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!
A Martini Toast 