Blame it on Rio

There are moments in your life where your perception about an event, situation, or person changes so quickly it like glass shattering. Your perception of those things irreconcilably different and forever changed. Often it is the moment where you move beyond the surface, beyond your own fears and prejudices and for the first time can seem more of the entirety of that person, place, or event.  A moment that gives you a better understanding of those things and allows you to love them in a way that you had never thought possible.

So it was with me and my perception of my grandfather, Marcus Rothkopf.

My first recollection of him is walking through a parking lot with a burlap bag slung over his shoulder jabbing at pieces of litter with a stick that had a nail in it at one end. He was a street cleaner and even at a tender age I knew that was a very menial job.  It is hard to understand a child’s brain especially when the adult brain exists within the same cranium but seeing him do this job made me fear him a little. It was as if he had a virus or bacterium that I could catch and would condemn me to a life of cleaning streets for the rest of my life.

It did not help that I could not understand what he said to me.  He only spoke a few words in English and the conversation with all the adults was in German. While on occasion he would try to engage us and say something to us it had to be translated which for kid made it feel like he was not saying anything at all as translations do not convert emotions and sentimentality very well. It made him foreign and not of our world.

Another issue for me was his mustache. It looked like the toothbrush mustache of Adolph Hitler and even at that young age Hitler’s name was enough to scare the bejesus out of me.

There was a hardness to him. Almost an anger. It manifested itself in a number of ways. I do not remember ever getting a hug from him. And back then hugs were my jam. Come to think of it the only affection that I can remember ever being displayed with him is when my father would say goodbye to him and his balding head. Even the presents we would receive from him and Grandmother Jenny were given by her, not him. She is the one who took us to the Buster Brown shoe store and “yoyed” as we tried on our shoes. I am not saying there were no hugs or kisses given. There probably were but I do not remember them.

He also preferred his own company. While we would all sit in the kitchen and watch my grandmother prepare Wiener Schnitzel for us all. He would sit in the living room, often in silence, but occasionally listening to the radio. I am not sure we were warned to be away from him while he was sitting in silence but I do know we avoided him our kiddie radar picking up on something that made us keep our distance.

The last time I saw my grandfather alive was when I was 9 years old. He was in the hospital being treated for pneumonia and my father and mother had decided we should visit him. I can remember being very intimidated and scared of being in the hospital. I had never been in one before and it seemed to me very scary to be in a place where they took sick people and where occasionally people would die. I hid behind my father when we entered Grandpa’s hospital room. What I saw did not comfort me. Marcus was bound to the bed with restraints to keep him from getting up and leaving. He wanted no part of the hospital and had tried to escape enough times that they finally had to tie him to the bed. His arms had huge purple marks on them where he had been bruised fighting his restraints and where no doubt, he had pulled out his IV’s. Needless to say I found the whole scene horrifying and did my best to merge with my parents legs in the hope that I would be protected.

As we were leaving the hospital room my grandfather said something to my father in German. My father nodded and turned to my brother David and said “He says, he thinks you look like a little soldier.” My brother positively beamed, and I felt cheated. Why didn’t he say anything nice to me?

Grandfather Marcus died about a week later. Family lore and an autopsy report I found it one of my father’s desk drawers stated he had not died because of disease but because he had begged his brother Max to bring him a beer while he was in the hospital. Uncle Max did not realize that the medication’s grandpa was taking would not mix well with alcohol and the combination killed him.

My last memory of Marcus is not of his funeral. Neither David nor I were invited as my parents thought us too young to deal with the grief of funerals. No doubt they were right as the fact that someone could die bewildered and scared me long after his passing. My last memory of him is actually of Grandmother Jenny. Where Marcus had been scary and aloof Jenny was warm and open. To this day I do not have to think too hard to remember her hugs, how loved they made me feel, and her smell which was as welcoming as that of baking bread. After my grandfather’s funeral she came to live with us for awhile. My enduring memory of her at that time is my father sitting with her in the backyard, with Dad trying to comfort her and her being all but inconsolable. I was not capable at the time of understanding the full emotion of grief, but I do remember thinking I must find a way to make my grandmother happy because I had never seen anyone that sad.

As time went on, and the more stories I heard about Marcus, the scene of Jenny weeping in the backyard puzzled me. The stories that I heard about him painted a portrait of an angry man who would often drink to excess and heap verbal and physical abuse on his only child. That as a husband he was a philanderer and abusive especially if Jenny had not cooked for him.  It made me think of him one dimensionally. As a bad father, a bad husband. A person whom my father had to overcome to become the man he was. The person whose disrespect had made Grandmother that much sweeter as when you add salt to caramel.

Only rarely was this monochromatic image of Marcus challenged. Such was the case when going through some old photographs with my father. We came across a picture that had been taken of my grandparents on their wedding day in June 1925.

It shows a nicely dressed couple smiling smugly into the camera. The bride is holding a bouquet of roses and wears a cloche hat with a veil attached. The groom is in a suit and white bow tie. They both look self-contentedly happy.  What it did not show was that Jeni was already pregnant with Dad. That this was a marriage dictated by circumstance. Marcus, though, had wanted this marriage and this child and for the rest of her life Jenny would talk about his kindness that day. That because he wanted her to have a proper wedding, he had purchased her entire wedding ensemble

But even this memory, and hearing the story of kindness that day could not break down my image of him as a bully of a father that Dad overcame and succeeded despite him as opposed to because of him. He was a beast who deserved little consideration in my pantheon of family heroes.

Years went by and I did not think about him. That changed in the spring of 2005. I began reading a book called “The First World War” by John Keegan. While a lover of history and more well-read than most on American History I had never ventured into learning more than the basics on the “War to End All Wars” despite a sister and a mother who were bonified experts on the subject. The book captured my attention from the outset. The politics that caused the war started fascinated me but what captivated me was the sheer carnage the war created. In a single day or a single battle an equivalent of entire city would die. The battle of the Somme 1,219,000 casualties. Verdun 976,000 casualties. Gallipoli 473,000 casualties. Put another way, casualties during those battles would be the combined population of Dallas, TX, Jacksonville, Florida, and Kansas City, MO. I felt the need to discuss my emotions about this with someone who would know what it was that I was talking about. And as I often did in those days,  I picked up the phone and called home. That is to say, my parents home.

I think the thing that I miss the most about Mom and Dad, but especially Pop, was our conversations. They were both highly educated and highly interested. They could converse on most subjects not only because of their education but both were lifelong learners who read the ink off the New York Times daily. They listened.  They loved talking to their children and their children loved talking to them.

That morning my father must have felt a little ambushed because I am sure for the first part of our conversation he did not get a word in edgewise because I was so full of new knowledge of WW1 that it must have come out of my mouth like water from a tap. We talked about how the spark that lit the war candle had begun with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in June of 1914. How alliances cobbled together over time made the nations of Europe fall into a war like a line of dominoes. How modern weapons such as tanks, automatic rifles and machine guns and tactics better suited for horse based calvary and static line offenses had caused casualties that were unimaginable. That the cruelness of the war was compounded by the fact that it was being fought by petulant cousins when family ties could have easily aborted the war.

When I paused to catch my breath, Dad asked if I knew what his father had done during the war. And with that question the perception I had held about Grandfather Rothkopf for over 40 years crumbled and a more colorful and nuanced portrait emerged.

He told me that Grandpa Rothkopf like all young men in the Austria-Hungarian Empire had been conscripted into the army in 1906 when he turned 18 years of age. He had served the mandatory two years and then for a while had bummed around Europe looking for work. Dad seemed to think that he had spent time in Paris and even London but had eventually made his way to Vienna. It was there in the early summer of 1914, after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, he, like so many others of his generation were recalled to the Army. He was 26 years old and sent to the Eastern Front in Galicia the same province where he had grown up. It was there, in one of the earliest battles of the war, where he was wounded, “bayonetted in the ass”, and captured. Eventually, he and many of his countrymen, were sent to Siberia in far eastern Russia, and placed in a Gulag, or work camp. There he stayed, eating onions (a food he would never consume again) until 1921.

Here I paused my father’s narrative. I asked “1921? Didn’t the war end in 1918.”

“Yes.”

“So why did it take so long to repatriate him and the other prisoners.” Dad said he did not know. But that he suspected that while hostilities had ended in 1918 what reparations the vanquished needed to pay the victors would have taken far longer to be worked out to mutual satisfaction. That this was likely complicated by the fact that Russia was in the midst of a revolution.”

I rhetorically wondered “What must that have been like?. 6000 miles away from home. Locked up in a camp in the middle of a frozen wasteland. Eating nothing but onions. Knowing that the war was over yet still waking up every morning behind barbed wire. Waking up every morning with the hope that today may be the day we will get word on our release.  And going to bed every night for three long years with your hopes dashed among snoring stinking men. “

My father replied that his father had not talked much of those days except he refused to eat onions for the rest of his life. He supposed that the memories were too unpleasant to recount and that perhaps he did not want to share those memories because they were so nasty and represented a time in his life he chose not to remember.

I went for a long run after my call with Pop. I was in training for the NYC marathon and needed to get my miles in. Runs are good for thinking because as you get lost in your thoughts the exertion seems less and the time seems to pass more quickly.  This particular run seemed to disappear in a blink of the eye as for the first time I considered the full arc of my grandfather’s life. He lived a life that was as difficult as any that I had ever heard of. That I had viewed him for so long with only the eyes of child and never really considered him as a human being with all the nuance of understanding that life experience brings you. It made me want to learn more about him. To humanize and cherish him as the father of my father.

My father always spoke of central Europe that he came from the standpoint of a native. Similar to that of New Yorker assuming that you knew the difference between Soho and Tribeca. This was compounded by the fact that the part of the world he was born into was transmogrified by two world wars;  countries had been created and other eliminated. Gone was  the Austria-Hungarian empire and its hegemony in the region replaced by Austria, Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Kingdom of Serbia, Western Ukrainian Republic. Semi-autonomous regions were gobbled up by foreign states such as Bukovia, Transylvania, and Banat and Ganat being joined to Romania and Galicia. It must have been difficult for those who lived in the region at the time to understand all the changes let alone a person such as myself born continent away in the latter half of the 20^th century.

So when Pops talked about his father being from Galicia I had absolutely no idea  what he was talking about but I knew enough to know it was a part of Poland even though I could not fully appreciate the seismic change that had happened in Europe at the end of World War 1. This lack of understanding was compounded by an additional problem. There are two Galicia’s. One exists in the NW corner of Spain and was considered the end of the world by the Romans and the other which lay on the border of central and eastern Europe.

Maps help. Below is a map of the Galicia Marcus was from at the beginning of WW1. It stretches from what is now the Ukraine all the way to Silesia in the Czech Republic. The sheer size of the region is one of the challenges when looking for Marcus’s birthplace. The second is the name of the town, Grodzisko. In Polish the word means fortified settlement. In other words, it is like finding a town called Washington or Springfield in the United States without knowing the state. There is Grodzisko Gorne, Grodzisko Dolne, Grodzisko Owidz to name just a few. The Grodzisko of our ancestors( Wikipedia refers to it as Grodzisko, Lesser Poland Voivodeship) lays in the far west of Galicia almost due south of Cracow and just 15 miles South East of the market village of Oswiecin. The Germans when they invaded in 1939 renamed this town Auschwitz.

I can tell you from personal experience that this part of the world is absolutely lovely. In the spring it is lush with wildflowers and deep purple lilacs.  Rich forests, verdant crop lands, crystal lakes. Its beauty makes it easy to understand why the first Rothkopfs settled here. In the late 1990 your Grandfather Rothkopf was in Poland giving a lecture and decided that he wanted to visit the place where his father was born.  I believe this adventure was more out of curiosity that of any great love he had for his grandparents as he never met them. What he knew of the place came from two men, his father, and his Uncle Max, both of whom fled the town as soon as they could. But they must have had told Pops enough about the place to pique his curiosity.

What he found was a wonderfully bucolic village with many homes that looked as if they had existed during his grandparents lives as they were made from logs directly from the forest as opposed to any construction material.

However, as the pastoral look on the outside something much darker lurked. Dad was searching for any sign that his relatives had lived there. Perhaps a synagogue that would have family records or at worst a Jewish cemetery where perhaps he could find some trace of our family.

Marcus Rothkopf’s parents: Saydl & Zacharias Rothkopf

Even though Dad had a translator the folks lived in the village seemed very reluctant to talk about the time before the war. Some claimed they had not lived here long enough. Other’s claimed ignorance of a Jewish Community ever being there. This, of course, contradicted common sense and  records he had received from the Museum of the Diaspora.  He knew from his father and uncle the town had their own Jewish schools and shul and had been a vital part of the community for centuries. Finally, just as Dad was getting ready to leave,  one resident took pity on him and told him the awful truth. That after the German occupation of Poland all of the Jewish residents had been rounded up and sent to ghettos in Cracow and Warsaw and eventually to Auschwitz.  There, most had  perished only a few miles away from their homes. Those that survived never returned. After their departure, their lands had been seized, their synagogue torched.  They had taken the gravestones from the cemetery and used them to line their sewers. Needless to say the destruction of the Jewish community in this town bothered Dad horribly as did the fact that he come all this way to fine some trace of his heritage and found none. But would stay with him the most was the fact that the people of Grodzisko Lesser Poland Voivodeship had erased all trace of them. People tend to forget things when remembering their behavior makes them feel bad about themselves and even more forgetful if recalling past events might make them liable for the theft of property and life.

We do not know much about Marcus’s early life except the basics.  He was born on November 18, 1888 and according to a variety of papers he had no middle name. (Official paperwork gives him a middle name of Israel but they gave that to all Jews who had no middle name. His lack of middle name probably had a lot to do with his religious upbringing when Jews names are commonly your first name followed ben or son of and your father’s name. In this he would have been Mordecai ben Zacharai.)  We believe he was the first of five children. Max was the youngest born, March 16, 1896. In between them were three sisters. Their names have sadly been lost to time. Dad could not remember their names and by the time I thought to ask there was no one else alive who would know. Pops memory was not faulty. He never met his aunts and they were abstract concepts as opposed to the Aunts, Uncles, and cousins he grew up with in Vienna.

Marcus’s daily life in the shtetl was not a subject that he liked to discuss very much. We know that his father was a reasonably successful cattle broker and that his education was primarily religious. He spoke and wrote in Hebrew and Yiddish but while speaking German, he was illiterate in that language.  He clearly did not value education and stopped his schooling as soon as he could. For the rest of his life he believed education was a hoax, that it never put money on the table, and as a consequence was actively hostile to Grandpa’s educational dreams.

When Marcus turned 18 years of age in 1906 he, like all other males at that age, were conscripted into the army. Their length of service was 10 years but typically they served only 2 years and were taken from active service to that of reserve. It seems likely that he was released from active service in 1908.

We know after he finished his 2 years of service in the army he did not return to Grodzisko. Instead according to Dad, he bummed around Europe for a while looking for a place to plant his roots. According to the stories I heard he spent time in Paris and in London but decided not to stay in either place due to language issues and the inability to find a good job. Eventually he made his way to Vienna, a world capitol, and crossroads of Europe, where he not only spoke the language but where Jews were allowed liberties not granted in many other parts of Europe.

It was in Vienna he heard the news on June 28, 1914 that the heir to the throne of Austrio-Hungarian empire was assassinated in Sarajevo along with his wife Duchess Sophie of Hohenberg. This event, which happened more by happenstance than design, not only dramatically changed the world forever but the path of Marcus’s life.

End of Part 1

My father did not understand.

We had traveled 4,500 miles to the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska from our home in New York City and I was preparing to go out on a long run. He wondered “Why, with all the miles of trails here which we can hike, would you want to go out for a run?”

I lied to him, “For the sights.” And left for an hour-long jog along Alaska’s route 1.

I had lied to him because I could not tell him the truth. The truth was that I was not really a runner at all. My friend Fran likes to describe me as a “weightlifter “as my endomorph body type was far better suited for the weight room than long lonely stretches of highway. And frankly, at the time, I would have rather exercised indoors than out. But I had made a commitment.

A few months previous, I had gone to Boston for business on the day that their marathon was being held. On the plane ride up from New York I had been given a complimentary copy of Runner’s World Magazine. In it had been an advertisement for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, Team in Training program, stating that they could “train anyone” to run a marathon to raise money to defeat those awful blood diseases. Just two days previously, Dad had been told that his 8-month struggle with Lymphoma was over. He was in full remission and everyone in the family breathed a long sigh of relief.

