The Pursuit of Happiness

Rejection is redirection; I will MAKE it so.

2022-06-12T06:13:00.047-07:00

The day after Passover I started a new job.

I was ecstatic about it, though super wary. My previous job had lasted four months, and aside from my amazing coworkers, had been toxic for me. As has happened previously in my life, I got lucky - they did me a favor and broke up with me. They fired me with literally no good reason.

But from the moment that I received the notice of hearing (how it works here in Israel), I decided to make a change in my life and focus on my improvement.

I immediately signed up for classes on Coursera, started taking lessons on social media, marketing, and confidence on Linkedin, and chose a multiple of podcasts, one of which I have really connected with (20 Minutes with Bronwyn). I focused on Linkedin (more than any other social media) and followed the positive outlook posts and adopted my mantra: "rejection is redirection."

It wasn't easy. Especially with my depression, anxiety, sleep issues, and four children under eight years old. I even had a day where I absolutely lost my sh*t, had an anxiety/anger attack, and had to hide myself in my room for the rest of the day (and medicate myself).

But I stuck to it, listened to my podcast almost daily, ignored the little voices in my head that tried to put me down, and landed an interview with a reputable company (in the same city). I walked into their office and felt an undercurrent of... calmness.

I sat with the CEO and he was a soft-spoken leader. I liked him, his approach, and his demeanor. So I took a second interview over Chol HaMoed Passover and was hired that day, a mere week and a half after I was fired by the toxic company.

It took at least a month for me to get used to the calm work environment. To get used to the fact that mistakes are a part of learning and refining your skills. To not fear for my job every time my content manager or CEO called.

And about four weeks after I started my new job, my father's health drastically and rapidly deteriorated. I didn't automatically book a ticket, but instead went in on Sunday to help with production of a podcast. Upon sitting with me, the CEO -without question or hesitation- told me to book my ticket home. So I did.

And my father passed away on my flight home.

The CEO, my content manager, and everyone at the office were incredibly kind. They told me not to worry and they took care of everything while I was gone, while I attended the funeral, while I sat shiva for a week, while I flew back through two layovers, while I recovered over the weekend.

And the CEO sent me constant messages of strength and support and heart. It was unexpected, but reiterated the feeling of family and community that he had told me about at the very first interview.

I am pleased to see that there still are some people who consider their word as their bond (thank you, Amir).

It was very unlike my last shiva experience (for my beloved mother nine years ago) where I was fired, via email, while I sat in my brother's house (I've had some pretty traumatic work situations).

To get through everything, I have relied upon the base I created eight weeks ago. The base that focuses on my internal strengths, my spirit, my capabilities, and the future. I feel a veneer of calm I never used to have.

I'm not saying that I don't have outbursts of anger. I'm not saying that I don't have anxiety or episodes of depression where I don't want to get out of bed or randomly start crying (like now).

But I'm better than I used to be, and the veneer is thickening. Maybe others don't see it yet, but I do.

I'm a lot more confident at work and in myself. And I am using this as a springboard for everything else: now is my time to work on myself physically (again), on learning how to be better organized (and to pass these skills on to my children), and learn. Just keep learning.

It'll come.

And as I now use as a mantra when calming my two year old...

"It's okay. All is well."

An Adult's Anger - A Kid's Perspective

2022-04-07T12:24:00.003-07:00

In life, you go through experiences alone. Honestly and brutally.

Even if someone is by your side, they're not inside your brain, your feelings, your heart. They don't feel the pain you do. They don't feel your anxiety and fury and sadness from the inside out; they do, however, ride the rocky ocean the wave of emotions is creating.

And it's like dropping a rock into a lake (or exploding a nuclear bomb, depending on the event). The concentric circles of feelings spread and touch everything - both on the surface and beneath. Everything is affected, whether you notice it or not.

The Adult Mind & Anger

As an adult, you try to navigate your own thoughts, reactions, and feelings flaming through your amygdala. It's really fucking difficult and definitely not linear. You may know, intellectually, that it's the right thing or that it had to happen, but honestly? Who cares about the intellectual on the day or day after the event?! You have emotions that are raging, lighting everything on fire, triggering extreme anxiety and physical discomfort within your chest.

Even breathing and meditation doesn't always expel the toxicity and anger, even if it helps a bit. It doesn't help enough though, when you're home with four kids who just want to sit on you. Be near you. Breathe on you. Block any movement of your arms to do anything. Hug you, run away and scream, return and hug you again. Ask for a sandwich, refuse the sandwich, ask for a different sandwich. Eat yours.

A part of you just wants to bury your face in their hair and breathe. Another part of you just doesn't want to be touched. And all you end up doing is flinching, crying, and screaming from rage when some tiny thing goes wrong.

From Adult to Kid

How the hell do you understand all that as a kid?

Mom is crazy, sad, angry, cranky, snapping at the least offense. To prepare my oldest one for me (I'm a cocktail of issues sometimes: depression, anxiety, ADD), we spoke to him (8yo) so he knows what happened to trigger this. First my husband let him know, and later that afternoon, I felt it was a vital, teachable moment.

I squatted down to meet his gaze and explained my feelings to him, my frustrations, my anger. I told him that I was treated unfairly because of a person with bad communication skills (the communication thing is a key issue in our family). He was sad for me, asked why the other person hadn't tried to explain better the problem. He and I ended up having an entire conversation about the importance of talking, and the disappointment when some people simply don't have the same values as you.

Amongst a ton of other feelings, I was just sad. And he got that, kept giving me hugs. I told him the whole situation sucked and I was super upset, but I would try again tomorrow.

A New Day - Tomorrow... maybe the next....

I'm feeling a little better tonight, but I had to hide in my room, take some prescribed medicine to help with anxiety, and relax. I listened to my newest communication podcast, which has brought me to a really good place this past week (check out 20 Minutes with Bronwyn), drank some wine, took some Udemy courses.

Hubby had to put the kids to bed, and from the sound of it, they were being challenging. And I could do nothing to help since sometimes it's simply better to stay away when you're a fire-breathing dragon with a short fuse.

So tomorrow, hopefully, I'll feel better. And I'll apologize for losing my shit and explain that adults also have really big feelings, but we have to learn how to react to them and control them instead of the other way around. Many times we succeed, but sometimes we simply fail. And failure is acceptable in life as long we learn from it and don't beat ourselves up about it.

One day, I hope the explanation of my feelings and apologies for bad choices will prevent at least one session with a psychiatrist. And maybe, just maybe, my love and hugs will help, too.

That's what my tomorrow will be filled with - talking, opening up, and lots and lots of hugs and snuggling, if they let me. I think they will. Kids are pretty resilient - but don't take advantage of that. They're also pretty bright and perceptive. They know you better than you think.

Take that with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila.

Corona and Stridor - Keep Breathing.

2021-09-30T07:28:00.003-07:00

Thank goodness we live in a country that has an emergency health system, ambulances, and educated doctors. If you're sensitive to scary kid stories, don't keep reading (though, thank G-d it has a happy ending).

Thirty-six hours later, I'm finally ready to talk about what happened at 2am yesterday.

Yehonatan, my beautiful and amazing boy who is almost six years old, who just 'recovered' from Corona (though is still run down and not quite himself), came into our room and wheezed/coughed twice. He couldn't talk at all. He could barely breathe.

Wide awake, I leapt out of bed, grabbed him and beelined to the freezer. I held him there, having him breathe in the cold air, and kept him calm by talking about a chicken eating ice cream in Australia (but made sure it wasn't funny since he had very little oxygen). I had Ariel call an ambulance immediately.

(brief backstory: I spend time on different Facebook groups to hear parent stories, some for funnies, some for awareness and learning how to be a better parent. Literally, only two days ago, I read something about stridor. I've known about croup, but not the scariness of stridor. Anyhow, one mom said that the most important things to do are to take the child to the freezer, keep them calm, and get medical attention. I didn't necessarily know what Yehonatan was going through, but I figured the first two wouldn't hurt.)

While I held my second son in the cold, trying to keep his body warm, I started having trouble thinking and making sentences for him. Despite trying to remain calm (I am usually the calm before; the hysterics after), I was so worried about him that I had to call Ariel over to hold him while I went and dry-heaved in the bathroom. I returned quickly and held my curly-man there for what felt like an eternity, listening to him wheeze with shallow breaths, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and trying not to imagine the worst.

They finally arrived, apparently quickly, and Ariel took him down where the EMTs gave him oxygen, took his vitals (oxygen levels were at 100), and headed to Laniado.

When I was home alone, I sat down on the couch, put my head between my legs and breathed slowly. My fingertips and toes were tingling and I felt nauseated. To distract myself and try to get oxygen back into my own system, I called my brother and asked him to just talk to me, which he kindly and lovingly did.

It didn't take long for my husband and son to arrive at Laniado, where they gave him an inhalation treatment, took more vitals, and declared stridor as the culprit. Below is a picture of him on his treatment (when he still couldn't talk).

The doctor said that it likely was caused by an allergen of some type and that it usually comes on FAST - there's nothing that you can really do to prevent it. I don't think it's a long shot to say that Corona didn't help in this situation at all. Needless to say, we will be taking our son to see an allergist so that we can cover all our bases with him. Below is a picture of him after his treatment, but before he could really talk again.

In case you are unfamiliar with stridor (like I had been)... "Stridor is usually diagnosed based on health history and a physical exam. The child may need a hospital stay and emergency surgery, depending on how severe the stridor is. If left untreated, stridor can block the child's airway. This can be life-threatening or even cause death."

The medical staff at Laniado took care of Yehonatan and released within about ninety minutes and he was home, sleeping in my bed by 3:30am (can't say the same for me). Since then, he's been on two inhalation treatments daily and steroids. He's now able to talk and breathe, which is no small matter.

I am incredibly grateful to Yehonatan for knowing that something was wrong and for coming into our room. I am incredibly grateful for whomever the mom was who spoke about stridor and gave advice. I am incredibly grateful to Ariel Woolf for calling MADA and going with our son to the hospital. I am incredibly grateful to MADA and Laniado for taking care of my boy and saving his life. I am grateful to my brother for listening and caring for me while I tried very hard not to freak out.

This is probably one of the scariest things I have ever experienced in my life (including the time Yehonatan choked on gnocchi). To see my son, to HEAR my son struggling to breathe, and not truly being able to do anything about it - it makes you feel so impotent. I keep hearing a sentence in my head: This could have turned out very differently... but it didn't.

But it could have.

So I'm sharing this with you. Make sure your kids know that if they feel anything wrong in their body, they need to tell their parents. It doesn't matter if we're sleeping and it's two in the morning. Make sure you know what to do for stridor or wheezing. Obviously, breathing is not something to play around with (even more so if your child has/had Corona). I'm only now starting to feel better about it though thinking about it again triggers my anxiety. As of this evening, our Yehonatan is feeling better, but not quite enough to go to school. Hopefully the new week will bring us all good health. Good health and an iced coffee with vanilla ice cream (what we both decided on the other morning).

Good health to all and may you never go through anything like this.

This Week's Reason for Rockets

2021-05-13T14:26:00.003-07:00

The other night, our siren went off, indicating that there were incoming rockets to Netanya, where we live. My first response, on my way to the kids' room, was an expletive. The rockets were coming in from Gaza, a good 98 kilometers south of here (or almost 61 miles). It's approximately the same distance from Detroit to Toledo, Ohio, if that helps at all.

We're actually pretty far from Gaza, comparatively. Tel Aviv gets more rockets than we do, so, all in all, we're relatively safe. However, that doesn't make me feel any better about rushing my kids to the safe room after they're all sleeping, nor does it make me feel any more secure about the situation. Nor does it make me happy about the fact that there's now no school, no parks, and no beaches. We're officially being forced to be shut-ins.

So why the 'sudden' rise in violence from Arabs (not Israeli Arabs, mind you)? I'm referring to the "Palestinians," the ones stuck in Gaza, living under the wonderful (I use that term ironically) auspices of the affirmed terrorist group, Hamas, and, more officially, the 'do-nothing-but-steal' Palestinian Authority.

There is a reason for the violence against innocent Israeli civilians. There's always a [claimed] reason... this time, that there are Arabs allegedly being illegally evicted from their homes in Sheikh Jarrah by allegedly racist Jews.

The short version of the truth is that it's basically a landlord-tenant issue, something I'm very familiar with as an attorney. Here, the Arabs, who had been long-time tenants of Jewish landlords, were either illegally squatting or overstaying as tenants (unlawfully remaining in the property past the end of their lease term) and the Jewish landlords had decided they wanted the tenants out. The Jews took the Arab tenants to court to get their rights enforced and won at every level. Period. That's it. No drama necessary. In most "normal" countries, this would have been the end of it. But in Israel, when something provides an excuse for violence, many times, the Palestinian Arabs will take it.

Let's start from the beginning of this case. In the city of Jerusalem, the capital of the legitimate and recognized country of Israel, there's an upscale Arab neighborhood named Sheikh Jarrah, about a mile north of the Old City of Jerusalem. And before you get all excited that Sheikh Jarrah is in some broken down area where Arabs live in squalor amongst the rats, here's a nice description of the area:

A quiet, affluent district, Alshaykh Jarah is known for the American Colony, a stately Ottoman palace turned hotel with lush gardens and shops selling books and antiques. The area is also home to consulates, the late-19th-century St. George’s Cathedral, and archaeological sites including the Tomb of Simeon the Just, said to hold the remains of the priest. Upscale bars and Middle Eastern eateries dot the neighborhood.

Some of the land and property is owned by Jews (it is an Israeli country). Legally, the rights of the owners and the tenants was determined both centuries and decades ago, respectively. We're talking 19th century (1800s, to be clear) and the 1950s....

