A Martini Toast

I Loved Her First

November 17, 2021

Grace and Kindness

My Sweet Miss,

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.

I loved her first, Miss. I loved her first.

Me

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55 and Free

October 27, 2021

Grace and Kindness

I wrote this back in January. I have TWO grandchildren now whom I don’t see. I learned about the second one in my mother’s obituary. Nobody told me my mother died.

January 9, 2021

Good Morning, and Happy Day One of Marla taking back her life!

Friends, looking at the number of my age, double nickels as some would say, one can’t help but shudder. It’s a big number, with serious implications. Yes, some of you have already reached this milestone, and you are shining. Unphased by the reality that you can now move into a 55 and over retirement community, you rejoice in the ease and the calm of not only knowing, but owning who you are.

It has taken me 55 years to know and own who I am. For 55 years, I have been the pleaser, the giver, the buffer, the energy, and the entertainment. I have put everybody else’s needs before my own, fearing that I wouldn’t be loved or accepted if I didn’t. Truth be told, it was so much more serious than that – I was terrified of being abandoned.

My psychotherapy and my journey to find where my diagnosed fear of abandonment began has been long and painful, and most of you know my story. You have traveled this crooked road with me, living my pain through every EOB, every graduation, every wedding, and now, at least one grandchild. You have picked me up when I have been gutted by learning of a milestone in my children’s lives. Knowing that I didn’t even have a seat in the “simcha” nosebleed section, you so often protected me from literal and figurative collapse.

I read that Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, the young wife of JFK, Jr., would have turned 55 two days ago, on the 7th, had she not been killed in that fateful airplane crash 22 years ago. My unwavering and sometimes twisted sense of humor propels me (pardon the pun) to say, “Well, I’m certainly better off than she is.” I’m always aware that I’m better off than many.

This has been a week like no other in Washington, D.C., with a madman president pushing his supporters to attack sacred ground. Encouraging them with toxic vitriol, the 4-year buildup in the dam of venom and hatred finally and tragically overflowed. His seditious rhetoric invoked such physical, emotional, financial, spiritual, and collateral damage in this country, damage from which we will need decades to recover. And, Trump will escape relatively unscathed.

Folks, today, another president will be conning the masses and escaping unscathed, and he, himself, will be doing it on sacred ground. Mr. Jaffe will deliver his weekly remarks at Temple Beth Shalom in Livingston, and his fans will hang onto his every word. Wearing his suit and his kippah, and speaking in eerily dulcet tones so that everybody has to lean in to hear him, he will rejoice. You see, as today is also Zack’s birthday, Jay knows that, as long as Zack and I are estranged, my birthday can never really be a completely happy one. This, to him, is triumph. And, if one of the 800 congregants, all but one of whom abandoned me, decides to stir the Shabbat stew and mention my birthday, Mr. Jaffe will further his toxic vitriol and probably concoct something along the lines of my running naked into Zachary’s 10th grade English class, with scotch and cigar in hand, screaming, “To pee or not to pee? That is the question.”

Today, however, I have made the decision to no longer be afraid of Mr. Jaffe or anybody who has tried to take me down. I will not fear my sister’s wrath, when she learns that I asked

the cemetery to fix my father’s tilted and half out-of-the-ground grave. I will not fear the quack dentist who dropped countless drill bits down my mouth and had the Trumpian arrogance to send me a Cease and Desist letter. I will not fear that I will lose my job or remain single the rest of my life because somebody finds out that my children don’t speak with me. I will not fear that my children might get hurt when and if my story gets told.

Yesterday, my students had to explain the quote, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” I’m not sure there is a more appropriate quote for this week’s events, including my birthday. What we say matters, and we need to build people up instead of tear them down. We need to find reasons to love, not to hate. So, with that, I want to thank all of you for pointing your lightsabers of love in my direction and for staying the course and not abandoning me. I love you all dearly.

Marla

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Letter to Kelly

October 27, 2021

Grace and Kindness

I’m posting a letter I had written about a year ago to my friend, Kelly. This year, I’ll miss seeing TWO grandchildren in Halloween costumes.

