I Will Survive

A True Story.  

About being in the prime of your life and learning you have cancer.

My husband has a motto:  Sweat the small stuff.  It's funny, and if you think about it, you may as well, because sometimes the big stuff is just so big that if you think about it you'll just have to crawl under the covers and never come back out.

I went for a mammogram yesterday.  This weekend I'll keep nice and busy and wait for my results Monday or Tuesday.  I'm sure they'll be fine.    I go every year right around now.  At this point, you are probably thinking I am a breast cancer survivor.  I am not.

Here is my story.


It was about twenty-one years ago.  I know a lot of people would remember the exact day they were diagnosed.  I don't, but I know it was in January of 1991.  

I'll back up a little bit.


My second child, a perfect, beautiful daughter, was born on September 18, 1990.   Our first child, a son greeted his baby sister with delight, and relatives glowed to see that a baby girl had finally arrived to the family on the Cantor side... where we had so far only had boys.  We named her for my beloved grandmother, who passed away only two weeks after my Bat Mitzvah and her naming was a joyous affair at my parents' house. 


It took a while for me to get my energy back after this baby though.  In fact, I never did seem to get my energy back.  Unlike after my  first pregnancy, I was lethargic and napped each time the baby napped.  I shed the weight quickly, which I thought was great, but developed a slight cough, and then a skin rash which spread from my knees and elbows to my arms and legs... and then suddenly... everywhere.


I finally dragged myself, upon my mother's insistence, to the dermatologist,who took a look at me and decided I should be hospitalized.


WHAT?


This is one of those life changing moments when you seem to catch up to the others who are seeing things way before you.  It's a skin rash.  I'm just tired.  It's post-partum!  I have a new baby.  I can't go to the hospital.  And, Dr. Fine (his real name and the man who saved my life) wants me at NYU Medical Center.  I live in New Jersey.  We have hospitals here, in fact, my dad works at a great hospital here... I JUST HAD MY BABY THREE MONTHS AGO AT A HOSPITAL HERE!    I didn't seem to have a say, and people around me all had this solemn and serious manner. 


I went, of course.  I don't remember packing. I was placed on the Dermatology floor, since the primary cause for alarm was a skin rash that was, as yet, undiagnosed and spreading like crazy. The next few days were a blur...the itching was unbearable and no amount of creams, or antihistamines brought relief...a lot of tests, a lot of poking and prodding, stronger medication, steroids, that made my face turn into a big round dumpling, and ruined my appetite and my sleep, but also gave me back my energy... and the itching is giving way to blisters and hives.  A week goes by.  I had a few visitors, but mostly I wanted to make sure that my children were being taken care of.  Save your schlep into the City, and help by driving my son to Nursery School and my daughter to my parents' house. 


I kept busy by watching tv, reading, when I could focus, and looking after my elderly roommate.  Mrs. Rosenbloom was a tiny woman, of an undisclosed age, with the nastiest infection on her leg that I have ever since, before or since.  It was gross, and she was feeling pretty bad for herself... and was a bit of a kvetch.  I think she saw my placement in the bed next to her as the arrival (AT LAST) of that private nurse she had been hoping for. I helped her get up and down from bed, change the tv channels, order food, and translate what the doctors were telling her, from "Doc speak" to "Little Old Lady from the Old County" speak. 


Midmorning:
"Are you Kosher, Mrs. Rosenbloom?" 
"No, no. Just tell me what they have." 
"Okay, they have the matza ball soup, the turkey sandwich, the chicken pot pie, or the ham and cheese." 
She looks up suddenly.  
"Oh, is that what you want, the ham and cheese?"
 "NO!" She screams at me. "That's trayfe!*"


It's funny the things you remember.


The tests were endless.  At this point, I'm feeling better, missing my children so badly it feels like a physical ache, and losing my patience for the patient next to me. I have been given a Gameboy (the first one ever made, I believe) by my husband, and I learn to play Doctor Mario.  I see a lot more of Doctor Mario, than any other doctor at NYU Medical Center, and he and I get pretty good at gobbling up germs.  


On one occasion, when my dad, a doctor, was visiting, he heard me coughing, and I guess my cough had worsened by this point.  He asked if I had gotten a chest x-ray.  I hadn't.  With the myriad of tests I had been subject to, a simple x-ray was not one of them.  


On day ten, an x-ray showed a grapefruit-sized tumor in my chest.