The advertisement got me thinking. Despite having neither the body type or the aptitude for running I had harbored a secret desire to run a marathon. I think it had to do with the metaphor of the race…life is not a sprint it is a marathon. When I finally made it to my hotel room, I went to Team in Training’s website and signed up to run the Chicago Marathon. I promised that in exchange for their training program that I would raise $5,000 for their cause.

That commitment turned to buyer’s remorse the next day as I watched the less than elite cross the finish line of the Boston Marathon. They looked like hell. Pain was etched on their faces and their feet were barely clearing the pavement. Some of them even collapsed on reaching the finish line on Boylston Street. But a commitment is a commitment and, a week after the marathon, I began my training regimen of ever-increasing mileage six days a week.

What my father did not understand, and what I could not tell him on that morning in Alaska, is that I had to run to maintain my training. I had to lie to him because I did not want him to know that I was running the marathon. Not the physical fact that I was running a marathon (he always supported his children in their physical endeavors)  but that I was running the race in his name in order to raise money for the charity that had helped save his life. There is a Jewish tradition that charity should be performed anonymously so not to place a burden on those for whom the charity is given. It is tradition he taught us and it was one I had hoped to follow.

My resolution was even more emphatic considering the purpose of this trip. We had hatched the concept of our Alaskan adventure when he had been diagnosed with Lymphoma. I had wanted to give him something to look forward to and work towards at the end of his treatment. I had asked “Where have you never been, and always wanted to go?” He had tossed out a few places, but we had decided on the 49^th state as it was on both of our bucket lists.

I could not tell him on this life celebrating trip that I was running a marathon on his behalf. The burden on him and me would have been too great. It was far better to just enjoy all the Alaskan wilderness had to offer and marvel at its beauty.

For the rest of the trip, where and when I could, I would go out for a run. My father never asked again why I ran but would shoot me one of his famous “your misshoganah “looks and shake his head. Occasionally, because a Dad has to be a Dad, he would warn me to be on the look out for the bears that roamed the woods.  This admonition always managed to put a little giddy up in my get up and go.

That trip gave me a true appreciation of outdoor running. It continued all summer long on ever increasing runs through out NYC. Around the loop in Central Park. Laps around the reservoir. In Riverside Park, running along the Hudson to the small Lighthouse underneath the George Washington Bridge and back. South along the Hudson River Greenway all the way to the World Trade Towers and occasionally the Battery.

I loved these runs because they made me feel more fit than I ever had in my life and allowed me to explore, unabated, my serious passion for ice cream without gaining any weight. They provided me with an opportunity to slow down and see the world around me in ways I never had before. To see the details that provide so much of the beauty in the city. The gardens in Riverside Park where they meet at the end of “You’ve Got Mail.” Belvedere Castle, Strawberry Fields and the Imagine mosaic, and so much in Central Park. The Hudson with its ever-changing hues, moods and ships passing.

Even more I relished these runs because of the time it allowed me to think unencumbered by cell phone, Blackberry, or other distractions. I had the time to think about issues that were nagging at me both personal and professional. I had time to think about why the Red Sox were doing horribly. I could solve the worlds problems while I ran instead of having to litigate them in the middle of the night.

And, while some runs were tougher than others, I cannot recall a single time where I returned from a run where I did not feel unburdened and freer than when I had started.

That is not entirely true. On the morning of September 12, 2001, the day after the attacks, I ran south along the West Side Highway, past an endless line of ambulances and first responder vehicles to what was now being called “The Pile.” When I got as far as the police would let me go, I paused to mumble a few words of prayers and vow revenge and then ran home with anger and tears for the innocence of the world that had died the day before.

On October 7, 2001, a bright sunny day that started out cold and ended mild, I ran the Chicago Marathon finishing in 22,291^st place with a time a 4:53:08. I had raised nearly $10,00 for Leukemia and Research and in the process managed to develop a passion for long outdoor runs. At a time when the nation and I had needed healing from the events of only a month before, I had been healed by the crowds cheering for NYC (our shirts designated us as the NY chapter of TNT) and by the fact that I had given my father a gift that he would never know about  but that I would always cherish.

Or so I thought.  When I eventually found my way back to the hotel room and into an icy bath, to cool my aching body, my cell phone had rung. It was my mother, calling from Vienna where my parents had gone for a visit. She wanted to congratulate me on my finish, they had been watching the results via the internet. But mostly she wanted me to talk to my Dad, who, it appeared, she had blabbed my secret. When he got on the phone, he said “I really don’t understand why anyone would want to run that far…but congratulations.” He knew why I had run. That was self-evident. But he did not want to place a burden on me to say anything. And he did not have to because I knew how he felt so I responded, “For the sights.”

Over the next 10 years or so I ran three more marathons and four triathlons. All for TNT. All but one raising money for Pops. I did it for him for sure, but I did it for me too. I did it because it made me feel fit emotionally and physically.

Physically, the miles burned calories and kept the weight off. Emotionally, the long runs with their sightseeing provided ample time to think and a way to provide balance to a life easily unbalanced.

Eventually, age and logged miles paid their toll. On a visit to an orthopedist about a persistent back problem, he advised me to stop running and biking as they were exacerbating bulging discs and arthritis that I managed to collect over the years. He told me that if I did not stop, that the problems would only compound themselves and that I could eventually lose the ability to walk or even stand without assistance.

I stopped and changed my running and biking gear for gym togs. Instead logging long hours on the road, trails and paths I spent my time on ellipticals and Stairmasters, lifting weights and stretching. Instead of watching the world go by I watched CNN, Fox and other gym goers. This helped with the physical part of the equation a lot. I got fatter less quickly than I would have otherwise. But from a psychic perspective it was never the same. Gyms are just more rushed. Instead of the “I will be done when done feeling” when you bike and run for distance you put yourself on the clock. I will do 45 minutes of Stairmaster, 20 minutes of stretching and 30 minutes of weights. Moreover, the joy of being out and about seeing something new, even familiar things, you are left with the stress of watching the news or the same sweaty people you see every day.

I was thinking about this recently on one of my daily walks around our neighborhood in Jardim Itanhanga. They have been one of the unexpected gifts of the Covid 19 pandemic. Each day, I go for a 60 minute or so walk around our gated community. They are never timed instead I let my nose (even when it is covered with a mask) guide me around the tangle of streets that surround us. While I have my iPhone with me, I mostly do not listen to it and never check for messages or emails. Instead, I let my mind wander wherever it happens to want to go and let it stay there for as long as it needs. I try reliving those long rides and runs from my marathon and triathlon days and seek to see something new every day. Thankfully, this neighborhood is a forest that is ever evolving. There are literally new flowers to see every day and I make a point of stopping and examining new blooms when I see them.

Yesterday, I stopped in our garden to examine a new red rose that had emerged on one of the bushes I had given Elaine years ago. It was so beautiful and fragrant, and I was taking my iPhone out of my pocket when it hit me.

Perhaps one of the true lessons of the pandemic is that life is a marathon, but you should take the time to stop and smell the roses.

The procedure was done the next day. I held her hand as we escorted her to the Laparoscopic Lab, deep in the bowels of the hospital, where the surgery was to take place.  A nurse showed me to an empty waiting room and let me know that the surgery should only take about 45 minutes and that someone would be along after the procedure to let me know how it went.

Surgical waiting rooms do not exist in the same space time continuum as the rest of the world. Time seems to move far more slowly. And one of the most perverse laws of physics is that fewer people who are with you the slower time passes. The waiting room was devoid of people as most scheduled laparoscopic procedures take place in the morning.  Being by myself, and with no one to have idle conversation and with time creeping by slower than ever recorded on this planet I retreated into my own thoughts.

Dr.Kole had not held out much hope for this procedure. She had seen how messed up Mom’s lungs were.  Years of smoking, cancer and radiation therapy had wreaked havoc on her left lung.  But I am by nature and training an optimist. I try always to devote myself to positive side of the equation and wait for the shoe to drop before I begin to consider the negative consequences. Worrying about the future without enough data points only served to wind me up like a rubber band while focusing on the positive allowed to press forward without fear. I devoted my thoughts  about what was going to happen when the operation was a success. Would Mom need to go to rehab? Likely as she had been in a drug induced fog for the last ten days. She would need patience, time, and monitoring to get her beyond the physiological effects of the drugs. She would need to see a physical therapist and others to coax her back to walking with a walker let alone with a cane or unassisted. This was not something my sister or I could do nor was her home. But she hated the recovery centers. Even the nice ones felt like dormitories of death and she had enough of them the past that I knew she would be resistant to going to one of them. But she was also a keen observer of her own condition. She would agree with rehab and then immediately push to get out. There would be conferences, and squabbles and complaints. However, as she usually did in the end, she would prevail. We would bring her home. If previous times were guides to the future, I would be the one who would have to arrange for the home health care aides, coordinate their schedules, get the equipment needed to sustain her, and be on call 24/7 when things went off the rails.

As daunting as these thoughts were, I found them comforting. Bring Mom home. Mom is home. The base of all emotions when you thought about it.

I looked at my watch 10 minutes had passed. This was going to be a long afternoon.

I tried to distract myself with cleaning up my emails but  I soon abandoned it. Facebook proved no better a diversion. It’s incipiency of what I had for lunch, look how smart my dog/cat/kids/spouse or the latest political outrage by the President did not have much relevancy to me at that moment and the idea of sharing with the world my angst over Mom’s procedure seemed contrary to the family code of privacy and stiff upper lip forbearance to life’s trauma. I tried reading but when I found myself reading the same paragraph over and over again I realized that even my greatest weapon against awful thoughts was defeated.

I waited by myself in that lonely waiting room with only NJ1 on the small television in the corner as company furtively looking up anytime anyone walked by in the hallway. The world proceeded at a slow march for nearly 3 hours with each minute lasting at least 10. Finally, Mom’s Dr. came into the waiting room. He had the manner of a fighter who had just lost a decision after battling for 15 rounds. He told me that this procedure normally takes less than an hour, but they had been with Mom for nearly 3. They had tried everything they could to get to the source of the bleeding but her arteriosclerosis and altered lung structure had continually blocked them. They could have pressed harder, but they felt that if they did it would have ruptured a major blood vessel or injured the lung so severely she would have died on the table. They had done their best but they could not help her. Mom would be returned to the ICU and we could discuss next steps with Mom’s attending physician.

But I knew it was over. The ending of the story written except for the details. Mom would be removed from all of the equipment that supporting her life. No more breathing tube. No medications other than those designed to ease her pain and dull her sense of passing. No monitors. She would be moved from the ICU to a single room where she could slip quietly into the good night.

The next morning, they moved mom from the ICU and brought her here to this room overlooking the town in which she had lived for 52 years. I lived the closest, had the least amount of outside demands-my consulting business was home based and my clients paid on results-and it had been my role to be her primary care giver the last seven years, I was left to supervise the move. My sister and brother both promising to show up sometime that afternoon to relieve me and to take some of the burden of the death watch on them.

The move went smoothly. Mom seemed to be relieved that she was free of the paraphernalia of the ICU.  Only the canula of 02 remained. However, she was unable to speak. Only croaks and guttural sounds utter from her when she tried. I did my best to understand. Did she want water.”  A nod of the head so I left the room to find the pantry where past experience told me they would have an ice machine, water pitchers, cups and straws. I held the cup as she drank a few sips from the cup. When she had her fill, she pushed my hand away. I asked her if she wanted something to eat. Despite the water Unable to speak so she just shook her head. She was trying to ask me something so I took a notebook and a pen and a piece of paper and pen from my backpack and gave them to her in the hopes she could write what she wanted. She could not hold the pen firmly enough to produce anything more than just scribbles. You could see her frustration and mine was bubbling up to mixed with a fair heaping of fear and sadness. It made me feel helpless, ineffectual and stupid that I could not figure out what to do for my mother.

I was saved by the duty nurse who came in as bold as a drill Sargent and started asking Mom a series of questions. As it turned out Mom was uncomfortable. She wanted to be propped up in bed. That she did want something to eat but could not communicate what she wanted. The nurse solved that problem by telling her she could have jello and a little weak tea. Grateful for the nurse I took a chair off the wall and sat opposite Mom’s bed and settled in for my “watch.” As siblings we had agreed that in these closing hours of Mom’s life we would try to leave her alone as little as possible. I knew that meant the burden would fall on me but that was okay. I had promised years before she would never be alone.

The afternoon sun was warm and the combination of sleep deprivation, jet lag, and stress hit me like a mile long freight train and I fell asleep without knowing it sitting in that chair. I woke with the confusion that often comes from falling asleep inadvertently. I didn’t know where I was, the day or the time. And there was this old woman with a familiar face in a dressing gown staring at me. She gawked at me as if it were a miracle that I was there. Her gaze was penetrating and directly at me but at the same time unfocused as though she was both looking at me and through me the same time. It was profoundly creepy especially as this staring was unabated by blinking.

I said “Mom whats up?” And for the first time since we moved her from the ICU she said “Ernie?” Ernie was my father who died in 2012 and whom I resemble strongly despite being 4 inches shorter and lacking an Austrian accent.

“No Mom. It is Paul. Can I get you something?” Instead of responding she continued to stare but I realized after a few moments of this that she was not staring at me. Her eyes were fixed at something beyond me.

My first thought was that she was hallucinating as her medications included among other things Fentanyl and morphine. While I grew up in home where science and the rationally explained was the bible there was a bit of the mystical and the paranormal that creeped in around the edges. I once confided to my father that the night that his mother had died I had dreamt that she had told me where to find a ring that was owned by husband that I had lost months earlier. It was only after retrieving the ring from where it had been lost that I had received the phone call that Grandma had passed. My father told me that he was not surprised. That he always believed that there was something mystical about her. He told me about how when he was a boy spending the summers with his grandmother in Farafeld, a tiny town in the foothills of the alps, far from the mean streets of Vienna where he lived, he could always tell what train she was arriving on by the sound of the whistle. He told me he was never wrong.

Perhaps Dad had come to visit with Mom. Although I thought it unlikely. Not because of the lack of scientific evidence about the paranormal but because I was convinced that in whatever adventure one has after this life, if there was an adventure, that my father would be off exploring that Universe full of the sense of wonder of the new and the interesting that had been his hallmark in life. He would not be burden by the anchors of family. He would assume we would do fine without him and despite the reality that his death had caused a gaping hole in all our lives.

But this was his wife. A woman he was married to for just a few weeks shy of 60 years. A woman whom he enjoyed fighting with but loved fiercely. A woman he once told me “was tougher than you think” but always protected ferociously. A woman he could always be gentle with and with whom he held hands with up until the last. Perhaps he had taken a sabbatical from his adventures to help her make her final journey.

Mom continued to stare at me or beyond me and say nothing. I found it profoundly unsettling and uncomfortable. Made more so by her lack of verbal response. I thought that a distraction might help so I crossed over to her bed and used the control attached to her hospital bed to turn on the television to MSNBC which since the election of Donald Trump had been her go to station. The two shared a common viewpoint on 45 and yelling in agreement with Laurence O’Donnell and Rachel Maddow seemed to help her vent her rage and frustration over the idiocracy of the Trump presidency.

Sadly, the television only broke the silence that hung in the air. My mother continued her staring at me unabated. Despite entreaties, pleas, and exasperated statements she continued to stare at me like I was a revelation. It made me profoundly uncomfortable. It made me want to leave but I stayed because of my promise and the absence of my siblings who were now hours over due to relieve me.  I stayed, and buried myself in my computer busy work and then with the endless black hole that is social media. However, despite the distraction I could still feel my mother’s gaze. It along with the stress and anxiety of watching your first and constant fan die made me wish that the dials on my watch would move more quickly and that brother and sister would be there to relieve.

Unfortunately, neither the clock or my siblings schedule were my friends that afternoon. Time seemed to progress at 1/3 speed and the text updates that I received from my sister and brother were those of excuses and explanations on why there were not arriving at the hospital to relieve me. A midafternoon arrival turned into a late afternoon arrival. A late afternoon arrival turned to a stay tuned. A stay tuned turning to early evening.. And Mom’s staring eventually abated when she mercifully fell asleep late in somewhere after the light had faded from the sky.

