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Unexpected Acts of Kindness

My husband's kindness“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” This quote is getting thousands of “Likes” on Facebook, but do we really practice kindness in our everyday lives?

In March of 2002, my husband Rex and I moved to a small fixer upper in Palos Verdes. Our next door neighbor is a single guy named Mark. He is barely 30, and like Rex, enjoys schmoozing in the driveway about home improvement. Rex invites Mark to one of his plays at the university, and that’s where we meet his fiancee Karen.  They get married, Karen moves in next door, and before long they’re raising a family. No matter how busy they get, they remain our “go to” neighbors when we go on vacation or need a favor.

As their children begin to grow, my husband’s health begins to decline. At first it’s almost imperceptible, but as the years progress he becomes increasingly tired with bouts of confusion. On an ordinary day in January, 2014, I drive to the Westside to babysit my son and daughter-in-law’s 4 kids. As soon as they leave for their “date,” I get an urgent call on my cell phone. “Rex is in his car in the driveway,” my neighbor Karen says. “The car alarm is going off and he’s just sitting there, staring into space.”

I’m with 4 kids under 10, even if I could leave them, it would take me an hour and a half to get home in traffic. I tell her I’ll call her back and start making some calls. Meanwhile, Karen brings Rex into my house and manages to turn off the car alarm. Her kids come over too, because Mark isn’t home and they’re too young to be alone. Fortunately, I reach my step-daughter who agrees to drive from Burbank and stay with her dad until I can get home.

By the time I get there Rex is running a high fever. I call 911 and he’s taken by ambulance to Torrance Memorial Hospital. Everything happens fast, and before I know it he’s having his gallbladder removed. The doctor-on-call tells me not to worry; everything else checks out fine and he’ll be ready to go home in a few days. Even though he’s given a clean bill of health, as I reflect on it now, that was the beginning of the end.

On July 28th, 2016, Rex took another emergency trip to Torrance Memorial. This time I have my own doctor involved, and she personally runs all the tests that should have been run in 2014. By noon the next day we have a diagnosis: Stage 4 Cancer. We do surgery, we do radiation, we do everything possible. But on September 17th, 2016, my sweet husband dies in a hospital bed at home and none of us knows what hit us.

With all the funeral arrangements and commotion in our family, I forget to tell Karen and Mark. About 3 weeks go by when Karen knocks on my door to ask about Rex. “Oh Karen, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. He passed away 3 weeks ago.” She stands on my doorstep as tears start flooding her eyes. “We loved him,” she sobs. “Mark is going to be devastated.”

The next few months go by in a blur. I do all the household chores and try to keep it together. I continue going to my daughter’s house in Costa Mesa on Mondays to watch her kids. On those days I don’t get home until after 7 pm. Monday is garbage day, so I try to get the cans out on Sunday nights.

One Monday night when I get home, I notice that my empty cans have already been taken in.  The neighbors on my other side were also very helpful when Rex was sick, so maybe it was them. Oh wait, I’m close to the rabbi who lives around the corner, so it could have been him. I have no idea who my “Secret Angel” is, and I want to find out so I can thank them.

The next Monday night as I’m driving home, I see Mark and his 10 year old son Bobby in front of my house.  They’re wheeling my garbage cans to the side yard.  I roll down my car window and call out, “Are you the one who’s been doing this for the past few weeks? He looks like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “We try to,” he answers sheepishly; “it’s no big deal.”

The next day I see him alone in his driveway and go over. “Thank you so much, Mark,” I say. “You don’t have to do this every week, really.” He smiles at me with a look of embarrassment and says, “I want Bobby to learn about neighbors and chores. And besides,” he pauses with a catch in his throat, “I loved Rex. I want to do this for him.”

That was a year ago and they still take out my garbage on Sunday nights and return the cans on Monday, without saying a word. A few months ago, when the fog in my brain started to lift, I bought Bobby a junior size football that he freely retrieves from my backyard whenever it goes over the fence. For Thanksgiving I made them all a huge gift basket with gummy bears and other kid friendly treats.  They’re always appreciative, but they don’t need gifts or recognition.  Their acts of kindness seem to be helping them and much as it does me.

A few weeks ago I knocked on their door, because an unfamiliar car was blocking my driveway. When Karen answers, one of her friends hears me and appologizes profusely. “I was just dropping off my kids, I’ll move my car in a second.” I start chatting with Bobby and his 9 years old sister Julie. We’re laughing about our dogs digging under the fence so they can play together. Julie is very talkative and I’m enjoying the friendly banter with my next door neighbors’ kids.

I few days later, I get home from work feeling tired and cranky. As I approach my front door I see a pink gift bag with ribbons overflowing. Inside there is a handmade card and on the front it says: “A little Gift for…” I open it and it says, “YOU! Look in this bag! I made this for you!! “Love, JuJulie's gift of kindnesslie!” I rummage through the bag and I find it: a 2 inch wide heart, made from over 30 pink beads. It’s adorable! This 9 year old child’s gesture has touched me beyond words.

It’s easy to resort to self-pity when you lose someone you love. Believe me, I’ve done more than my share. Yet who would have thought that the single guy next door would morph into this beautiful, loving family? Their unexpected acts of kindness have been instrumental in helping to lift my spirits.