I met with a top notch thoracic surgeon who gruffly let me know just how busy he was and how lucky I was he was squeezing me in to perform a biopsy on this "mass."  Yep.  Feeling pretty lucky.  I remember lying there, thinking about his abrupt nature and callous attitude; wishing I could tell him that a person was lying here in this body. This "person" has two babies at home and a huge tumor in her chest and right now her time is way more valuable than his, no matter how famous he might be in the medical world.


That night I dreamed I was shot in the chest. 


The biopsy showed that the mass was indeed cancer, and it is a blur now how we learned that it was Hodgkin's Lymphoma.  A more treatable type.  After several more uncomfortable and invasive tests to see how far this cancer spread, I was finally promised I could leave the hospital.  15 days later.  


I do not remember coming home, or hugging my children that first day.  I don't remember sleeping in my bed that first night.  I remember the sickening feeling of anxiety that would overwhelm me. I went in to NYU Medical Center for more tests to discover if I would need chemotherapy and radiation, or just radiation.  Thanks to the fact the the bone marrow biopsy was clean, I met with the oncologist and he said we could try just radiation for 12 weeks and see if that would work.  If not, then we would have to introduce chemotherapy. I told him about my anxiety and my difficulty sleeping.  He prescribed Valium, and told me it was normal.  He did not say I'd be fine.  He did say my prognosis was good.  I trusted him.


The radiation treatment became my new job.  A really horrible job, where you dread going in,  your co-workers are nice and you feel like puking all day when you are done.  You are never comfortable,  or happy, and there's always someone much worse off than you.  To make sure that you don't get zapped in the wrong spots, you get tiny little tattoo marks on your body so that the machine gets lined up correctly.  


The radiation did burn out the cancer... and while it made me feel bad, the medical marijuana helped a lot during that time.  I'm not getting on the political bandwagon about that right now, but it saved the day, gave me an appetite, and no, I would never have considered smoking it, I could barely swallow from the radiation.  It was a tiny little pill that was legal even then. 


I had to go in to New York every day for 12 weeks.  I took only one day off (which I had to make up at the end) for a dear friend's wedding, and I also remember truckin' up to Buffalo to see the Grateful Dead.  Nothing like a little music therapy to soothe the soul.   I remember my husband and I each took our younger brothers to the concerts and though I didn't have my usual energy, remember feeling wrapped in love that weekend. 


When the treatment was over, it was time to get back to life. Was I cured?  The tumors had shrunk down, and would continue to shrink.  I was to go to the doctor every three months for scans for the next year.  Will I be able to have more children?  I was told no, and not to try, due to the radiation and the damage it likely had done to my ovaries.  And I would not be able to breast feed. 


I got back to work, and enjoyed my children.  We went to Seaside Heights in the summers, and saw the Grateful Dead when they came around.  I went to my doctor appointments and each time got good news.  The cancer was disappearing.  No new signs of cancer were showing up anywhere.  The side effects of the treatment were vanishing. 


After no trace of the lymphoma or other blood disorders for three years, and defying my doctor, we did have another child, a healthy boy.


He was born on Shavuot... this is the Jewish  holiday when we received the law on Mount Sinai... so we gave him the middle name of "N'tanel" which translates to mean "Gift of God."


The little tattoo marks are still there, as my constant reminders that I am Super Woman.  So is my scar from my biopsy.  I don't try to hide it when I wear a v-neck top, I'm proud that I am a survivor.


And most of the time I don't think about it.  Until I do.  Like now, when I am waiting for that phone call that tells me I don't need to go back for a mammogram for another year.






*Yiddish word for not Kosher.

Today's blog is dedicated to all those who are fighting cancer, who love someone who is, or lost someone because of it.




Feb. 29, Leap Day, 2012... got the results of my mammogram today.  This is the one case where I like being told I'm "normal."   Leap day... an extra day in every four years...despite the fact it's somewhat cold and rainy, I'll consider it the gift that it is and gift it back to others today.  


And the healthy baby boy I mentioned above has just gotten in to Tufts, and will be starting there in the fall.  

An Open Letter to Governor Christie

This started as an open letter to the Governor, begging him to do the right thing and allow the bill to become law.  The very day I wrote it, he vetoed the marriage equality bill, so I edited my letter, changed it to an essay, and mailed it to the newspaper, as I could not keep quiet.  

This is the copy I sent to The Record, the local NJ newspaper.  So far it has not been published.  But this blog post has been viewed quite a few times.  And it looks like Maryland is about to be the next state to pass same-sex marriage.

February 18, 2012

I have been ranting on my Facebook page, and doing a lot of tweeting lately, and even though the world is going the way of the social media, due to the seriousness of this issue, an actual letter is in order.  You see, lives are at stake- lives of people we know, and countless people we don’t know.