Despite the relief my mother’s sleep brought me my frustration and my anger grew. Every moment they were overdue I felt additional anger at them both for leaving me with this awful task. I felt abandoned and alone. As time went on without their presence the hurt of the abandonment and their lack of compassion towards me or our mother boiled inside me creating a steam of anger waiting to be vented.

The anger was compounded by the antipathy I felt for my brother from years of his lack of interest in in caring fortwo aging parents. It was active disinterest. Even when begged by both Marissa and myself to do more to help relieve the strain on both she and I his response had ranged from defensive “I call them every day” (he did not) to providing opinions on their care despite his absence.  This lack of engagement, apparent caring, this outward appearance had produced long hours coping with my anger and frustration and trying to understand how a brother whom I loved could be seemingly so callous and unfeeling towards siblings and parents. I thought that I had made peace it. Every family it seemed that one person could not deal with the sick and the dying and they left the task to others believing that benign neglect would allow them to avoid the thoughts and the questions these tasks generate.

I have learned over time that ascribing reasons for others behavior is a fool’s errand. All you can hope to do is catalog their behavior and accept it for whatever it happens to be. In this case David had, over a long period of time established that he did not want to deal with illness, death and dying.  I knew from my own experience how tough this can be. Seeing someone you love suffer and not be able to do anything about it is one of the most frustrating things you can experience in life. Watching someone you know slowly slide into death is horrifying as you contemplate a world without them and your own mortality. Changing a parent’s diaper is embarrassing and humbling. Visiting a hospital or a nursing home and seeing the countless ways in which the human body is insulted by injury and illnesses and the consequences of them is suitable for a film by Wes Craven.

In my more compassionate moments this had provided me with some peace. Who really wants to deal with those things? That compassion never lasted. Every time I found myself at exhaustions door burned out from caregiving I could not help but resent the fact that my brother had done less than a minimum amount to help. Worse it made me search for a pattern in his behavior that I could chronicle so I knew how to predict his behavior moving forward. Much to my dismay it appeared to me and others who knew him that he lived a life in a narcissistic bubble. It seemed almost everything in his life boiled down to the equation “How will this help David.” If the math did not add up, he did not participate with little apparent thought on how it effected others.

The paramount example of this was the day before my father died. He had chosen to end his life at home after refusing dialysis. Death from kidney failure is as gentle a death as one can hope for in life. The toxins in your body build slowly first causing an alternate consciousness and then coma followed by death. When the hospice nurse had told me that day that is was unlikely that Dad would survive the night. I called my brother and sister and let them know the time was at hand to say goodbye. My sister and brother in law came late in the afternoon and had there goodbyes. My brother, who was vacationing on Block Island, which is 5-hour drive from Summit, chose not to come at all claiming a tennis match and issues with packing. Choosing tennis and packing over saying good bye to a parent who would not know you are there seemed to me a very practical decision when emotion should have won the argument.

In a strange way I actually admired his lack of engagement. I thought it gave him the ability to strive for success in a competitive environment.  However, the empathy gene he apparently lacked appeared overly stimulated in me. I could not say no when my parents had asked for help or when I thought they needed it. As a consequence, I had been the primary care giver to my parents during their declining years taking them to the Dr, running errands, listening as they complained, even cleaning my father’s ass when in his final months he became incontinent.

The last was a supremely humbling moment for both father and son. Dad was an exceptionally proud man. He had by sheer effort of will and determination survived the Viennese ghetto of his youth, the 2^nd World War to become one of the most renowned men in his field of educational psychology. This man of will was now having to have his ass cleaned by his son. He kept apologizing to me for having to put me through this as he knew how unpleasant a task it was. And it was unpleasant, the image of my father’s ass is easily conjured, but at the time I felt so badly for him having to go through the humiliation of having his diaper changed by his son, that the task itself became mechanical with not a tinge of revulsion. When he told me for the umpteenth time how sorry was for this, I had told him, punning on purpose “it was no big shit, he had changed my diaper” and now “it was my turn.”

It was a bonding moment for us. The act stripping any façade so that the only thing exposed were the two humans underneath which allowed us to love each other all the more. It was an experience I wish I could have shared with my brother. Made him understand what those moments meant to me and to our Dad but he was not present and he never asked. It was an opportunity he missed yet one he will never miss. To me this defined the tragedy of my brother’s absence in our parents final years. He would never know what he missed.

However, this moment the intellectual understanding of what he had lost and what I had gained were today lost in a miasma of anger. I was exhausted. I had gone directly from a 17-hour flight to directly dealing with Mom’s illness and end of life decisions. The contemplation of her demise and all that it entailed had produced far more tossing and turning than sleep. My overtiredness was all the medium needed for the virus of anger and upset to grow. It blossomed into “why had my sibs abandoned me to this death watch alone.”  It had budded the feeling sorry flower of “Why am I shouldering this last moments alone?” And the contemplative fear bloom of “What will happen to our family when she is gone? Will we break apart. David taking his part of the family and split away into its own little fiefdom. Will my wife and I be set adrift with no children, no greater family.”

My brain was processing more questions than answers. The pace of those hyperactive fears, trepidations and resentments kept increasing as both brother and sister kept pushing the time for their arrival later and later in the day. 3 became 4. 4 became 5. 5 became 6:30. 6:30 became we will get there when we get there. Meanwhile my mother continued to stare and try to verbalize things that I could not understand. And I kept asking myself, why just one of them could not arrive to spell me. I needed to flee. To forget this awful scene. To be alone with my grief and confusion and get away from my mother’s glare.

When brother and sister arrived together around 7:30 the last inch of fuse had disappeared into the powder keg. The explosion of hurt and dismay on the edge of ignition.  I barely said a word to them as I packed my bag but not smart enough to leave well enough alone I tossed out “Nice of you two to arrive together” as I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the door. As I had asked for, but had hoped to avoid, my sister took offense to the comment and said aggressively “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I was here all afternoon by myself while you and David were doing who knows what and then you arrive together like you arranged it. I have been here all afternoon by my fucking self and now you walk in like you arranged it.”

“You think that we did this together?”

“If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck. But honestly, I am too tired and not the right frame of mind to talk about it right now. I just want to get the fuck out of here so I can eat something and get some rest before I come back here tonight.”

In truth, my instinctual self, my id, wanted to have a fight. I was hurt and tired and all the autonomic parts of my body were itching for a knock down screaming fight. It would be cathartic and syphon off some of the resentment from that afternoon. But I had learned over time and through many a session with a psychologist that this was almost never a good idea. To say things, do things, in the heat of the moment did not work for me. I said and did things that I would regret long afterword. So I took a beat and said “ Look I am tired and angry. I do not want to get into this now. Let us put a pin it and deal this with later.”

Sadly, my sister has the same temper that I do. Like me, like my brother and father when  temper flares it is hard if not impossible to put it out. She said “No I want to deal with this now. By this point we were in the hallway speaking in whispered shouts. My sister accused me of always thinking the worst of people. And I responded with that it was not thinking the worst of anybody it was accepting the facts. That all afternoon they had kept postponing their relief of me almost in unison and that then they showed up together. While that might be just coincidence it does not seem like it to me. It seems arranged and at my expense.”

I guess our conversation was louder than whispers because my brother tried to intervene. He made the mistake of physically trying to push me out of the way and get Marissa back in the room.  The animosity I felt for him considering his lack of participation in Mom’s care and his last minute entrance to demonstrate to those who were watching what a good son he was almost pushed me to the boiling point. I wanted to shove him back into the narcissistic bubble in which he lived but managed to keep my shit together enough to just push him back into Mom’s hospital room telling him to “leave us alone” and that he was not needed.

But his presence made me realize how close I was to completely losing my shit. I told Marissa that I was done. There was a reason I did not want to have this conversation now. I was far too emotional and the best thing for me to do was to go home, cool off, and have something to eat before coming back for the overnight shift. When she asked why I was coming back I snapped back “Are you going to stay? Do you really want Mom to die alone?”  The rhetorical question unanswered and the heat of my anger losing steam I added  in a quieter tone “I promised Mom a long time ago I would never let her be alone and I am not going to break that promise.”

I turned on my heel and left exiting the hospital in the dark of the winter’s night. I spent the short car ride home in a self-righteous anger. Re litigiating all the reasons that I was on the side of the angels with this argument. It was no coincidence they showed up together. It was typical of David to come in the last moment to “save the day.” That I had not wanted to argue with Marissa. That she had picked a fight when it would have been far better for her to have left it alone. I spent no time realizing that all that all these emotions floating around. All this kerfuffle had little to do with anything but the grief we were all feeling in our own way at the time.

After calling my wife, who was at our home in Brazil and reliving the events of the past 8 hours, and hearing her healing words of support and love, I poured myself a stiff Woodland Reserve bourbon, made myself a comforting Centano’s frozen Eggplant Parmesan dinner and made camp on the couch in front of the television. I hoped that the combination of comfort food, mindless television, and Kentucky’s greatest product would allow me the peace to be able to return to the hospital in a far better spirit than I had left it.

But that did not happen. My brother in law Mark texted me in the role of peacemaker in chief. He wrote that they had spoken to the nurses. That the likelihood of Mom passing during the night was extremely small. That perhaps it would be best if I stayed at home and tried to get as much rest as I could as the upcoming days were likely to be even more demanding the preceding days.   I appreciated the common sense in what he was saying and frankly I had no real desire to spend a night trying to sleep while my first fan lay dying a few feet from me. I allowed myself to be persuaded to spend the night in my own bed.

My phone buzzed. The journey of the last few days faded and the reality of today returned. It was a text from Marissa. She and Mark would be at the hospital early in the afternoon. I texted her back that there was no hurry. Mom was sleeping and that after an uncomfortable night, where she had tried to escape her bed and the confines of the hospital,  she was peaceful. I did not tell her of my cowardice of removing the drip of snot that was still hanging from her nose nor re examine the lingering anger and shame from our argument from the night before.

I had been at the hospital for three hours. All of that time sitting in an uncomfortable lightly padded hospital chair. My body was screaming to get up and walk around a little bit and my bladder was expressing its need to be relieved of its burden. I got up and stretched and on my way to the bathroom I decided to be a little brave, and touch my mother’s arm, and let her know that I would be right back. But the words never came out. Her arm was cold and when I spent a moment really looking at her I could not see her breathe.  I decided that when I finished with my bathroom obligations that I would find a nurse and see if my worst suspicions were realized. There was no hurry.

When I returned from my bio break the charge nurse was there taking Mom’s pulse. She looked at me, shook her head and said “She’s gone.” I nodded my head, returned to my chair and cried like the child I always was to Mom. I cried because I knew how much I would miss her. I cried for the final death of my childhood. I cried from relief knowing that the final shoe had dropped. I cried because I did not know what to do. The nurse, came over to me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder and told me Mom as at rest and that she had gone easily and that was a blessing.

Through snout bubbles and tears and with a strained voice I asked her what happened next. I knew that the hospital had procedures but as my father had died at home, I had no idea what they were. She explained, that before anything could be done that Mom had to be pronounced dead by a Dr. Once that was done the hospital would send a few attendants to take her body to the morgue where it would be our responsibility to have a funeral home come and take care of her body. When I asked how long it would be before the Dr. arrived she told me it depended on his duties but should not be too long. She told me how sorry she was for my loss and with a squeeze on my shoulder she left.

With her departure the tears of self-pity and loss returned with a few gulping sobs for good measure. Eventually I was able to gain control enough to text my siblings. “Mom is gone.”

I called my wife in Brazil. Although my wife and I had only been married 5.5 years Elaine had thought of her as a 2^nd mother. She admired the fact that my mother had managed to have a successful career and marriage while she had raised three children without damage. She had also accepted with grace my role as Mom’s primary care giver and embraced the burden it placed on her. She would never leave for Brazil without insisting that we go to my mother’s home for one last beijos and abraco. My wife wears her emotions on her sleeve. When I managed to choke out the reason for my call she burst into sobs and for a while we cried together 5000 miles apart.

I became my mothers shomer. It is the Jewish tradition of watching over the body from the time of death until burial. As most things in the Jewish faith this rite had its origin in the practical. Dead bodies needed to be protected from animals and those who would steal from it but had evolved into the spiritual. Jewish tradition suggests that the soul after death is restless and confused after death and the shomer is there to comfort that soul. It is a role that I had played for my father but that had been at home with the body covered. Here in the hospital it was different. There was no comfort in the familiar surrounding of my parents home of 50 years. Worse my mother’s face lay uncovered. The same single drop of snot hanging from her nose and her mouth agape as if catching one final breath. I knew it was an image that would never leave me and as such I did everything I could to avoid it.

To distract myself I made a mental list of what needed to be done. Which funeral home would take care of Mom’s body? Who was going to call Woodlawn to prepare the gravesite? Who needed to be called to be told of Mom’s death? The million details that need to be untangled upon someone is passing.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the Dr. who came to pronounce Mom. He was young and harried and it became apparent that the role of pronouncing someone dead was as much bureaucratic as it was medical. He was followed a checklist. He used his stethoscope to measure breath sounds and then heart beats in several places. He took her pulse and examined her pupils. And then he went through the whole process again.

Finally he looked at me and said. “She has stopped breathing but her heart is still beating. I can’t pronounce her until the heart stops.” Up until that moment I had forgotten that Mom had a pacemaker. That it would keep the heart beating until such time as the lack of oxygen rendered the heart muscle useless. I asked how long that would take. He told me it could take hours but he would check back in an hour or so and left.

I had no desire to extend my lonely service as shomer. What I wanted most to run screaming from the building yelling “My mom is dead. What happens now” then drive to the airport and take the first flight I could to Rio De Janiero so that I could be held and loved  by my wife. But I could not leave Mom. I had promised to never leave her alone. The marathon was almost over and I couldn’t quit so close to the finish line.

I texted my sister and brother. I did not tell them about Mom not being officially dead as I thought it would serve no purpose. Instead I told them we needed to decide about what to do with Mom’s body. I suggested that I call the nephew of my former wife (the joy of living in the town you grew up in) who was a funeral director at a local home which, while awkward,  was at least dealing with someone I knew. My sister approved, he had been a classmate of hers, and I spent the next little while talking to him, arranging to pick up Mom is remains and all of the endless details that were involved in that outwardly simple task.

When I looked up at the end of my call, I saw that the nurse had come in and had taken the hospital bed down flat so Mom was at rest. The visage of her runny nose and of her staring at me only a memory. Looking at my watch only 15 minutes had passed I needed a distraction to help pass the time until the Dr. returned. I could have started to make calls to those whom I needed to let know about her passing but I emotionally was not ready for those calls and in the light of the Dr’s inability to pronounce her dead perhaps a bit premature. Mom would have been pleased that it reminded me of the Mark Twain quote “The rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

I decided to distract myself with writing what I would post on social media about Mom. One of the gifts of social media is the ability to express to your community, those who you love and like and love and like you, the milestones of your life easily. Instead of having to deal with them individually and the painful conversations that would ensue you could put it out collectively and receive comfort from peoples notes instantly. I see the downside too. The lack of person to person individualized contact is a net loss. Hugs and personal reminiscent towers above the sanitized world of social media but in the then and the now all I wanted to do was to let as many people know about Mom as I could as quickly as I could.

The challenge was how do you express to a group of people the complicated person that my mother was? How do I explain how important having an individual identity was to her? How, while she cherished creating the collective that is our family, she needed the identity of being a contributor, a creator and manipulator of words through writing and editing. That she was a flawed person and Mom but perfect in her imperfection…at least in the eyes of a son.

That while she had a difficult time expressing it, she cherished her family and friends. This train of thought took me to Mom’s study where invariably you found her at her large desk organizing her life or at her computer writing or at correspondence. It made me think of the lithograph that sat above her desk. An image that I knew she had carefully chosen as her view of the world. So I wrote:

My mother has a black and white lithograph above her desk. It depicts a war zone with an active battle going on but in the middle is a home on a hill surrounded by a fence with a happy family living a secure life without a care for the war raging around them. That was how my Mom viewed her role as a mother, grandmother and friend. To provide sanctuary, love and enough room to be yourself free of the war raging outside.

Mom died peacefully yesterday. She was an author, editor, bibliographer, and distinguished scholar. But her great joy was her family that she along with my father built. She leaves a hole that can never be filled but a legacy that will never die

When I finished writing this I was pleased with my words but decided to delay posting it. I wanted to give my siblings the opportunity to tell their children and friends of Mom’s passing before finding it out in the collective.