Why is it an issue now? Honestly? Because the Palestinian Arabs are frustrated and angry. To be honest, this is what oftentimes happens in landlord-tenant disputes. I suppose I can't blame them for being upset that their tenancy is over, but it happens. The landlord doesn't renew the lease because you're a lousy tenant or because he wants more money or because he doesn't approve of your behavior or because he wants to renovate or who cares. It's his/her legal right. Here it appears that some Arab leases naturally expired, some leases were violated by the tenants, and others are just illegal squatters with no legal rights whatsoever.

Regardless, being pissed off doesn't give you any new legal rights.

But let's play the 'what if' game. What if the judicial system of the Ottoman Empire and British Mandate law and Israeli law were all wrong? What if the tenants have the right to continue to live in Jerusalem? Does that give Hamas and all the anti-Israel crowd the right to fire hundreds and thousands of rockets into a neighboring country against innocent civilians who had nothing to do with a landlord-tenant issue and who have likely never even heard of this neighborhood? Does that give pro-Palestinian and anti-Israel people the right to proactively threaten, "in support," to murder Jewish people in New York simply because they're Jewish (yes, this is happening)?

By the way, in case someone makes a claim that this is a violation of international law, it couldn't be further from the truth.

Fact: International law does not forbid Jews to live in areas of Israel that the media likes to refer to as the "Occupied Palestinian Territories."

Fact: International law does not forbid individual Jews from owning property in the "Occupied Palestinian Territories."

Fact: International law does not require, much less permit, ethnically based denial of the legal rights of property owners.

In other words, Israel, the country, cannot deny individual Jewish landowners their legal rights, even if other Israeli laws are wrong. This has nothing, zero, zilch, bagel to do with allegedly illegal settlement activity.

So now you know why they're firing rockets at us.

It's an excuse. Nothing but an excuse to murder Jewish children and Jewish adults.

THE RAINBOW BABY AFTER THE STORM

2020-08-14T04:22:00.002-07:00

THE BIRTH - JUNE 17, 2020

On a beautiful Tuesday night in June (at 39 weeks + 1 day), as I was putting the kids to bed, I realized that I hadn't felt a lot of movement from the baby that day. So after the adorable little monsters finally passed out, I went to my hubby, Ariel (for whom I had just bought entrecote steaks, a variety of mushrooms and truffle olive oil for a delicious sauce, and sweet potatoes for his birthday dinner). I sat on the edge of the bed and told him my concerns. He sat up and asked if I needed to go to the hospital and I, a person who dislikes going to get checked out, immediately said yes. So we left.

We ended up at Laniado Hospital in Netanya after stopping briefly at Urgent Care (I don't know what we were thinking, but they sent us immediately to the proper place) where they ran all sorts of tests. Rainbow gave the doctor some trouble at first, but after being poked and pushed around a few times, eventually passed all the tests. Despite this, I was still nervous because baby was usually a strong kicker and today was more than worrisome.

After hubby and I sat downstairs for thirty minutes counting kicks, we returned to the doctor. An additional one had joined in the shift; she reviewed my file again, realized my history with blood clots (2010), and notified me (kindly) that hospital policy, what with my medical history and "advanced" age, was to induce at 39 weeks.

My husband and I went into the hallway to discuss it and I tried really hard to calm down. I wasn't quite ready to have this rainbow baby. But why not? I had, essentially, been pregnant for over a year and childbirth was going to happen in the next week regardless - now or three days from now. Thinking now, I wonder whether the stress of my previous pregnancy, the choice to terminate, and worrying about the new pregnancy really took a toll on my mental health (of course it did).

Logically, and since it was likely a matter of a week anyway, I knew that staying at Laniado and being induced was the best idea (Ariel definitely helped convince me by explaining that I'd be home by Shabbat), so I sucked it up after a few tears and hugs and we agreed to stay.

At midnight, they gave me the little magic pill to start labor (cytotek) and I started practicing my hypnobirthing breathing. We watched some television, slept a little, and relaxed until about 5:40am, at which time I got up. Blood started dripping onto the floor; I called the nurses. As soon as they saw the floor, they instructed me to get back in bed, contacted the doctors, and wheeled me immediately to the delivery room.

At the beginning, I had a younger nurse attending, but I started having trouble progressing consistently. This might have been due to the fact that I was experiencing a terribly sharp pain in my lower right hip (it had started a few days previously) and thought I might have appendicitis as well. Additionally, I had just been diagnosed with a UTI and was on antibiotics. With all these complications, I was still trying my calming breaths, but they were not helping as much as usual.

The doctors and nurses kept coming in and quietly suggesting an epidural, but I kept saying no. My other births had been so easy and quick that I felt like this should be no different. But, unfortunately, it was.

Due to the lack of constant progression, the pain, and the seemingly endless blood clots passing during labor, my medical caretakers said that I might have to go into surgery - obviously, something I didn't want. Despite this, they prepped me by shaving me and having Ariel take off my jewelry. They even debated how to take out my cartilage piercings.

Even so, an additional, more experienced, nurse (Avigail) came in and gently asked me again if I wanted an epidural. Clearly, she could see how much difficulty and pain I was in.

This time, I didn't automatically reject it.

This time, I paused.

This time, I thought seriously and asked myself, At what point will I accept help for me and for my baby?

So I asked whether it would lengthen the delivery. Sometimes, Avigail admitted, but sometimes it removes the pain and discomfort enough for us to give birth. And thus, around 9:30am, I relented. Also, the nurse went on, if you have to go into surgery, it'll be an advantage because it will prepare you for that as well. Though if I continue to progress, she said, I could avoid it.

Immediately, they sent the doctor to get it done. In turn, he sent my husband out for twenty minutes and quickly got to work. Once it took effect (I even laid on my right side to help), my left leg became numb and immovable, but the pressure and the shooting pain on my right side also FINALLY dissipated - what blessed relief! Avigail then came back in, gave me a catheter, massaged my belly and assisted me in releasing my urine (my bladder had been blocking the path for the baby). I feel like she may have even hoisted herself on my bed to do so - though that might be my faulty memory.

After all this, the younger nurse stepped out so I could relax, but my guardian angel/nurse knew what would happen and stayed in the room. She was right. Not long afterwards, I felt pressure and within twenty minutes - with my urge to push and hands-on help from both the nurse and my husband - my baby girl finally emerged at 10:38am.

A few moments later, I birthed my placenta and that's when the nurses saw how shredded it was, that it had been detaching from my uterine wall. Together, Avigail and the younger nurse patted it dry, examining it closely to make sure it was complete. They were astounded that it hadn't pulled off completely. So was I; I've seen other healthy placentas. This wasn't one.

Placental abruption can be extremely dangerous for both baby and mother and it was the reason I had been having such terrible pains on my right side for days. It was also why I had been bleeding during labor.

Weeks later, when I went for my checkup with my gynecologist, he was astounded that I ended up with a natural labor/birth. I say it was because of Avigail, who SINGLE-HANDEDLY saved me from surgery, delivered me a healthy baby, and kept me alive.

THE ANNIVERSARY - AUGUST 14, 2020

One year ago today, my husband and I went to Hadera to terminate our pregnancy. Today, my rainbow baby, Liora Keshet (the light of G-d is mine; rainbow) is eight weeks old.

I still worry a bit that the shredded placenta might have injured her somehow, though she seems fine. Neither do I have any proof nor would I find out for a couple months or years anyway. Chances are she's fine and right now I am sitting here, typing, with her laying on my chest, sleeping peacefully.

Liora was a light from the very beginning, smiling from the start (from day 2!). Even the nurses noticed and made funny comments about what she was dreaming. My rainbow baby laughs in her sleep about whatever wonderful things babies dream of and, occasionally, she makes these weird breathing laughing snorts that are so loud, they can wake us up. She has hair, unlike her brothers and sister, and she's my other chocolate baby (I create two flavors, vanilla being the other).

And Liora is likely my last. The pregnancy was challenging and the birth even more so. And now that there's been a placental abruption, it's more likely to happen again, especially due to my age. I am 42 years old (a "geriatric" mother) and I'm both sad and relieved that I won't have to go through all of this again.

Because of that, Ariel and I decided to get a professional photo shoot with our little miracle. I had been following a particular photographer since my previous little girl was born and chose her to capture an image that reflected how we felt. We chatted, I told her our story, and this was her take on it - a beautiful and touching result.

With Liora, I now have two beautiful boys and two gorgeous girls who light up my life. I am very lucky and very blessed to have them, healthy and happy, even on the days they drive me nuts.

All the same, I started lighting an extra candle on Friday nights - a little one for Nugget, our lost baby, who will never be forgotten and will always be loved. The baby may not be with us on this earth, but he/she is keeping good company with my mom and Ariel's grandparents in heaven. The baby will forever be a part of our Woolf family - the family that was completed with a light from above, our little Liora Keshet.

Shades of Beige

2020-06-08T00:22:00.000-07:00

As of the end of this month, I'm an ex-pat American living in Israel for the last five years and I'm really really upset at the state of my 'motherland.' I have no words for the disgust I've been feeling when I read about the experiences of my good friends throughout their lives and how it's been an uphill battle for them each step of the way. I worry for them and for their children and how they'll be viewed, treated, and spoken to simply because of the increased melanin in their skin and the kink in their hair.

A protective pigment in skin. THAT is what bothers and offends way too many people. A pigment. A shade. A color.

Ignorant people treat others poorly because of a COLOR. That's literally one of the stupidest things I have ever heard of in my life and I'm a mother to three small children.

I'm sitting here in front of my laptop, distracted and disturbed. This morning, my 6yo son had a fantastic conversation with my good friend, a brilliant man who does robotics engineering for NASA. I have never seen my son so engaged, so thrilled to be speaking with someone about space, robots, and designing rockets. He started drawing the shuttles and robots at 6:30am and didn't stop until we had to leave for Gan. At the same time, my friend was very excited to be speaking with him and looking at his pictures, especially because those drawings were cheering him up from the desolation of discrimination he has been inundated with.

This friend, this man, who is bright, resourceful, kind, caring, sweet, and polite has been at the receiving end of both direct and indirect discrimination for a long while. Why? Because he's got more melanin than other people. His family has fought it (non-violently) for three generations and he's getting tired of the fight. Can I blame him? Absolutely not. And he worries about his adorable little son who might have to grow up in the same warped world that he did.

Certain aspects of my country, my old home, are embarrassing me. And I won't sit here and say that my new country is perfect - it isn't. It's depressing as hell accepting reality when the most I can currently do about it is teach my children (and others, to the best of my ability) that we are all worthy of respect and love. That behavior, character, and choices dictate our opinions of others, not color.

Do you really want to judge someone?? Take a look at their actions - their CHOICES.

It's 2020 and, on days like today, I feel like almost nothing has changed and I'm practically in tears.

It is each person's responsibility to understand that human beings are all the same species. We are all the same organs, tissues, and bones on the inside. There's no difference. None.

It is each parent's duty to teach their children what my 4yo knows... that everyone is simply a different shade of beige, peach, or brown. How lovely it is that people come in a variety of shapes and sizes! One can never be bored when there's so many physical differences to admire from person to person!

I want to help make the world a better place, not just for my blond, wavy haired son who loves science, or my strong and physical caramel colored son with curls, or my intense blond, green eyed daughter... but also for my friend's sweet cocoa colored son with big brown eyes and my friend's new, chubby chocolate colored daughter. My mixed-race friend with light eyes who rocks in a band and helps others with loss deserves the same respect as I do, as does my kind, darker friend with beautiful natural hair who balances mortgage brokering and modeling.

If I hadn't physically described anyone in this blog article, no one would even know what shade of beige/brown each individual was. And it wouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter.

It's days like today I'm glad I'm not living in the United States (and it's upsetting for me to say that). And it's days like today where I need to say something because perhaps, there's a small chance, that something can be done to fix the long ingrained problem that we have as Americans. I say WE because Americans are supposed to stand as a team. We are all different. We come from 50 different states and different territories. We have different cultures, different accents, different backgrounds, etc. But we're supposed to stand up for each other. If one of us is offended or hurt, we should all be offended and hurt. That's the true 'American way.'

Right now, our family is broken, our path has been overgrown with weeds and cracked concrete.

And I don't know what I can do about it.

*Illustration by Sarah Harvey

Life during Corona: Weeks 3 and 4 (Passover)

2020-04-12T06:26:00.000-07:00

Are we actually getting accustomed to this??

I had read somewhere that this Italian lady said that it takes until day 15 to "get used to" being on lock-down. I have to say that she is sorta right. We kinda found a little bit of a rhythm - not a great one since it depends on the day, the moods of the kids, our moods, etc (hence, why I said "sorta" and "kinda"). That's life with corona, I guess (nothing is normal).

So this week (week 3), I put up hammocks for the kids (6yo, 4yo, and 2yo) under our dining room table, which they all absolutely loved. The little one had to keep getting a bit of help to climb in, but by the end of the second day, she could do it independently. I have also been seeing a greater relationship blossom between the kids, especially between my oldest and youngest, and an improvement in the positive interactions between the 4yo and 2yo. It's a real joy to see and I don't think we would have gotten there as quickly without corona.

That being said, we've definitely had our moments (read: days) when the kids were constantly at each other's throats, crying over every little thing, needing hugs all the time, and requiring alone time with a parent to keep them apart. So, ya know, that's fun.

Also this week, we treated ourselves to ordered food (we celebrated eight years of engagement on April 2nd). Hubby enjoyed it because he got to hear a stranger's voice and we both enjoyed it because we didn't have to prepare it! And I've realized that the kids are a lot easier to deal with when they're learning different and new things. This week and next week's agenda: COOKING. I found a great video series that we all love called Mind over Munch and we've already watched a bunch of them (which is great because they get intrigued by cooking, constantly want to help, and they learn about nutrition!).