The need to write send this letter to the paper began as I read yesterday’s Record. There were two front page headlines: New picture of defendant and Gay Marriage Backers Plan for Coming Battle.  The first refers to the tragedy of Tyler Clementi’s suicide, and the planned court date of his roommate.The second refers to The Marriage Equality bill, passed by both the New Jersey State Senate and House, which would soon be reaching Governor Christie’s desk for a signature, and the preparations being made for a potential battle which is likely to ensue if he should decline. A few hours later, as he promised, Chris Christie vetoed this bill that meant so much to so many.

He had said publicly that he planned to veto the bill and “...move on to other things that the people of New Jersey say are more important to them… (Gay marriage backers plan for strategy for coming battle, 2012).” It made me wonder if he thought to ask voters if saving the life of a young college student might be right up there with creating jobs and lowering taxes.

I’ll explain the connection.

Tyler Clementi, a Rutgers freshman, jumped to his death off the George Washington Bridge, after being “outed” as gay by his roommate.  He was more than outed. He was exposed publicly, virally, on Facebook and Twitter. Because being gay is still being “The Other,” and because of the speed and scope at which this occurred, Tyler, overwhelmed, decided he would rather take his own life than face the fallout of this public “outing.”  As a result, and in the wake of this horrible tragedy, schools all across New Jersey, and the United States, have increased their efforts to stop bullying.  

As positive as this development is, there is an interesting twist. There are specific laws which support moves to stop bullying on the basis of prejudice or bias. If you make a racist comment about an ethnic group, it is considered a hate crime.  Any action taken against a religious group is likewise punishable based upon that principle.  It seems that the intention of the law is to protect against any crime against any group based upon cultural difference. Clearly, a veto of same-sex marriage now marginalizes an entire segment of our population. Our own government has just provided an excuse for the ignorant and cruel among us to continue to behave in a way that is reprehensible. Chris Christie missed an opportunity to teach a new generation that the bigotry of their parents will not be tolerated. He missed the chance to teach them the true meaning of democracy and equality. By vetoing this bill, he gave kids the go-ahead to bully and tease gay and lesbian kids.  He allowed teachers to stand idly by when they see it. Christie is saying that gay and lesbians are not equal to heterosexuals. In fact, even the children of these couples will now be subject to another generation of ostracizing and elitism rather than acceptance and understanding if we do not work together for change right now.

The state senate and legislature have voted. Polls clearly indicate that the majority of those living in New Jersey currently and strongly support Marriage Equality.  And for those who may not love the idea of a gay marriage, the wonderful thing about our country is that they never have to have one. 

I am saddened and disgusted that our governor did not hear the voices of his constituents, that he did not represent our state and his voters by doing the right thing. He had the chance to make New Jersey the seventh state to boast marriage equality.  Doing so would only have helped our state.   Hopefully the New Jersey government will be able to override his veto.  Then, like our parents, who knew that people of color were not “separate but equal,” and that women and men all have solace in the job market, in just a few years, we would be able look back at this milestone, and say that we were part of the generation who made this change.  

Juliet Barr

Ramsey

Mother, Educator and Voter 

In Memory of a Friend at Christmas

Click here to hear Christmas Wrapping By the Waitresses


What's a nice Jewish blogger like me doing with a Christmas opening like that?

Whenever I hear this song, I think of living in Boston in my early 20's, Christmas of course, and I think of my friend Patti.


Patti was my college roommate, randomly chosen, but deliberately kept.

Massell Quad, Brandeis University, Fall 1977, Usen Dorm is to the right.
Photo Credit: Michael Eggert

It might seem like we were opposites back then, in 1977.   We were both young, obviously, but Patti had been a bit more sheltered before she stepped foot on the Brandeis campus.  Catholic school, all girls, until then. Good clean living, right from Lowell, Massachusetts. Here comes Juliet from New Jersey with big plans for college.  I remember I got there first on move-in day, in our little third-floor dorm room double.  Mom and Dad helped shlep my stuff up all those stairs, and set up the stereo (record player and cassette deck, of course) with all my Billy Joel, Beach Boys and Beatles records, among many others, in alphabetical order in milk crates, which held up the huge speakers. The little fridge and hot pot, as Patti and I had discussed by letter, were all set up, and I went off to get my mealbook and phone.

Yes, I've saved my meal book all these years.