The Dr. returned a few minutes after I had finished writing. Once again, he went through the medical ritual of examining Mom for signs of life. I said a silent prayer hoping for my owns sake that Mom restless spirit had gone to wherever one’s consciousness goes when it departs this earth I had done my duty as son for as long as she lived. I was doing my duty as shomer and settling her restless spirit. But I was spent. I had nothing left to give. I needed to find the space to recover and to understand what had happened and to contemplate what came next for me. The Dr. spoke into his recorder “Time of death 12:37 “and after that a whole lot of words that he needed for the death certificate that I heard without hearing. He told me that he would let the morgue know and they would send someone up to attend to “the body.” I wondered to myself when Mom had become the body and then thanked him for his kindness.

Thankfully, the wait for the morgue attendants was not long. Minutes after the Dr. had left two African American women appeared in my room and told me that they were here to take care of “Mom.” They told me that they would first clean her body as often “the body leaks after death.” Then they would transfer it to a gurney and then take her to the morgue where our funeral director would claim the body. They suggested that I leave during this process as it might be unpleasant for me. I did not need a lot of convincing to do as they said but remembering my promise to Mom and my shomer duties I stood in the hall outside her room and watched with one eye closed through a crack in the door to make sure that they treated what remained of Mom with sensitivity and respect. They did.

When the body had been cleaned and placed on the gurney, they wrapped it entirely in a white plastic film. I was not expecting this but understood. Taking a gurney down the hall with a body under a sheet or in a body bag would not be good publicity for any hospital let alone one with the name overlook. Wrapping a gurney with opaque film made it so most people would not even notice the passing of a dead body. They would likely think it something else.

I followed them as they wheeled Mom out of her room and down the hall. When they came to a bank of elevators they pressed a button and we both waited for the lift to arrive. When it did they wheeled Mom on board. I watched as the doors closed.

This marathon was over.  I had crossed the finished line and done what I had promised.  And while I knew that the next marathon, dealing with Mom’s legacy and estate would begin almost immediately, I let those worries of future days for tomorrow…or perhaps the day after that.  For now. I wanted to think about Mom her love and her legacy.

I was gratified and pleased that as an adult I had come to know her as a friend and a confident.

I was grateful for every childhood memory that I could conjure of her.

I thought I knew her well and was the better for it.

Little did I know in the days and months to follow I would discover that I had only scratched the surface.

All hospitals rooms are pretty much the same.

The same neutral colored walls with linoleum floors that match. The hospital style bed with its plastic side rails and controls to guide the beds shaping to the patient’s needs. There is the light fixture mounted behind the bed with oxygen outputs and suction inputs and opposite the bed a flat wall mounted television and white board giving the patient the name of the Dr, Nurse, Technician, date and the phone number of the patient’s bed.  There are heavy wood chairs with vinyl seats and rail mounted curtains that gave the patient the tiny modicum of privacy allowed in a hospital.

The room I was in this morning was sun filled. The large east facing windows allowed the morning light to flood the room with a soft yellow glow. The cold winter’s morning outside was forgotten, the room was warm, almost hot, from the sun and overactive radiators.

Had this been any other day my attention might have been drawn to the view from the windows: a panorama of the small NJ town in which I had grown up and returned to when my parents had become elderly and unable to care for themselves without assistance. The town, Summit, as the name implies is located on the first ridge of the Watchung Mountains and the vista allowed me to travel back in time as I could truly see where a lifetime of memories had been created and burnished by time.

Today, my attention was not drawn outside and to the past but instead it was focused inward and on the immediate, to the woman lying in the hospital bed in the center of this sun-drenched room. Like the view outside, she evoked a lifetime of memories but unlike the memories that were created on the outside these recollections went to the core of who and what I am. This was my creator whom was a part of every memory from the first moment of awareness to the present and every step in between.

This was my mother. I had come for a final goodbye and to sit with her on her last day. It was a fulfillment of a promise I had made to her nearly 20 years before and had assiduously maintained ever since.

That promise had been made while driving my mother home after a visit to my hospitalized father. He had just been diagnosed with Lymphoma and the implications of that diagnosis had hung over our car ride like smoke in the rain.  The car ride silent except for the sounds of tires on pavement and the traffic alongside us. My father had always been the bedrock of our family. To us he was invulnerable.  A member of the greatest generation, an immigrant who had barely managed to escape Austria before the war, he had gone on to serve as 2^nd Lt. in the 88^th infantry division during the war. On his return to this country he had completed his college education, masters and doctorate in record time. Along the way he met and married Mom and had gone on to a very distinguished career at Bell Laboratories and as distinguished professor at Columbia University. He was our superhero and we had just discovered his mortality.

We lived in our own thoughts as the world rolled by.

At a traffic light, where we had paused, she broke the silence. She had choked out her innermost fear.  “I have never been alone. I went from my father’s house to your father’s house” and burst into tears. She rocked from sobbing. Her sadness buffeted me and broke my heart. How does a son console his mother when the role had always been the opposite way? How do you tell a mother it will be all right when that is what she always told you? Do you tell her that even though you have no idea what the future had in stored for our family? Is that the quandary she had always lept over the million times she told you that everything would be all right?  She had always held true. She had always been there. No matter the circumstance. No matter the trouble. She had kept the faith and so would I.

So, I had promised her. She would never be alone. That no matter what I would be there for her. It seemed to give her strength and me a mission. It had sustained us while my father had gone through chemo and radiation and eventually beat his disease. Crisis over I returned to my normal life and was able to put my promise in storage for a while.

However, age is a persistent predator and 10 years later Dad fell and fractured a vertebra in his neck. Confined to a wheelchair, a two-year decline unfolded.  Most weekends found me leaving my city digs and heading to my parent’s home to relieve my mother from her caretaker in chief role.  There were weekday excursions spent taking them to various Dr.’s appointment all while trying to balance a work and diminishing social life. Inactivity, additional health problems including kidney failure eroded my father’s quality of life and with it a desire to carry on. What the Nazi’s could not steal from him disease and age had and he eventually made the decision to end his treatment and slowly slip into the good night.

After he had died, I was once again confronted with the promise that I had made to her and how to best manage it. I could try to help her live her newly solitary life remotely from my apartment on the UWS of Manhattan or I could try to live closer to be a little more responsive to her needs. Eventually, I made the decision to move to Summit. This was not entirely altruistic. After 30 years of city life I was ready for a change.  Also, when my soon to be wife was asked where she preferred to live, she had voted for tall trees and green as opposed to the urban jungle.   Summit seemed an ideal place to start our married life. Direct trains whisked you into Penn Station in 40 minutes. A familiarity of an old shoe meant that I could not miss a beat looking for the best deli or bakery.  But mostly it meant that when she needed me to take her to the Dr. or the market or the call the printer had broken or a light bulb needed changing or dozens of other household chores I could help her with the minimum intrusion into my life. .

As I entered Mom’s room her nurse had stopped me. The night shift had had their hands full with her the night before. She had repeatedly tried to get out of bed and leave the room. Nurses and aides eventually managed to get her back to bed but it had been a fight. That was typical of Mom. She had a stubborn streak and managed to get what she wanted most of the time. It had served her well as a mother, scholar and author. I had no doubts what her efforts to escape her bed were all about. It was her stubborn refusal to leave us and if no one was going to help her escape the grim reaper she would do it on her own.

The nurse told me that they had upped her medication and now she was resting comfortably. When asked about what she thought the prognosis was she just shook her head and said “You never know. This could take a couple of hours. It could take a week.” This was not a surprise. When I had walked into the hospital that morning, I knew that the end to her time here with us was extremely near. That today or at the outside tomorrow she would pass.

I thanked the nurse and took a folding chair off the wall, opened it facing Mom’s bed and set up shop for the day.  The coffee I had bought at the snack bar was placed on one of those C shaped tables that allow patients to eat in their beds along with a couple of Cliff bars, a notebook and a pen. The latter two in a hope that I could outline thoughts as they came to me as I waited the inevitable. I placed my coat over the back of the chair and rolled up my sleeves. It was warm and this was an uncomfortable enough experience without sweating.

I looked at my mom. They had inclined her hospital bed, so she was sitting at a 45-degree angle.  She was slumped over.  Her chin resting on her chest as if she were napping. Her pallor was awful. Grey and clay like even in the warm sunlight of the room. And my elegant mother, who would not even consider leaving the house without lipstick, had a drip of clear snot hanging from her nose. I knew I should go over and wipe her nose with a tissue but out of a fear of disturbing her rest I chose not to. This was more of a rationalization than the truth. It was actually an act of cowardice. I was more concerned with myself than her. It was as if I thought would catch what was sapping life from her, that should I touch her that death might take me along with her into the next life.

Not wanting to stare at her I peered out the window. The view from where I was sitting was only of the bare branches of the trees on the distant hills scratching at the crystal blue sky. They looked like gnarled old hands raised in praise.

Mom’s illness had been a whirlwind. Two weeks before she had been the hostess for a family holiday celebration. Surrounded by her three children and their spouses, 4 grandchildren, the older two with their significant others. It was clear to all who saw her that day that she was reveling in the warmth of having the family she created with my father around her. A picture taken that day shows her glowing and surrounded by the family she treasured above all else.  The moment met so much to her; my notoriously camera-shy mother had surprised me when she asked if I could make prints of that image for her. She wanted to bask in that photograph, and I knew it was destined for a place on her desk

No one who was at that party would have guessed that her ending lay so near in the future, but I had come to believe that she knew or suspected that death was near. That the party we held that day was her farewell party…a celebration of the family she had created.

Perhaps I too had a premonition. I had almost not attended the party. When Mom told me about the party, she had described it as a birthday party for my older brother David who had the misfortune of being born the day before Christmas. It did not sit well with me. While I love my brother, I often do not like him very much. He had done little, verging on nothing on caring for our aging parents. While he called, he could never seem to find the time to visit or to help his siblings in caring for our parents. I had once confronted him on it when my mother had needed care after a bout with pneumonia. I had asked him to pitch in and relieve Marissa and myself of some of the burdens of caring for Mom. He had responded that “I needed to say “no” more.” Needless to say, his response had infuriated me. But it was consistent with his view of the world. Happy to give advice but reluctant to do anything of substance. This behavior had saddened Dad in the closing days of his life. When we would discuss his lack of visits and help, he would say, often in exasperated tones, “What did you expect?” It was a tacit acknowledgement of David’s shortcomings.

Mom’s reaction to David’s lack of visitation and care during my father’s long illness had been that of anger. Not only at him but at herself. There were angry phone calls with him excoriating him to do more to help, to do something to help but these were always balanced with tears blaming herself, like many mom’s, for their child’s shortcoming.

David’s lack of care, engagement and support had often blinded me with anger. Not only could I see the suffering that it produced in both parents, but it placed a far heavier burden on Marissa and me. A fact he almost never acknowledged. This lack of involvement and acknowledgement left embers of anger and resentment that smoldered deep inside me. As a consequence, when she had told me of her plans to have a birthday party it was like adding oxygen to a smoldering fire.  Embers burst into flames.  Angrily, I had said “So let me get this straight. You are having a birthday party for your son who could not find the time to visit you when you were in the hospital having a valve replaced in your heart  and nearly died, despite despite living 15 minutes away. A celebration for the guy who drove by your hospital when you were sick with broken ribs and bruised lungs and could not take the time to hold your hand for a few moments.  You are having a birthday celebration for this guy when I had to buy my own birthday cake this year? That is bullshit.”

Hurt and offended I had stormed out of the house letting her know in no uncertain terms that neither my wife nor I would be attending the party.

Time, a series of brutal workouts, and lengthy conversations with my wife and bouts of conscience had mellowed my anger. But what convinced me to go was more of a feeling than anything else. Malcolm Gladwell writes about in his book “Blink”  how sometimes our brain process information in ways that sometimes help us make decision that seem to be intuitive but are actually based on a collection of data points that are uncorrelated at the time. It is only after time that you can see the decision was fact based as opposed to intuitive. It was that way with my eventual decision to attend the party. At the time I had concluded instinctively that this party might be the last time for all to gather around Mom. At the time there was no diagnosis, no illness or overt behavior that had suggested Mom was in decline, but I had been discussing for months with my wife and sister that something seemed off with Mom. That she was not fully sharing how she felt or what her Dr.’s was telling her.

Thinking about it in this warm, stuffy, hospital room some of the little things, barely thought of at the time, had given me clues to her health.  I visited with Mom almost every day. It was reassuring to both of us.. Often, I would bring her a sandwich and several times a week I would bring her food from a local restaurant and we would have dinner together. My mother loved to eat but in recent months she had just picked at her food and to cover up her lack of appetite would move the food around on her plate as children do when told no dessert without one more bite. The lack of appetite despite having chosen the restaurant and the food should have been a clear clue to me at the time instead it was just a data point. Stored, for future retrieval but signaling no alarms.

Mom was a writer. The author of 13 books, an editor of countless others including Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut and her opus magnus, The Letter of Edmund Blunden, published in her mid-eighties.  She was constantly at her desk working.  Her work was a constant source of conversation for us. “What are you working on Mom?” She would detail a piece should be editing for a friend or the Grolier Club or tell me about the writing she had done editing her Great Aunts recollection of her shop “The House of Books Ltd” s. Or her own work on her recollection of the 1939 World’s Fair.

However, after a fall in early October when she had broken her ribs and ended up hospitalized for over a week, her answers had changed from what she was working on to what she had done. Her typical response when asked what she was up to was to let us know that she was organizing. This had drawn yellow flags at the time. Not only was my mother the most meticulously organized, bordering on OCD, person I knew but the fact she was organizing herself after a hospitalization made me think of the final days of her mother. Family legend had it that my grandmother had been admitted to the hospital after suffering a massive heart attack. She allowed the Dr’s to treat her for a week or so then demanded to be released. When she had arrived home, she had organized her things, including tying ribbons around her underwear, and then called her physician and asked to be readmitted to the hospital where she died a few days later. It had occurred to me at the time that Mom was doing the same thing but had been dissuaded by both my wife and sister as manifestations of my own fears as opposed to the reality of the situation.

Perhaps the biggest clue to Mom’s impending illness had been the fall she had taken in October. She had called me exceedingly early in the morning to ask me to come over and help her as she had fallen on her way out of the bathroom sometime in the night. She told me she had tripped over some clothes that had been on the floor near the entrance to the toilet.  She waited hours to call me which she put off as embarrassment, but the pain had finally convinced her to give a call for help. Needless to say, I had rushed over to find her lying in her bed, stoic, but grimacing in pain. I also noted that my mother’s clothes were not on the floor but where she fastidiously placed them every night on a chair adjacent to her bed. It was clear to me at the time, that the clothes were just an explanation for her fall that she had made up. It was only when we got to the hospital and we discovered how low her blood 02 levels were that I came to suspect she may have feinted rather than tripped. However, her physicians were more inclined to believe that the problem with her oxygenation was due to the broken ribs, and the shallow breathing that resulted from that painful injury, rather than another explanation. As a consequence, they treated the symptom and had not searched for additional causes. While I still had my suspicions about Mom’s fall, I put them aside to focus on more urgent problems. She was desperate to get out of the hospital. Far more so than she had been in the past where while not exactly patient with her Dr’s ministrations she tolerated them because she saw them leading to better long-term health. This time she was insistent of being sprung from the hospital even if that meant hiring 24 hour a day care giver.

I had gone to work to arrange for care, Oxygen and the other details of getting her home and lost track of my concerns about her temporarily. It was not until she was safely ensconced at home with all details settled that I had remembered the family legend about Mom’s mom.

These thoughts brought me back to the present and looking up I could see that Mom had not really moved since I had been there. She still sat propped up in the hospital bed, gown and legs akimbo, grey faced and chin resting on her chest, the single drop of snot still dangling from her nose. I returned to my thoughts, and staring at my feet, unwilling or unable to watch as my mother left us.