They make me think of all the other caring people who’ve been there for me since I lost my husband.  I am so grateful. Acts of kindness remind us of our shared humanity. For the past year and a half I’ve been the recipient, and now it is time to pay it forward. The greatest acts of kindness are helping others without expecting anything in return. In Hebrew we call it a Mitzvah. And what better way to honor the memory of my dear husband Rex.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

 

 

 

Caution: Set Designer at Work

 

Our Town backdrop
Our Town backdrop

My husband Rex was a brilliant set designer. He did his best work in the scene shop behind the theatre at Cal State Dominguez Hills, where we worked together for 25 years.

The shop was 50 x 100 feet with 30 foot ceilings, and every inch had a designated purpose. There was a long work bench along the north wall with power saws spinning, and the smell of sawdust everywhere. To me it sounded like a dentist’s office, but to Rex it was wonderland and he was in his glory. He was proud to be working with students and helping them build the sets he’d designed. When it was all put together I’d find him alone on stage, hanging from a cherry picker to touch up the paint.

Backdrop for theatre design
Here’s To Love

I loved coming into the shop to check on a set for a show I was directing. I’d call out his name and my voice would echo in the large concrete room. When he saw me, Rex’s face would light up. He’d always stop what he was doing and take a break. We’d go outside to catch up on our day, laugh about the students who were driving us nuts, and enjoy a high octane cup of coffee. Soon he’d go back to work and get lost again in the thing he loved more than anything in the world.

It was fascinating to watch Rex work, especially when he was painting a backdrop. There was a paint frame along the east wall of the shop. He hung the muslin for his drop along the top of the frame. With a push of a button, the frame would go up so he could reach the bottom with his brush. With another push of the button the frame went down, so he could paint along the top.

Backdrop for Gypsy
Gypsy: Farm Boys drop

He usually had students working the paint frame. They loved watching him transform a piece of muslin into a masterpiece. It could be the skyline of New York for Guys and Dolls, a sunny field with bales of hay for Oklahoma, or a quaint New England villiage complete with church and steeple for our favorite, Our Town.

I was one of the few who knew his secret weapon. Rex used a spray gun to create highlights and shadows. He used it with the focus of an orchestra conductor. He’d draw an outline of the scenery on the canvas, while a student mixed paint at the sink near the frame. Then he’d lay in the details, grab his gun and off he’d go. My husband was John Wayne of the paint frame, spraying in subtleties of color like he was waving a magic wand.

Backdrop for Guys and Dolls
Guys and Dolls

Rex was a genius, there’s no argument there. His need to create beautiful art was unrelenting. But like most geniuses, he had little concern for his own well-being while he was working. The hours he spent spraying paint on canvas without a mask, are too numerous to recount. And in the early days, he’d have a cigarette in his hand at the same time. Spray–breathe in fumes, spray–breathe in cigarette smoke, spray– and create phenomenal art.

guys and dolls backdrop
Guys and Dolls: Sewer drop

My husband’s work was astonishing, but he could have lived so much longer if he wasn’t so reckless with his health. Was that the madness of an artistic genius?  I knew I was talented, but I was jealous of Rex’s genius.  Maybe I was lucky to be spared. As the saying goes, “Talent does what it can and genius does what it must.” 

And now you are gone my love and I am alone. I’m angry and sad, and I miss you every single day.

Sydell Weiner, February 23, 2018

 

I Used to Be Pretty

I used to be pretty, I mean cheerleader, actress, head-turning pretty. Fortunately, I was also smart. I learned early that it would take more than I used to Be Prettygood looks to make my way in the world. And as much as I’m struggling with aging, it’s harder for women whose identities revolved around their husbands, their children and their fleeting good looks.

I always felt an urgency to craft a meaningful life.  My mother died at 44, so I knew first hand that life could be short.  I calculated the most likely path to success and pursued a Ph.D.  According to plan, I secured a tenure-track position at a state university and thought I had it all figured out. Aging wasn’t going to mess with me.

What I hadn’t figured out was how older women are treated in our society. Granted, I live in Los Angeles, the land of the young and beautiful.  But it seems to be pervasive; as women age they are often dismissed as irrelevant. “What could you say that would interest me?”  Or if you walk a little slower, the unspoken response is often, “Hurry up, get out of my way, I have things to do.” The corollary being that you, as an older woman, do not.

I retired from the university in 2011, and my husband retired in 2010. He had a history of smoking and youthful bouts of alcoholism, which aged him prematurely. He loved to go to Starbucks for a latte with whipped cream and a gooey French pastry. Since Rite Aid was only 2 stores away, stopping there before Starbucks became part of his daily routine.

Every day he’d pick up band aids, or shaving cream, or toothpaste, or whatever single item gave him an excuse to go to Rite Aid. He grew up working in the hayfields, so he never felt comfortable with the PhD’s at the university. But going to Rite Aid became his way of connecting with his “peeps.” The clerks and check-out people all loved him because he took the time to talk to them, and often had them laughing in the aisles.

As my husband’s health began to decline, so did his trips to Rite Aid. When I started picking up his medications, I was greeted with questions, advice, and many well wishes. I gave them constant updates, but when I told them he was on Hospice their pitying looks cut right through my heart. Hospice delivered his medications  at home, and I was frankly relieved that I no longer had to face his friends at Rite Aid.

On September 17, 2016, Rex died peacefully at home. Even though I was still in my 60’s, I suddenly felt terribly old. My daughter and daughter-in-law sprang into action and took over the arrangements. In Jewish law the burial should take place within 48 hours of a death, so there were a lot of preparations for the gathering at my house 2 days later. I appreciated the help of my 2 beautiful girls, but I felt useless and extraneous as the activity swirled around me.