Hours of waiting on line, filling in forms, and getting settled. Mom and Dad left and still, no roommate.  When she finally arrived, I couldn't tell whether to be happy or not. She was with her sister, not her parents, and they appeared to have been fighting.  I offered to help her with  her stuff and there wasn't much to bring up.  The good-bye between Patti and her sister was brief and made me uncomfortable.  I remember I started to talk too much to ease the tension, and Patti was very quiet.


That night Usen dorm had a "getting to know you" event. It helped.


Two nights later they had a wine and cheese party.  That REALLY helped.  We got to know quite few of the people who are still good friends today.  Little by little, I got to know this shy, quiet person.


Classes started and I got busy and involved and met lots of other people.  I had a  boyfriend and joined the chorus.  I got connected with the people in my Hebrew class so we could practice our Hebrew at lunch.  (I just realized how lame that must have looked, but we had fun.) I made it into the Gilbert and Sullivan Society.  I joined the Waltham Group and became a "Big Sister" to a young girl in town. But there was always Patti, back at the room at the end of the day.  More often than not, we headed to dinner together.  And before I knew it, we were becoming true friends. When Christmas came around, I brought home a few scraggly branches from Faneuil Hall and made her a little Christmas tree in our dorm room.  She and I exchanged small gifts and shared stories of our family traditions. (No, Patti, that was not a latke that you had in the cafeteria.  That was a hash brown.  Wait until you taste a real latke.)  At the end of the year, we agreed to room together as sophomores.

Champagne brunch on a Sunday at the Marriott Hotel in Newton.  High Times.

Our friendship grew stronger, with only a few moments of tension here and there.  We socialized together and our group of friends grew bigger.  When Patti's mom died, we all supported her, and spent the day in Lowell, attending the funeral.  During breaks, she would visit me in New Jersey, or we'd both visit another Brandeis friend somewhere else. 


 After college, Patti and I lived together one last time, in Brighton, Massachusetts. It was just the two of us, with her cat, Sugaree , my cat Jasmine, and thousands of cockroaches.  We had a lot of adventures that year.  Most were great:  a Halloween party that couldn't be beat, a road trip to see Simon and Garfunkel in Central Park with half a million of our best friends.  Some of the times were challenging, like the break-in to our apartment that left Patti without the precious earrings that had been her mom's.  The most difficult was the death of her beloved father, Jack.  Jack spent weeks sleeping on our couch as he traveled back and forth from Lowell  to Boston for his Cancer treatments. When he died, I knew that Patti was changed.  I think she wanted to get closer to her brother and sister then, but didn't know how.   I finally broke the news to her that I was going to live with my boyfriend, Michael.  She knew that it was bound to happen.  


While I still lived in the Boston area, we spent a lot of time together.  We both worked jobs where the hours were 3 - 11pm, so sometimes we would actually go out after work.  One night we saw The Cars play a midnight show in Boston.  We really thought we were hot shit.  Another time we saw Hot Tuna at Jonathan Swifts in Cambridge and realized it was too late to take the "T" home.  I felt it would be fine to accept a ride from a couple of guys we didn't know.  The whole time she kept frowning at me and reprimanding me with her eyes.  Or  the time I picked up a hitchhiker on the way back from Martha's Vineyard because he looked cold.   Patti glared at me til he got out of the car.  (He did not stab us, you'll be happy to know.  But she was furious with me.)


Then I moved away.  Michael and I took off for Durham, NC.  And Patti continued with her life, caring for adults with developmental disabilities.  She had moved up in this field and was working 9-5 now.  She was a compassionate, caring person who was no longer shy, especially when it came to speaking up for the needs of the clients she served.


Over the years, Patti would visit me wherever I lived.  North Carolina, Portland Oregon, San Francisco, and especially New Jersey.  When my kids were born she'd be here, and when she needed a little vacation, this was where she'd pick.


In the late 90's she began to have health issues.  I brushed them off as unrelated.  Maybe she did too, or maybe she was being deliberately vague with me.


One time, though, in the summer of 1998 or 1999, she called and said she had to go to the hospital.  She had been at Cape Cod, with some friends, but had to leave due to what she referred to as "hemorrhaging," had driven herself all the way back to Boston.  It didn't make sense to me.  When I asked her questions, I didn't get answers.  When I went to visit her, she had received a transfusion and was seemingly okay, but I was alarmed.


I made several more trips up to Boston and Lowell to visit Patti, in and out of the hospital after this.  I never really understood what was wrong.  It was as if her body was just breaking down.  But at the age of 42, this didn't make sense.