My wife is a Brazilian, a Carioca or native of Rio De Janeiro, and it was our tradition to spend New Year’s in her hometown. We went for the weather and the wonderful tradition of bringing in the New Year with a beach party with fireworks from Copacabana to Recreio. We had left for Rio shortly after Christmas. Thanks to Skype and the ease of VoIP I would talk to Mom every day often more than once. These conversations were never long, mostly consisting on recounting the events in our lives (Who she talked to where we ate), the weather ( it was too cold where she was and too many mosquitos where I was), the family (David had not called, the Bates were having a dinner party)  and her favorite subject, Donald Trump . She hated him with a passion. He represented everything in the world she was not. He was a vulgarian, where she was a lady. He eschewed knowledge where she embraced it. He was a loudmouth where she listened as often as she spoke. He led by creating chaos, she inspired by creating order where chaos reigned.

You did not need to look far to see the difference in how Mom viewed the world and the way Trump did.  For as far back as I can remember Mom had a black and white lithograph above her desk. It depicts the chaos of a war zone with an active battle going on, the battlefield pock marked and full of the wreckage of war. However, in the middle of the print there is a small mesa, carved out of the battlefield and surrounded by fence there is a home. Inside the wall’s peace reigns. A garden grows. Children frolic. Everyone is safe. The creator of that sanctuary is how my mother saw her role in life. The carnage outside was is how she perceived the world Donald Trump sought.

My phone calls to Mom were always in the morning for no particular reason except that was the time of day where my other activities had not taken its toll as of yet and I most felt like talking. And so, it was on the morning of January 5. I had called to check in to tell her about some inconsequential things that had been going on in Rio or the size of the status of my mosquito bites. Nothing urgent. Nothing alarming. However, from the minute she answered the phone I was alarmed. She was not herself. She seemed distracted and confused, not her normal quick-witted self.  She was not fully present and when I pressed her with questions, she did not answer them.  Something was clearly wrong with her and she didn’t want to tell me about it, and she didn’t want to talk either so the call quickly ended.

I was concerned but instead of pressing her as I normally would have, I called Marissa instead. I explained my unease as best I could which was difficult as there was nothing in particular that I could point at. No slurred words. No confusion. Her breathing had been normal. It was a feeling, an intuition, that there was something really wrong. I think my sister thought I was crazy but would indulge me and check with Mom later to see if all was all right.

A few hours later I received a text from M. She had taken Mom to the emergency room. She was coughing up blood and they both thought it a good idea to get it checked out. She made it seem like it was not a big deal and I pretended that it was just like the nosebleed she had a few months back that necessitated a trip to urgent care because she was on blood thinners and the bleeding could not be stopped. A few hours later came word that she had been admitted and sent straight to ICU as they could not stop the bleeding.

According to my sister, Mom was not happy about this situation. She thought it ridiculous that for a little bleeding that she should have to stay in the hospital. She wanted to go home and be treated there. This was typical for my mother and her lack of concern did not ease mine at all. So, I called the airlines and tried to move my flight forward to the next day. Unfortunately, American Airlines and the gods of travel were not very accommodating.  Flights from Rio back to the states were overbooked for the next few days and even if I could manage a seat it would cost more than $2,000 to change my tickets.

For the next few days, Marissa kept my brother and I updated to Mom’s status via texts and emails. We could not speak to her as they had put her on a ventilator. The gist of the message was always the same. She is doing okay. They are running tests. They are trying to get her O2 levels up. Needless to say, the lack of progress, the nature of her symptoms kept me on tender hooks. I tried to enjoy the remaining days with my wife, but a pall lay over the trip. Never a good sleeper I spent large portions of the night awake relitigating the events of the past few months. How she must have sensed that something was really wrong. All the little things that I noticed but did not press her on. How she organized constantly and did nothing. How, during our meals together, she would push food around her plate as opposed to eating any. Her coughing that on occasion would have her leave the room, something that had been going on since her bout with cancer but had worsened as of late. The constant organization. Her ever increasing ever demanding need for company. The persistent niggle of intuition that something was wrong that was like a scratch that I could not itch.

My wife, who had adopted my mother as her own, was calming to me. When I told her of all the telltale signs that I missed and of my intuitions, she reminded me how stubborn my mother could be and that there would have been no change in the outcome even if I had pushed my concerns about her. When I told her that I feared that this would be Mom’s last trip to the hospital she reminded me how strong my mother was and the fine care she was receiving. I was comforted by her words, but I had no illusions about the reality of the situation.

Over the next few days little was done to calm my sense of foreboding. As my mother was in the ICU unit there were no private phones so I could not talk to her even via my sister’s cell phone as using it was forbidden in the ICU. Moreover, the tests they were running on Mom’s bleeding were inconclusive. However, more and more it was pointing towards a bleed in the lower lobe of her lung. A place where a bit of cancer had been found ten years previous and had undergone both radiation and chemotherapy. Eventually, they intubated her to minimize the bleeding and sedated her heavily to keep her from pulling at her various tubes, wires and outputs. All this duly reported by sister via text, email, and phone.

I was scared, sad and apprehensive as I said goodbye to my wife the day, I left Brazil. We had spent a good part of the last few days discussing my mother and the likely outcomes. We both sensed that Mom would not leave the hospital which for me was like a sharp punch to a pressure point on your arm or your leg: sharp pain followed by numbness. My wife’s reaction was the opening of a vault of sorrow. She considered my mother her own as her own mother had died many years before. My mother’s struggle with eternity opened up all those pent-up emotions and let them out in a torrent of tears and sobs. She told me that she loved me and that she was by my side. But urged me to be calm and not let my anger and frustration get the better of me.

We had also discussed, at length, my concerns over what the future would bring. I knew that it was likely that my brother would frustrate and anger me. He would be long on advice and short on action. Then, at some point, he who had spent so little of his time taking care of would swoop in at the last moment as the savior of the hour, as the star of this show. Elaine knew it would take a supreme effort for me not to let loose of ten years of anger and resentment when that happened. I vowed to try.

The ten-hour flight home from Brazil, sitting in coach, provides little chance for rest and plenty of opportunity for overthinking. I got off the airplane with a check list of things to do but most importantly. I needed to see Mom. I needed to see what I could do. Thankfully, the flights home from Brazil land very early in the morning and with no luggage, save a carry on,  and Global Entry I was home before most people left for work in the morning and at the hospital after only taking time to shower, shave and caffeinate myself.

The hospital where my mother was being treated is called Overlook (yes, a terrible name for a place where we hope the practitioners are conscientious but is forgiven for this name as it sits atop a hill). Its ICU is buried on a floor below the main entrance. And you cannot enter it directly. First, you must go to a waiting room and on intercom ask permission to visit the patient. Depending on the situation, whether a procedure is being done or the patient is having issues, you are granted or denied entry. When I had asked permission to enter, I was told to wait that Mom had been coughing up blood and needed to be cleaned up a bit.

I looked around. This was not my first time in the ICU waiting room. I had been there on a number of occasions when Pop had been in decline. I had found the place cold and lonely at the time, not at all enlivened by the easy chairs, living room couches and a television broadcasting quietly in the corner. Nothing could hide that this was a place for anxious people waiting for news that one way or another was going to impact their lives. This morning I had it all to myself and the silence was deafening.

When they finally called to let me know that I could now come back to visit with Mom I was only my anxiety was peaking from both the trip and the waiting. The ICU has little bays with sliding glass doors reminded me of motel rooms. Dim lighting along, whispered tones and a plethora of electronics provided an atmosphere of quiet urgency that permeated the place. Despite previous experience and the steeling, myself for what I was going to see over the last few days I was not prepared for was seeing Mom intubated, wired, Lived, and restrained. There was blood caked around her lips and in her intubation tube. My elegant, never leave the house without lipstick, Ferragamo shoe wearing mother, looked as if she was in some B grade science fiction film where technology had won the war with humanity. It staggered me.

The only good thing about being in ICU is that the nurses are absolutely the cream of the crop. While seeing the ugliest parts of the human condition they manage not only to be professionally competent but to be compassionate and caring not only for the patient but for the families. The nurses know that it is not just the patients who are suffering and struggling. Their families are on this voyage with them confronting issues and making decisions that religions were created to solve but rarely do. My mother’s nurse, whose name I cannot remember but whom I will never forget, saw me stagger from what I was encountering. She, in a kind but matter of fact way, told me about Mom’s condition. She was in a medically induced coma in the hopes that keeping her quiet would help the lung bleeds heal. While the jury was still out of the long-term effectiveness of the strategy as of now, they had not been able to get the bleeds under control as I could see from the dried blood that ringed her lips. Her ventilator was keeping her 02 levels up and her other vitals were under control. She encouraged me to speak to Mom; while she knocked out part of her brain would be able to hear me.

I sat in chair next to Mom and told her all the things I would have had been able to talk.  the. I told Mom about my trip. How flying through Sao Paulo had saved me oodles of money but had added an additional 6 hours to my travels. I told her about Donald Trump’s latest inanity and about a Phillip Kerr novel I had finished recently.  That I was here. We would figure out her medical issues and get her home sooner than soon. I told her that I loved her. Eventually, I ran out of things to say and told the nurse I would be back soon. I returned to the ICU waiting room and managed to fill a small wastepaper basked full of tissue.

Marissa arrived not long after my breakdown. She was jovial, upbeat and even humorous. I knew that this was not out of insensitivity. Quite the contrary. She used humor and jolliness in the same way a person covers their ears and whistles a tune when they do not want to hear something. It is a distraction from the pain that she was feeling. I understood this despite the fact I wished I could talk to her more seriously about what it was that I, we, were going through. Not only did she have a unique relationship with my mother, a daughter’s relationship, but she had been in the trenches with me in caretaking both or our parents. Despite having two young children, a job, and a husband when she was needed, she showed up. She had taken Mom to the hospital at the beginning of this latest adventure and as someone who had been through that process with both parents, I understood the trauma and psychic carnage that it produced.

In other words, she had earned the right to deal with this current crisis in any way she so chose.

She had come to the hospital not just to sit with Mom. We had arranged a meeting with Mom’s pulmonologist and primary care giver at this juncture, Dr. Allison Kole. I knew her fairly well. She was my pulmonologist having diagnosed and treated my sleep apnea.  She had become Mom’s pulmonologist shortly her heart valve replacement surgery 15 months previous. Mom had  developed serious congestion of the lungs while in recovery. Dr. Kole had been the pulmonologist on call. She had determined Mom needed to go back to the OR. Her lungs needed lavage and removal of the “junk” that was affecting her breathing. Mom had protested. She did not need the surgery.

Dr. Kole had been very patient (irony noted) with her. But after a short round of arguments back and forth Dr. Kole had said enough. Mom was going to surgery.  When she briefed me after the surgery she told me  Mom’s lungs had been full of mucus and other crap. That the structures of the “lung” were somewhat altered and that if she had not done the lavage she most certainly had died. I had not thought much of what she had said at the time. Instead, I focused on the positive news. Mom’s was going to be okay. Her ability to breathe restored to acceptable levels. I also remembered thinking how impressed I was her pulmonologist.

Dr. Kole arrived in the waiting area shortly after my sister. For privacy we retreated to a conference adjacent to the waiting area. After conferencing my brother via cell she got right to the point. They had tested the hell out of Mom. They had determined that the lower lobe of Mom’s left lung was the issue likely because of a bout with lung cancer and the radiation treatment that had followed. They had done what they could do without surgery, but the bleeding persisted. There was a procedure that they could do, a hail Mary effort, where they would laparoscopically enter Mom’s lung through a vein in her leg and attempt to reach the site of the bleeding so it could be cauterized. Mom would die without the surgery, but the surgery could kill her as well.

My mind looping on the fact my mother was dying. I remember my brother ask a few questions that I considered superfluous and designed only to make him sound smart. But we all agreed that our short term goal was to make sure Mom was as pain free as possible and not quite aware of what was happening around her.

We seesawed on what to do next. The surgery may not solve the problem and could kill her. Why put her though that with such a small chance of success. Then again some chance is better than no chance and she likely would not be aware of what was happening anyway. Eventually, we all agreed that we needed to give Mom this one last shot at recovery and agreed to have the procedure.

The room was dark except a single red LED.

I had been having the most wonderful quarantine dream that seamed to be going on forever and the memory of which did not last a nano second after I had awakened. Normally, I have an exceptionally good sense of time. I know the time without checking but it had failed me.  As a consequence, I opened my iPad as I had fallen asleep with it on my chest. The screen remained dark, the battery having expired as I dreamt. I lifted my arm above my face. The luminescent dial of my watch read “3:31.”

I had been asleep for nearly 4 hours but it felt like I had slept 10. I was not the least bit sleepy and knew that trying to fall asleep again would be a fool’s errand. Normally, in situations like these, where it was too early to get up and where sleep was impossible, I read. Usually, mystery novels from my iPad. They distracted my psyche from the death spirals of negative thoughts that I was prone to in the middle of the night. Especially now with Covid 19 consuming our days and haunting our dreams. But sadly, I had made a rookie insomniac mistake and failed to charge my iPad . It would useless in my fight against sleeplessness.

It was just me and the single red LED.

Well, me and my wife. She, as usual, was cuddled up next me making the gentle purring sounds that she often made when deeply asleep. She like me, is not an easy sleeper. While my challenge was the middle of the night awakenings hers was falling asleep. I had learned early on that she valued uninterrupted sleep when it came because making her go through the challenges of falling asleep again was likely to make her less than ecstatic.  This was compounded by our desire to spoon (her in the back, me in the front) as it meant any movement could disturb her sleep.

This ruled out making a midnight raid on the kitchen in the hopes that my friends Ben & Jerry could help me with my dreams of sleep. I could not read a book as it would require not only movement but the turning on lights which would undoubtedly disturb my photophobic wife’s sleep not once, but twice. Even rolling over and finding a more comfortable position was ruled out for the moment as my wife was cuddled tightly behind me and in front of me was the precipice of the beds edge. I was, for all intents and purposes, trapped where I was.

Just me and that single red LED.

Well me and my mind. But I would not really wish that on anyone. I have, for better or worse, a very vivid imagination born of far too much reading and likely to little intellect.  It meant that it was very easy for me to take an event or horror and personalize it. In the current crisis, for example it was far too easy for me to imagine myself with Covid 19, coughing and ill in a hospital where no one spoke English and I little Portuguese. Uncontrolled my mind, could take me to places that not only I did not want to go but where, after visiting, sleep would become impossible or be racked with nightmares.

That single red LED stared at me.

I closed my eyes to get out of its unceasing glare. I knew that I didn’t have it bad. I was in a relatively safe spot even though Brazil had recently become a hot spot for the pandemic. We had room to move around. Places to escape from each other when being alone was needed. Food was on the table and could be, at least for now, easily had. We had internet access and streaming video. While money is always a worry, for right now and, for the next little while, we would be okay.  And in just 5 weeks, god and American Airlines willing, we would be on a plane home.

I had it so much better than so many. Probably most. For me to feel sorry for myself seem to be a “shanda.” A disgrace. Especially, considering that my best friend for the better part of 5 decades was currently in hospice care after an 18-month fight with brain cancer. How much happier would he be to have my problems?

I realized that one of the things that was adding to my agitation was our inability to talk to each other. We used to talk to each other almost every day, much to the chagrin of various of his girlfriends and ex-wife. They did not understand the need to talk to each other. They did not think it normal for two grown men to speak as often as we did. When his last girlfriend had started down this same path we had a conversation about how to the handle the issue with her.

I had asked “Doesn’t she understand we are mishpoocha?”

He had laughed, a deep booming chuckle and replied, “I don’t think she speak Yiddish.”

“Then explain it to her. That it means that even though we are not related we are family. Members of the same tribe. Besides what is she worried about. We are not talking about her. We are just kibitzing.”

“What does that mean again?”

“Kibitz can mean a couple of things but most it means just chat.”

“I could tell her that.”

“Or you could say that we just kvetch to other.”

“And that means …”

“It means to bitch or complain but maybe you shouldn’t mention that she will think you are kvetch about her.”

“Okay.”

“You tell her that you like to schmooze with me.”

“Is this turning into a Yiddish lesson for my Mexican girlfriend….how would you define schmooze to her.”

“Gossiping or reminiscing but with heart not hate.”

“Okay”

“Anything else. “

There was a long pause and then I added. “You could say to her that occasionally I get schmaltzy and like to plotz and kvell about my mishpooka and that not only it would be a shande if this mishegas led to it being difficult to talk to each other, you be verklempt.”

A deep chuckle “You are wicked.”

“Thanks. I do my best.”