My Dearest Kelly,

Sharing a classroom with you is truly one of my life’s privileges. How often does one get to see her confidante, her stability, her “sister,” and her sounding board first thing in the morning? Who else gets to eat lunch with her bestie and talk about everything from school to societal injustice to sex? Who else has the peace of mind to know that the person sitting right across from her knows every shrapnel of her pain, and can actually sense when it’s piercing through to the surface? What other chubby chick gets to end her school day by telling her person that she loves her?

Today is Monday, November 2nd, 2020, and it’s so relevant for so many reasons. First, this past weekend was Halloween, and it was so difficult for me. Obviously, not being able to see my granddaughter in her first costume was distressing, and it catapulted me back to when my own kids were young. You see, Kels, I had to sell my soul for them to be allowed to partake in any Halloween events. Jay would say that it was a Catholic holiday, and he wanted the kids to stay home from school so they wouldn’t participate in the Halloween parade. Every year, as October 31st approached, the same discussion ensued at 22 Thurston Drive, and he fought me tooth and nail over it. Zapping any excitement surrounding the day, he’d ultimately acquiesce and let the kids participate, but the price I would have to pay was hefty. It would usually involve something with religion, like “don’t you dare ask me if the kids can skip Shabbat dinner or synagogue even once for an entire month.” Oh, Kels, the “don’t you dares” were so constant, so deliberate, so whispered.

Today is also the day before Election Day, and our whole democracy is on the verge of extinction. The hateful rhetoric, the palpable lies, the twisted reality, the agonizing xenophobia, and the harrowing gaslighting seem to permeate the literal and figurative highways of this once powerful country. I’m actually afraid, afraid for so many of us. I’m afraid for myself, as a Jewish woman in her mid 50s. I’m afraid for you, with your Lupus. I’m afraid for Sam, wanting him to be able to love whom he chooses. I’m afraid for all parents of children with darker skin, with pre-existing conditions, and with learning disabilities.

I lived with Donald Trump, Kel, and the ending isn’t pretty. He gets what he wants. He stops at nothing to destroy anybody who challenges him or whom he deems a threat. A master of manipulation, he turns “trying to run a bus off the road” into “they were just being escorts.” He turns a mother’s blog, sharing her daughter’s medical updates, into a violation of the daughter’s privacy, even when the daughter wrote the blog with the mother. He uses religion to falsify, justify, and empower, and he’ll stare you straight in the eye and tell you that the words he said five minutes ago came out of your mouth. And, the scariest part is, you’ll actually believe him.

May tomorrow be a new beginning for all of us, may kindness prevail, and may people finally see through the transparency (pardon the pun). I love you so dearly.

Marla

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Dr. Richard Fain

September 23, 2021

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Dr. Richard Fain, Forgiveness, Healing, Tragic Divorce

It is no secret that a woman’s relationship with her male gynecologist is nearly sacred. Having absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he touches parts of her that are usually reserved for a romantic partner, this is the man who takes fastidious physical care of everything venerated on her body. He brings her children into the world, and he emotionally understands her on a level that nobody else can.

My gynecologist has been on leave for over 8 months now, and his absence is palpable. It also isn’t the first time he has left the stage, leaving hundreds, if not thousands, of adoring fans concerned. A few years ago, he had taken an unwanted sabbatical due to something medical, and he returned 6 months or so later, thin but energetic. We didn’t mention his absence, as it was his story to tell if he chose to do so. I was just so happy he was back.

Last week, I had no choice but to see Dr. Fain’s colleague, Dr. Tara Abella. She and I had met during Dr. Fain’s last sabbatical, when I had dropped a weight on my boob and found myself with a lump and a bruise. Probably expecting to see an athlete and not a chubby chick in her early 50s, Dr. Abella knew just how to assuage my fear that something was wrong. Thank Goodness, the ultrasound proved unremarkable, and my lionized Dr. Fain would be back in time for my yearly visit.