It was several months before I went back to Rite Aid for some prescriptions of my own. I was in sloppy clothes, with no make-up, and felt about ten years older. It broke my heart to tell his “peeps” that he had passed away. They all made sympathetic remarks and couldn’t have been nicer. But something had changed. From that point on, they would always see me as “Rex’s widow.” The sad looks in their eyes made me want to run out screaming every time I bumped into someone he knew.

About 10 months ago I went into the pharmacy looking worse than I had in my entire life. Yeah, grief has a way of doing that to you. I asked for my medications hoping there would be someone at the counter that I didn’t know. Of course Linda was there, and she greeted me with those pitying eyes that seemed to say, “Oh, you poor pathetic creature, how hard it must be to be old and alone.” I know I’m projecting because she was sweet as could be, but I’d gained 15 pounds and looked like hell.

Linda put my medications on the counter and directed me to insert my card into the payment machine. The first screen came up. “Press the X in the right hand corner,” she told me, before I had even read what was on the screen. As soon as the next screen came up she blurted, “Check the box if you want a consultation.” When the 3rd screen came up, without even waiting a second, she instructed: “Sign on the bottom line and hit Next.”

This went on for several months. I know she meant well, but she prompted me on every screen before I could even read what it said. I started to feel nervous at the counter and afraid I couldn’t answer the questions on my own. Was I just a feeble old lady who couldn’t even handle an ATM machine? I’d finally had enough and had to speak up. “There’s some ageism going on here. You keep feeding me directions without giving me 3 seconds to read them myself. It makes me feel so demeaned.  Please have some respect!”

I grabbed my medications, stormed out of the store, and transferred to another pharmacy.  What I really wanted to say was: “I used to be pretty! I have a PhD and I can take care of myself. Don’t you dare treat me like an old lady!” Standing on the sidewalk outside the store I began to sob. Maybe that’s who I am to the rest of the world now. The thought horrified me and I worried if I’d ever feel whole again.

Some time has passed and I’m feeling better about myself. I’ve lost 20 pounds and wear make-up and matching clothes when I go to the pharmacy. Although I’m aging like the rest of my generation, my mind is sharp and my confidence is coming back.

Instead of turning heads, I counsel people who are struggling with relationships. When I’m not working, I go to the gym, I discuss world affairs, I take classes, I get massages and I have lunch with my friends. So yes, I’ll go into Rite Aid and apologize for being rude, but my prescriptions will be  filled elsewhere.

Aging isn’t easy and neither is loss. I was married to a man who knew me completely. In his reflection I was more than just pretty, I was deeply beautiful. When I embrace the values that truly make life meaningful, I can face the future with courage and hope.

I Used to Be Pretty, 2/08/2018

My Mother’s Story

My Mother's Story
Janet Kay Horowitz

Losing a mother  in childhood or adolescence leaves many unanswered questions. My mother’s story has been pieced together from faded memories, old photographs and isolated anecdotes. I hope it does justice to the woman I knew for only 14 years. 

My mother was born on May 5th, 1917, in Rochester, New York. Her parents both emigrated from Eastern Europe lured by the promise of a better life. Her father, Abraham Kay (born Kosovsky), came from Minsk in 1911, and her mother, Edith Garelick, from Poland in 1913. They were married in New York City on December 22, 1913, when Abe was 19 and Edith was 17.

My mother Janet was their first child, followed three years later by Alice and by Beverly six years after that. They enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle in Rochester, New York, where Janet learned to appreciate both opera and horseback riding. She was a better than average student, but by the time she was fifteen the family moved 300 miles away to Brooklyn, New York.

Abe had been a successful salesman, and in Brooklyn he ran his own business in the garment district. Janet was pretty, poised and popular, and easily made the adjustment to life in Brooklyn. She attracted the attention of many young men and made friends quickly. She was a natural born leader and took great satisfaction in running a girls’ club for teenagers who needed a big sister.

1937, she met Milton Horowitz. He may not have been as wealthy as some of her boyfriends, but he had a great sense of humor and was smart as a whip. She was the refined, beautiful girl from Rochester falling in love with the boy from the lower east side. But Milton had just finished law school, and he showered her with attention, kept her laughing and made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. It was clear they were a match and they got married on March 24th, 1939, in New York City when Janet was 22 and Milt was 25.

Janet & Milton Wedding
1939

The wedding was an exquisite, formal affair with nine bridesmaids in matching silk gowns and nine groomsmen in tuxedos. Janet and Milton were both the oldest in their respective families, and her parents loved him immediately. Wages were low in 1939, but Milt got a raise to $6.00 a week as a law clerk when they got married and Janet worked as a bookkeeper. They honeymooned in Florida and returned to an apartment in the Bensonhurst neighborhood of Brooklyn.

They lived on the same block as her sister Alice and husband Jess, and they all became best friends. This made her first year as “Janet Horowitz” especially fun, and on May 6th, 1943, it got even better. One day after her 26th birthday, Nancy Roberta was born and the couple became a family. The war in Europe was escalating and Milt thought he’d be exempt from serving since he was a lawyer and had a new baby. Nevertheless, when Nancy was 6 months old Milt was drafted into the Army.

Janet followed her husband to North Carolina while he was in basic training. But when he was shipped overseas in 1944, she returned to New York and worked for the WAVES (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Services). It was difficult raising her daughter alone, but when Milton returned in 1946 they went on a 2nd honeymoon to Miami Beach to celebrate.