Thinking about that conversation produced a rueful smile and after a time, sleep. The single red light, forgotten.

Dear Pops:

My dreams are always more vivid during the summer. Somehow the heat bakes more intensity to the thoughts that pass through my psyche. In a normal world, there is a slow build up to these vivid dreams. As the days become longer and warmer, your dreams gradually turn from the hibernated hyphenated dreams of winter to the Technicolor feature length dreams of the fully heated season.

That transition is not so gradual when you leave NY on a cold winters evening and wake up the next morning in the tropical summer of Rio De Janiero. It is not jumping from the frying pan into the fire. It is jumping from the freezer directly into the fire. It is nerve jangling abrupt…enough to make you pant.

When I left NY on Christmas evening, I was both exhausted and well rested. I had been sick. Somewhere along my travels from Admirals Club to Admirals Club I had managed to swallow a flu bug. The symptoms were mild with upper respiratory congestion, moderate temperature, irritability, and no appetite and I had chosen to beat it in submission using the time honored Rothkopf methodology of sleep, and more sleep and the less traditional, and I am sure frowned on by you, over the counter flu medication in the guise of Tylenol Flu and Cold. To be sure I don’t know what the later did except clear my nasal passages a little, and keep my temperature from getting out of control. But I do know that I slept a lot 12 or 13 hours a day and was just beginning to feel human again when I got on the plane to Rio.

Normally, when I get on any airplane, after I have stowed my gear and waited for the passenger sitting next to me arrive, is fall asleep. This is partially because of something that you told me long ago. I think you called it the infantryman’s credo. When you do not have to run, walk; When you do not have to walk sit; When you don’t have to sit, laydown; And whenever possible sleep. But it is also because by the time I make it on to airplane I am bone tired and need to sleep. But this Christmas eve, as I sat in my comfortable business class seat I had no desire to sleep. It was as if someone had turned on a switch and suddenly I was wide awake. I am sure part of it was because I had been sleeping so much. But it was also a case of nerves over what I would be doing the next day. The situation was made worse because my fallback position, reading, had been compromised. I had spent much of the last two weeks reading. I read so many books in the previous week that the thought of reading held zero appeal.

So as we taxied to the runway, a long process at Kennedy, I lost myself in thoughts of conversations that you and I have had in the past. The conversation I kept coming back to was the first talk you and I had when I returned from my Brazilian cruise. I don’t know if I ever told you this but one of the big reasons that I had decided on that long journey was because of you. You had always been an adventurer; I think since those days that you spent fantasizing about being an American Indian in the hills of Farafeld, and you world had shrunk so, that I wanted to go somewhere that would allow your imagination to flow. It is why I began all my notes to you with my longitude and latitude, course, and speed. And I had so many adventures that I wanted to share with you. I had also brought you presents from my journey so that I could physically give you a reminder of the journey your son had been on.

There was so much to say, literally so much ground to cover, and that I was not telling the story very well. I was, dare I say, all over the map. But you were patient with me and you asked me many questions of the trip and as you always did, you helped me find my way. Then there came a point in the conversation where I wanted to tell you about Elaine. In my whole life, I can’t remember ever wanting to tell you about a girl before. It is not that they didn’t matter in my life. They did but the thought of having a conversation with you about one just never occurred to me. I always had so many more important things to tell you about. But I wanted to tell you about Elaine. I can remember telling you how we met, how through luck and by design I had come to sit at her table after a few miserable days of eating by myself on the ship. I told you how beautiful she was and what a good listener she had been and how we spent our days talking and how she had etched herself on my heart no one else ever had. I told you about how after days of being with her that it physically hurt to say good bye to her and to continue on my journey by myself. I shared with you my fear, that the experience of being on a cruise together somehow changed my perception of reality so that what felt like real and true love was just the heart’s desire and how my plan was to fly to Rio in just a few weeks so that I could spend more time with Elaine to see if what I thought to be real was solid ground.

I will never forget the smile you gave me. And how you thought that me going to Rio was a smart thing. Not just because it would ease my worries about whether love really existed between love Elaine and myself but because you told me that love was too valuable to let slip away. But I also think your smile you knew already what I would find in Rio. You had been listening to me for too long not to know.

Normally, when I am on an overnight flight and I can’t sleep I have Stolichnaya Therapy. That is I have a double shot of vodka and it puts me right to sleep. But the medication I had prevented that therapy. I am not sure that there were any alcohol prohibitions with the anti-biotic I was taking but I did know it is not terribly wise to mix Tylenol and booze. Having my liver shut down at 40,000 feet did not appeal to me. American Airlines, in its wisdom, knows that there are many passengers who cannot sleep. So the supply an inflight entertainment system that consists of a Samsung Galaxy Tablet and set of Bose Noise Reduction headsets for which I am sure that both manufacturers pay royally or supply the products for free. In principal the idea is great a pre-loaded tablet with games, television shows and movies all of which can entertain a traveler on even the longest journey. The problem is when you are a frequent flyer like I am that limited number of movies that you want to see on the tablet rapidly diminishes. I had been on so many flights in the past months there was absolutely nothing I wanted to see.

Not being able to sleep, not being able to drink and with no other distractions, I was forced to dive into my own thoughts. I reclined my seat as far as it would go, rolled over on my side to face the aisle and turned my ipod on began listening to Aarron Copeland’s “Fanfare for the common Man.” It is such a majestic piece and always makes me think of decency and dignity of being an everyman, something that you always reminded me of as well. As the trumpets soared, I thought of the glories that are a part of a common man’s life…love, family, children….as the kettle drums pounded I thought of the dramatic moments of my life and how they have punctuated my otherwise happy life. I thought of the Elaine and the heights she had taken me too and before the fanfare was over I was asleep.

I hate to say that clearing through Rio’s immigration has become routine but it has. I know the steps so well and they have been so ingrained in me over the past year, that I barely notice the steps. Clear the planes gate walk to immigration and find the line for foreigners. Walk through the serpentine of velvet ropes that is supposed to organized travelers into a steady cue and is much longer than it needs to be. Clear immigration and walk downstairs to your luggage which is remarkably always there waiting for you and then be tempted by the large duty free shop beckoning you with neat things that you can have from less but you by pass that. I am on a higher mission.  I go through the green line at Customs where I have never even seen an agent, walk pass the taxi stands make a sharp right and walk into the terminal.

Elaine is always waiting for me right there. She has a 50,000 megawatt smile that seems to light up the room, her eyes always luminous seem to glow with pleasure. From the way she is standing I can see that she wants to run and throw herself into my arms but she demonstrates restraint and stands waiting for me. I want to run to her but I try to show a little dignity and just walk a little faster. And then I am in her arms and she is kissing me and whispering “Querida” in my ear. This is the part of the customs that never grows old.

The airport was warm and muggy, the air conditioning failing to keep up with the relentless heat out of door. Walking outside reminded me of our trip to Eliat. Do you remember opening the door to our car and feeling like you had been just opened the door of an over. This wasn’t an oven, more like a steam bath, but the principal was the same you felt completely overwhelmed by the heat and humidity and I was very happy to make it to Elaine’s car and its excellent air conditioning.

The drive from the airport to Barra is very direct. In essence, you get on the “Yellow Line”, one of a number of private highways in Rio, and follow that to Barra. Normally, at this hour, the highways are crowded, with busy Carioca making their way here and there but on this boxing day the traffic was very light either because of the heat, or the holiday, or some combination of both. Elaine is a very deliberate driver, rarely speeding and always very careful so despite the lack of traffic our progress to Barra at an unhurried pace. But it gave us time to hold each other’s hand and chat and revel in each other’s company with the entire world consisting only of the contents of this car.

At the end of the Yellow Line there is a toll. It is a private road so this is where the owners make their money. As we wait in line to pay, I see something that you see the Brazilian Flag drifting lazily in the light breeze of the early afternoon. You see flags displayed far less in Brazil than you do in the United States as their pride in their country does not come from the government which most Brazilian view with distrust. Looking at the flag now I think of how Elaine once explained the flag to me. The green is for the vast forest which is Brazil. The yellow is for the sun.  The stars are for each state. Looking at the heat waves raising off the concrete, and the once verdant hills in the distance now yellow from the summer heat, I wonder if the Brazilians should have a summer flag that is solid yellow with stars.

When we finally got off the highway in Barra traffic had begun to get jammed up mostly because of the shopping malls in this area. I have learned that Brazilian’s love their malls almost as much as Californians. Like their neighbors to the north they love to stroll the mall as if it is a large town square and window shop. Going by the mall now Elaine comments with a smile “What recession.” Just opposite the Barra mall I see a sign that tells me that the temperature outside the car is 45 degrees. I do the math in my head and involuntary say “Holy shit, its hot.” Elaine, turns to me and in all seriousness says to me “Yes my love it is the hottest summer on record.”

Elaine’s home is in a gated community in Barra very close to the lagoon and the golf course. It is a neighborhood built onto the side of the Galveston Mountain and much of the forest has been preserved. In many ways it reminds me of our neighborhood in Summit in the sense that the houses are built on hills and the forest preserved. The differences are that the majority of the homes here are built in a modern style with crisp lines, and lots of glass and all of them exist behind walls within the walls of the community. Many of the walls are lined with electrified wires. Brazil is a country that is looking for its economic soul and the walls of this community are just one symbol of the conflict and tensions that this growth has caused.

Oddly, I have only felt unsafe in Brazil once and at the time I didn’t even know Elaine. I had come to Rio on the Costa Pacifica and I had signed up for a “jeep tour” of the city. Remember when I was getting ready for the trip, we had talked about various excursions for me to go on and this one we both agreed would be interesting. Turns out it was not exactly a jeep tour. It was a tour on the back of a pick-up truck with wood benches and jury rigged seat belts in the back. The driver, I am convinced, had multiple tours to conduct that day, and as such was very interested in driving his pick-up truck through the streets of Rio as if he were trying out for a Grand Prix team. Thankfully even he had to stop for traffic signals. And during one of these stops, I saw a very slender young man without a shirt glaring at me in the back of the truck. He was over 25 meters away but I could clearly see the dislike and contempt he felt for me and probably any other gringo. At the time I felt had he a gun he would have opened fire. Thankfully the light was not red for long and we were soon away from him but his stare has lingered with me ever since.

Elaine’s house is, in essence, three cubes stacked on top of each other at a 45 degree angle. The bottom floor consists of a large L shaped kitchen with an adjacent dining area, a large living room  surrounded by floor to ceiling glass doors including a sunken sitting area, and her study.  The second floor, which you reach via an elegant and wide staircase, has another living room, a game room, two small bed rooms with a shared bath, and a master bedroom suite consisting of bedroom, master bath and walk in closet. The third floor has a small bedroom, a hiding area for kids that has door that belongs on ship and access to the roof top utilities such as the water tank. You would love the elegant, modern design of the home. You would especially love the glass that allows the outodoors in and the airshafts that are planted with tropical plants and orchids that bring another element of the natural environment into the home.

After we arrive, I carry my bag upstairs. There are no clothes in my bag. Over the last six months I have left enough clothes behind so I never need to pack to come here. Elaine has encouraged me to think of this place as our home so I keep my carioca wardrobe here. What is in my bag, are the Christmas presents that I have collected for her over the past few months. Mostly, it is stocking stuffer items erasures, candy, paper goods because she claims never to have had a stocking…..wool stockings not being a common item in a rain forest… and a couple of special items. When we get to the bedroom Elaine wants to give me my gifts right away and she has them all over our bed, but I tell her I need a few moments to get her presents ready.

When she leaves, I open my bag and pull out a stocking with Elaine’s name on it that I have had specially made for her. Then I reach into my brief case and pull out a small black box and put that in the toe of the stocking. I then begin stuffing the stocking with all the small presents that I have spent the better part of the past week wrapping. I place the stocking on her pillow and then lay down on my side of the bed and await for Elaine’s return. I am not sure if it was the lack of sleep from the night before, or whether my body was recovering from my illness, or the heat of the Rio sun had sapped my energy or whether it was lying on our bed in an air conditioned room but I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I was standing on a small bridge made of stone arched like a turtle’s back. The air was cool without being cold, the sun warm on my face, and I could smell a wood fire burning in the distance mixed with the smell of blossoming wild flowers. Beneath the bridge a small river burbled over a rocky bottom, it shore, dotted with trees, sharply angled from the constant erosion.   To my left a small country road and a single story country home painted light blue with a sharply angled orange roof.  To my right an open field, bright with brilliant yellow flowers and a serpentine path that split with one branch following the river and the other leading to what appeared to be a railway station.

I know this place very well although I have been there only once. I am in Farafeld.

For some reason, this revelation did not surprise me at all. In fact, I was rather nonplussed by this realization. Instead, I gripped the tubular metal post of the bridges and stared down at the water burbling down below and remembered the time you had brought me here. We had a difficult time finding the place and actually drove straight through the town and had to turn around. You kept telling me to slow down and finally yelled at me to stop right by this bridge as your Grandmother’s house was directly opposite it. You were almost out of the car before I had parked. By the time I had gotten out of the car you were standing on the far side of the bridge looking at the field beyond. I snapped a picture of you at that moment, a photograph I still keep in my house, and we spent the next couple of hours walking through the fields with you telling me stories of your summer spent here. I even wrote a story about that day in which I imagined that instead of talking to you I was talking to the ten you old version of yourself. You didn’t much like the story, I think you thought it too fanciful, but I have never forgotten that day and how I had the opportunity to see your world as a child.

I decide to walk down the path to the train station. I don’t know why I chose this route. I could have easily followed the path by the stream but it somehow seemed the right way to go. As I walked along my steps kicked up small clouds of dust that are quickly carried away in the light morning breeze. The fields around me, bright with flowers, were alive with activity. Butterflies and bumble bees dashed in and out of the blooms in their search for nectar. Dragon flies danced over the brooks that fed the Triesting and I thought of you and your fish trap as a large perch held its self-steady in the current hiding behind a large rock.

The train station is not as I remembered it. It is not decrepit and in disrepair. It had been modernized. Paint is fresh and unpeeling. Windows are no longer jagged with broken glass but are freshly glazed, the lintels clear of dust. The roof no longer sagged. The debris that had accumulated around the building had been cleared and the platform rebuilt, replete with a digital clock that also provided the temperature and a large green and white sign that announced the station “Farafeld.” In front of the terminal facing the train track were two identical benches in the same green and white of the sign. Sitting on one of them is a young man. He is slender, with short curly red/brown hair, and from the way his legs are crossed he appears taller than average.  His glasses are round and look to be made of steel and his wearing a French blue shirt, with twill pants, and brown ankle boots and he looks to be patiently waiting for a train.

I stare at him for a while as emotions ripple through me. I want to run up to him and hug him and ask him questions but something holds me back. Some inner voice is telling me that it will not produce the results I want. So I continue to stare, just happy to be near him and to see him again until my thoughts coalesce into plan.

I walk over to the benches and, pointing to one he is not sitting on, ask “Is anyone sitting here?” It is a lame question and I know it but I hope that will serve my purpose of being a conversation starter with this young man.  He looks over at me, and I think I can see a glint of recognition in his eyes but like me he is reluctant to acknowledge the obvious and merely looks at me and smiles a little and says “no.”

I make a bit of a show of clearing the dust off the bench before I sit down. I ask him “What brings you to this neck of the woods“in my best overly friendly American tone.  He shoots me a glance that is neither friendly nor unfriendly but one that clearly signals that he is not thrilled to be answering my questions. He replies in a soft voice with a very slight Viennese accent “I used to spend my summers around here.”

I look away briefly at this acknowledgement. I don’t want him to see the emotions that are painted across my face. I pretend to sneeze to cover my red face and say “I am here for much the same reason. My great grandmother used to live opposite the bridge back there.”

He looks at me and I think I can see a glimmer of recognition in his eyes but he says nothing and I am left scrambling for a question so that we continue to speak. After an awkward minute or so I ask “Have you been traveling?”

He looks at me as I often look at airline seat partners who want to speak when I would prefer to sleep or read but he answers in a way that I know too well. It is his response when he is keeping a secret. Just enough to answer the question but not giving away too much he says “Here and there.”

I am, like I always am when he answers like this, frustrated by the lack of detail. I try not to let this show when I follow up with “Are you waiting for a train now?” He turns his head to look at me, his expression that of incredulity and just replies “Yes.”