This time around, however, Dr. Fain won’t be back. Dr. Fain had a stroke back in January, and, from what I understand, it was brutal. I know that there is no such thing as a pleasant stroke, but I do know that some are more cataclysmal than others. Months of rehabilitation and learning to do everything all over again, including drive, have propelled Dr. Fain on the road to a fine quality of life, but he won’t be returning to the job that meant the world to him.

Dr. Fain is only 74, with a head full of salt and pepper curls. His “joie de vivre” is, pardon the topical reference, of pandemic proportions, and his gentle and calming demeanor can temporarily quell even the tragic damage left by a pernicious ex-husband. Countless were the times he talked me off of the proverbial ledge, offering invaluable and mollifying advice and support. We would have this banter where he would say to me, “And your therapist probably says ….” He was ALWAYS right.

Dr. Fain did not bring my children into the world; another beloved OB/GYN of mine did. But, Dr. Fain brought ME back into the world. He listened tirelessly, focused on my today and tomorrow, distracted me from my yesterday, and took me seriously when, almost 6 years ago, only weeks after I turned 50, I told him that I wanted to have another baby. He gave me names and phone numbers, and though my dream didn’t become reality because the 5 in front of my age made it prohibitive, there was a man in my life who didn’t call me crazy. It was restorative, as I was called crazy throughout my entire marriage – in front of my children, in front of my family, in front of my friends.

Dr. Fain, may you know just how much you have meant to those of us who were lucky enough to call you our doctor, our therapist, our sounding board, our tranquilizer, our hope, our heart, and our friend. We will miss you.

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Official Entry Number One

August 25, 2021

Grace and Kindness

The last week of August brings such a plethora of emotions for both students and parents. Whether a child is going into kindergarten or is preparing for his or her freshman year of college, the nerves are palpable and bonafide. The kindergartner must deal with the worries of separation from his or her parents, along with the concerns surrounding the social stressor of making new friends. The college freshman must also deal with the separation from parents and those to whom he or she is very close, as well as finding friends and managing the collegiate academic rigor.

I remember my kids’ first days of kindergarten and college, and, quite honestly, each affected me so profoundly. Never one to send my kids away to camp, we weren’t apart very often. Marissa had gone to preschool for 3 years, Rebecca for only one, and Zack for two, but they were only for half-days. It seemed natural that tears would abound for nursery school, but were the tears that were shed at college drop-off an indicator that I had smothered and helicoptered a bit too powerfully?

If I’m being fair, Marissa had been so sick for so long, so dropping her off at the University of Maryland was going to be extra unsettling. Her Ulcerative Colitis was already a part of her life for nearly three years, and flaring became a word to which we had all become way too adjusted. Additionally, she was leaving her boyfriend, and they had become so close since meeting at post-prom 3 months prior. It was almost predictable that she would call me at the hotel where we were staying, just in case she needed me, on that uncomfortable first night of college life. It was also predictable that her father and I would have a fight about going to get her and bringing her back to the hotel with us. I just couldn’t let my princess be unhappy.

Rebecca’s drop-off at the University of Maryland was also challenging, as my normally stoic and gregarious “tour de force” was so sad and nervous. Though she had her sister there, she struggled with us leaving, and I still see her face now. Always her cheerleader, I said all of the right things to let her know that she would soar and shine, but all I really wanted to do was turn back the clock to when she was 18 months old, with her bottle dangling from her mouth like a cowboy’s cigarette, and her toy guitar around her body where she was half-naked. She loved being in pants and shoes, with nothing on top, except her guitar.

It was Zack’s college drop-off at Rutgers, however, that was the most impactful. He was fine, even though he didn’t really know who his roommate would be. It was actually his second random roommate assignment, as the first one, after looking at Zack’s Facebook page and seeing that he was a theater kid, wrote an extremely unkind, untrue, and disgusting post about him not living with a “theater fag.” Zack stayed positive, knew we would handle the situation, and looked forward to meeting his next roommate.