I did find that I was much more tired this week. I'm not sure if it's because of my pregnancy, because we're kinda lazing around the apartment all day (ehem, all week), or maybe a combination of the two, but those naps are getting mandatory and longer.

We ended the week with a huge cleaning fest for Passover. I sat on the couch and instructed each of them (I make a great supervisor). Each child had their own job and they were treated with some kinder bueno chocolates that had to be eaten prior to Passover anyway.

Week 4 was a little ... rougher, I think. Over the course of week 3, hubby had a horrendous headache on his right side, and on Saturday, his face became paralyzed on his right side. He was worried about a stroke (I had previously worried about an aneurysm), but once I saw the paralysis, I had such a sense of relief. My mom had experienced the same thing, called Bell's Palsy (apparently triggered by either a virus or stress - take a wild guess which one it was). He went to urgent care after sundown, was diagnosed with it and given antivirals and steroids. It should start improving in about three weeks (and max out at six months). How fun to have additional medical issues during Coronacation.

We also had plans to go to Efrat for the holiday, but, clearly, that was out of the question. So instead, we prepared our very first seder. Munchkin went to bed pretty early, but not the boys. They asked some great questions which brought us a lot of nachas (pride). It's too bad we couldn't share it with the grandparents, but, if nothing else, it'll be unforgettable!

I finished week 4 with a breakdown. A legit, losing my mind attitude that made my husband kick me onto the balcony where I bawled my eyes out for a solid fifteen minutes and barely held it together for the remainder of the day. I suppose it was bound to happen what with everything going on (my depression/anxiety, 29 weeks of pregnancy, corona), but hubby said that, from now on, I have to do something for myself on our balcony (ALONE) daily. We'll see what I can manage. I have been listening to meditation music at night, but I need more. Much more.

Life during Corona: Week 2

2020-03-29T13:49:00.001-07:00

Well, that's two weeks down. I read somewhere that a lady in Italy said that it takes until day 15 to get used to the lock down. Yea, we'll see.

As for this week, the kids kept asking about going back to gan and when corona was going to be over. Even my 2yo took her little Duplo suitcase, walked toward the door, and said, NOA! NOONA! (her two friends at gan). When I sadly told her that we couldn't go anywhere, her eyes got huge, her little mouth turned downwards cartoon-style and tears threatened. Poor girl.

Overall, the kids were a little better this week though my 4yo continued his bathroom regression. Believe it or not, the 6yo became a much better listener and seemed to mature some. Perhaps it was all our pillow talk from last week about the science of corona. The toddler helped wash dishes (granted, it was the same bamboo cup for an hour, but still) and even set the breakfast counter for her and her brothers when they didn't want to. Every other time, she needed to sit on my lap and snuggle.

We visited an online aquarium, the NY Museum of Natural History, and I subscribed to IXL for the boys. Now that was what we call 'WEP' (worth every penny). The first day I opened it on my laptop, they sat with me for an hour and half and had fun with math, letters, and the 6yo did some second grade science and social studies. Physically, they did some workouts with my husband as well as some cosmic yoga.

Though the kids seemed relatively 'okay,' we, the adults, were not.

It started to deteriorate during the week. I felt like I was cooking and/or baking every day. I've tried watching positive videos, but each one made me cry, missing "normal."

We started getting on each other's nerves, I was full-body exhausted daily and my husband was short on patience (okay, I was, too). I cleaned poop almost every morning. My next ultrasound was cancelled. I couldn't get away, I couldn't reduce my anxiety level, I couldn't get any alone time, and I couldn't calm down. I was cleaning daily, but it didn't seem to matter. Each day felt like a week and I didn't know what day it was.

Though it was really nice to talk to my dad this past week, on Friday, all the tension came to a head. I baked challah for the second consecutive week (though it felt like I had just done this) and after dinner, hubby put the kids to bed. I looked at the kitchen, the living room, and play area, and almost had an anxiety attack about cleanliness.

Then everything blew up.

I sat in bed, tears running down my face. When my husband asked me what was wrong, I tried to keep it civil, but - at best of times - my husband and I, are what you'd call a volcano and a tornado, respectively. At worst of times, well, it's nothing you want to be around. As a result of our fight, Ariel was pretty upset with me (as I was with him) and he voluntarily slept on the couch. I was so upset that, for the first time in my pregnancy, I took a sleeping pill.

Shabbat was quiet between us; the kids kept playing and, as far as I know, didn't notice too much. Honestly, they likely would have asked us what was going on and I already had an answer prepared. I've mentioned to them before that friends and family fight sometimes, but it doesn't mean they don't love, like, and/or respect each other. I was even anticipating the question. But this time, this day - they didn't ask. So we were okay.

Only after bedtime started did we talk. Slowly. While he was in with the kids, I started by messaging him to apologize.

I won't get into all the personal details, but you should know that sometimes it's good to chat on Whatsapp and not in person. It's calmer. Much calmer. There are tears, but if you use it wisely and suck up your pride, it works with two hotheads.

Thank goodness.

And on that note, when we finally lay in the same bed again, I thought about week 3 of history in the making.

It should be... interesting. How ironic - that lovely Chinese curse.

Life during Corona: Week 1

2020-03-22T14:46:00.000-07:00

Friday, March 20, 2020

We have survived the first week.

My husband, my best friend, my three kids (6yo, 4yo, and 2yo) and I are stuck in our three bedroom apartment in Netanya. The kids are home from school until who-knows-when, hubby is working from home (mostly in the evenings), and I'm working on staying sane and taking care of my kids and the apartment.

The kids have a LOT of energy - did I mention their ages? As predicted, they have had outbursts, big feelings, some regressions, and tantrums, but, for the most part, they've been pretty good considering the circumstances.

We took them outside for a bit twice this week (more than just our balcony) with our new scooters and it was great for them. Their cheeks got pink and flushed and they had huge smiles on their faces.

The rest of the time, we watched science shows (we like Dr. Binocs, among others), worked on a new 500-piece puzzle, drew pictures, played with legos and magnetiles, and read books. I'm sure we did more, but I can't think of it.

Me? I've had some anxiety though not all the time. It usually kicks in after bedtime, when I'm not distracted by the munchkins anymore. When everything slows down again and I have my life and my time to myself.

One morning I was having an especially hard time (Wednesday or Thursday, I believe, who knows what day it is anymore) and my hubby let me shut myself in my room and took care of all three crazies. He brought me coffee and food and I eventually came out after lunchtime.

Yesterday or the day before, we received news from my gynecologist's office that my next ultrasound (at the end of March) is cancelled due the worldwide corona pandemic (I'm currently 26 weeks pregnant). Apparently, that's not essential. I'm not too worried though because all my other tests have come back clear.

And tomorrow is my birthday. My 42nd - where I am the answer to life, the universe, and everything. We were really looking forward to this one.

I've gotten a few birthday wishes already and it's a little weird. Generally, I don't like to answer the phone, but, these days, I'll answer just to hear a familiar voice say, "happy corona birthday!" It was wonderful, but, honestly, it's not feeling like my birthday. Ever since my mom passed, my birthday has been kinda meh, but this year it's reached an entirely new level. It's like it doesn't exist and, honestly, I don't want it to. Like it just won't happen this year. It feels invisible, nonexistent. Like nothing matters.

Saturday, March 21, 2020

Last night, I shared my feelings with my husband, reminding myself that he's not psychic. I tried to downplay it, but the anxiety kicked in hardcore. He wanted to know why I was crying, but it's hard to explain when it's nothing specific. I guess that's why they call it 'generalized' anxiety. I don't really worry about my immediate family here in Israel; I believe our country is handling it pretty well. I do worry about my brother in New York, my sister and her family in Toronto, and my two brothers and their families in Detroit. I worry about my dad, who is 82, and my friends who work in the medical field. I worry about my friends in the automotive sector, those who have been laid off, those who are single parents, those who are still working. There's lot to worry about. I told him how my birthday is just... nonexistent this year. He felt bad, said he ordered gifts for me, but due to corona (F-U corona), they likely won't arrive until the end of next month.

After crying, we held hands and fell asleep.

This morning, I slept in (always a big deal to a sleep deprived, sleep disordered, six-month pregnant mother of three). Hubby took care of the kids and around 11am; I woke up slowly. My husband came in and asked if I was going back to sleep or waking up. "Waking up," I said.

About ten minutes later, after I overheard some brief instruction to my 4yo to not bother me, everyone knocked and came in with a (high chair) tray of food (and a screwdriver, care of the 4yo), a mug of coffee, a lego crown (care of the 6yo), singing happy birthday, and to top it off, my BFF gave me a wonderful, pampering gift.

In my life, to my recollection, I have never had breakfast brought to me in bed. It was amazing.

Suddenly, I was lighter. A million times lighter. And a thousand times happier. Here were the most important people in my life, showing me love, happiness, and comfort. I smiled a huge smile.

I enjoyed my breakfast, drank my hot coffee, and read a book. Luxurious.

I felt renewed. After that, we all spent the day together, and that night, my amazing husband cooked us a chuck steak slathered in garlic (there is no such thing as too much), roasted potatoes, and garlic bread. The picture below really doesn't do it justice, but it was amazing.

With this day, my husband really resurrected my birthday... and my mood. Onto week 2.

Flutters of a Rainbow

2020-03-12T03:00:00.001-07:00

January 30, 2020

Yesterday, we went in for our amniocentesis. I've been nervous about this for a while since there is a chance, though very small, of a miscarriage or injury to myself and the baby as a result of the procedure. I also run small in my pregnancies and, again, I have an anterior placenta (in the front) so that also adds challenge to the procedure.

Why was going through with this at all? I think mainly due to my age (I'm 41.9) and the heavy shadow of the last pregnancy. During the course of this pregnancy, we've had some scares. One of my blood tests, in this pregnancy, came back showing parvovirus - but then we learned that there are two results for that virus, one that shows its former presence (i.e. you had it in the past) and another that shows its present status of being in your blood (i.e. you have it right now). After some intense research, we discovered that I had had it in the past, though not currently. But in the time it took to comprehend my test results, my anxiety was through the roof and I was practically in tears on the train (always the train).

For those who don't know, parvovirus is a nasty virus for pregnancy and for all living things. Humans get the human strain (B19) of the tiny disease; it causes 5th disease (erythema infectiosum) in kids and, in 10% (or more) of the cases when pregnant women catch it, it causes hydrops fetalis, mainly due to severe fetal anemia, sometimes leading to miscarriage or stillbirth. Currently, there is no treatment or vaccine, though not for lack of trying.

I have no way of knowing when I actually contracted the virus or if it was one of the contributing factors to my loss. Also, my baby's umbilical cord was attached in the wrong place as well, so parvovirus might not have played any role at all in the loss. In the end, it doesn't really matter, does it?

But I digress. Another reason I was okay with doing the amnio is because my doctor would be the one doing it and after being in Israel for four and a half years, I finally found one I really trusted. He'd do it himself with the team in Assuta in Haifa.

I got especially nervous the week before the procedure but late last week (or early this week), I started feeling tiny little flutters inside my uterus. They are a little hard to describe and the only reason I even recognized them is because this is my fifth pregnancy (so weird to say).

See, some of the hardest times during the whole journey to a baby are: (1) the two week wait to see if you got lucky enough to get pregnant; and (2) the first half of the pregnancy until you actually feel what's growing inside you (medievally named "the quickening").

On our hour-long drive up north, I was kinda quiet. Telling myself that my mom had gone through amnios back in the '70s and '80s and everything turned out fine... that it's statistically more likely that something was wrong with the baby than the baby being hurt by the procedure... that Dr. Feldman knew what he was doing... and suddenly, my husband interrupted and told me to look out his window. And there, shining far out over the Mediterranean Sea, emerging from deep greenish gray clouds, was a beautiful Rainbow, saturated in color (though the picture below really doesn't do it justice).

The whole appointment, including the procedure, took about twenty minutes. That's it. A lot of hospital paper to localize the area and three wipe-downs with a LOT of sanitizing alcohol (so cold!). It probably would have taken even shorter had Rainbow not mooned the doctor.

Seriously.

Baby was facing tushy up when the doctor started using the ultrasound wand to figure out where to stick the needle and showed him a cute, tiny tush. It was quite the comic relief when my good-natured doctor said, with a smile, we don't behave like that!

He continued, pushed the baby around a bit to make room, pushed it around a bit more since it didn't like to cooperate (this kid is going to fit smoothly into my family), and finally found a space to insert the needle and withdraw the yellowish fluid (so much!). After he finished, I felt woozy, like when I donate blood, but worse. I sat there and drank water until the worst of it passed and then I became sickly ravenous.

Afterwards, we immediately went for food. Because I felt so sick, I ate verrrry slowly and we finally left the mall and headed for the car. We got back to Netanya just in time to get the boys, come home, and for me to pass out. Essentially, I slept on and off for the entire next two to two and a half days; I was wiped out.

I finally felt like myself again after the weekend but had a lovely bruise in the area of the procedure - especially wonderful since I have to give myself blood thinning shots every night in the same area. Then I waited, again, for the results which were to take 2-4 weeks.

Seriously.

A healthy little Rainbow

2020-02-03T03:29:00.001-08:00

**Note: This was written at the time of the appointment.

December 10, 2019

At twelve weeks and one day, this morning was the big morning - the scary, but necessary, NT test for our newest pregnancy we nicknamed Rainbow. In order to specifically avoid my oh-so favorite ultrasound physician, we scheduled our test in Hadera (when we could have simply walked to the Maccabi station two blocks from our house). Wishing I could take a valium or xanax before the trip, I practiced my breathing I learned from hypnobirthing (it comes in so handy so many times!) and we made the short drive north. I was very quiet.

