CHAPTER 10
Momma had thirteen 'tappings' (fluid removed from her lungs).
Each time she had to be hospitalized. At times when she would
think she was going to die, she asked me to stay with her
during the night. I would sit in the chair next to her bed.
During those long, quiet hours I had time to think of many
things, and look back to past years.
When I was about thirteen, my brother and I were sitting in
the living room listening to the radio. It was hot, and
suddenly Momma appeared with a seltzer bottle and started
spraying us. Sammy and I each grabbed a seltzer bottle and we
were all running after each other spraying soda water. We, as
well as the furniture, got wet, but we had such a good time,
and laughed so much.
I felt sad that my baby, unlike his brother, would not get to
know his Bubby. She was a great grandma, loving and
affectionate, and always trying to feed them.
Each time she went into the hospital for a tapping, I would
arrange to have someone take care of Louis. I would drop him
off, drive my husband to work, and then go to the hospital to
be with her. In the afternoon I would reverse the procedure.
Upon arriving home I would first start preparing our meal,
straighten up the house, do the laundry, do shopping, and
whatever else was necessary.
One afternoon, on my way home from the hospital, I was
pulling into my neighbor's driveway to pick up my little boy
when I heard him screaming. I ran in to find that his right
arm was badly burned. The neighbor told me that some boiling
water had spilled on him around nine that morning!
I was shocked and furious when she told me she had not called
or taken him to a doctor because she thought it might get
better! I immediately called my pediatrician. He said to wrap
his arm in plastic wrap and bring him in right away. He had
second degree burns that took a full year to heal.
I was convinced that "Somebody up there" didn't like me.
First my own spinal surgery, then Steve's baseball accident,
then the housekeeper and Louis falling down the stairs, then
the fire, then my mother's illness, and now this. All of it
happening one right after the other, with no chance to
recuperate from one 'blow' before the next one came. When
will it stop? I asked, looking up at the sky.
One night, seven months after her surgery, Momma passed away.
I was sitting by her hospital bed stroking her hand. Although
her death was expected, when it came, it was traumatic. The
actual loss, the fact itself, was painful and wrenching. It
was as if something inside me was being torn or ripped out of
me. I cried uncontrollably while hugging the wall outside her
room. At times I banged it angrily with my fists. She was 66
years old.
When I finally left the hospital and returned home to tell my
family what happened, my husband informed me that my older
son's previous injury suddenly was causing him much pain. The
doctor said he would need to have the operation that they'd
thought they could avoid months before. We had to rush him to
the hospital. They said they would have the operating room
ready.
We made the ride in record time. I do not remember getting
out of the car, but I do recall standing in a dimly lit
hospital corridor after seeing my son taken into the
operating room. I was grief-stricken over my mother's passing
just hours before, and now I was filled with worry over my
son's condition. I suddenly began to cry, like a gushing
waterfall, and couldn't stop. The next thing I knew it was
morning. A nurse had given me a tranquilizer and put me in an
available bed for the remainder of the night. Steve's
operation was successful, Boruch Hashem, and I went to my
mother's funeral.
Soon after Momma's passing, my stepfather told me he was
moving in with us. I had mixed emotions. I was pleased that
he wanted to be with me, but I was concerned because he and
my husband did not get along well. I could not tell him not
to come, so he moved in, sharing a bedroom with my younger
son.
About four months went by fairly smoothly, when my stepfather
became ill. He had to have a fairly common operation for
older men. Things were going well after surgery. The
following night, at around ten thirty, the doctor called,
telling me to get to the hospital right away to try and calm
my step-father. He had pulled the IV tube out of his arm.
There was blood everywhere, on him, the nurse, and the
walls.
Another nightmare to deal with. Another loved one suffering!
I ran to the hospital, and fortunately, I was able to quiet
him down. He was very frightened. I stayed with him, talking
to him until the sedative took effect and he fell asleep. I
then went home to do the same thing, exhausted, and drained
from the experience.
Boruch Hashem he recuperated, but he was not happy. He found
it difficult to live on Long Island, so far away from his
friends and the things he liked to do. He became irritable at
little things. He was also still very concerned about his
health. Finally, he and my husband had a big argument. He
wanted me to 'take his side' and could not understand that I
could not do that. I begged them both to try to resolve their
problem, but I was not successful.
A few weeks later when I was out of the house for several
hours, my stepfather moved out. He did not tell me he was
leaving, or where he was going. He did not say goodbye. He
just left. I never heard from him, or of him, again. I called
his friends to see if they knew anything. They told me he
said he was returning to his native country to die.
I did not want to believe what I heard. I did not know from
which city or town he came, or any relatives he might have
had. I didn't know whom to contact or where to go to find out
anything about him, and neither did any of his friends.
My feeling of rejection was deep and painful. Didn't he know
I loved him? Didn't he love me? Why did he do this? Did my
not "siding with him" hurt him so deeply that he left without
even a goodbye. I lived with this rejection for some time.
When I was able to focus away from myself, I looked at his
life from his point of view.
He lost my mother, moved to an environment alien to his own
where he had no friends, and then became ill. He was worried
about his health and did not get along with my husband. And
perhaps he felt I did not love him. Whatever the reasons, I
hope he found peace and contentment.
Unfortunately, I am not, although I would like to be, at the
spiritual level that makes me happy instead of sad, while I
am experiencing suffering. I'm working on it.
Through my experiences as an educator, and in my personal and
business dealings, I have learned the importance of
repetition and review. G-d, in His infinite wisdom,
consistently clarifies my knowledge and understanding, and
strengthens my trust, by testing me repeatedly regarding a
particular correction I need to make.
He knows, better than I do, when I have come to believe, and
at what level I am at, intellectually, and emotionally, at
any given time. I have learned that only when Hashem
determines it is time for me to move on, and work on
something else that needs perfecting, does He give me new,
appropriate tests.
Sometimes I pass them, and sometimes, unfortunately, I don't.
There is also no guarantee that I won't, on occasion, slip
backwards. I see how repetition and review, via various,
subtle and not so subtle situations, are some of the ways
Hashem helps me make and enforce necessary changes in how I
think and feel, and therefore, in how I behave.
