside of me.
Miss, I was in back labor all weekend with Marissa. I actually went into false labor on Friday night, and we were sent home with the promise that I would have the baby by the end of the weekend. Jay wouldn’t let me tell my parents or my sister that I was in labor. He didn’t want them worrying, or involved, and he just wanted the control. He wanted to send the message to them that he was in charge now. (My mother told me she sensed from my voice that I was having contractions).
I went into the hospital late Sunday night when the contractions were 5 minutes apart. I would go 4 minutes and then 4 minutes and then 3 minutes and then 6 minutes, but Jay wouldn’t let me call the doctor because that wasn’t a consistent 5 minutes apart. When we left for the hospital, I wanted to call Bobby and Al and Lisa, but Jay wouldn’t let me. So, when 4 centimeters refused to become 10, and when I was taken into the delivery room for my C-section, Jay still wouldn’t call them. He said he would let them know when the baby was born.
At 7:21 on a Monday morning, Marissa came into the world. I was so in love, and she was so beautiful. Life made sense finally. All of the mistakes I made all along were somehow validated because I had this bundle of joy and blessing and heart. I just wanted to see my mom though, because I needed to know that I was still somebody’s baby. The thing was though, because Jay wouldn’t call them earlier, my mom had left for school minutes before Marissa was born. So, he called my dad, who, in all of his excitement, heard 19 inches as 9 pounds, 10 ounces.
When Al finally got hold of my mother at school, 45 minutes later, Bobby nearly stroked out thinking that somebody my size had tried to deliver nearly a 10 pound baby. She, of course, got right back into her car, and she raced to New Jersey from Staten Island. I kept asking where she was, but, because she had such a long drive and because she didn’t find out until Marissa was an hour or so old because she was en route to Staten Island, I didn’t see my mom for hours. But, when she came into the room, I let out such a sob of relief and joy.
The Powerball and the Mega Millions, as of last night, were collectively worth over 2 billion dollars. Chances of winning one of these jackpots were 1 in 300 million, but somebody did win. Somebody in New Jersey actually won, but people haven’t even checked their tickets yet and nobody even knows where the ticket was sold. Could it have been me?
The odds of what happened to me, in terms of losing my kids, were greater than 1 in 300 million. People are convicted of murder, corruption, extortion, drug dealing, sex trafficking, embezzlement, robbery, and many other heinous crimes, yet their kids still talk to them. I didn’t do any of those things (though Jay probably told them I multitasked and did every one of them on a weekly basis), and I have been given a lifelong sentence of suffering and agony that mutilates and incapacitates my entire stamp.
My mother abandoned me when all of the vicissitude began, so afraid of being jettisoned herself. But, one of the last things she said to me was, “Any other family … If it was any other family, this would never have happened.” Though seemingly ambiguous, I somewhat understood what she was saying. My sister threatened her, controlled her, scared her, and basically ordered my mother to have nothing to do with me. The once powerful and independent Barbara Starsky became a pathetic pawn on my sister’s toxic and monochromatic black chessboard.
My mother had also twice mentioned, “Even a criminal would have been pardoned by now.” She knew how deeply I was hurting, and I don’t think she ever fully understood (who can?) why I was eliminated from the hearts of the kids I loved and still love so completely. She was a coward, and, whether her hand was forced or not, she did make a choice – Sophie’s Choice.
After Zack left me so suddenly, my mom reached out to him. Always the softest of my 3, his behavior puzzled her the most. Aware that Jay’s attorney had told my attorney that my divorce wasn’t progressing because Zack still talked to me, and recognizing that Jay’s lawyer confidently and contemptuously added, “But it won’t be for too much longer,” my mother did, supposedly, reach out to Zack. And, after he did abruptly discard me and she did call him, her words to me were, “I swear to G-d, he has been brainwashed.” (I would sit for a polygraph to attest to the validity of this conversation and the words that still permeate and pierce my vandalized heart).
What will they tell my grandchildren? Will they say I’m dead (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m crazy and that I’m away in some sort of facility (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m in prison (I guess I am in some sort of proverbial prison).
What won’t they tell my grandchildren? They probably won’t tell them that I’m a respected and beloved teacher. They probably won’t tell them that I am funny, kind, benevolent, charitable, concerned, and so deeply passionate and compassionate. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were growing up, my talons would automatically sharpen if anybody or anything ever hurt them. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were sick, I was always there, never letting them be alone and scared. They probably won’t tell them that I called them my heart, my soul, and my lungs. They probably won’t tell them that I loved them so much that I stayed in a marriage that didn’t make me happy. And, they probably won’t tell them that I loved them more than I loved myself. I still do.
May we all win the lottery, whatever the lottery looks like to us. Whether it’s the Powerball, the Mega Millions, or our children and grandchildren’s presence in our lives, may that winning ticket be in our reach.
A Martini Toast 