It really is a lovely hospital and, that day, finally, the sky was filled with dark gray clouds threatening rain. In Israel, rain is considered a blessing and we pray for it during the winter months. I was so happy for the potential rain; November had been so dry and we were worried about the remainder of the season. I tried to think of it as a blessing for me, but I was still so nervous.

In our appointment, it was clear that this doctor had decent bedside manners. We chose not to tell him about our last time pregnant; it seemed easier. He asked all the necessary questions and I was very quiet, but I answered everything and hubby helped when I didn't catch something.

It's probably good he didn't have to take my blood pressure because I would have been immediately taken to the ER. Anyway, I lay down quietly and he began. I took a look at the images and they all looked pretty good to me. I saw a nose bone, not much fluid behind baby's neck, baby's tummy, etc. But who really knows? I'm no expert.

But he saw what I believed I saw - a healthy baby with an NT measurement of 1.7mm. A much smaller number than the last pregnancy, which was in the dangerous 9mm range.

He kept speaking quietly, calmly, telling my husband and I what was on the screen. Hands, legs, tummy, brain, lungs, heart, all looking good. A healthy little potential baby holding a balloon.

You know that feeling when you finally exhale and only then realize you were holding your breath? Yea, totally there.

We exited the ultrasound and I started crying from relief. Hubby put his arm around me and asked me gently if I wanted a coffee. Yes, please, I said. And we walked outside to discover that it was pouring rain and it was beautiful. Rivulets of water streamed down the sidewalks and cleansed the streets, everyone ran from place to place with their umbrellas or rushing with hoods or newspapers hastily thrown over their heads. The wind whipped and I pulled my jacket around me closer. We peered around, saw a random little coffee shop next door, and ran inside to what we discovered was Cafe Alice (which meant a lot personally since I have someone very close to me with that name).

By no means were we the only ones with the same idea, but Israelis are friendly. We ordered our two hot chocolates and shared a tiny table with another woman. Eventually, we moved to an open table at the back of the cafe where I could just breathe quietly, tear up, hold Ariel's hand, and wait for the rain to pass.

Did I know that I had been holding my breath? Praying for this result? Sure. But knowing it... feeling it... internalizing it are all different things.

As we walked up the hill to return to the car, we spotted it. A rainbow off in the distance.

We held hands the rest of the way to the car.

After the Termination

2020-01-29T22:47:00.000-08:00

Note: The below was written in real-time. It is now the end of January 2020.

October 28. Two months ago, after my "procedure," we went to see my gynecologist to make sure all was well. We asked him about trying again. He told us that since he knew we wanted another one, he'd say this: Normally he'd tell couples to wait three months to try again, but as I'm 41 and a half, I should take a month to recover and then come back pregnant. I smiled, glad he understood me and my wants, not really believing it could happen, but appreciating what I considered a blessing from him.

As I shared my experience with loss, I had many women (and even one or two guys) share their stories privately with me, thank me, and chat with me about their losses. More than a few women gave me blessings privately as we talked about things, but it always triggered a "yea, sure, that'd be nice." And even others told me that the period after a loss is the most fertile time (who knows why). I'm not really sure I believe that but it was a nice thought.

So we tried after my first real month "back." And I was sure that we missed the window (ovulation sticks and all), but the next morning when I peed on my ovulation stick, I saw I had been wrong - the stick was clearly positive. So we timed it well and then waited... and waited during that dreaded two weeks to see what would happen, if anything.

Toward the end of that two week period, there was one morning when I woke up ridiculously early, before everyone else, and my right hip was aching and hurting. For me, that's a distinct sign of pregnancy... it only happens when I'm pregnant and it only happens once at the very early stages. I thought to myself, there's no way.... So I didn't pee on a pregnancy stick even though I had an obscene amount ready at hand.

I waited a couple days, but the memory of the aching hip haunted me and my husband had a good feeling, even prior to me telling him about my hip. Normally I would only take a pregnancy test in the morning (first morning urine and all), but it was nagging me.

So two days before Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, in the afternoon of October 7th, I peed on a stick and laid it on the bathroom sink. And waited.

And waited a long couple minutes before I saw the faintest line ever.

But here's the thing. After years of researching, learning about pregnancy, and personal experience, I know that even an almost invisible line means positive. I was a little stunned, not really believing what I saw. I brought it out to my husband who was sitting on the couch watching television.

"Can I show you something?" I held up the stick.
"You peed on a stick?"
"I did."

He looked and said, "I see a line."
"Yea."

I sat down.
I didn't feel pregnant, but then again, my period wasn't even due for another day and a half. But I had no symptoms of any impending visitor (unlike last time, where the cramps went on forever), so it must be true.

Over the next day and a half, I peed on four more sticks, each one getting progressively darker. After Yom Kippur, I peed on the last stick. It was VERY CLEARLY two lines. Each time, I showed my husband. He was getting very, very excited about our rainbow baby while I seemed to only have anxiety.

** ** **
November 3. Well, jeez, today I thought about my previous pregnancy and I thought about this one; I thought I was doing fine. Then, this afternoon, a woman shared her new Facebook group (a Jewish women's support group for pregnancies after loss), explaining that it was needed because the new pregnancy is simply TERRIFYING. Out of nowhere (really?), I suddenly lost it. I was at the office, sitting at my desk, tearing up and crying.

That's when I realized she is absolutely right.

Ever since I found out I was pregnant, my husband has been excited and I have been terrified. I originally thought it was just nerves and anxiety, but it's so much more than that. This morning I was having slight cramping and started worrying again. In this pregnancy, everything has seemed normal (even unimpressive), but emotionally, NOTHING is normal about this pregnancy.

Last week, when I was about six weeks pregnant, we went in to the gynecologist. I thanked him for his blessing (he was confused, then amused), he scanned me and said everything looks good so far. We could see a yolk sac and such, but it was too early for a heartbeat (as expected). He instructed us to come back in two weeks to check the heartbeat and, on our way out, wished me good luck with a smile.

So now we're waiting another two weeks.

All the while, hubby has been really cute. He went out and got us snacks. Without thinking, he picked up a particular candy for us. Did he realize what he had gotten? No. But it's adorable.

This afternoon, I realized I was feeling weird all day but couldn't figure out why. I began freaking out a bit. I thought perhaps I was dehydrated - always possible - so I started drinking a 1.5L bottle of water. I was still edgy. But now, thinking more deeply about it... perhaps my anxiety is kicking in again about the pregnancy. Very very realistic. Very very likely.

See, in the last pregnancy, I had done everything perfectly, taken my prenatals, eliminated alcohol and raw fish (mostly), reduced my tuna intake, taken my folates, and then, for no reason whatsoever, my baby was sick. Very sick. And here's the worst part. With hydrops, there's no 'safe point.' There's no developmental period that you can mark as a milestone to know you're safe. Hydrops can develop for a plenitude of reasons - at 12 weeks, 24 weeks, 30-33 weeks, any point in between or later. THERE IS NO SAFE POINT. Talk about terrifying.

** ** **
November 12. Today I'm eight weeks pregnant. Rainbow's eyes are now fusing shut so that they can develop and his/her tail is almost gone. Later this afternoon we are going into the gynecologist to check the baby's heartbeat. Am I nervous? Hell yes. But I keep breathing. What else can I do?

The Recovery: Feelings and Thoughts

2019-10-07T14:25:00.000-07:00

Two months ago, on Wednesday, August 14th, I went through with a termination of pregnancy due to a poorly developed baby with hydrops fetalis. I'm not going to go over all the emotional turmoil of it, but I'll say this.

At first, I was devastated and depressed, but seeing babies and pregnant women helped me feel (slightly) better. I wished that, hopefully, at least they would be having healthy babies - at least one of us should, anyway. But as the weeks went by, I realized how difficult it was getting.

After 6-7 months of trying, when I got pregnant in June, I had gotten lucky - four friends and I were pregnant all at the same time! My sister, my friend RS, my coworker O, and my friend Cole! It was a party and great fun thinking of how our bumps would all get bigger at the same time and how we could compare pictures as we go through milestones of our little ones.

But then we hit that bump and lost ours. I became a ghost, a shell of a mom and wife for a month. I almost got fired from my job because of it. And to add insult to injury, I realized that everyone's bumps were getting bigger and cuter. Every single day, I saw my coworker's belly get bigger and I imagined my own baby the same size. My coworker can feel the movement of her baby, and I could imagine feeling that again. My friend RS is going for her anatomy scan soon and I would have as well. Only I'm not. My stomach is still flat and my uterus empty.

I've discovered it's not so easy to watch others get pregnant and stay pregnant when that's all you wanted, and what you had. Their babies will be born around the time mine was originally due. And I'm sure that week will be a tough one for me (the first week of February 2020). Should I do something special to commemorate him/her? I don't know. Maybe I'll take it one step at a time and feel and identify the emotions.

Some of them right now are jealousy. Hope. Unfairness. Depression. A little anger.

And then I think that if/when I do get pregnant again, I'm going to have anxiety about it. Oh yea. I used to think that pregnancy was a super chill, exciting time where you got to watch your fetus grow into a baby with little waving arms and bouncing legs. Though I always knew the risks, my free spirit regarding pregnancy has officially left - it died with my fourth baby. Nope. If/when I get pregnant again, I know what can go wrong, more than I ever had before (and I consider myself pretty well educated). And, of course, I'm "geriatric" now so that changes other numbers that we have to take into consideration.

But in the meantime, we keep trying and preparing for all the High Holidays. And if we're blessed this year, we're blessed. The odd thinking is that if/when I get pregnant, then I'd "know" (I laugh at that verb) why #4 didn't get to stay earthbound. Because we needed this next particular soul to be the one to join us.

I feel like going through this entire thing leads to all kinds of odd feelings. And they're all valid, odd feelings. So I guess I'll take one day at a time, two weeks at a time. Work on increasing my meditation, my breathing, more practice on self-healing and acceptance.

Conveniently perfect timing as we run into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

On that note, may we all be sealed in the Book of Life for the coming year. May we be blessed with the things we need and the babies we desire. May we have family, success, and health, and nothing but good news and healthy children.

And on a less spiritual, but no less meaningful note - let's make 5780 our bitch. Light 'er up.

Learning to Let Go...

2019-09-03T04:30:00.000-07:00

...and to breathe.

Yesterday was my beloved and my seventh year wedding anniversary and today is the sixth yarzheit (day of remembrance) for my mom - i.e. the anniversary of the day she died in the Hebrew calendar. And, shockingly, this is the calmest I've been in a while.

The end of August was painful - not nearly so as the middle, but I had a blood clot scare and job drama (not yet resolved, but looking good), and each morning I would count down the days until we were scheduled to go to the circus with our littles (on Friday the 30th). Once we made it to the circus, that pretty much meant I survived. Literally and figuratively. I had great belief that once August was over, things would be brighter.

It was sometime toward the end of the last week when my husband joined me in our room and told me that he realized we had NO mezuzot (scrolls) up on almost any of our doorways in our new apartment, and that we had not had any up all month. We moved in the beginning of August.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, there is a distinct and direct connection (whether superstitious or actual) between your health and your mezuzot. They are thought to act as protection over your residence and those within; they are the anti-thesis to evil and a guard over your home.

"The very purpose of mezuzot is the protection of the house and its inhabitants."

My husband is not the superstitious type (I am) so for that to come out of his mouth meant more than anything. We had had a crap-tastic month with no mezuzot. I was quiet and shocked and he immediately said, with great resolve, "I am going to find the mezuzot tomorrow and put all of them up. We need a better month."

And so he did.

Friday was Circus Day and we had a grand time. The kids requested cotton candy (it was larger than their heads) and sat there, astounded, eyes glued to the performance. Every so often, one of them would turn to us and say in their little voices, "What in the WORLD was that!?" It was magical and still brings a smile to my face.

Immediately after it ended, I realized my phone and wallet had dropped. It's still August, I thought, devastated, knowing that Shabbat was about thirty minutes away. Security couldn't find it. I couldn't find it (even with fifteen minutes of intense searching with a baby on my hip). My husband then went to find it and came back with it in hand. RELIEF!

We walked home quickly, lit candles, ate our Shabbat meal, put the kids to bed, said our gratefuls, one of which was celebrating the end to one of the worst months of our lives.

* * *

The next afternoon, after missing for at least six months, I found my engagement ring. Randomly, on the floor, laying and twinkling at me just inside a cabinet door, like the planet hadn't just shifted beneath my bare feet.

I blinked and gently picked it up. I turned it over. It wasn't my imagination - it truly was sitting in my hand, sparkling and reflecting more than seven years of love.

Over a month prior to moving, I had shared my worst fears with hubby, that my ring was lost forever. I was even ready to says the blessing for recovering lost items (like I said, superstitious), but my husband had faith it would turn up - even dreamed that it would be found before our anniversary.

And so it did! And, yes, I've been wearing it every day since.

Immediately after finding my ring, I jumped up, ran into our room, leaped onto the bed, and woke my husband with a huge smile on my face. He shared in my joy and calmly said, "you know, it's also Elul (a new Jewish month)... and Monday is our anniversary."

I could have cried with the sheer relief of it all. The weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders.

So who cares that we now have to get up and take three kids to three separate Ganim? Who cares that we now have parental meetings and all sorts of extracurriculars to handle? Who cares that I'm remembering my mom's passing at the same time as celebrating my marriage? NOT ME.

My mom would be super happy for me. She met my husband and loved him as a match for me. She saw the ultrasound of my first baby and loved the perfect shape of his head. I have an amazing husband who takes me to the beach at night to celebrate seven years, with wine and cheese, fruit and dip, and crepes with chocolate and jam. I have three ridiculous children who smile and scream with delight every time I come home from work. I live in a lovely neighborhood with really kind friends nearby who honestly care about me. I get to keep up and share videos and photographs with my friends and family regularly because of technology. I may not be financially wealthy (yet), but I am rich because I have a full life.