Patti had moved out of her own place, and into the apartment of a dear friend who agreed to help her out. On one visit, she collapsed as we walked down the hallway.  I tried to help her up.  I could smell smoke on her skin, and another smell too.  I wondered if the friend smoked, or if Patti had started smoking.  She offered me a beer.  I took one, and asked if she were having one.  She said no, she had to stop drinking, those were just for me.  I sipped at it and started to wonder about that.


While we sat, Patti asked me to "do her funeral when she died."


Patti, a lapsed Catholic, asked me, a Jewish Educator to "do her funeral."


I said ok. I asked what she'd want.  She said I'd know.


Patti died on February 11, 2002.


I did her funeral.


I put together a playlist of music and invited everyone to get up and speak about Patti.  It was a beautiful and touching tribute to our dear friend and sister.
I think she would have liked it.


Sometimes I get mad at her for missing these great moments life has offered up since she died, nearly ten years ago.  She loved her niece and nephew deeply.   She adored my kids, how she'd kvell to see them now.  She could never understand how I could let them go away for a month to camp.  Imagine how she'd feel as I now face imminent empty nest-hood. 


How many more people could she have helped in her work?  Patti was patient, calm, and never judgmental.


Mostly, now, though, I just miss her. And I think of her with love. I think of the Beatles albums she snitched from her brother.  (Yes, Jeff, that's what happened to them.)  When I see an SNL skit that's actually funny, I think of her, or wear the jacket we bought together, or the earrings, or that leather bracelet...  When I think of Christmas, I think of Patti.


And when I hear a song by Sting (her favorite) I stop what I am doing and I remember Patti.


Fields of Gold




By the way,  I inherited Jack's guitar, and I plan to learn to play it.  That's my New Year's  Resolution.  I think she'd tell me it's about time. 

The Music Never Stopped

Click here for some appropriate background music.

Dead Freaks Unite... remember that?

When I first started my job, I was introduced to the people in my new office, and I remember going into Arthur's office at the end of the hall.  Arthur has two computers, one for his work and one for his music.  As I was brought in I heard Sugaree loud and clear from computer number two.  He didn't bother to turn it down, and we could barely hear each other.  And as I stood there, I spaced out for a second on our conversation as I wondered, "Jerry Garcia band, or Grateful Dead? No, must be the Dead, because that's defnitely Phil, not John Kahn.  That must be early 80's judging by the keyboards, gotta be Brent... I wonder if that's the Lewiston show..."  When I realized that it was my turn to say something, I said the only thing I could..."Nice to meet you Arthur!"


Our boss, who was introducing us did not seem to notice the secret handshake, or the quick acknowledgement of shared shows.  Well, that's because we Deadheads don't have a secret handshake (though some of us are huggers) and Arthur and I have not had the "favorite show" conversation yet.  


There's a T-shirt I've seen at shows that says "We are everywhere."  And I love how that's still true.

Yesterday, the Spring Tour was announced!


Yes, Furthur Fans, Deadheads, and Fellow Freaks on the East Coast spent yesterday calling, emailing, tweeting and texting each other to spread the news.  Boston, Connecticut, and, can you believe it?  The Beacon Theater in New York City.


So, while the rest of the world is up and at 'em, doing things like Christmas and Hanukkah shopping, driving their kids to sports, going to synagogue, and of course, sleeping, a tiny percent of us were decorating envelopes and taking out huge amounts of cash to be turned into postal money orders.  What am I talking about?  Read on.


The Grateful Dead has always been deadicated to their fans, in a way that has paid off for them with not only financial success but a fan loyalty that has spawned its own culture.  It's lasted since the early sixties and survived the decades of change, including the early and tragic death of beloved band leader (and now ghostly tie designer) Jerry Garcia.  One way in which the Dead shows their love is the fact that they allow people to tape their shows, despite the fact that you can buy the show from the website. 

He just keeps making them, and you guys keep buying them.  

Another way they have shown their love for us is by reserving blocks of tickets for all their shows for the fans to recieve via mail order.  It used to work by calling in to a certain phone number an writing down the info, now it appears online  at the Furthur website.  One of the sadder days in my life was receiving my tickets for the show right after Jerry died in 1995.  I still have those unused tickets.  That was the last time I did the mail order.    

My unused tickets.  Of course, they were horrible seats, but, oh how I wish we could have seen that show.

Until today.


After the news went viral yesterday that tickets were going on sale, I was pumped. I knew I could not be by my computer on Monday morning to try order online for the the eight night stand at the Beacon.  (I do actually have to work.)  Because they are playing in April during Passover, I have the whole week off, so it means I can go out late, sleep late, and just not eat or drink anything!  (Unless the Beacon has Kosher for Passover vodka, and this being New York City, that could be!)  So I got my mail order together, modestly decorated my envelope, and went to the post office with a huge wad of cash.