Their 2nd daughter, Sydell Sally, was born on February 18, 1947, when Janet was 29 years old. Alice and Jess had 2 sons the same age as Janet’s daughters, so everyone shared responsibilities. It was a happy time for her, being close to family and staying home with her girls. Milt was doing well in his law practice in Manhattan, and they even snuck away on a vacation in 1951 to Toronto and Lake George, where Janet got to do some horseback riding. But when Milt bought her a mink coat she knew she had arrived. In the 1950’s it was a huge status symbol, and she was proud to be the wife of a successful lawyer.

Janet was ambitious, not only for herself but her daughters. Nancy was especially pretty, and Janet took her into Manhattan to get professional pictures so she could do some modeling. Nancy did well and when Sydell turned five, Janet got pictures for her too. But by 1952 the family was moving to the suburbs of Long Island, and going 30 miles into the city for photo shoots was just too much. The new house in Mineola was Janet’s dream, and when they moved in she couldn’t have been happier.

Although they didn’t see their families quite as often, they all still got together many times a year for the Jewish holidays. There were always at least 20 around the table, the food was plentiful and the atmosphere warm. Once Janet settled into suburban life, she and Milt got involved in the building of a new synagogue. My mother became President of the Sisterhood and began volunteering at many charitable organizations. She was a candy striper at Long Island Jewish Hospital and became President of the local chapter of The United Cerebral Palsy Association. She was great at organizing meetings and events, and loved entertaining friends at her home.

On a December morning in 1954, however, she got a phone call that rocked her world. Her father, Abraham Kay, had been found dead in his factory. They assumed it was a heart attack, but when they arrived the next morning he was hanging from a rope. It was clear that Abe had committed suicide. Was he embezzling money from the business? Was ending his life the only way he could see out? Or was there a long term issue with depression? This was traumatic for Janet, who adored her father. Nonetheless, she fought to maintain a façade and kept the shameful secret from everyone she knew.

There is a lot written about the relationship between mind and body when it comes to disease. Could the trauma of her father’s suicide have activated a dormant genetic anomaly? Regardless of the root cause, in February of 1956, when Janet was 38 years old, she was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. She was a no-nonsense woman, and matter of factly told her daughters that she was going into the hospital to have a breast removed. Nancy was 12 and Sydell was 8, but the word “cancer” was never used, and she reassured them that everything would be fine.

Janet recovered well and life continued as if nothing had gone wrong. To help other women who’d had the same surgery, she visited them in the hospital to encourage them to get well. There was no chemotherapy in those days, and radiation was only done sporadically. Janet continued her normal routine and several months later the whole family went on a vacation to Washington D.C. It was a great trip where everyone had fun, and no mention was made of her recent mastectomy.

But by 1957, there was a lump in the other breast. The doctor told Milt that it was probably the breast cancer coming back, but to remove her other breast would be too upsetting. Without including Janet, the doctor and Milt chose to treat it with radiation and avoid further surgery. I know it’s astounding by today’s standards, but in those days husbands made decisions for their wives. They often decided if the wife should even be told the truth about her diagnosis. Janet was not told.

By the end of 1958 the atmosphere around the home changed as the cancer silently progressed. Janet’s health and state of mind were both unpredictable. She was in and out of the hospital, one day quite ill, and the next getting dressed in nylons and heels to attend a Charity Luncheon. On her bad days she was short tempered and frequently irritated by her daughters, who were also kept from the truth. She yelled at them, and seemed to blow up over the smallest infractions. On her good days, however, she would play her opera records and bustle around the house. She continued to get her long beautiful nails manicured in her signature bright red, and she also remained ambitious for her girls.

In 1959, she took 12 year old Sydell into Manhattan to enroll her in the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. Nancy had been the model, but Sydell would be the actress. Going alone on the train into the city was fun for Sydell and kept her distracted from what was going on at home. Janet was weakening, but she still had her good days.

She was proud of her daughters, and enjoyed planning Sydell’s Bat Mitzvah in February of 1960. At 42, she remained a gracious hostess and looked beautiful at the party. In some of the pictures one of her eyes seems to be closing. The cancer had reached her brain by that time, and nobody said a word. Several months later when Janet became so sick she had to be rushed to the hospital, the cover up continued. It was hepatitis, she was told, and everyone went along.

By February of 1961, Janet had more bad days than good. But she and Milt celebrated the 5 year anniversary of her mastectomy, as evidence that she was cancer free and getting well. But by May, she had taken a turn for the worse. One afternoon, she got out of bed to go to the bathroom and was so weak that she fell right there on the floor. Sydell called in a  neighbor to help her up and Milt subsequently hired a nurse’s aide to assist during the day. No conversation took place in the family. Milt went to work and the girls went to school, and it was never acknowledged that she was dying of cancer.

Inevitably, on May 26th, 1961, just weeks after turning 44, Janet Kay Horowitz passed away. She left two daughters, then 14 and 18, with no explanation or words of goodbye. Did she know she was dying? Did she know that the cancer had returned in 1957? Or was the need to be strong more important than the truth? Cancer was whispered about in those days, and breast cancer in particular was stigmatized as a curse. There were no marathons, pink ribbons or celebrities trumpeting their cause. There were only secrets and lies. And in that environment the life of my mother was cut short.