It's not perfect and I'd like another baby (healthy!), but today, at the beginning of September, Elul, and the rest of our lives, I'll take it.

Trust, lots of trust, and a little anxiety on the side.

2019-09-02T06:01:00.002-07:00

Thursday, August 29.

I woke this morning with a lot of anxiety.

A year ago, when I was re-diagnosed with depression, I was "lucky" enough (haha) to also get its accompanying 'kissing cousin,' a.k.a. anxiety. I had never really had anxiety before, but I have plenty of friends with anxiety disorders. I could always sympathize, but never quite empathize until now.

Over the past year, I've had good reason to be anxious about things, but, see, the thing about anxiety is that it doesn't always make sense. I remember this past Spring my husband telling me that he finally bought me and my baby daughter the tickets to America we'd been talking about so I could go see my dad; I literally had low-grade anxiety the entire day before bawling and freaking out once I walked in the door. He didn't quite understand and I had to explain. It wasn't that I didn't want to go, I said between tears. It's just ... big. A lot.

Time has passed and I've had a rough August. A really rough "f*ck you" kind of August. We moved, had all three kids off school/gan, commemorated my mom's English date of death, learned our thirteen-week old fetus wasn't healthy and had to make the choice whether to terminate the pregnancy, had to maneuver the hospital system to finally get it terminated the next week, studied and took two legal exams to become licensed in Israel, celebrate what would have been my mom's 79th birthday, and then get a scare that my blood clots (from ten years ago) came back.

To add to all the physical and emotional drama that I endured this month, there was also an intense amount of job drama as well. I'm pretty sure it'll resolve this week, but that's a lot of additional anxiety to heap onto my already formidable depression that I'm carrying on my shoulders.

In my attempts to resolve this job drama, I had to speak with my boss and share some personal information from this past horrendous month of August. She was sympathetic but told me that I need to trust a little more.

While processing my experiences this month, I had some (very brilliant) friends and family check in and share with me what they believed were insights. They were legitimate. Both involved trust.

My husband, while I was explaining my feelings and what was happening around me, said simply, "I guess Talya needs to learn trust."

In the span of three days, four separate people told me that I needed more trust.

But, in the past, when your boss fires you the week you're sitting Shiva for your mom, you've had your best friend suddenly accuse you of stealing her $15,000 engagement ring and file a police report against you for said accused felony (and never apologize once the ring was found), you've had boyfriends cheat on you, you've had family (temporarily) turn on you, and most recently, your body fail you, how do you regain that trust in anything? In others, in your workplace, in your body, in life, in G-d?

I can't simply "unexperience" this crap, I can't "unsee" or "unfeel" any of it.

But here's the food for thought that was provided to me - do with it what you will:
The opposite of anxiety is not tranquility. Nor is it peace, clarity, calm, or serenity.
The opposite of anxiety is trust.

When we are anxious, we are not trusting in ourselves, in G-d (if you believe), in others, or in things to pass.

In Hebrew, "worry" is "דאגה"
It has four out of five of the first letters of the Hebrew alphabet. The missing letter is "ב."
When we worry, we're missing בטחון - the trust (the security).

So I'm going to consciously take a leap and make an effort to trust again. Myself, others, and G-d ... How the hell do I do that? I guess by taking one step at a time: accepting emotions, meditation, visualizations, exercising/sleeping properly ...

לאט לאט.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: That Day and Beyond

2019-08-22T13:01:00.001-07:00

Part VI: Thursday, August 22.
That Day and the Emotional Aftermath.

On Wednesday the 14th (an inauspicious day in my family), my husband and I woke up too early (not really, I slept through the first alarm at 5:30am) and snuck out to drive to Assuta in Tel Aviv by 7am. No one was awake in our house, not my husband's brother, not the baby, not the boys. My sister-in-law had also slept over so she could get a ride into TLV, but she was very quiet as well. What was there really to say?

We drove in, throwing small talk occasionally at each other, but mainly, I was nervous and quiet. I didn't really know what to expect physically or mentally. I won't go into too much detail, but the nurses and doctors at Assuta were extremely professional and kind (thank goodness). I got a lovely ventilated gown to wear during my stay, two stylish bracelets, and autographed several documents stating that I was aware of the risks and complications that could occur - standard run of the mill stuff, like a punctured uterus or retained placenta. I was nervous as hell and took prayers from whomever and wherever.

My first two births (my crazy boys) were drug-free but induced since I was on blood thinners and the doctors and midwives were nervous. In both the States and Israel, I took a half a cytotec pill orally and my body, apparently knowing what it was doing, simply took over. My third baby (Lil' Lilush) was all drug-free, no cytotec or anything. This fourth baby required a little more.

While sitting with the doctor discussing risks, he gave me FOUR cytotec pills, two to take sublingually (under my tongue) and two... elsewhere. I remember thinking it was overkill - what a terrible choice of words. But there's nothing "choice" about this "procedure." The most random thoughts go through your head when you're laying there, waiting for the pills to kick in, freezing, teeth chattering due to incoming wacky hormones and air conditioning, counting down the sixty minutes before they take you in.

And then they do.

They wheel you in through a set of double doors that requires one scanned card and then another. The doors in front of you don't open until the set behind you closes. I think, how odd it is that they have safari doors - what, they're afraid of crazed, pregnant women breaking out of the department, gowns flapping in the wind as they wave their hands in the air... Like I said, random thoughts.

My husband walks with me as far as he can go, grips my hand, tells me he loves me, and then I'm alone and it's freezing in the interior hallway. The hormones have jacked everything up and it feels like I've been here forever, but it's only been an hour since I took the pills. The kind nurse asks me again what my ID number is, and I crack and almost cry as I repeat it to her. It's too late to change my mind and I can't anyway - there's no point.

I'm asked to walk into the OR on my own accord and I do, chattering the whole way. The nurse gets me not one, but two heated blankets, one for beneath, one for above (it helps a little) and they prep me, give me a quick IV with antibiotics and an anesthetic and say, lilah tov.

...

And that's it. I wake up in recovery, empty. I sleep and sleep some more until they finally let my husband in. I sleep more and they wheel me back into my original room. I have to lay in bed for a total of two hours and ding them when I need to use the bathroom (kinda like after you give birth). So I lay there.

I don't remember what I spoke to my husband about except that I was hungry. We headed to Ra'anana and my in-laws suggested eating at this great place called Sara's Place. I wasn't really in the mood, but we went and I'm glad we did. With all my remaining energy, we ordered the best hamburgers and we talked. He mentioned that the nurse came in to the waiting area after my procedure and asked who was "Ariel haGibor (Ariel the hero)." Apparently while I was coming out of sedation, that's what I called him. We sat next to each other, we enjoyed our food, we shared photos of the kids, and we enjoyed each other's company thoroughly while trying to move forward from the hellish morning.

I don't really recall much after that. I hadn't realized that lunch took the entire week's energy. I'm pretty sure we went home and I rested. Slept and rested. Slept and rested. Played a bit with the kids as a pick-me-up and then rested more. Rested all of Thursday. On Friday we started studying for my first law exam. On Saturday, my oldest asked me when the baby was going to join us. On Sunday, I took my exam. Monday and Tuesday were "work" days, and Wednesday I studied again. Today (Thursday) was another exam which ended around 3:15pm and in three days, we will try and celebrate "Mama Chana" day (what would have been my mom's 79th birthday). Quite the month.

I haven't had much time to think about everything that happened over the last two weeks; all I've been doing is coughing, studying, and taking tests. Today, the last test for five months, has been the day I've been dreading - wondering if it would be as bad as the week after shiva ended. Truth be told, I'm in a foul mood, I'm sad, and I'm tired. Over the past week there were some days where I couldn't stop crying and there were some days when I was just... tired and disconnected. One guy at work kept asking what was wrong and I just didn't feel like sharing and voicing everything. See, writing is safe. Speaking is not.

It's getting harder and harder to write these articles. It's getting harder and harder to share how I'm feeling. It's getting harder and harder to think of the little baby and feel these things and I so badly just want to tuck them away. And sleep. A lot.

I don't really have a choice though. As a friend said, the sun comes up every morning whether you've coped with the day or not. I guess I'll just do my best, wipe my tears, play with my three little miracles and my husband the hero, and maybe, one day, my sun will come up, shine through the tears on my face and I'll get a rainbow.

Just not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: Swirling Thoughts

2019-08-20T00:48:00.000-07:00

Part V: Tuesday, August 13.

My Swirling Thoughts.

Each morning for the past week (yes, it's been a week) I've struggled to get out of bed. In my everyday life since last August when I got re-diagnosed, I have suffered from depression. To combat it, I take anti-depressants and until now, they have been a life-saver. I also happen to have a sleep disorder; for this, I take sleep medication nightly (except for the nights before the days I think I'm going to have a "procedure," which isn't really a procedure, but rather the termination of a life that, apparently, wasn't meant to be).

This week, however, was a doozy and the depression really kicked it up a notch. My husband shared with me last week that he was concerned for me and my mental health. Yea, nodding, I could see that, but I'll be okay. I'll write and write and write some more. Maybe I'll paint. Maybe I'll do more photography. Maybe I'll vomit.

I go to work because why not, what else am I going to do. So I arrive and it appears, from the outside, that it's a regular morning at my regular desk with the regular Mediterranean Sea outside my window.

From the inside, it's all turmoil. My thoughts center around this sad, broken little life still growing inside me. I just want to get past this already (whatever "this" is), and I'm glad it will finally be tomorrow. At the same time, I'm dreading it. Kinda like a funeral, I guess. You know you need to attend and you know it's going to suck, but you also know you might, possibly, start to feel some closure after it happens (or at least you hope so).

I draft and share my very first article about it, sharing my baby and my story with the world. Before this moment, very few people knew and, suddenly, everyone knows. The wall cracks and crumbles before me.

Everyone comments on my bravery; they message me privately; they leave messages of love and light to break through the darkness surrounding me; they send me WhatsApps.

Women from Michigan, Israel, other cities and countries come out of the woodwork to flood me with love and stories; women I know, women I don't know, women who publicly share their experiences, women who have never told anyone about their loss. I hear from other women who (and a husband whose wife) went through something similar.

They offer to chat, to listen, to sit next to me, to attend the procedure with me. It's incredible, a little intimidating, and very humbling. It makes me cry that (unfortunately) I am not alone though my situation is slightly different than most, me with a still-alive baby.

Here's what's not fair about this, aside from everything.

I'm still nauseated.
I still have cravings.
I still take my folic acid and prenatal vitamins.
I still am scared to drink alcohol even though it's completely and logically moot at this point.
I feel guilty and relieved that I'll probably physically feel better after this is done.

Lunch is relatively "normal" and I find it surreal that this is my "new normal."

It's only after lunch, as I start to think again, when I start to feel awful and queasy about the whole thing, even though I know, intellectually, it's the right decision. And that's part of the problem. Your brain says one thing and your heart wants something else.

The problem is that I was given way too much time to think about this.

The problem is that this happened at all and I will likely never ever have an answer for any of it.

Hydrops fetalis happens. It's rare, but it happens. Only a tiny percentage of hydrops babies are miracle babies and mine, with its chromosomal abnormalities, defects in the umbilical cord, and possible and potential other bodily defects, is simply not one of them that had a chance.

But maybe that's a good thing.

In a warped way, this could have been worse. The baby could have been given a tiny chance on which I would have had to wager. And, in all likelihood, the baby would have died somewhere between twenty-two weeks and birth, if we were lucky. When all this started, I joined a hydrops support group and I cannot tell you how many pictures I have seen of parents tearfully saying 'goodbye' to their little babies. Ironically, each picture made me feel better about the choice we were making.

Despite all this, the other thought endures. If I had to have a malformed fetus (the worst pairing of words in existence), why couldn't my body just manage to have a "regular" miscarriage?

Why do I have to make this awful decision and sit with it for almost a week before being able to follow through?

How did this little fetus even get to this point of development... sheer stubbornness??

None of this is fair. Not even remotely.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: Protectzia

2019-08-19T03:04:00.001-07:00

Part IV: Monday, August 12.

Protectzia

Instead of waking up at 6:00am and leaving the house within a half hour (sneaking out before the kids wake up) to head to Haifa, we play life as usual and pretend everything is normal. I put my eighteen month old on the back of my electric bike (teddy bear helmet, motzetz, and all) and take her to her Gan, her sucking on her pacifier the whole way, a smile on her face in the wind. Today, instead of accompanying me to my procedure that I should have been undergoing, my husband stays at home with two happy boys, waiting for a call from Maccabi, waiting for the peace of mind we've been seeking for days.

For whatever reason, even though Ariel was the one on the phone with Maccabi all day, he didn't get the call that morning. Even though he was the one who spoke to nine different Maccabi representatives who each gave different information as to how long the process would take, when we'd receive the document, even how the process worked, he didn't get the call. Even though they promised to call him the moment it was approved and sent through, he didn't get the call.

He didn't get the call, but I did. I receive it by the time I'm on the train to work, late, at 9:00am, long after the "procedure" was scheduled at Rambam in Haifa. I immediately let my husband know he should call the hospital for an appointment the following day (Tuesday), thinking it was no big deal. He calls them, then calls me back. "Are you ready to be upset?," he asks. I hesitate, but nothing will surprise me at this point.

Apparently, they will no longer perform a D&E for me. No reason given. Perhaps it was because we were a "no-show" that morning, perhaps they didn't want to deal with Maccabi (I can't really blame them) - who knows. Either way, though they were more than willing to squeeze us in the last few days, it doesn't help us now.