Waiting in line with everyone with their stacks of Christmas cards, and bags of gifts to be mailed, I smiled.  I hadn't done this in a while.  The geniuses at the post office, not thinking that today would be busy day, had two people working, so the line was out the door.  


As I waiting, I scrolled through the tweets on my phone.  Hot Tuna played last night at the Beacon.  I am going tonight, so I searched for the set list.  I texted a friend who went last night and asked for a run down of the show.  


After trying to ignore two very whiny children, a woman having a loud conversation on her cell that none of us wanted to hear, and three extremely inappropriately dressed people among a line of about 30 of us, it was my turn.  I asked for my postal money order for the exact amount for my four tickets.  $298.  I'm grinning ear to ear.  I take it to the filthy little work table where someone is addressing a pile of 110 Christmas cards.  (I know this because I heard him ask for 110 Christmas stamps 20 minutes ago.  He's nowhere near the end of his pile.) As I take my groovy envelope and put it into the mail slot, I hear the scruffy guy at the counter request a postal money order for $298 along with a stamped number ten envelope.   He and I did not do the secret Deadhead handshake... but I couldn't help but think...
"We are everywhere!"

P.S.  This was the first time I got my money order back.  I had to buy my tickets online with the rest of the world.

I'm Dreaming of a Green Hanukkah

This is my article from the Rockland Jewish Federation Reporter December Issue.  Thought it would make a good blog posting as well.  Enjoy.

I’m “rededicating” myself to Hanukkah.

Get it?

As far as Jewish holidays go, Hanukkah is aminor one.  It pales in comparison toRosh HaShannah and Yom Kippur, Sukkot and Simchat Torah.  But still, it’s here in December when thedays are short and cold.  It celebratesmiracles and light.  There are gifts andgelt.  And latkes.  Not a bad list for a minor holiday! 

The days of being volunteered by my kids tobe the class “latke mom” are behind me. I am no longer in a position to buy 300 bags of nut-free gelt to feed anentire Hebrew school.  By the time theholiday arrives, chances are I won’t have told the story or recited theblessings over a dozen times. 

Hanukkah, which means “dedication”remembers the rededication of the Holy Temple by the Maccabees .  So, I am rededicating myself to Hanukkah thisyear.  I am looking for ways to find newmeaning in the holiday, while not losing the aspects I love about it.  By a small coincidence, I’ve come up witheight.

1.      Fair Trade Gelt:   The truth is, I don’t even likechocolate.  But my family does.  So this year, I am getting guilt-freegelt.  After just a little bit ofresearch, I found two great options, and there are probably more.  Equal Exchange (www.equalexchange.coop) sells what they call “non traditionalHanukkah pieces.”  A bag of little darkchocolate pieces, saving the hassle of the gold foil wrappers from getting allover the place.  And they donate $.15from each sale to the American Jewish World Service (www.AJWS.com). If you feel like you are not ready togive up the good old gelt shape just yet, there’s Divine Chocolate (www.divinechocolateusa.com). They have a bag of gold coins that you can feel good about giving.  Both products have Kosher certifications.

2.    Home-made candles: I can’t remember thelast time I took the time to make beeswax candles with my kids.  This is a fun and easy project that makes thefestival of lights more meaningful. Buying the beeswax and rolling your own candles is a nice way to connectto the holiday, and even little hands can do it.  Homemade candles also make a nice gift if youare invited to share a night of Hanukkah with friends or family.  You can buy a kit that will make enoughcandles to last all eight nights from Kosher Krafts (1-800-9KRAFTS or www.kosherkrafts.com) or other craft supply stores. 

3.    Use less wrapping paper:  I won’t pretend that I don’t appreciate anicely wrapped gift, but let’s face it… gift wrap is a waste of paper.  If you are not ready to eschew the use ofgift wrap altogether, why not pick one night where you don’t wrap thegifts?  Or use the Sunday comics to wrapyour gifts?  At the very least, recyclegift wrap and reuse!  Your family won’tmind.   This year I am going to trywrapping gifts in scraps of cloth and use ribbons to close them.  I’ll let you know how that goes.

4.    Donate a gift:  Pick one night and have that be a night thatyour family shops to donate a gift to a toy drive.  Teach your children valuable lessons aboutG’milut Hasadim (Acts of Loving Kindness) by doing them!