Just as illness was kept secret in the 1950’s, so was grief. After she died, my father  couldn’t talk about her, so my sister and I followed suit. The memories faded and the subject became taboo. But her life mattered and she deserves to be remembered. Janet Kay Horowitz was a beauty in her youth, a leader in her community, ambitious for her children and a proud and loving wife. My mother was tall and slim and always confident in social situations. She loved her parents, her sisters and their children, and was equally warm to her husband’s extended family. She was strong and efficient, always looked her best and did what was expected. I remember her cooking dinner every night in high heels and dresses and she never complained about it.

My mother left behind a beautiful legacy. Her husband of 22 years found love again and continued to make people laugh. Nancy had 3 children, all of whom distinguished themselves in their careers, and 4 grandchildren that Janet would have loved.

I became a Drama Professor, thanks to my mother’s push, and then a Marriage and Family Therapist. My son is a rabbi, a hospital chaplain and a leader in his community. My daughter has the poise and confidence of her grandmother, with a successful career to boot. Between the two of them I have 6 amazing grandchildren. Janet Horowitz’s life was all too short, but   as her youngest daughter, I will always honor her memory.

To write your mother’s story, go to: http://www.mymothersstory.org
To View this story on the website go to:
http://mymothersstory.org/2016/05/sydell-weiners-story-of-janet/

Embracing the Soul

Life after Death
Does the sould survive

I’ve always struggled with the concept of life after death. Does our soul lives on  in the minds and hearts of those we’ve touched? Can it exist separately on another dimension?  If the soul survives, is it possible to actually communicate with a lost loved one? Can they come to us in times of need to give us comfort?  Or when we die is that it–over, finished, end of story?

Although I’m no stranger to existential dilemmas, it’s been constantly on my mind since I lost my husband in 2016. I feel his spirit intensely  throughout our home. We lived here together for 15 years, so naturally there are many associations to times we shared. But it’s more than that. My husband’s presence seems to grab onto me, and before I know it I’m in the throws of anxiety.

The hardest time for me is going to sleep at night. I’m flooded with memories and I can’t get him out of my mind. In bed, we loved talking through the endless details of our day.  We’d hold hands or swing a leg over the other, and the sharing was easy. Regardless of the issue, in bed we would listen and always be gentle with each other.  It’s where we felt closest and the most as ease.

I thought it would make a difference if I made some changes. So I bought a new mattress and indulged in all the bedding.  I even put down new carpet. Rex is still there the second I sit on the (new) mattress. I do my best to shut out the feelings and push them away, but he haunts me. My friend Susan suggests I embrace his spirit and let the feelings in. She’s right, of course, I just don’t know how to do it.

At night I enjoy sitting in a dimly lit corner of my room. I sink into the big, cushy chair and I’m comforted by its softness and warmth. I stay there as long I can, until I start nodding off. I’m afraid to get up and go to bed, because I know what will happen. Once I take the eight steps across the room, I’ll be wide awake.

I can keep most of my fears in check during the day, but in the darkness of night my anxiety’s unleashed. What if I have a nightmare, will it overwhelm me? If I get sick in the night, will I be able to take care of myself? I have people who love me, but when I’m alone in bed I lose sight of that reality. Will I always be alone? What if I get a terminal illness? Will I linger and be a burden to my family or will I be blessed with a peaceful death?

On difficult nights, I soothe myself by getting something to eat and bringing it to bed. I know full well that food won’t do the trick, but old habits die hard. Sometimes I stave off my fears by distracting myself with social media or reading a book. Whatever I do, I know it will take a while before I can settle down again and fall asleep.

Last night as usual, I got up from my chair at the last possible moment. There is meditation music playing softly on my phone, and the house is quiet and warm. I walk across the room and the familiar anxiety start to take hold. But instead of giving in to it, I close the light, get under the covers and focus on the softness of my new, luxurious down comforter.

I start to consciously slow my breathing and still my body. I relax my shoulders and neck to release the tension, and that’s when I feel it. My eyes are closed, but I see a dark shadow cross over my mind’s eye. I know it is Rex and for a moment I feel him drift passed me. I concentrate on him and the dark shadow returns. As it envelops me, a light seems to pierce through. And for the first time in months I start to feel calm.

It is Rex’s spirit, I’m sure of it. But instead of chasing it away, I welcome it. I feel his love and embrace his spirit. I remember the deep connection we shared and the strength of our commitment to each other. He could always comfort me just by being nearby and joining with my deepest self—no judgement, no criticism, just acceptance and love. I am finally able  to understand my friend Susan’s message. If I let him in,  Rex will come to me in bed when I need him the most. His soul will provide me with comfort and healing.

Although I miss the peace I so easily felt with Rex, I am beginning to find it on my own. When I get into bed at night, I slow my breathing and try to calm myself. Then I focus on a specific memory of our being deeply connected. I see it play out in my mind  and I feel his presence. It actually works. For a few precious moments he is with me and I am warmed by his love.

I’m not sure if this is life after death, but my husband comes to me in the comfort of our bed. Will I be able to transform my fears and anxiety into peace and acceptance? I’m certainly trying.  When his soul reaches out to me I openly embrace it.  Rex’s love was a blessing, an unselfish gift that is an integral part of who I am. When I cherish the memories, I can accept the present and have hope for my future.

Sydell Weiner, PhD

May 6, 2018

Vacationing as a Widow

Travel Perspective from a WidowDo relationships look the same on land
and at sea? Does travelling as a widow  change your perspective? I’m  on a cruise with my sister and brother-in-law, and as much as I love them, it’s my first vacation without my husband. My sweet Rex  died a year and a half ago and I am still trying  to navigate the seas… pun intended.