Over the next several hours, we have no choice but to call different hospitals to see who, if any, will still perform a D&E at 14-15 weeks. My husband calls our amazing specialist (remember Dr. Drugan?) for a recommendation, then calls four different local hospitals. Some (Ichilov) don't bother answering, make him wait for forty-five minutes on hold before deigning to pick up the phone, and promise a call-back (which doesn't happen until after 5:00pm - and, by the by, they then inform us that they require their own, new, Committee hearing and finding).

Another, Asaf HaRofe, accepts our situation, Committee finding, and Tofes (apparently they perform D&Es until twenty-something weeks), but they have a two-week waiting list. Ariel tries to call Assuta next, but can't find the right number to the proper department. My husband then calls Tel HaShomer, who was actually great. They answered the phone within seven minutes, listened to our situation kindly and carefully, and promised a call-back (and DID SO within an impressive thirty minutes - though luckily, by that time, we had already solved our issue).

While my husband is busy with the phone glued to his ear, I'm spewing my heart out about this emotional and tiring situation with my office-mate, now friend. She mentions, casually but quite seriously, that her father works at Assuta in Tel Aviv and asks if I want her to call him on my behalf... Yes. Absolutely, I say.

See, I'm no dummy. Elbows and patience aside, I know how this country works ("protectzia") and I never ever say no to these offers (if you're smart, you won't either). She calls him for me, he gives her a specific name and phone number at Assuta, and I pass the information on to my husband. He calls them back.

Within twenty minutes and just before high noon, I have a D&E scheduled at the beautiful (private) Assuta in Northern Tel Aviv for two days from now at 7:00am.

My heart stops. I am thrilled, but extremely cautious.

My husband is too. He confirms with Assuta that they will accept my Committee finding as well as the long-awaited Maccabi Tofes 17 that I've finally received for the other hospital.

Not a problem, they said, practically waving their Israeli hand over the phone, they are partnered with Maccabi and, for them, I never needed a Tofes in the first place. All I need is my little plastic Maccabi ID card and paperwork. That's all. We never needed one for them and not one of the nine Maccabi representatives ever mentioned that option.

And that's all. Just like that, it's scheduled.

I thank my office-mate profusely. She shrugs it off, no biggie. It was just a phone call, she says (so Israeli).

I argue (so Israeli). Just a phone call for you, I insist (and note in my head that I will forever bring her strawberry flavored taffy).

But just a little paranoid, my husband calls Maccabi again to verify that the Tofes 17 will be accepted. Again, it is confirmed that it will be, but seriously, Assuta doesn't need it. We're good to go.

So... Wednesday, August 14^th will be the big day. Deep breath.

The end of a beginning.

Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: The Absurdity

2019-08-16T05:54:00.000-07:00

Part III: Sunday, August 11.

The Absurdity.

Today is Tisha B'Av - a national mourning (and fasting) day for Jews. As usual, we took our 18mo old clever, gorgeous little girl to Gan for the day and left the boys with a babysitter and my husband's sister, who came out special to help us.

We headed north and arrived in Haifa just before 10am so they could squeeze us into their schedule. I was 13w+5d and though we arrived on time, it didn't matter one whit since Maccabi hadn't yet sent us the mandatory Tofes 17.

I had been fasting since midnight in preparation for the surgery this morning but nothing doing. We found the proper floor, signed in and my husband and I sat in the waiting area while we waited for this document that, apparently, was never going to arrive. The nurses, with kindness in their eyes, were ready to take me back in an instant, knowing what I was going to undergo.

We (that is, my Israeli husband) called Maccabi every hour upon arrival and, right away they told us that, oh, we’ll mark it urgent for us (never mind that they had already said that on Thursday afternoon – remember that?) and it would arrive within the hour (but remember, we're already at the hospital waiting).

We wait and call in another hour, oh, they exclaimed, we'll mark it extra urgent and you'll get it in an hour! I put my head on the table.

Still, nothing but disappointment. At this point, I'm still fasting, but now I'm lightheaded and it's noon. At one point, the nurses rush me back to squeeze me in but as we approach the back, they realize the document had not, in fact, come in, and apologized profusely as they brought me back to the waiting area. I got nothing but sympathetic faces.

It's now after noon and the hospital can no longer fit us into their schedule. I’m emotionally and physically empty but for my uterus.

After giving us an appointment for the very next morning (Monday) at 7:30am, Rambam Hospital sent us home, provided, of course, we got the Tofes 17 in time. My husband continued to call Maccabi every hour, including when they were closed to the public from 12-4p (cushy job), and they kept promising that we'd get it. In response, my husband kept telling them he didn’t believe a word they said. He kept calling and calling and told them, NO, we already missed our appointment this morning, we have a new appointment tomorrow at 7:30am, and we can't go if we don't have this document. Despite all their promises, despite all our pleading, their office closed with no Tofes.

So what do we do, my husband asks me. I shrug. I am emotionally spent. It's enough that I'm still growing a baby who won't live. It's enough that I (we) must make this choice at all. It's enough that I have to go through this “procedure.” Now we have to fight with my kupa about getting it done, in time, so I don't have to be induced and give birth.

But big surprise…. Maccabi hadn't come through and I have no energy whatsoever to go to Haifa again, much less at 6:30am without a Tofes or any guarantee that the hospital can do the procedure. Not to mention figuring out how to get the little one to Gan... so we cancel my husband's brother for the next day and say we'll wait. I guess we’ll just wait for the Tofes and I'll go to work.

I still don’t really feel like telling anyone or talking to very many people, but I finally tell my good friend in Netanya what's going on and, just like my other friends and family, she hurts for me. She asks what she can do. Nothing, I said. There’s nothing you can do. But she doesn't listen. Instead, she sets up a meal train for me starting on Tuesday. People will bring over food for my family and me so I don't have to worry so much about recovering and moving around. She surprises me with a bottle of wine and my favorite snack: salty pretzels and Duncan Hines cream cheese frosting. I actually smile, hug her tight, hurry inside to put my kids to bed, break the fast, and eat my beloved pretzels and frosting in the living room.

It's now evening on the day this was supposed to happen and it’s finally quiet in our apartment. My husband and I sit next to each other in quiet. He watches a show on Netflix. I watch a different show. I think, "I still have a baby."

We turn off our shows and study for my law exams that are scheduled for next week.

We go to sleep.

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Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: The Confirmation

2019-08-15T07:34:00.001-07:00

Part II: Thursday, August 8

The Confirmation.

Early this morning, without an appointment and under advisement from our ultrasound doctor, we slipped into Dr. Feldman's office (our ob/gyn) to get a consult with him about the results. He's a very reasonable fellow, knowledgeable, speaks English, has a good bedside manner, and very clearly cares about his patients. Out of all the gynecologists in this country, he's my favorite. My husband and I sat down, not expecting good news, and, sadly, he obliged.

He looked at the ultrasounds, paperwork, and detailed information and was extremely apologetic. When a doctor looks at things, what you want is "unremarkable." That's not what we got.

He gently gave us advice and choices, sad smiles, and told us that it was likely serious chromosomal defects in the fetus, who would likely not survive even until birth. Quietly, he suggested we should terminate. I already knew the answer, but I asked quietly if it were fixable - maybe I had made a mistake, maybe I had misunderstood the research I had done, but he shook his head and said, no. I started crying again.

Dr. Feldman said what we could do is get additional information by calling his friend, Dr. Drugan (a genetic specialist) at Hillel Yaffe Hospital in Hadera. Honestly, he said, we could just drive up there and see if he'd see us in person since it's only about 25m away.

My husband and I looked at each other and immediately drove to Hadera. Parking was a little difficult with all he construction, but then we walked into the beautiful hospital that had huge (fake) birds flying in the expansive foyer. We wandered around until we found Dr. Drugan, and, surprisingly, he accepted us for a quick consult - again without an appointment - when we told him it was urgent.

He sat us down, looked at the information, and shook his head. He gave us the same information as the other two doctors, that not only was it likely that the fetus wouldn't survive to birth, but also that I could miscarry at any time (which may explain my constant cramping). The specialist told us we had two choices: we could either end the pregnancy immediately with a D&E or we could get a CVS/amnio to see the reason for the chromosomal defects (and then get a D&E). We did have to keep in mind that test results could take up to a week, even expedited, which could then affect what type of procedure I might have to undergo.

Dr. Drugan mentioned this specifically because his hospital, Hillel Yaffe, conducted D&Cs only until thirteen weeks. Rambam Hospital in Haifa performed them until fifteen weeks, but either way, I was past the 13 week mark so I had to decide quickly if I didn't want to be induced and take two days to give birth to my malformed baby.

I couldn't decide about the CVS sitting right there, but the doctor gave us time. My husband and I used it to eat lunch, our first meal of the day since we had been running around. We decided, after great deliberation and reviewing the fact that additional information would not help with future pregnancies, that it'd be best to handle everything sooner rather than later. It was likely just a fluke at my age. We returned to Dr. Drugan, again without an appointment, and told him that we'd like to go ahead with the D&C.

He immediately took his cell phone out and called his contact at Rambam Hospital, scheduling the procedure for Sunday morning at 10am (they were basically squeezing us in). He also scheduled us to be heard, that very afternoon, by the Committee who grants terminations of pregnancy (he is on the Committee). We ran home, helped our babysitter with clothing and lunch (we had just moved the previous week and she couldn't find clothing) and returned to Hadera in time to be "judged." We filled out paperwork in a broken down little building (I think the Hospital was rebuilding every other building first), met with a highly sympathetic social worker and a very understanding Committee (who must have at least three people: a social worker, a secretary, a genetic specialist, and an internal doctor). Without hesitation, they approved our termination and literally wished us love and good luck in the future.

That's when the trouble began.

Immediately (remember this detail for later) upon leaving the hospital to head back home, we called Maccabi (our health kupa whom we usually love) and told them we need a Tofes 17 – a document that shows the kupa the procedure has been approved and it shows the hospital that the cost of the procedure will be covered, in this case, a procedure that costs over 4,000 shekel. We informed the kupa the urgency of it and that we would need it by Sunday. They claimed they marked it urgent and we would have it in time, an important fact since the hospital would not go ahead with the procedure without it.

This day had been filled with running around, meeting with doctors, paperwork, and appointments. It was all mental and logical. But the weekend.... the weekend was all emotional.

All weekend I prepared myself mentally for Sunday morning. On Friday, I spent time with my three kids. On Friday night, I asked my husband to give one last blessing to the baby (and cried through the whole thing). On Saturday, I didn't want to talk to anyone and slept late, and on Saturday night, I rubbed my belly, felt my uterus while lying down, and told the baby it was loved and that I was sorry.

And while I slept, I dreamt of my baby.

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Perfect Soul, Imperfect Baby: The News

2019-08-13T00:56:00.002-07:00

Part I: Tuesday, August 6.

The News.

It's amazing, nay, MIRACULOUS, how many biological things must line up just right in order to get pregnant. They say that even if you time everything perfectly with ovulation, there's only a 25% chance that the egg will get fertilized. After that, assuming the fertilized egg implants properly in the uterine wall, there is still another 25% chance that the pregnancy won't end successfully and there will be a miscarriage. Again, that does not include any pregnancies with developmental or health issues. So, in essence (assuming my math is correct), there is only an 18.75% chance that you'll have a complete pregnancy and birth a baby from each time that you try to get pregnant. Now, most babies are born healthy. In fact, 96-97 out of every hundred babies are born healthy, but that means three or four of each hundred have some type of birth defect. This further affects numbers, reducing the likelihood from 18.75% to 18% that you have a healthy baby for each time you try to get pregnant – and that's not considering other individual factors like family history, biology, or age.

I have three beautiful children, ages five and a half and younger. My two crazy boys and my crazy little girl. And we want a number four.

I got married relatively late, at thirty-four years old, and so my husband and I started trying for kids only four months married. I always tell couples that if they have the luxury of time, they should most definitely get to know their spouse before starting the baby-making since it's not an easy path to follow. And so far, we've been lucky. We were three for three in the span of five and a half years. Until now.

I haven't had a good feeling about this pregnancy the entire thirteen weeks. I've been more nauseated than usual, cramping more than usual, my skin was more messed up than usual… all relatively minor things, but at about seven weeks, the ultrasound showed the baby disconcertingly small though it did have a heartbeat. We then came back again at nine weeks.

My bad feeling continued. Each time I went to the bathroom, I would expect to see red. I dreamt of it. I was having so many cramps for what I hoped was a regular pregnancy, but I figured I was overthinking things and simply didn't remember all the details of my previous pregnancies. It happens. And at the nine-week ultrasound, everything appeared to be okay so we scheduled the nuchal translucency thirteen-week ultrasound for the morning of August 6 – three days before the anniversary of my mom's death six years ago and five days before Tisha B'Av (the national day of mourning for Jews).

The boys were home with a babysitter, the little one was at Gan, and we came in. The ultrasound doctor first completed an external scan to measure the nuchal translucency fold behind the neck, but things didn't look so great. It was very thick, almost 9mm (it's supposed to be 2mm or less), and there was fluid around the baby's stomach as well (should I say fetus instead?). The doctor seemed very serious and switched to an internal scan to get more measurements. The baby didn't seem fazed by all the activity, lightly dancing around the screen. The scan ended, my husband occasionally taking pictures of the ultrasound.

Years ago, I had assisted my best friend in studying for her ultrasound exams (she's now an experienced tech in the States) and helped her learn to identify all the body parts in a scan, what measurements were supposed to be, what a healthy scan looked like, etc. I looked at our scan that was on the monitor and something didn't look quite right.

We finished and the doctor turned to us and said bluntly, "that wasn't a good scan."