For a moment or two silence hangs between us like a curtain. When I can bear it no longer and in an effort to continue our conversation I say “I am going on a trip as well. I am on my way to Brazil.”

This seems more interesting to him and he says “I have been to Brazil. It is a beautiful country with so many things to see. In fact, my aunt lives there.”

I stifle a “ I know” and respond instead respond by saying “A few months ago I went to Brazil for the first time. I went for an adventure and ended meeting a woman from Rio. I have been visiting her ever since.”  This gets his attention and he looks at me with a renewed interest. So I add. “I was not looking to fall in love. I was just looking to have a little fun and forget my troubles for bit. But I have fallen in love with her. And, against all odds, she has fallen in love with me. I am thinking of asking her to marry me. “

He nods so I continue. “She is smart and kind, warm and beautiful.  She has a wicked sense of humor and a luminous smile. She is just the type of woman my father would have chosen for me.” As this sentence drifts in the air, the sound of trains whistle blows in the distance punctuating the morning with a sense of urgency.

Instead of commenting on my statements he says “When I was a boy, every time I heard that whistle blow I would try to figure out whether my mother was on the train.”

“And” I ask. He smiles at me and says “I think she is on the train.”

I look down the single track and see an ancient steam engine plugging its way towards, us steam and coal ash being ejected into the cloudless sky. He stands up, and looks down the track, a smile brightening his face.  As the train pulls into the stations its breaks screech and eject steam. He and I both look into the train’s window and we both see her at the same time. A beautiful woman, with long dark hair pulled into a bun, soft kind eyes, and a mouth that is full and you can tell smiles easily. She looks at the man with love so I ask “Your mother.” He nods his response and then the woman looks at me and a look of surprise and then delight pass her face and she blows me a kiss. A gesture I return.

The train has stopped and the man with his long stride is heading for its stairs. I run to catch up with him. There is still much I want to say to him. I place my hand on his shoulder and he turns to look at me. His smile makes me forget the questions I want to ask and instead just say “EZ travels.” He looks at me as he often did when I pun with a look of mild distaste and joy and then he hugs me and climbs the stairs to the train. But he turns around before he gets to the top and yells to me above the clamor of train noises “You will be very happy. I know.” And with that climbs the last stairs to the train and disappears into the coach.

As the train pulls out of the station I see mother and son sitting next to each other waiving good bye to me.

When I awake, Elaine is staring down at me. “My darling, you fell asleep.” I nod, still trying to process the dream and say “I have been flying all night and boy are my arms tired.” She smiles at the lame joke and tells me that it is time for me to open my presents. I tell her no it is time to open her stocking. She readily agrees.

My plan was for her to open the presents as we normally did. Pull out one at a time, cooo about it and then move onto to the next one. That is why I have placed the small black box at the toe end of the stocking so that she will open it last. But I have forgotten that Elaine has never opened a stocking before so she does the logical thing. She dumps the entire contents of the specially made stocking on the bed and begins to open the present willy nilly. When she reaches for the black box, I tell her no that is for last and she gives me a “look” and then quickly gets back to the task at hand. She loves the little presents I have gotten heard especially a book on love and a sticky pad that says “WTF” (she is a woman who knows how to swear and I appreciate her skills.”) Finally she gets to the black box and she says “My Darling can I open this now.” I am too nervous to say anything. She opens the box and sees that inside that there is yet another box inside. This one has a catch and a latch. When she opens it those beautiful eyes grow ever larger and I say “Elaine Vierra Fierra, I love you. I cannot imagine another day without you in my life. Would you please marry me.” I manage to say this all without crying but not without choking up and she is in my arms before I can even finish kissing me and say “Querido” over and over again in my ear.

I push her away and look into her eyes and ask “So you are saying yes.”

“Yes, I am saying yes. “ and she holds out her hand so I can place the finger on it. After she admires the sapphire and diamond ring I have bought for her she kisses me again and says “My love, I know we will be very happy together.”

I think of my dream, and what you said to me as you were boarding the train, and say “I know.”

EZ travels Pops.

[Authors Note: This was written a while back when I wanted to share with my father that the girl he had met just a few weeks before his passing was now going to be my wife.]

It was our last night in Italy.

The trip which had been planned for months to accommodate the needs and desires of all the participants. There was Rich, my best friend since High School, and his wife who had been living the last 9 months in Saudi Arabia. They were looking forward to throwing off the mantle of Shariah laws they had been living under and enjoying themselves while they were out of the country. For me, it was an opportunity to spend time with my best friend since High School in a country where I spent part of childhood. My girlfriend was there because she had never been to Europe and she knew that whenever Rich and I got together, fun often ensued.

Our journey had begun in Rome 10 days earlier at a Café on the Via Veneto. My girlfriend and I had arrived first as our flight from the US got us to Rome earlier than theirs had from the Kingdom. When Rich and Barb arrived hugs, kisses and all the normal backslapping associated with reunions were exchanged. There were also gifts. They had brought trinkets from Saudi Arabia to give to us and I had brought Rich the worlds ugliest tie. Years earlier we had made a bet that whoever was given this curtain fabric paisley monstrosity had to wear it for the entire day regardless of when it was given or what circumstances the person might find themselves when given the tie. It had been traded many times since then, often under embarrassing circumstances, the last time being when Rich had given it to me at his wedding.

Needless to say, I had been anticipating savoring this moment for a while. He less so. He asked, “Do I have to wear it now.” He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt which did not seem to need the added decoration of paisley cravat.

I said, “You know the rules.”

As he reached for the tie I said “You might want to check the lining before you tie it. But do so carefully.” He flipped the tie over and began rummaging through the lining and quickly found the three joints I had stupidly manage to sneak in the country. He smiled and said “Kopf, my man!”

And the party began.

It lasted three days in Rome where we managed to get jet lag out of our system by walking to visit all the sites in our Bedeckers guides such as The Trevi Fountain, The Spanish Steps, The Parthenon, Vatican City and the Colosseum. We challenged ourselves to never repeat the same pasta and sauce combination. At night we drank a lot of wine and laughed until we cried.

We then rented a car and I was made the designated driver as I had been voted. most likely to get us successfully out of Rome. It is still some of the most stressful driving I have ever done.  But after a number of false steps we were heading north on an Italian A rode. Our destination was Siena where we lucked onto the Palio with all of its medieval glory.

The next day we headed to Florence but not before stopping at a family owned Chianti vineyard where we bought and consumed a few bottles of wine. Fresh chianti is wonderful, and it makes you think like an Italian which is likely why we found driving to Florence so much easier than leaving Rome. Florence was the Duomo, the Uffizi the Ponte Vecchio and we all bought leather jackets. We gorged on the sublime Tuscan foods and dreamt the dreams only Italian wine in the birthplace of the Renaissance can produce.

After three days in Florence we departed for Venice opting to use the winding, mountainous two-lane roads as opposed to the Auto Strada. It made for beautiful scenery and nausea inducing driving for those sitting in the back seats as they were being thrown back and forth with the constant cutbacks. We abandoned the lesser roads for the highway when we reached Bologna and made it to Venice by late afternoon. There, in the car park, where those entering Venice by car are asked to leave their vehicles, we were hustled by a 10-year-old boy who told us we had too many pieces of luggage for the Vaporetto water bus. That we must take a water taxi. He would guide us and when we got to St. Mark’s square, he would arrange for a porter to carry our things. By the time he had finished with us he had managed to scam $200 when the Vaporetto would have cost $15.

Getting hustled before you even set foot in place can tarnish a city for you. But it is hard to remain upset with Venice for very long. Its unique beauty is impossible to resist, and we spent the next few days doing the things that tourists love to do. We visited the Strand. We saw glass made. We bought glass. We took Gondola rides with singing gondoliers. We visited St. Marks church and its square which, along with the gondola, is the symbol of the city.

Now, after 10 days it was our final evening and we were determined to make it an epic night.

We began by having Margarita’s in our hotel room. This was a Rich thing. He thought Europeans charge far too much for alcohol. To save a little money and to practice his bartending skills he enjoyed making cocktails for us in the evening. We then moved onto the Devil’s weed to spur our appetite. Needless to say, by the time we left the hotel we were properly prepared for the evening.

We had made reservations for dinner at the Café Malamocco, a restaurant named for the first settlement on Venice’s lido that specialized in seafood. The restaurant itself was quite dark with a north African ambiance. The food was unbelievably good, and we managed, somehow, to consume several bottles of wine along with dinner. At some point, I made my way to the restroom where I was very confused as none of the sinks had any controls in which to control the flow of water. I thought I must be a lot drunker than I feel because I simply could not figure out how to wash my hands. Just when I had abandoned all hope of proper hygiene a man came in and used the sinks simply by waving his hands underneath the faucet. (In my defense, it was the first automatic sink I had ever seen, and they were not all that common in the mid ‘80’s)

After dinner, we decided to go for a Gondola ride. It seemed fitting for our final night in Venice. When we arrived at the quay to pick up a boat, we found the gondoliers all standing around doing nothing. When we asked them for a moonlight tour of the canals, they, much to my indignation, refused me. They claimed it was too rough. I told them that we didn’t get seasick. They claimed it was too dangerous at which point I might have used a New York invective in describing their cowardice and dereliction of duty. This may have led to harsh words being shared with me using coarse Italian that anyone who grew up in New Jersey would understand.

Fortunately for me, cooler heads prevailed, and I was escorted away by the other members of our party. As that plan had failed, we returned to our hotel to regroup and rethink our evening. After a little conversation, enhanced by a little port and a little more of Bob Marley’s favorite, we decided to go to a club and dance the evening away. On the way out the door we asked the front desk clerk for a recommendation who was only too happy to supply one along with a map and introduction to the Clubs maître de.

We set off with confidence and resolve. But if you have ever been to Venice you know that the streets are narrow with no set pattern and in general very confusing. Even when you are sober. Which we were not. Needless to say, we got lost. Hopelessly lost. For Barbara, Chris and myself this was a sign from God. That we should abandon our quest no matter how noble. For Rich, it was as if someone had thrown down the gauntlet. He was bound and determined to find that club. We persisted. Then we persisted some more and only managed to become more confused about where we were and how we would get to our destination.  The majority view was we should quit this nonsense, but Rich was more determined than ever. When he saw a person walking on the side of the canal, he dashed across the bridge to see if the stranger could provide us with guidance.

We could see Rich show the man the map with the club marked on it and ask in English how we would get there. The man replied in indistinguishable Italian as he was far away. And Rich said, “And then.” To which the man replied in equally indistinguishable words. Rich replied with “And then.” This went on for five minutes. The man speaking and us not hearing always punctuated by Rich’s “And then.” Eventually, Rich thanked the man and return to us on the other side of the canal.

I asked, “What did he say?”

Rich responded “How do I know. I don’t speak Italian.”

Needless to say we abandoned our quest for the club and decided to go to the Piazza San Marco to have one last drink before turning in for the evening.  However, when we got there, we found the Piazza and its cafes were close as it had flooded due to the high seas the gondoliers had mentioned.  This was a rare event back then, only about 10 times a year, and it seemed that most of the young adult population of the city had gathered to celebrate. There were music and people were dancing in the flood waters.

We decided to join them. With an addition of a bottle of vintage Port from our hotel room, we sat in a water bound café and drank and danced until the early hours of the next day. The hangover was epic, but it was worth it for a night I will never forget.

I have been thinking about that night for a lot of reasons lately.

One is because my buddy Rich has been in my thoughts.  His “and then,” has been a running joke with us for over 30 years. Whenever one of us is kibitzing and have lost the point of the story the other will almost always inquire of the other “and then” as a furtive plea to get on with it.

Sometimes when we ask “And then” we will not understand the answer. It is then we need to have faith. Faith that while you may not get to where you set out for you you will get to the place you need to be.

And who knows It might even be an unforgettable night.

A Brazilian breakfast is quite different than an American one.

A typical American breakfast might be a couple of eggs prepared the way you like them along, a rasher or two of bacon or breakfast meat of choice (Taylor Ham in Jersey), toast, juice and coffee. You could replace or add to the egg’s, pancakes, waffles, or cornflakes. Regardless of what is included it is designed to be a substantial meal that will stick to your bones so your hunger will not get the best of you before lunch.

A typical Brazilian breakfast is a tad lighter. There is bread (pao.) Cheese (queijo) and occasionally those two together (Pao De Queijo) served with some fruit (we like papaya (mamao)). Coffee is served hot, never cold and please, we are not savages, do not serve cold milk with our coffee.

I enjoy my Brazilian breakfast when I am here. It seems fitting for my environment although after 6 weeks here I would kill for a Taylor ham, 2 eggs over easy, cheese on a Kaiser roll.

Despite the differences there is one aspect of breakfast that is the same in both countries. That is, one spouse hiding behind the veil of a newspaper while the other slowly drinks their coffee and stares off into space contemplating the day ahead. In our case, at least in Brazil, Elaine is the rabid consumer of newsprint and I the dreamer. I do not begrudge her this. One of the reasons that we are compatible with each other is that we both are rabid consumers of the news and love to debate political ideas and concepts.

I am delighted to say that while most often we agree with each other we sometimes do not which just adds spice to the relationship.

As I do not have a newspaper to start my day, I often annoy Elaine by asking her about how Globo (The Newspaper) is reporting the days events. I do this because it is often boring staring off into the middle space but I do actually want to know what is going on here in Brazil and it is difficult to get an English news source on the events in this country. Sometimes this is mundane information. For example, the police arresting a bikinied woman who was violating the cities ban on populating the beaches. And sometimes it is far more pertinent to me e.g. Flights to the United States have been cancelled until further notice.

Yesterday’s news started out mundane but as the story progressed became more and more relevant to me.

News reports had been circulating all day that a Justice Minister was going to resign. Not big news in my world. I only live here part time, I do not vote here, and ministers resign all the time. However, as the story developed, I saw more and more parallels to the US and its relevance increased.

The Justice Minister, Sergio Moro, the equivalent of our Attorney General (separate position here in Brazil), was resigning because the President (Jair Bolsonaro) was demanding he fire the Chief of the Federal Police (equivalent to the FBI) Moro, a former federal judge who had achieved prominence as the head of Brazil’s operation Car Wash that rooted out huge amounts of political corruption in the country and led to the removal of a President from office and the imprisonment of another, claimed that Bolsonaro wanted the police chief removed because he wouldn’t provide access to investigative files on his two sons. Moro, whose reputation as a corruption fighter bolstered the President’s faltering approval ratings, said he was resigning because while the President has the right to fire anyone, he does not have the right to investigative files. Especially when those two files are about his children.

Part of my fascination with this story was that Bolsonaro is often described as a mini Trump (Trumpette, if you prefer.) The parallels between Trumps dismissal of James Comey and his continual interference with the Justice system and this case are uncanny and undeniable as are the inclusion of his two sons in the political process. But what really hooked me was that one of the crimes Bolsonaro’s son was being accused of was spreading fake news.

Similar to the United States, Brazilians have the constitutional right to free speech. However, in this country the law also states that “hate speech” and “fake news” are not protected free speech. Both have specific criminal statutes and you can be arrested for either. It made me wonder, in this day and age, should the US pass a law prohibiting the creation and distribution of fake news?

In the US all of our constitutional rights are limited rights. This means while you have the right to bear and keep Arms, you cannot own a thermonuclear missile. It means despite your right to free speech, you cannot yell fire in a crowded theatre. In general, our rights are limited by their infringement on other citizens rights or constitutional guarantees. In the case of 2^nd Amendment, the government can limit the type of weapons you can own. With the 1^st Amendment restrictions apply to incitement, defamation, fraud, obscenity, child pornography, fighting words, and threats.

Thinking about the fake news that is put out by people like Rush Limbaugh, Alex Jones and others of the same ilk or the political memes that come from the right, almost all of them fall within the restrictions to free speech. Yet they continue because there is no adequate remedy to their transgressions. You cannot put the feathers back into the pillow once they have escaped. The fake news spreads as fast as a malicious virus and the infection it causes chokes off the free speech of others because the real news is lost in the fog of the fake.

Donald Trump uses this to his advantage every day. He spits out fake news or false stories and then calls the working press out as fake news which, to some, makes one undisguisable from another. It means that at times of national crisis we do not know who to trust and in the case of Covid19 this has led to 1000s if not 10s of 1000s death.