 

A pretty blonde on Deck 5 leans across the bistro table and smiles at her husband.  She notices that his coffee is darker than usual and whispers, “Do you need more milk for your coffee?” He smiles back and looks deeply into her eyes. “Thanks babe, that would be great!” They are in their 20’s and obviously in love. The gentle way they speak to each other reminds me of the sweetness that defined my marriage. Rex never raised his voice to me and always made sure I had everything I needed.

 

Two tables over, a 40 something couple in bright red tee shirts  engage in an animated conversation.  A teen-aged girl with a thick brown pony tail runs over to their table. Another girl, her sister maybe, joins her and together they begin their appeal.  “Mom, can we pleeeeese have money for ice cream?” After some playful banter and a lot of laughing, the girls run off to purchase their treats.

 

I have two grown children, so the days of  them begging for ice cream money are long gone.  Fortunately, my kids are self-supporting with jobs, homes, and families of their own. I’m proud of them and love my six beautiful grandchildren. As I watch this family, I long for the day when my kids needed me that way. I’m fine on my own, but how nice it would be to put extra milk in my husband’s coffee.

 

As I start feeling sorry for myself, an older man passes by, pushing his wife in a wheelchair. Just then my focus shifts to a 50ish year old woman as she grabs her husband’s hand on the steps so she doesn’t lose her footing. Yes, cruising is for couples, and  I’m grateful for the chance to be spending quality time with my sister and brother-in-law. And yet, as I watch all the couples stroll by, I am once again hit with the reality of being a widow. I’m trying to have a good time, when suddenly the tears come uninvited.

 

I’ve been a couple for so long, that it feels like I’m missing a limb. I know the “rules” for being married, I just don’t know how to behave as a widow. Will I just get used to being alone?  Or will I  tag along with married friends and relatives on their vacations? Maybe I’ll find girlfriends to travel with.  Or would it be easier to just stay home to avoid the discomfort? I decide to call it a day and go to my cabin to indulge in a little pity party.

 

Fortunately, by the next morning my attitude has improved. I drag myself out of bed and go for coffee on the Promenade Deck. To my right I hear a 70ish year old woman with died orange hair berating her husband. Her voice is loud and shrill.  “Didn’t you go to the bathroom?” she scolds. “I told you to go before we  left the room. You’ll never find a clean toilet in port! Why don’t you ever listen to me?” He doesn’t look embarrassed, he’s apparently used to this, so I simply look away.

 

We get off the ship in Aruba and an overweight man in his 60’s shouts across the gangway to his wife. “It’s too slippery, I can’t do these steps,” he yells. “That’s not my fault,” she retorts, “If you lost weight like you’re supposed to, it wouldn’t be a problem!” She eventually goes over to him and helps him down to steps. “I knew this cruise wasn’t a good idea,” I hear her complain under her breath.

 

Marriage isn’t perfect, I understand that first hand. Rex and I  certainly had our share of problems. My first year as a widow I was angry all the time,  (in between bouts of depression). Now I’m remembering  the good times, and  probably idealizing them in the process. I long for his company when I have something on my mind that I’m burning to share. Talking things through with him always helped me make better  sense of my feelings. I miss the easy way we could talk about our day, books we’d read, politics, theatre, and especially the people we loved. We had such fun going places at home or away, and I miss his company, his companionship, his loving eyes.

 

And yet, there are days when I’m almost comfortable being a widow.  I can walk at my own pace and make my own decisions. I can stay up as late as I want and not tiptoe around the house when he’s napping. Don’t get me wrong, I miss him terribly, and would give anything in the world to have him  by my side.

 

I am grateful that we had a loving marriage that thrived both on land and at sea. I will always love you, Rex, nothing could ever change that.  I’m just starting to hear my own voice and walk my own path. And with that comes a new freedom that I’m actually starting to enjoy. Thank you, Rex, for giving me courage to enter this next phase of my life alone.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

Strawberries: Childhood Trauma and Eating Disorders

Strawberries were saved for my mother and I never knew why.
My mother and Me

I reach for some strawberries as my father unpacks them from his grocery bag. “No, sweetheart,” he says, “we’re saving those for mommy.” I’m 12 or 13, and my mother is sick in bed. My father reassures me that she’ll get well, so I go to my room as he tends to her needs. But she doesn’t get well. She doesn’t get well at all.

Three months after my fourteenth birthday, my father picks my sister and me up from school a little after noon.  We have no idea why until he starts driving to the hospital. On the way he tells us the shocking truth. “Mommy’s had breast cancer for the past 5 years.  She was rushed to the hospital this morning because she’s dying. She will probably be gone by the time we get there.”

When we get to the hospital, we take the elevator up to her floor. My father goes by himself to the nurse’s station. It is very quiet so I’m able to hear every word that is said. “I’m so sorry, your wife has passed away, would you like to go into her room and see her?”  The nurse asks matter of factly. My father replies, “No, I want to remember her alive.”  And then he starts to cry—big heaving sobs that sound like they’ll never end.

I am standing by myself, and all I can think of is eating a huge bowl of strawberries. I’m not physically hungry, just empty and shocked and feeling totally abandoned. Why has my mother’s cancer been kept secret from everyone but my Dad? How am I supposed to deal with my feelings? What are my feelings and who can I talk to about this?

When we leave the hospital my father seems to close up.  I don’t want to upset him, so I try to act normal and go on about my life. My father hires a housekeeper to clean in the afternoons and prepare dinner.  She goes about her daily tasks rarely interacting with me.  I stay up in my room and find solace in my own little secret.