At first we misunderstood. Did we need to come back in a week? Was the baby not cooperating? Again he said to us, "that wasn't a good scan." He went on to explain that there was a lot of fluid at the back of the neck and around the baby's stomach. The blood flow inside the baby's stomach wasn't right either. Basically, he was certain there was a 90% chance that this wasn't a healthy baby and wasn't a healthy pregnancy. He gave us permission to end the pregnancy and said that anyone who saw the results of the scan wouldn't question it. He told us this information while the internal ultrasound wand was still inside me.

While I was laying there.

While my husband sat next to me.

While we were looking at this little thing bouncing on the black and white screen.

The physician told us that he'd explain further at his desk so I cleaned up, stunned, and my husband and I sat together opposite the doctor. He had to finish typing his notes first, so I sat there, listening to the hunt and peck of his fingers on the keys, each one sounding like a stick on a drum echoing in an empty orchestra chamber changing the rhythm of my life forever. He typed out his notes for what felt like forever and I knew I was disassociating as I listened and watched him hunt and peck for each key, tapping out a word, making a sentence. Another sentence. Tap tap tap boom tap tap tap… tap boom.

Tap tap.

BOOM.

Again he told us the results and explained that we had two choices. One was to end the pregnancy immediately; the other, to speak to our ob/gyn and get information on additional testing at the hospital with a CVS or amnio. Either way, we should act quickly, but we should know that it was definitely at least 90% likely that it wasn't a healthy baby. He was sorry, he said remotely as if suddenly remembering to be human… this must be a bolt of thunder on a clear sky (Israeli idiom). He folded up our paperwork and pictures, slid them into an envelope, handed them over, and that was it. I stood, stunned, with wet eyes, shook his hand professionally, and walked out.

From that point forward, all I have seen are strollers and babies. Pregnant women and little kids. I know I have three healthy kids at home and I'm feeling very lucky. I haven't told very many people since I'm still absorbing and processing all this, but here are some of my initial thoughts:

I don't want your sympathy.
I don't want you to tell me that "a not-healthy baby is still a baby." Maybe I didn't express myself well since I was still absorbing the news, but I'll be lucky if the pregnancy continues past 22 weeks or I don't miscarry tomorrow.
It is not your news to tell anyone else.
No, I don't want to talk to anyone.
I know myself and I mean it when I say that the more I know, the better I feel about it (i.e. let me do my own medical research online).
I do NOT want to hear that women my age have increased dangers – I am well aware of the statistics. And statistics are just that, until you are the statistic.
It feels so surreal.
I am a statistic.
Leave me alone.

My husband and I are stunned. He is angry at the bedside manner of the doctor. He is upset because he hadn't quite gotten used to the idea that I was pregnant and now, it was suddenly stolen away. I am... I don't know... stunned. Up and down. Disconnected, upset, quiet. In disbelief. Laying down, I can feel my uterus and I know that there's a tiny little life in there. It seems surreal and incorrect that this little thing is unalterably broken.

What I discovered on my own (yes, Google can be helpful): Without using particular medical terms, whether it was because English was his second language or that he simply didn't want to use it, my baby has a really bad case of non-immunehydrops fetalis, a rare and serious fetal condition defined as abnormal accumulation of fluid in two or more fetal compartments (usually the neck/head and stomach). When it is diagnosed as early as it was in my baby, 12-13 weeks, the vast majority of the time (75%) it is due to chromosomal abnormalities. See, hydrops, as it is called, is not the cause of the problem, but rather the result of an underlying issue. In my baby, in addition to hydrops and the likely severe chromosomal issue, the umbilical cord is connected to the baby in the wrong place. Instead of going through the shunts that babies have/need since their systems aren't developed yet, the cord is connected directly to the IVC (inferior vena cava), which, medically, means that the faulty system is, and will, negatively affect filtration of the blood as well as oxygen to the liver.

Altogether, Superbaby or Nougat (as we fondly like to call it), ironically, did an excellent job of doing a crappy job of developing properly. My kids do nothing halfway. How lucky we are.

Spirituality = Mental Health (we're getting there...)

2016-05-22T01:44:00.001-07:00

I started therapy last month as a result of my husband requesting and pushing me to do so. I got lucky; the nearby university had an opening and I grabbed it (they have Master's and PhD students conduct therapy sessions at a reduced cost as part of their requirements for graduation).

I won't get into all the details about why I'm going to therapy but I'll say this.. I've heard that the three biggest stressors in life are (not necessarily in this order): losing a job, moving, and someone close to you dying. In the past couple years, I've hit all three. I have never really had the time or opportunity to deal with all of this when it happened, so now I'm doing so - for my health and for my family's health.

My therapist is a great guy, an Israeli with fantastic English (I'm really impressed). He was assigned to me after I described the issues I'd like to resolve and I truly enjoy our conversations each week. Sometimes there's a concept or word that we have trouble expressing but we get through it. At the end of each session, he almost always has a unique perspective on what I've shared the past hour.

I guess that's the point... sometimes we get so deeply mired in our own lives and minds that we can't dig ourselves out, we can't get an outside perspective on what we've experienced or how someone's decision 35 years ago benefits us now. Let me share...

When I was little (or just before I was born, I don't know), my mom and dad were driving in a car, chatting about how they wanted to raise their children. At that point, they already had two (maybe three) kids, and wanted to make sure that we grew up enjoying Judaism, married Jewish, and remained (at least somewhat) religious. They realized that in order to do so, they needed to act the same way and so they made a conscious decision to become more observant of the laws of Judaism.

Fast forward several decades.

I've made quite a journey through Judaism. I pulled away when I was a teenager (due to my dating a secular Jew), then stopped being religious altogether for about eight months. I hated it. All my weeks starting running together. Nothing seemed special; I felt ordinary. So I went back to keeping the Sabbath and kosher and I've loved it (mostly) ever since. The Sabbath is my weekly vacation and mikveh (the ritual bath - but that's another whole story) allows me to give my kids' souls a fresh, clean start in life (and hopefully won't screw them up too much along the way). I don't always cover my hair, but when I do, I make sure to match my scarves to my outfit in an artistic way.

With my belief in G-d and feelings of spirituality, I have faith that things happen for a reason. I don't know what those reasons are, but I don't need to.

Years ago, when a close family friend passed away suddenly from cancer in his early 40s, I was shaken. The deceased man's brother was a rabbi and he shared a story at the funeral. He explained that our lives are represented by the back of a tapestry. It is made up of knots, this yarn leading to that yarn, colors leading into other colors - none of it makes sense. But... if you were able to look at the FRONT of the tapestry, it would be a gorgeous picture.

The problem is, we don't get to see the front of the picture while we're in this world.

I am not telling you what to feel or to religiously observant, but I had to have some sort of belief that there is a bigger picture. I am simple human being with a good, but limited, brain. I'm simply not capable of seeing why bad things happen, but I know, I believe, that things happen for a reason. Maybe I'm wrong and there are times when it's just sh*tty luck, but I don't think so.

After I relayed all this to my therapist, he asked me if I believed that my mom passed away for a reason. The truth is, when people pass away, when things just suck, people want to understand why it happened. When my mom passed away, I think I also wanted to understand why (I don't remember), but I know that right now, the 'why' doesn't matter as much because it happened. Period. It is what it is.

After talking this through with my therapist, he helped me realize (just by him listening, of course) that if I weren't religious and observant, more so if I weren't spiritual, I would be a lot worse off when dealing with the loss of my mom (and everyone else I've lost). Trust me, that ain't a pretty picture.

What else did he tell me? That 35-37 years ago, when my mom and dad made that decision to raise us as Jewish kids, to give us that support, they also, unknowingly, gave me the spiritual tools to deal with their passing away.

Mind blown.

That's quite a long yarn woven over the course of decades. I am forever grateful to my parents for that tapestry - in my mind's eye, it is gorgeous.

Feminism and the Sexodus

2014-12-30T19:28:00.000-08:00

I've had the feminist conversation with many people over a course of years, and most people, if not all, assume that I am a feminist... perhaps it's because, from the outside, I seem to be the epitome of that ideal: strong, independent, career-driven, with my law degree and my own firm only two years after graduating from Wayne State Law School. I am now 36 years old, married the love of my life two years ago, and have a gorgeous little boy who celebrates his first birthday next month. I have the best of both worlds, just as feminists claim we can all have.

But that almost didn't happen and it doesn't happen for many of us.

Avi Woolf is correct in his article, The Jewish Sexodus, when he says that "the war on masculinity as such throughout popular culture and society ... has reached the point that many men have decided love and marriage just ain't worth it."

For years now, it is expected of women that, after college, we should put our energy into our careers. Men are of little importance and low priority since we assume that they will wait for us. But why should they when all we do is bash them (take a close look at the commercials on television or read any anti-male jokes) or worse yet, communicate in subtle or not-so-subtle ways that we do not need them. We have sperm banks, nannies, and can be single Super-moms. It's little wonder men resort to porn, video games, and/or concentrate on their own careers.

Men and women are leading parallel lives, sadly separate from each other. By the time women realize that we are in our thirties, instead of having a loving husband and rambunctious kids (those who want them), we are alone with our other amazing, lonely girlfriends in our great jobs.

Since the rise of feminism decades ago, the insistence that women deserve "equality," and that men are pathetic, emotionless, grunting creatures who we only need for their sperm, the age at which women are getting married has risen and we have even now reached the point where our gene pool and future are losing out on some of these great women (and the men who would have married them) altogether.

Each week I worry about my girlfriends who are my age (and sometimes older) who are as-of-yet unmarried. They are truly remarkable women. Smart, extremely talented, outgoing, hardworking, friendly, funny, and pretty. They are catches - all of them. But where are the men? Where are their matches? They are dating and marrying younger women, who want stability and a husband. And how can you argue with the men's choices of a younger wife? It gives the men more time with their wife, more time to have children, and they don't have to fight so hard with an already established, unforgiving, possibly sour or disappointed thirty-something who expects more than reality can provide.

"A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle." This quote by Irina Dunn is commonly used and garners laughs among women. Generally, women do feel as though we are superior to men (due to emotional strength, empathic abilities, the seemingly innate ability to multitask, and the fact that we can give birth), but we forget that most men are generally physically stronger, more logical, and better at problem solving.

Dunn's quote fixates on our feelings of confidence and inflates our ego such that, despite the quote being untrue, our feelings are manipulated so that the delicate balance between men and women is undermined. Feminism (and the related bashing of men) ends up the tool that creates an over-inflated sense of self-worth in women and pushes away men.

Don't misunderstand me. I am a feminist (by the old standard). I know what and where I am today is a result of other women's diligence in fighting for rights and equality (one of whom was a great-great aunt, the first female law student at an ivy league school).

Hear this. Women are equal to men in importance. We are entitled to our careers, to equal pay for equal work. We are deserving of respect for our ideas, hard work, and diligence. If we choose to stay at home and raise our children and keep house, we should receive huge respect for that as well. If we choose to marry, or not, have kids or not, that is OUR CHOICE. But one cannot argue or ignore the lost idea before feminism ruined all of this -

Men and women are not equal; we are DIFFERENT.

Were we to accept our differences, glory in them, appreciate and embrace our yin and yang, and, more importantly, internalize that women NEED men, then perhaps women wouldn't focus 110% of our time and energy into our careers. Women want so badly to be equal to men, but men are able to handle a job and dating/marriage. Why can't we? What is so wrong with wanting to find your partner in your twenties instead of being selfish and self-absorbed for that decade and more?

Nothing.... but that was the truth that feminism beat out of us.

The essence and original ideas of feminism, that of equal pay, respect, and honoring a woman's choice, were commendable. The problem is that those ideals didn't remain true. They expanded into the belief that women are better (by stepping on the backs of men) and even mocked the very definition of itself when women who chose to stay at home to raise their children were berated as being an anathema to the "cause."

Fortunately, my story has a happy ending (thus far). I got lucky in finding my husband, even if I had to import him from another country. But getting married at the ripe old age of 34 also gives me little time to have the number of children that I would like. As such, I will have to (briefly) set aside the career I worked on so diligently just to focus on family. I would have been better off getting married younger so that I could dedicate my time more efficiently. Had I done that, I also would have had a partner to help me meet my goals, and perhaps I would have achieved even more. We will never know. But we can accomplish this for the next generation of women and men....

The first step is getting rid of this bastardization of feminism, the holier-than-thou attitude for women, and the war against men.

For more interesting reads on feminism, alpha females, and the war on men (I'll add them as I find them):
Should Non-Feminist Men Just Drop Dead?
The Alpha Female
Marriage Gap

The Future Belongs to Those Who Show Up (A Guide to a First Date)

2014-08-26T20:46:00.000-07:00

If you don't do, you won't get.

If you want her/him, make her/him feel wanted.

If you're on a first date (finding a date is the subject of another blog), here are some rules you'll want to consider if you want it to continue to a second date. Keep in mind that you're interviewing someone with whom you might spend the rest of your life. Be honest, but be polite. It may work out (or it may not, but she/he knows someone for you).