When we set up Zack’s room and we were about to say goodbye to him in the courtyard, I let out a sound that I had never heard before. It came from deep inside my throat, and it was a cry of terror mixed with grief. My emotional pain came out of me in a caterwaul, and I knew I would never be the same. Was it that my baby was going to college that upset and frightened me so? Did my terror stem from knowing that my nest would now be empty, leaving me alone with a man whose main goal was to gaslight and destroy me? Or, was it the all-too-quick passage of time that was resonating with me?

For those of you with kids going off to kindergarten, stay in the moment. Don’t be on your phones as you drop your munchkins off, and, when you’re trying to take that perfect picture to post on social media, don’t lose sight of the enormity of the day. Time really will move swiftly.

For those of you with kids going off to college, let them fly. Assure them that you are there for anything they need, but encourage them to try to solve crises by themselves. Have their backs, but buoy their autonomy. Fortify their independence, while you learn to find yours.

I wish every parent, student, and teacher a meaningful and rewarding school year.

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November Numbness

November 27, 2019

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Parental Alienation, Thanksgiving, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis

My time machine is getting all revved up to travel back in time 30 years, and I’m not sure if I’ll be better or worse for the journey.

Marissa turns 30 today, and even seeing the number in print feels somewhat surreal. Both pregnant with her and delivering her at 23, I was a young mom whose life and purpose began at 7:21 a.m. exactly three decades ago.

I’m not going to dwell or perseverate on my loss; instead I will say that, albeit for too short a time, my 24 years with Marissa brought me more joy than some people get in a lifetime. Her illuminating smile, her fastidious work ethic, her subtle and gentle way of getting what she wanted, and her unwavering strength and tenacity during an unrelenting illness have permanently earned her a secure place on the Supergirl mantle.

I’m still numb from the trauma of losing her, and I pray that she is happy and healthy. Perhaps she’s a mom herself now, and, if so, I hope she might pause and think of me. Though her dad has rewritten history, may she revisit reality and remember who I was. Most of all, however, may she feel my love and know that, no matter what has transpired, that love will always be hers.

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Gathering

October 29, 2019

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

The word gathering offers multiple uses, with the root of them all involving some sort of meeting or assembly. Whether talking about a family celebration or simply a disciplined collection of thoughts, a gathering is the literal or figurative place where “stuff” happens.

I learned last night from a dear friend that my mother was diagnosed with Chronic Leukemia. Some internet searching told me that, while not ideal or glamorous, one can live quite a while with the disease and even be asymptomatic. May my mother be one of those people.

My mother has lived a full life. She has seen and experienced joy that I will never see. From the moment my oldest, her first grandchild, arrived just about 30 years ago, my mother rejoiced in all of the magic that comes with being a grandmother. An active and welcomed participant in my kids’ lives, my mother’s favorite role was grandma to my 3 kids and my sister’s 2 kids. The Fab Five were flawless in her eyes.

My ex-husband and my mother didn’t always see eye to eye, and Jay’s happiest moments were when he could slam me in front of my mother and my sister. Their dismay at his not-so-subtle verbal abuse caused significant problems for me, as more than once I would have to beg him to agree to see them again. His narcissism was only exceeded by my pathos.

Now, they all break bread together, without me.

I was hoping that once I got divorced I would get to spend lots of time with my mom. She and I shared a similar sense of humor and a matching energy. Whereas my sister was always hard on my mom, I was the one offering her endless mulligans. After all, she was my mom, and, in my book, that comes with unconditional love.

Make no mistake about it – Barbara Starsky was flawed and could often be selfish. But, this Elizabeth Taylor lookalike could also be so fiercely charming and generous. Brilliant beyond description and comprehension, she, like I, spent her life camouflaging her demons. To this day, neither of us fully knows the other’s story.

My mother has seen college graduations of her grandchildren, weddings of her grandchildren, and the birth of at least one great-grandchild. Her life, which will hopefully continue for a decade or longer, has rewarded her with countless blessings. I’m only sorry she didn’t consider me one of those blessings.

I wish my mother well and Godspeed as she faces this challenge.