When the housekeeper isn’t looking I put two pieces of thin sliced bread together in the same slot of the toaster.  When they pop up, I separate them and smooth butter on the soft, untoasted insides.  “Umm…. delicious, just like fresh baked bread.”  After I stuff down about  6 slices, the housekeeper approaches from the hall.  I tell her I’m going to the store on the corner and get out of her way.

Grabbing some money, I run down the street.  When I get to the store, I stand at the counter and my mouth starts to water. Through the glass I see the tempting treats: freshly made donuts with gooey, glazed topping. My mother didn’t allow us bread with dinner, nor did we ever have sweets for dessert.  We had jello, canned fruit cocktail, or when we were lucky, fresh whole strawberries.

I reach in my pocket and tell the clerk at the store I want six donuts.  I feel scared and guilty, like I’m breaking some kind of law.  So I hurry home and go quickly up to my room to hide from the housekeeper.  I wolf down the donuts as fast as I can, afraid that if I stop my mother will appear and grab them away from me .  But she doesn’t appear.  She’s dead.  When I finish the bag I am relieved. I haven’t been caught and my heart finally stops racing.  But I am far from satisfied.

In the first year after my mother died I gained 25 pounds. I also grew 4 inches so I was able to keep it hidden. When the weight started to show I would starve my self to compensate. I’d eat huge amounts of food and then punish myself by dieting mercilessly.  Food became my best friend and worst enemy.

It’s hard to believe by today’s standards, but it was 20 years before I got any help. After years of denial, I found a therapist and started feeling my feelings. I learned healthier ways to reduce my anxiety. l began to understand my feelings of guilt and how to let go of them. And most importantly, I learned what it means to self sooth.

Even though my eating disorder is a thing of the past, I still struggle with my relationship to food.  Sometimes I’m in remission for years at a time, then someone I love gets sick or dies, and I’m 14 years old again.

Today I’m in a period of grace, even though I’m grieving for my husband who died a year and a half ago.  But instead of numbing my feelings with food, I am expressing them through writing. Yes, I have actually learned to comfort myself by telling my truth. And to me, it’s a lot more satisfying than eating donuts or forbidden bowls of strawberries.

Sydell Weiner, PhD

Surviving Complicated Grief

 

Surviving complicated GriefThe hospital smells of disinfectant, trying to mask the presence of illness and grief. I walk into my husband’s room and give him a hug. I hold on tight, and even though he’s too weak to reciprocate, I relish the familiar touch and feel of his skin. How, I wonder, will I find the strength to witness his decline. He promised he’d never leave me, that he’d love me forever. But now he has cancer and promises are a thing of the past.

Six weeks later my sweet husband, Rex, passes peacefully at home. Even though I’m with him when he takes his last breath, I just stare in disbelief. Grief takes on many forms, and for now I feel like I’m watching a scene in a really bad play. I walk through the funeral, burial and reception like I’m a robot. I engage in conversation but I’m not really present. There’s a blanket between me and the rest of the world and nothing’s getting through.

When the feelings start to come they are complicated and not what I expected. The anger kicks in first. I tear through Rex’s tools and start packing them away. When I find corroded duplicates, I go to the dump and toss them out frantically. I call in a friend to take down the walls of his make-shift office in the garage. I clean out the space with a vengeance, furious at the mess that he left behind. If I’m going to be alone then I’ll do what I want, so don’t get in my way.

My kids are adults with families of their own, and I don’t want to burden them unnecessarily. But toughing it out on my own is harder than I thought. Out of nowhere, with Rex gone 6 weeks, the tears start to come. They come at the supermarket when I can’t decide between peaches and plums. They come when the light turns red and I’m going to be 5 minutes late. I cry when the gas tank hits empty and I’ve forgotten to fill the tank. And again when the dishes pile up in the sink and the dishwasher hasn’t been unloaded. It doesn’t take much, but for the next 8 months grief feels like it’s never going to end.

When the fear kicks in I suddenly feel very old. How will I navigate this next phase of my life on my own? Will I be lonely for the rest of my days? What if I get in an accident and nobody knows about it until it’s too late? Will I have enough money to live comfortably if I need long term care? Who can I talk to when I’m feeling worried or sad or even happy and excited? Rex was my heart, the one I shared everything with, and now I have no idea where I’m supposed to turn.

I’m independent to a fault and resist reaching out, until I see a card from The Gathering Place. Provident Little Company of Mary is offering a “Loss of Spouse” Grief Support Group. Even though I’m not Catholic, it’s close to my home so I agree to give it a chance. I go to the group for nine weeks and start connecting with other women. I start to make friends and surround myself with people who understand. “How did you deal with Social Security?” “Do you have to take your husband’s name off the mortgage to set up a trust?” “What are you doing with his clothes?” “Who do you talk to when you are feeling hopeless?” And most importantly, “Tell me about your husband, what was he like?”

It’s over a year since I lost the love of my life, and although I’m still grieving I have begun to have hope. I journal every morning to stay in touch with my feelings. I honor my husband by sending him loving prayers throughout the day. I’ve learned to reach out and ask for help when I need it. I know who I can really talk to and who just wants me to move on. But mostly I’ve learned that I have not been abandoned. I have been loved and cherished by a man I adored, and that love gives me the strength to make it on my own.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

Surviving Grief, August, 2017

Is It OCD Or Coping With Life?

This is the wall unit that I needed my dear Rex’s help with!