MEN:

Dress nicely (as is appropriate for the event). You can never go wrong with a blazer; it can go well with jeans or slacks. Bonus: it covers up sweat stains (if you're nervous) and allows you to offer it to your date (see Rule #15).
Smell nicely! Smell is a very powerful sense. Showering before the date is not enough. Spray on a little cologne (NOT too much) - your scent shouldn't enter the room first and knock her back on her feet.
Be trimmed and combed (hair, beard, and nails). If she wanted to date a Neanderthal who could climb walls with his fingernails, she'd build a time machine.
Do not suggest a place where you might run into your ex, your crush, your parents, etc.
Do not talk about any previously dated women, even in an attempt to give her a compliment. All comments should be directed toward your date.
Do not talk about past relationships and do NOT look at other women. The date is about spending time with her.
Do not talk excessively about your work. Women want to know you're successful, hard-working, and have goals. We do not want to think you are a stressed out, unappreciated, underpaid, angry workaholic.
Do not talk excessively about yourself. Women like to know that you're actually interested in her.
The Art of the Compliment... one of the toughest of the rules. Try to find the adjective that the woman would think applies to her. Do not excessively compliment her (if you are really blown away by this person, try to make some of the compliments more subtle or hidden); you don't want to scare her away or make her think you'll morph into a stalker.
Do not ask the woman if she would split the bill or tip. It shows you're cheap (not frugal).
If she does offer to pay half the dinner bill and you enjoyed her company, don't let her pay. If you hated every moment, let her pay her half and thank her politely.
Don't be rude. If you aren't having a good time, either politely end the date early (though not in the middle of dinner or a movie) or suffer through it and be polite at the end. And just because you were miserable doesn't give you the right to ask for her half of the dinner bill. Don't ask for the cost of her movie ticket either (suck it up; it's not that expensive).
Open the door for the woman and pull her chair out for her. It has nothing to do with whether she's a lady or a whore; it shows more for you, the perpetual gentlemen.
Don't talk about anything negative (that means you don't bring up your bad business luck or the fight you just had with your mother). If you have to explain your bad mood, be vague but positive, and DO NOT allow the bad mood to accompany you throughout your date.
Ask the woman if she's cold (don't wait for her to volunteer that information). If she is, give her your jacket.
Put your cell phone away (unless you're an ER doctor or on-call, in which case you should let her know ahead of time [and then she'll feel great she's on a date with a doctor]). If you must, play the cell phone/bill game (and then refuse to let her pay).
Don't give her false hope. If it didn't work for you, simply tell the girl that it isn't going to work out and never, ever tell the girl why (even if she asks). Don't not call her and assume she'll take the hint.
If you do like her, either ask her for a second date at the end of the first date (if you feel extremely confident) or ask/tell her you'll call her the next day (and do so). Do what you say you're going to do.
NO TEXTING until the third date or so (unless it's a quick thank you for the date). There are nuances that are missed and it becomes impersonal too quickly.

WOMEN:

Dress nicely (as is appropriate for the event).
Smell nicely! Smell is a very powerful sense. Showering is insufficient... Spray on a little perfume. Make him want to get closer to smell it (in other words, don't spray it on like a whore).
Wear a little makeup (depending on your personality). Don't layer it on with a spatula (he'll wonder what you are hiding underneath); moderate or light makeup (evening out skin tone and hiding blemishes) shows you care about your looks, even if you don't.
Do not suggest a place where you might run into your ex, your crush, your parents, etc.
Do not talk about any previously dated men. All comments should be directed toward your date.
Do not talk about past relationships or look at other men. The date is all about him.
Do not give excessive details about work stuff. Men want to know you care about your job; they don't need to know about interpersonal office drama.
Don't be self-centered and talk excessively about yourself. People want to know you're interested in them too.
Don't talk about marriage, how many children you want to bear, or girly subjects unless you want to scare the guy away. Don't be that girl.
Split the bill or at least offer to split it (or pay tip). Guys go on many dates and it is unfair to expect a guy (who likely makes as much as you) to constantly pay for twice as many meals as any normal human being can eat. You're not a precious flower waiting to be plucked.
If you are hinting something to the guy and he doesn't seem to notice, open your mouth and be vocal. Some guys are better than others about reading body language - do not make him read your mind.
Don't be rude. If you aren't having a good time, either politely end the date early (not in the middle of dinner or a movie) or suffer through it and be polite at the end. And just because you were miserable doesn't mean you shouldn't offer to pay for half of dinner.
Don't order the most expensive thing on the menu but don't be a supermodel and order an appetizer for dinner. Men want to know their women are normal.
Have fun and SHOW that you're having fun. Men are visual creatures who have ears. They are NOT psychic. Use happy words and SMILE. Say you are having a good time.
Don't give him false hope. If it just didn't work for you, be clear in telling the guy that it isn't going to work BEFORE he thinks to ask you out again. And never, ever tell the guy why (even if he asks).
If you do like him, let him know with words and actions. Be open and provide him with your phone number.
NO TEXTING until the third date or so (unless it's a quick thank you for the date). There are nuances that are missed and it becomes impersonal too quickly.

Sometimes, for whatever reason, a first date doesn't go well. I'm a huge proponent of people going on second dates. The first impression shouldn't always be the last, and you never know what the circumstances were that caused the awful first date (who knows, they might have been sick or they might have been extremely nervous because they like you so much)....

Good luck!

Harriet Carole Gaba Drissman, a"h

2014-08-25T12:42:00.002-07:00

My Mom's Roots
On August 25, 1940, 74 years ago today, Harriet Carole Gaba was born to two proud parents: Tillie and Dr. Howard Gaba. She was a breech baby and needed surgery to fix a condition when she was younger, but she was a feisty little thing even back then and thrived. Her parents were a hard-working couple and Tillie helped Howard run his physician practice, which took place in Hazel Park, Michigan (one of the only locations left that needed physicians - he had missed the pick of the locations because he fought in WWII in the Philippines, but worked his tail off regardless).

Harriet was their first and she was adorable. Dark curly hair and dark eyes. Because they didn't have a lot of money, the Gabas lived with Tillie's sister, Rose, and her husband Harry Saltzman. Those two couldn't have kids so they helped Tillie and Howard raise theirs. Harriet and Lawrence were born before Howard fought in the War, and Arthur and Joanne were born after he came back. Howard was never the same and had a temper at times, but he did the best he could, raising the four kids with his wife and playing chess. He eventually became a Master and ran his own chess tournament in the Detroit area.

Harriet was a good kid, and would sit quietly for hours as her aunt would curl her hair in the mornings before school. Each summer, they would meet their cousins from Chicago in South Haven and spend the entire summer in the water. She loved South Haven and had great memories from there.

Young Harriet
Harriet loved art, folk dancing, and traveling. She lived in California in the 1960s and even painted a mural on a cafe wall in Los Angeles. She made good friends wherever she went and people would always remember her. One of her close friends, Murray, even asked her if she'd design he and his wife's wedding bands. She did and they still wear them.

Mom dancing with Murray at his wedding

She was extremely politically motivated and was close friends with R' Meir Kahane. She arranged his speaking engagements and he would stay at our house when in town.

In the early 1970s, she moved to, and lived in, Israel, with the intention of making Aliyah. She started by drawing caricatures on the street, then worked in a PR and advertising firm. She was close to Avi Shochat and we all remained close with him and his family for years.

Mom dancing with "Big Avi"

She knew Michael Drissman for years from Detroit and they kept in touch. He would occasionally visit Israel and they'd hang out together. She even tried setting him up with one of her friends when he arrived, but (fortunately) it didn't work out.

Harriet and Michael
Eventually they got closer and, in 1973, he visited Israel again. While there, he spent a lot of time with her, and while she was sitting in her chair in the PR firm in Tel Aviv, he asked if she'd like to get married. She said yes, then asked if he was serious. He was. She got excited and called her mother. He didn't. She asked Michael if he was going to; he said, I'll send her a letter. And so he did... It was their first argument and they kept each other on their toes for the next 40 years.

For him, Harriet moved back to the United States, and on November 18, 1973, Harriet Gaba became Harriet Drissman.

They had five kids, and Harriet was a part-time teacher and a stay-at-home mom. She took us to camps in the summer, taught us to paint and would have us draw/paint canvases. Those would be hung on her walls in her house. She'd make us lunches for school every day and write our names and grades on the front of the paper bags. Her father, Howard, taught us chess, and we'd practice with our Abba (Michael).

She argued with my school when they wanted to hold me back a year simply because I was young. She won that argument. She arranged for my brother Avi to get advanced math studies in middle school because he surpassed all the 8th graders' capabilities and she made sure we attended all of his award ceremonies (even if we were late - it was tough getting all five kids to move on time). Mom tried making all of us readers by finding out what each of us was into. She took us to the Brandeis Book Fair and we could buy WHATEVER books we wanted. She would push the cart for us and we'd run out and back with more and more choices.

She taught us to swim at the Jewish Community Center pool because she was terrified that we'd drown. My dad had never learned to swim so she took us religiously and taught us different strokes. We had to complete ten full lengths each summer night during our visits to the pool in addition to our playtime.

My mom took care of my dad when he had a major heart attack in 1984; she held strong in taking care of her mother when she was sick with cancer in the mid-80s, and when both her parents died in 1987. She remained the family rock when her Aunt Rose and Uncle Harry died and when my dad's Aunt Selma and Uncle Ruby died - also in the late 80s. She kept going when my father had a major stroke in 1989 and was off work for 12 years. She made our finances work somehow; 5 kids in a private day school and a recovering husband. It was a rough decade for all of us, but especially for her.

She decided that life was too short to wait for recoveries and so we started our family vacations. We drove all over, seven of us in a minivan. New York, Toronto, San Antonio, Washington, D.C., Palo Alto, Orlando. We Drissmans saw the country. She gave us games to play while we were driving and had patience even while we *really* had to pee between highway exits.

In 1991 we went to Israel because my dad's Russian cousins escaped Russia. She helped arrange the trip and made sure everything ran pretty smoothly. In 1992, she helped bring my two cousins back to the US for a summer trip. She argued with Washington because they didn't want to allow two Russian brothers to come here at the same time; they figured they wouldn't want to leave. My mom won that argument and we spent a great summer together (we are still close).

She wanted us to love being Jewish so she made each holiday special. We dressed up every Purim (she'd go costume hunting after Halloween) and she made the story of Passover come alive with frogs and ping pong balls and wild animals on our table.

She would take us into the voting booth with her, had us join her when she would "plaster" cars with flyers and defend her role as a mother when others would question her actions. She was fierce.

The Curiosities of My Mom
My mom loved Michigan. She loved the land and the people here. She liked Kid Rock and Eminem. She thought they were talented and it made her happy that they were proud to be Michiganders. I even played her Kid Rock's song about Northern Michigan. She wouldn't necessarily listen to it, but she loved it.

My mom loved the Summertime bc she got to spend time with us. The back-to-school commercials upset her because she felt that parents should want to spend time with their kids. She didn't make us go back to school before her birthday because it was still summer. She preferred to buy Michigan-made items first, then American-made items, but Israeli-made items trumped them all.

My Mom, Complicated and Layered
My mom wasn't perfect. She had a temper just like her dad, which she hated. She told me that each generation should be better than the last so she was glad that, even with her temper, it was still less than his. She felt bad every time she lost her temper. She knew she wasn't perfect, but she tried every week to find the positive. She even made us, every Friday night, come up with the Grateful Policy. We had to list three things we were grateful for; they had to have happened in the last week and they couldn't be sports.

She didn't understand all of us. She insisted that we all get along. It broke her heart to see us fighting. But she and my dad created five very different people, and it was bound to happen that she didn't "get" all of us. She tried her very best, but even at the end, she worried that she didn't do enough for us.

To others, my mom was always smiling, always pleasant. She wasn't always like that.. she was under a lot of pressure and stress. She tried to keep a positive face but it just wasn't always possible. Not many people knew but that was because it wasn't anyone else's business...

She taught us to keep judgments to ourself. If we wondered about other people's finances, she'd say, oh, you know what's in their bank account? In that way, she constantly reminded us to not judge others and to give them the benefit of the doubt.

She taught us many lessons (I just didn't always learn them well), including priorities by making us to do our have-to-dos before our want-to-dos. When I questioned the size of our house, she drove me to the smaller neighborhoods and showed me what others have so that I knew how lucky I was. I never complained again.

My mother's spirit was strength, fight, and light. She did her best to always be there for us and for our family. She was chipper and tried to be understanding. She loved kids and spent as much time as possible with her grandkids. She never tried to set us up and stayed out of our love lives because she trusted us to know ourselves better than she did. She loved us.

She loved others. She bought gifts for people when they had kids. She helped others financially. She drew the Ganeinu logo for the synagogue camp (which is still being used today). Many things I only found out after she passed.

My mom loved my dad and he loved her. They didn't always get along, but they worked hard together. They started dating again when I was in high school and would walk around the mall together. She'd make him take her to dinner and would put up with him when he wanted to stay home and watch a cartoon (usually "The Incredibles" or "Shrek"). She made him lunch to take to work every day for decades and explained that she did that because she was his wife, and that's what she was supposed to do.

My Mom's Sickness
My mom lived with diabetes and chronic kidney disease for years. She didn't tell us all her problems because she didn't want to worry us. She fought and beat kidney cancer. I didn't find out she would need dialysis until I was on my honeymoon. She refused to take any of our kidneys and everyone at her kidney clinic loved her and her positive attitude. In her last year and "the summer that never was," she was diagnosed with colon cancer and meant to fight that too. She never got the chance, but I believe she would have beaten it as well.

Who Was My Mom?
My mom was a complicated person, but really was very simple. She loved art, dancing, traveling (even went by train when my dad stopped flying), teaching, children, and her children and family.

She was feisty and fought for what she believed in - for what was right. She was happy and private. She bragged about her kids (but only to those who had smart kids as well because she didn't want to make others feel bad). She always tried to have something nice to say to others.

I am a mini-me of my mother. People have recognized me as her daughter without knowing who I am - by my dancing, my face, and my attitude. I know I turned into my mother at the age of 8. I have her temper as well, but, like her, it is lessened and I do my best to work on it.

My mom will forever be 72. She was taken before her time, but she will forever be in my heart. My son is named after her; he looks like her. He has her spirit, both the feisty and the smiling sides. I will teach him what my mother taught me, by words and by actions. I miss so much about her and every time I think of something else she loved, I write it down so I don't forget.

She was so strong and amazing. Our rock and our light. Not perfect, but who is.

I would be quite proud if I became half the woman my mother was.