5.    Teach: I mentioned earlier that this year, I may not have taught the story ofHanukkah dozens of times by the time the holiday arrives.  But that doesn’t mean I should not teach itat all.  As a parent, don’t leave all theJewish education up to the synagogue! Teach your children and learn with them. Tell them about the Maccabees, read a good book to them or tell how youcelebrated when you were their age.  Orfind a new way to explore the holiday!

6.    Tzedakah night:  On one of the nights of Hanukkah, when youare lucky enough to have your whole family together, I might suggest Friday, have an agenda.  Set a tzedakah box in the middle of the table.  and introduce a family tzedakah project forthe year.  Take suggestions.  What is meaningful to all of you?  Did you know that Heifer International(www.heifer.org) works to end hunger and poverty on family at a time?  Or that the Jewish National Fund (www.JNF.org) not only plants trees in Israel, butprovides clean drinking water for Israelis, not to mention the safe playgroundin S’derot.  And, I can’t help butmention our own Federation right here in Rockland County (www.jewishrockland.org) where your dollars go to educational, social,and supportive programs here and in Israel. Once your family decides on a cause, every Friday each person can put adonation into the tzedakah box before Shabbat. See how  much you can accumulatebefore next Hannukah and make a nice donation from your family at that time.

7.    Share: I think about sharing Hanukkah in two distinct ways.  Share the holiday with friends, both Jewishand non-Jewish.  Try someone else’s latkes,even though you know yours are better.   Invitea family with young children if your own are long grown and moved out… or adopta grandparent if you are missing yours. Most synagogues are great resources for helping make theseconnections. 

8.    And Share again: The other way to sharethis holiday is to share what you have with others in a more anonymousway.  Donate your coats and warm clothingto those who need them.  Tell yourchildren to find 5 books or toys to bring to the shelter.  Help the food pantries keep their shelvesstocked.  Other faiths are celebrating aholiday that is, in fact, a very big deal, and people of all faiths are stillfeeling the burden brought on by our recent financial recession.  If you are in a position to help others,there are countless ways to do so.

So, there you have it, my eight ways torededicate for each of the eight nights of Hanukkah this year.  No matter what you celebrate, it's time to thing about celebrating more consciously and with a conscience.    If you have any more ideas, I’d love to hear from you.

You Put our National Bird In the Oven?

If I were to believe the American media, I would have to accept that the entire US is out shopping right now.  It's a day that is called Black Friday, and it has become some kind of made-up preposterous consumer oriented day.   My email inbox is up to about 4,200 emails, most of them are ads for the best prices on things I don't need.  The TV and radio are bludgeoning my ears and eyes with more of the same.  Even the home pages on the Internet are trying to convince me to shop.

Click here to listen to Black Friday by Steely Dan, which has nothing to do with the shopping day after Thanksgiving.


I am not a shopper on the best of days (more on this another time) so there's no way I'm going to trot myself out there with the masses.  But it is a good day to reflect on things I'm thankful for, and update the blog, and try and get caught up on some household stuff.  The funny thing is my husband had a dentist appointment this morning and called when it was over to say he bought a new dishwasher.  Huh?  I guess even the dentist is cashing in on Black Friday.  He's really branched out.


Our Thanksgiving Feast is held at my parents house, a few towns over, in North Jersey.   It is just the immediate family, 12 in all.  We start with shots for everyone... flu shots that is.  My dad, a physician, lines us up and immunizes us all first thing.  This used to be a moment the kids dreaded when they were younger, but they handle it quite well now.  As I type this, the dull ache in my right arm reminds me that I'll be protected when my co-workers get hit this winter.

We then have a prolonged cocktail hour, where my dad or brother has invented a new Thanksgiving drink.  This year, the Turkey-tinis proved undrinkable... I didn't even have the nerve to sample one made from the pan drippings of my brother's Kosher turkey and vodka.  We switched over to crantinis (last year's hit) made from vodka soaked cranberries and vodka and a splash of cranberry juice.  (By the way, these were also known as Sukkah-tinis during Sukkot, and will probably return again during the winter season, as they are tart, delicious, colorful and strong!  Kris Kringle-tinis anyone?)


At the dinner table we usually go around and tell what we are thankful for, though we did not last night.  Instead Mom read from a great article from the New York Times.  You can read it too, by clicking here.  If you don't feel like reading the whole thing... the upshot is this: take time to be thankful.  Thanksgiving is a great time to start, obviously, but the author, John Tierney, suggests a "gratitude journal" to help you out.