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That Damn High Road

October 7, 2019

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Parental Alienation, Shana Tova, Tragic Divorce

It’s Sunday, and this was supposed to be a Marla Tells All. I was supposed to cleanse my soul, throw all caution to the wind, seek validation, expose my ex-husband, and share every mile of my paralyzing journey. Pages of cathartic and disturbing revelations now just sit, while my residence on the High Road seems like permanent housing.

A night with my girlfriends is guaranteed laughs, tears, and therapy. We vent, we confide, we tease, and they share about their beautiful children. I love hearing about the accomplishments and relationships of their peanuts, and they know that, more than anything, I wish that I, too, could share about mine. Recognizing my raw wounds, they offer advice when I look like my proverbial Mah Jongg tiles are coming off of the rack.

Our recent gathering was a smorgasbord of love, lox, and deep discussion, and my proposed, purging blog entry came up. It was just about unanimous that I should keep going high as they continue to go low, citing that those who know me have witnessed firsthand the backstory and the emotion behind my written words. Those who know me and who have stayed aboard the S.S. Gaslight are not jumping off of it. I’ve certainly reached a ten-lifetime quota of abandonment, but I can extract peace from the loyalists who remain.

I’m waiting for a call telling me that my MRI and MRA have been scheduled. The facial numbness remains and is both off-putting and terrifying. I told a dear friend that I’m not ready for further testing of my strength, so this lady who has lost her faith needs to find some ASAP. Perhaps the High Road is the right place to look.

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Shana Tova

September 30, 2019

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Broken Heart, Crohn’s disease, Dr. Philip Bruder, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing, Parental Alienation, Practice What We Preach, Rosh Hashanah, Shana Tova, Telogen Effluvium, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis, You Can’t Make This Shit Up

As I sit here and prepare my Yom Kippur blog, I am preparing you for a cleansing of my soul. For too long now, I have remained quiet, and I have gone high when they have gone low. I have feared the worst, but I now realize that I have lived the worst. In losing my children, I have experienced a mother’s greatest nightmare. With that being said, I am still here to tell the story. That story will be released this coming Sunday.

Just to keep you updated on my health from the last blog, I am thrilled to report that, just as Dr. Phil Bruder said, my hair is growing back. I am no longer shedding, and, while the Rogaine is requiring me to visit my aesthetician weekly, it is working along with my natural regrowth in bringing back my hair. I am so grateful to Dr. Bruder for assuaging my concerns like nobody else could.

A week ago Friday, as I was putting on my make-up and rejoicing that my follicular situation was improving, I noticed that I was numb in my lower left side of my lip, my left side of my tongue, and my left eyebrow. Catapulting back to my three C-sections and smiling at the numb tugging I experienced as they pulled my delicious Beanie Babies out, this numbness resonated. “What could possibly be happening now?” I inquired of my trusted confidantes. “Could this be part of the gift that keeps on giving, meaning my daughter’s father-in-law who twice dropped those drill bits down my jaw when he was performing root canals on me?” (This will be a part of Sunday’s cleansing).

A visit to my current and capable dentist told me that my teeth seemed okay, all things considered, but that my symptoms mimicked a problem stemming from the trigeminal nerve. She, quite out of character for her, told me that people kill themselves from the pain of trigeminal neuralgia, so she was hoping it wasn’t this. She agreed with a dear friend of mine that I should see my ENT, as my two invasive sinus surgeries have rendered me completely into permanent sinus inflammation, pain, and nerve pressure. Perhaps this is indeed the case, or, pardon my French, perhaps I haven’t been fucked with enough. Perhaps this is a brain tumor, MS, or the beginnings of this suicidal neuralgia.

This Wednesday, October 2nd, which is the birthday of my Daddy (of blessed memory), I will, yet again, be taking a day off from work. I will start the day at my ENT, continue on to my Primary Care Physician, and dance from there to a neurologist. Yes, neurologist, which, after oncologist, is probably the doctor people fear the most. I will hold my head high, as the warrior and not the victim, and I will pray that I will indeed be inscribed in The Book of Life for another year.

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