So shouldn’t we follow Brazil’s lead. Shouldn’t we create a law that makes the creation and distribution of fake news a criminal act. It would certainly allow for a better dialogue. And who knows we might get lucky and indict Donald and his sons.

Discuss over breakfast. Perhaps your spouse will put down the paper

It was an unlikely occurrence.

It was the late summer of 1964 and my brother David, age 8, and I, age 7, found ourselves on a bus from the Aenon Baptist Church from Vauxhall, New Jersey. What made it unlikely is Vauxhall NJ is a predominantly African American town and the Aenon Baptist Church served that community. What were two white, Jewish little boys doing on that bus?

The simple answer is Naomi Stewart, a very robust African American woman with an outsized personality and a generous heart who came to our home several times a week to clean and occasionally babysit my brother and me. A mother of 5 children she did not take a lot of nonsense from us but at the same time knew how to give love. Her hugs were everything hugs should be: warm, enveloping, and soothing. Thy smelled faintly of floor wax.

Those hugs were especially important on November 22, 1963. She is the one who came to my brother’s and my school to pick us up as both of our parents were working. It was she who broke the news of JFK’s death (The school didn’t tell us why we were being dismissed early) and she who held us as we sat in front of our small black and white television as the news of that day developed and held us close as she cried.

We loved her immensely even when she would take off her wig to frighten us. And I believe she loved us back.

That year the New York Worlds Fair had opened in Flushing Meadows New York. It had a Camelotian  theme of “Peace Through Understanding”, dedicated to “Man’s Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe”. The fair covered over 600 acres and boasted 140 pavilions, 110 restaurants,  with 80  nations and 24 US states, and over 45 corporations exhibiting. Naturally, every kid in the tri state area and probably further wanted to see the wonderment and the fun that the Fair represented. David and I were no different. I recall we hounded our parents to take us to the fair in the way that only kids can. Unrelenting and not taking no for answer. Unfortunately, both of our parents worked and, as a consequence, could not take us. When Naomi offered to take us with her church group they jumped at the chance to send us.

I have no idea what my parents were thinking sending us with an African American Church Group to the Worlds Fair. I am pretty sure they realized that we would stand out a bit from the rest of the group. My guess is that they either thought nothing of it (good for them) or they thought about it a lot and decided that it would be good character development for us (also, good for them.) They clearly had confidence that we could handle it (good for David and me) I have little recollection of the bus ride to or from the fair which seems to suggest that it was not that traumatic an experience for me even though David has a distinct memory of someone flicking matches at us for no apparent reason.

I remember the fair itself in Kodachrome with bright sunlit skies of French blue and colors a shade or two off from reality. Designs were postmodern and jet age: an interesting combination of rockets incorporated into everything or stark minimalist design where function outweighed form. I don’t recall that David and I were chaperoned at the fair. I believe, and this is kind of horrifying in this day and age, the group sending us off on our own and telling us to regroup at a certain time.

David and I covered a good amount of the fair that day. I distinctly remember the Unisphere Fountain, the spherical steel representation of the earth that was the symbol of the fair. I loved the Sinclair Oil exhibit because for a piece of change you could get an instantly molded replica of Dino the dinosaur (3d printing has nothing on that.) David particularly loved the GM exhibit “Futurerama” which depicted car designs of the future (none of which happened) and reminded me of the Jetsons and a ride that simulated flying across a future world dominated by technology and high design. We both were space geeks and totally in love with astronauts and the space program so we naturally loved the NASA exhibit which had life size representations of the rockets the space program was using at that time. But far and away our favorite exhibit, and the star of the show was the “It’s A Small World Exhibit” created by Walt Disney and sponsored by Pepsi Cola and UNICEF.

The ride was created to be a salute to the children of the world that hoped to promote the theme of the fair “Peace Through Understanding.” To enter the ride, you would board little boats that would take you gently through animatronic displays of children from around the world while listening to that ear worm song “It’s a Small World Afterall.”

It’s a world of laughter
A world of tears
It’s a world of hopes
And a world of fears
There’s so much that we share
That it’s time we’re aware
It’s a small world after all

It’s a small world after all
It’s a small world after all
It’s a small world after all
It’s a small, small world

There is just one moon
And one golden sun
And a smile means
Friendship to ev’ryone
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It’s a small world after all

It’s a small world after all
It’s a small world after all
It’s a small world after all
It’s a small, small world

Leaving the exhibit, you could not help but be amazed at the technology that provided such a realistic version of children singing but you were also impressed by the fact that we were a global community. That children, were children everywhere. No matter what they looked like, no matter the form of government these kids could be your buddies. As a child of an immigrant this was a particularly gripping message.

However, the true art of the exhibit was not the technology, not the song, or even the fact that children of the world could unite in friendship. It was the idea fostered by UNICEF. That buddies helped buddies. That there were kids, just like you, from different places who didn’t have it as good as you did. They were hungry and needy and you should help them because they were the buddies that you never met. And when a friend fell down, you helped them up, without expecting anything in return.  Which is why for years afterward you would carry an orange UNICEF box around when you trick or treated. You couldn’t share your candy with your friends from afar but you could help them by collecting a few pennies.

From what I understand, even 50+ years after its creation it is the most played song in the world which might be in part caused by it being played constantly at Disney Parks in Small World Exhibits across the globe. Considering the theme of the ride,  this is both appropriate and delightful.  It also means the theme that we are all in this together is the most popular theme in the world…a theme that is endorsed and promoted by the most American of American companies: Walt Disney.

This earworm of a song popped into my head the other day. The nature of earworms are that you cannot shake them loose. It’s sweet melody and lyrics on endless repeat for hours. I am pretty sure that the cause of this endless repeat was I was an article in the New York Times, “What Is It Like Self Isolating In a Studio Apartment.” (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/04/20/style/studio-apartment-coronavirus.html?searchResultPosition=1 ) Clearly not the intention of the song. But it fit the times and my sense of irony.

But it was this flight of whimsy that t made me think about how small most of our worlds have become.

For most of us self-isolating, we are now confined to a small container that was mostly designed to keep our stuff. (Thanks George Carlin) The larger world beyond our door or property line has faded into soft memories. It gets easier each day to forget the hum drum that used to populate every day life such as commuting,  going to the gym and standing in line at the deli for a particularly delicious Sloppy Joe sandwich (you guys from Jersey will understand) It gets easier and easier to draw our lives like the New Yorker magazines illustration “The New Yorkers View of the World” with our 4 walls the focus and everything nearby in smaller and smaller print.

In these situations, it is easy to fall into the pattern of considering only “me and mine” when making decisions. After all, they are the only world you see every day. I am sure that this is the subliminal motivations behind those protesting the self-isolating rules. An alternative theory might be the people who are protesting these rules are really tired of the company they are keeping. Which, considering their views, seems highly probable.

But for the generations of us who grew up with “It’s A Small Small World” that was not that the message the writers, Richard and Robert Sherman, intended. They saw, over 50 years ago, that the world was shrinking. That it was to consider the world as a whole, not as individual unit. That the global war that had preceded it and that the technological marvels of the jet age were likely to link countries, continents, and peoples in ways not  imagined a generation earlier. They couldn’t possibly grasp the science being perfected as they wrote the song would create technologies would create personal computers, internet and smart phones all of which allow us to travel the globe whether we could leave the house or not creating an even far smaller world.

I know that the little boy who took the little boat through a small world was taken by the optimism of the song. The vision of a world where we were all brothers and sisters. Where if a country stumbles another would help guide it through its troubles. Of course, I was 7. I knew nothing of the world except how to be positive…not a horrible thing. But I contend, the type of optimism, the vision of a connected, mutually dependent world where cooperation…a small small world agenda  is a far better path than current MAGA agenda. perpetrated by Donald Trump and Fox News.

The MAGA agenda is a cynical one. Make America great again is not at all about making us great. We were already great. It was about making America transactional. You need help, great, what will you give me in return. And then make them pay, through the nose, for whatever you supply them with.

This is a fundamentally flawed proposition both from an operational and a philosophical point of view. Operationally, it is almost always better to ask “How Can I Help” and work out the deal points later in terms that allow the client some room to grow and prosper.

The former is a great short-term strategy but fails in the long term because as soon as the customer can, they will bolt for another provider because you act the part of a bully demanding your due. No one cares to do business with a bully. And bully’s get a reputation and once you have that reputation it is hard to shake.

The small small world agenda is a far better strategy. When you ask “How can I help?” you do business as a friend. Human nature is that people like doing business with a friend which creates long term stable relationships that can survive all manor of hardships because friends have your back. A friends reputation is far more resilient than that of a bully.

Trump’s MAGA philosophy makes us a bully and it is already taking its toll. Countries resent us instead of embracing us. Anecdotally, here in Brazil, the media is reporting how we are unfairly trying to corner the market on Covid19 necessities such as masks, PPG, ventilators and testing supplies. They feel bullied by us and have turned to China for help.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe the US has an obligation to get the supplies it needs to protect its citizens but we shouldn’t bully. We should use the example of the lend/lease program during the 2^nd World War as example of how to treat this crisis. It is a small small world philosophy to use the Defense Production Act to gear up production equipment and supply the world with these vital supplies. Cannot pay now? Fine we got your back, pay us back when you can. The lend/lease program led to victory in the war but it also led to more than a half century of relative peace and prosperity.

The MAGA philosophy means we are missing this opportunity. China is not. It is embracing the world and supplying it with what it can to help tamp down Covid 19

Trump’s make America great again policies are leading to our decline.

What this have to do with the “It’s A Small Small World Exhibit” at the Worlds Fair. In 1964 Donald Trump been 18 years old and recently graduated from the New York Military Academy. He no doubt would have attended the Fair it was close to his home. I am  convinced that either he didn’t go to the Disney exhibit because the line was too long or it was not sufficiently macho. Or, perhaps he did get on one of those little boats but was too busy trying to “grab a girls pxxsy” to pay attention to the meaning of the exhibit:

It is too late for any type of remedial training for Donald Trump. He is irremediable. But I find it amusing to think of him sitting in one of those tiny boats endless looping through “Its Small Small World” exhibit.

While it is too late for Donald it is not to late t for us to remember that we are all in this together. It is up to us to extend a hand when we see our “buddy” needs help. It is a small small  world and what goes around comes around

In April 1988 I had one of the great jobs in the world.

 
I was the Beverage Alcohol Manager of Rolling Stone Magazine. It meant that I sold advertising to the spirit, beer, and wine companies. That is right, I was getting paid to drink and listen to Rock and Roll Music. A very sweet gig. Especially considering I was on an expense account and the magazine was on a tear. We had nearly doubled the magazine’s revenue in the last few years and were recognized as one of the “hottest” properties in the country.

 
What made this job even better was that I worked with some of the best and smartest people with whom I have ever worked. They saw their jobs beyond that of just selling advertising. They believed, as did The Blues Brothers, they were on a mission from God to make the advertising world embrace Rolling Stone.

 
They threw epic parties. I met everyone from Hunter S. Thompson to Yoko Ono to Jacqueline Onassis to Jackson Brown. And without getting too many details it was the roaring eighties and I could get weed delivered via interoffice mail.

 
But what made it special and extraordinary for me is that I loved what the magazine represented. Most people thought it was about Rock and Roll. But from the beginning Jann Wenner, the founder, had said that it would be about “Rock and Roll and all the things that rock was about” which pretty much covered everything. But to Jann that meant that it was about social justice and politics and to that end he hired some of the most brilliant journalist of the time to cover these subjects. Folks like Hunter Thompson, PJ O’Rourke, and William Greider to name just a few.

 
We took the popular culture and made it relevant. And important.

 
But that April I was especially proud because Rolling Stone’s cover story was not about Guns N Roses, Van Halen, or U2. It was of Martin Luther King Jr. The theme of the issue was “Portrait of a Generation” where the editors had commissioned a survey to find out the likes and dislikes of the generation just then coming of age. MLK had made the cover because he was far and away the most admired person of our generation.

 
I completely agreed with that designation. Some of my earliest memories of television were of George Wallace trying to deny African American students entrance to the University of Alabama and of black protesters being attacked by police with fire hoses and dogs. His message of equality. At the time, and still, I could not understand how someone could hate another based on the color of their skin (or faith…my father had already begun to teach me about the shoah) His words “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character” spoke to me directly.

 
I was proud of the magazine that day. It reminded us, 20 years after his assassination, the power of his legacy and our obligation to continue to fight for equality and justice for all as the bedrock American value.

 
I recalled all of this the other day when a friend of mine told me about an incident that happened to her niece who is of Asian heritage. She was out for a walk, getting some social distance respecting- self isolating exercise while walking her dog in her reasonably affluent neighborhood in Southern California when a neighbor yelled “Go back to china you fuck.” This broke my heart. I have been the subject of racial epithets a good part of my life and know how small and marginalized it makes you feel. Moreover, there is no good response to this type of racism. You can fight them physically which I did often when I was younger but these days would likely get you arrested. You could hurl insults back to them such as “Fuck you , you fuckity fuck fuck.” But then you are just giving them what they want which is a response so even it lacks full satisfaction.

 
But what saddens me the most is that in the current Trumpian climate in America that this type of verbal vomit is not unexpected or even reviled by many. It made me wonder what happened to this generation where Martin Luther King was our hero to now where overt and subtle racism fills our lives on a nearly daily basis.

 
The examples are easy to find.

 
I am pretty sure we all have friends who believe that white privilege does not exist and in fact believe that white males are actively discriminated against. They often use anecdotal evidence such as the number of African American Dads in commercials as opposed to white males to make their points. The reason they don’t use hard facts is because they don’t exist. It is clearly easier being white in this country than being of color. Every statistic point to it. Employment, education, maternal mortality rate. Even death rate for the Covid 19 virus. So why do so many deny white privilege? Because it is easier to say than I don’t believe in racial equality. That I am embracing racism.

 
I know people who believe, with reverence, that Christians are the most discriminated religion in the world. They point to things such as how in certain middle eastern and African countries Christian suffer mightily because of their faith. They say in the US that evangelical Christians are discriminated against in academia, employment, and their ability to practice their religion they want to (eg anti vax). I have seen no scientific study to bolster these facts and most of the time their argument boils down to my religion is more important than yours and because of that you need to give up your rights. This is opposed, to all religious views will be tolerated so their can be no religious test to things like gay discrimination or reproductive rights to name just a few.

 
Being a Christian in the US is far easier than being Muslim. Being a Christian in the US is far easier than being Jewish. The reason for certain sectors to call for religious discrimination is no more than excuse to spew vile at others. I can hate Muslims because they hate my religion. I have no doubt than MLK jr would be appalled.

 
Bill Maher, the libertarian talk show host and comic, spent a few minutes on why it was perfectly okay to call Covid 19 the Chinese virus during one of his broadcasts. He sited among other things the Zica virus and the Spanish Flu as examples of viruses that were named for places and therefore it was legitimate to give a place designation to the virus. What he failed in mentioning is that Zica is a named for the Zica forest in Brazil where it was first found and we don’t call it the Brazil virus. The Spanish Flu was not named for where the outbreak first took place but for the only country not hiding the illness and accurately reporting on the disease. By both of those naming nomenclatures Covid 19 should either be called the Wuhan Virus or the USA virus. Not the Chinese virus.

 
The only reason I can think of calling it the Chinese Virus is racism or perhaps xenophobia. And Dr.King asked to judge people by the content of their heart…

 
What happened to us that in the time of national crisis, when we are fighting an enemy that is an equal opportunity infector (although minorities suffer more and die at a higher rate due to income and health care inequities) that we feel that it is okay to throw out racial epithets? Shouldn’t this be a time where we come together as a nation and say “Fuck you Fuckity Fuck Disease” we are going to kick your ass through unity and brotherhood?

 
Don’t we as a generation want to embrace more of Martin Luther King Jr equality for all and less of Donald Trump’s model of hatred and racial division?

 
I know that there are many people out there who are frightened of the disease, frightened of change, frightened of losing your place in the world as you see it. But I beg you, that instead embracing racism and hate because they make you feel less frightened, less alone and allows you to give vent to your anger, to reject it and embrace the fact that we can only succeed by coming together.

 
Lets use Covid 19 to come together as a country let alone a world. Lets keep Dr, Kings message and hope alive. Let that be the portrait of our generation.