A few days ago, however, a colleague did ask me what I was thankful for... and my answer was my family.  I am grateful for them everyday, and I hope that they know that.  Before this weekend is over, I think I'll tell them just to make sure.  When I asked her, she replied that she felt overcome with a feeling of gratitude that day.  I must admit, I have been enjoying that feeling as well.


A few other items that would make it into my gratitude journal?


I'm very grateful for my good health.  I'm even more grateful that those I love continue to be healthy and I know how precious this is.


I'm also very grateful that I can work at what I love to do.  My work is incredibly rewarding and I am continually growing and learning. That must be the secret of life.  So there you have it!


If I'm counting my blessings publicly, which appears to be the case, I'm also very thankful that after a few very intense years of some amount of negativity and stress, I've made some changes and have an outstanding work-home balance.


Last year this little gem was unearthed from my parents' archives.  

As you can see, even at the young age of eight I was an appreciative soul.  And I think it's also clear I did not inherit my artistic mother's talents! I'll also leave the question of the frowning boyfriend up to the psychologists out there!

So,  I would really like to know... what are YOU thankful for? 




P.S.  I know that this may have limited audience appeal, but this is what we grew up with, our Thanksgiving story.  Thank you Stan Freberg, 1961.  Enjoy.
Stan Freberg's Thanksgiving Story

Highs and Lows

I made the team!
I got grounded.
I got my permit!
Our soccer team finally lost.


In most of the classes I teach, I start with a check-in with my students. I call it Highs and Lows.


"What was your high point and low point  since I saw you last class?"


Seems simple right?


It's easy and it's profound.  When I explain it other educators, they either find someone else in the room to talk to, or they have an "ah hah" moment.


Highs and Lows.  We go around the room, and each of us shares our high and low point of the week.  That's it.


But first we have to learn how to speak to one another.  Class one:  Shmirat HaLashon...Quite literally: Guarding your Tongue.  No gossip, no mentioning of anyone's names, no bad language.  
And we have to learn how to listen to one another.  No judgement.  No rolling of the eyes.  No exaggerated sighing.  This is quite a challenge for the middle school and high school students I teach.  Not always a piece of kugel for the adults I work with either!


The first few weeks we share very easy, close to the surface highs and lows.  


I got an A on at test!
Our trip to Philly was cancelled.
I got a new phone.
My sister borrowed my new shoes and ruined them.
My socks don't match.
My crush finally said hi to me!


Class starts on time. Once you've been in the class for a while, you want to get there on time because you don't want to miss Highs and Lows.  You don't want to miss your turn, and you don't want to miss hearing everyone else's H&L's.  There's a sense of belonging and being part of something special that is initiated with the Highs and Lows.  When I feel that my lesson for the week is too full, and I occasionally try to do without our weekly check-in, the kids call me out on that.  They've been thinking about their Low since the car accident, or their High since the College acceptance letter arrived the day after our last class met!


This works nicely at meetings too.  I usually set the tone by modelling for the group.  Will I share something deep, or keep it light?  Will I open with a nifty piece of text from this week's parsha, or show off yet another picture of my kids?


It's November now, and we are becoming a community.  Our class is our safe place.  I can now use the Highs and Lows to take the pulse of the class, it's an instant barometer.


My dog died.  I know it's not like a person or anything, but I can't stop crying.
I got the lead in a play. I can't really brag at school because my best friend didn't even make the chorus, but I can tell you guys.  I'M SO PSYCHED!
My grandma has Alzheimers.  I'm scared to go visit her because I keep thinking each time I go is the time she'll forget my name.
My parents said I could get a smart phone if I keep my grades up one more marking period!  I thought that bribing for grades was considered bad parenting, but I'm not going to tell them!


This week I actually set aside my lesson plan and spent the class discussing Bikur Holim, the mitzvah of visiting the sick, when three of the students shared that their "Lows" were that people close to them were ill or had recent surgery.  (I also ask their permission to take information that I learn from H & L's to the Rabbi, Cantor, or Educator if that is appropriate, and invite them to share newsworthy items in the Temple bulletin as well.)


So, I'll leave you with this...my favorite High and Low of the week... maybe the year.  From an eighth grader in New Rochelle, NY.


Okay, so, my low... well, I got a C on a math test that I thought I'd do really well on.  
Class responds appropriately.
But my High... he pauses for dramatic effect, and reaches into his backpack...is that I got this LASER POINTER!  Look at this!  He shines a beam of green light around the classroom to oohs and ahs...Oh, wait a sec, no, my high is that it was my Bar Mitzvah on Saturday and my second high is that I got this laser pointer.  


What was your high and low of the week?