I move the books on my wall unit so they’re grouped by height. Am I being  OCD, or is this just how I cope?  Standing back to admire my work, I think, “Hmmm…I need a vase or a sculpture next to the books on the second shelf.”  I try a red vase…too bright.  Then I try a tan one…too tall. Finally I hit the jackpot with a bowl of white marble balls.  I love it. I think. By tomorrow I’ll probably rearrange it again. My mind goes to the iron sculpture that would be just perfect in that spot.

I can’t stop moving things around. I arrange the dishes on the shelves in my dining room. Then I proceed to the kitchen, where I put pretty ceramic mugs in the cabinets with glass doors.  It feels creative and I applaud myself when something looks great.  But I do it for hours on end, and not being able to stop makes my feet hurt and convinces me that I’m seriously OCD.

But it works for me. It helps me shut out the pain that I don’t want to feel. Feeling means being upset and hearing that critical voice in my head. “How could you be so stupid?” or “Don’t be ridiculous!” Feeling means facing the guilt of being emotionally detached when my husband was dying.

Granted, I took care of all his physical needs and was an efficient, devoted wife. I drove  him to his doctors appointments, administered his medication, attended to his personal hygiene and arranged for hospice when it was time. But I cut myself off emotionally. I knew that if I allowed myself to feel, I would break into a million pieces.

About two weeks before Rex died, he got up from the hospital bed in the guest room and asked if he could lay down  with me in our room. “Sure,” I said, “but just for a little while, I don’t want you to fall out of bed.” He had fallen many times, and the hospital bed had side rails for just that reason. If only I had held you then, Rex, and absorbed the familiar feel of your body. I should have comforted you and reassured you and told you how much your love changed the landscape of my life.

Of course, you knew all that.   And if I asked you today you’d say, “You were great, darlin’, I couldn’t have asked for more.” And yet I know I held back. I held back because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, the one person  in the world who knew my true heart. You never judged me when I was being OCD. Instead, you understood that arranging things was a distraction that got me through difficult times. You loved me, perhaps more purely, than I was able to love you.

I wish I had hung your scene designs more prominently in our home, but if they didn’t go with my “decor” they were relegated to the hall. Now they are flaunted in every single room. They remind me of all the plays we did together, and how your vision always inspired me to be a better director. I wish I had embraced your AA work with a more open heart, instead of being jealous of the time it took away from me. Check out the wall unit, Rex.  I have all your sobriety chips on the bottom shelf, and you would be so proud to see them displayed.

I miss your artistic eye as I continue to rearrange my shelves. You’re the only one who could have helped me decide between the red and tan vases.  Because no matter which I finally chose, you’d say, “You got that one right!” You had my back, and valued my opinion on just abut everything. But you’re not here anymore. WHY NOT?

Why do people leave when you need them the most: my mother, my father, my first shrink who committed suicide? And now you. And with you, I have lost your daughter. I have lost those wonderful Holiday Dinners with the whole blended family–my kids and grandkids, your daughter and son-in-law, and even my ex-husband and his sweet girlfriend, who we lost last summer.

Yes it hurts to feel, and that’s why I try to stay out of it. I go back to rearranging my shelves because it calms me. You can call it OCD, but for a few hours anyway, there are things in my life I can actually control.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D.

My Step-Mother’s Funeral

 

My Step-Mother's Funeral

I ride to the cemetery with my step-sister’s daughter, a red-headed beauty who always makes me feel included. My step-brother’s daughter is sitting in the back with her husband and they are all sharing memories. Their beloved grandmother passed away 2 days ago, and although though she was 90 years old, it was sudden and unexpected.

She was my step-mother and I loved her. She was married to my father for 36 years and we had a warm relationship, even after losing my father 15 years ago. But I live in California, and I never really thought of her as a mother.

My real mother died when I was 14. My father remarried a few years later, he sold our home and we moved in with her family. She had also been widowed, but her children adored my dad. The bond grew stronger as my step-siblings got married and had kids of their own. He loved the grandchildren, and took pride in caring for their emotional and financial needs.

When we get to the cemetery we stop at the mortuary to see if my step-sister and her husband have arrived.  It’s hot and muggy, and my hair is starting to frizz like it used to when I lived in New York. I feel like such an outsider among this group of step relatives.  But they were my father’s family and I’ve come to pay my respects.

When we get to the burial site I look for my mother’s grave.  She is buried next to my father, and now my step-mother will be on his other side. Her first husband is also buried there, and she’ll be placed between them. I know–one big happy family. But I can’t find my mother’s gravestone and I suddenly start to panic.

I leave the group of mourners and see a large pile of dirt that’s has been dug up in preparation for the new grave. I brush the orange clay dirt away with my fingertips, and slowly my mother is revealed: Janet Horowitz… Beloved Wife and Mother… forgotten by her husband, forsaken by her daughter who never learned to talk about her or grieve for her loss.  And once again I become that lonely girl of 14, looking down at my mother’s grave in utter disbelief.

“Mommy, why did you leave me? Why did you never hold me close enough or love me the way I needed you to? Why did I have to struggle without a family, while they got Daddy? How did she wind up getting 90 years, when you only got 44? Where were you when I was left to figure it out on my own?”

My heart is broken, but I dig up a stone from the ground and put it on my mother’s grave to let her know I was here.  “I love you mommy, and I will until the day I die…promise!” With tears dripping from my eyes, I join the other mourners to honor my step-mother, the love of my father’s life.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D.