Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Without a Leg to Stand On


If you’ve ever witnessed a car accident (or have been in one), you know that it sticks with you for a while. It doesn’t have to be horrible to replay over and over in your mind; car accidents, while an everyday occurrence, aren’t part of most people’s everyday. So, it makes sense that I would still be thinking about the accident I saw a couple of days ago. The accident itself wasn’t so bad, but it was memorable, and I can't seem to shake it.

Let me set the scene for you. It was mid-morning, and I was stopped at a red light that was barely a mile from my neighborhood, waiting to make a left turn. As I sat there, a pickup truck with a lawn mower in the flat bed approached the green light on the cross street, and without slowing down, careened left through the intersection. I thought the driver was going a bit fast, but whatever. People do stupid shit all the time.

Then things took an interesting turn.

As the truck went past me, a man fell out of the truck and onto the pavement, rolling over a few times before he stopped. The truck continued on its way until it slammed into the thick trunk of a Bradford pear tree that probably reached its life expectancy at that very moment. The sound of pickup truck grill against hard wood is not a pleasant thing to witness. Neither is watching a man literally hit the road.

I stared at the man, trying to determine where he came from. Was he riding in the back of the truck with the mower? It’s not unheard of around these parts. I looked at the truck and noticed the driver door was wide open. No one else was standing around. The man on the street had to be the driver.

As I sat there, trying to make sense of what I had seen, the man suddenly got up on his feet. Well, foot. He held a prosthetic leg in his hand. Then, holding the leg up high in the air like a flag, he hopped over to the truck.

At this point, a woman got out of the passenger side of the truck, holding her forehead. The one-legged man started yelling at her. She was hunched over but walking, so she seemed as well to be alright.

My light was still red.

I am usually a good helper, but honestly, when something unexpected like a car accident or someone falling on volcanic rocks in a lava field, I freeze up. I suddenly lose any ability to process information and do anything. I just sat there, paralyzed. In my defense, I had just left my therapist’s office, so I was a bit preoccupied with my own shit at that moment and not exactly on top of my game. 

Luckily, plenty of other people with better fight or flight reactions had also witnessed the one-truck accident. A car stopped on the road next to the truck, and four older men dashed out of it to offer assistance. Meanwhile, a man that was two cars behind me at the red light got out of his vehicle and stood on the road divider, calling 9-1-1 to report it. I was hardly the only witness, and multiple good Samaritans had already launched into action.

When the light turned green, I made my left turn and drove home. I kind of wish I could have driven back to my therapist's office. Instead, I went inside and told my husband, “I just saw a car accident.”

He wanted the details, and I told him that a man fell out of a truck and lost his leg. Then I had to explain that it wasn’t his real leg. Then I had to clarify that it was his leg, but it was a fake leg, and he lost it during the fall, but that I had no idea what happened to his original leg, only that he started and finished the accident with one real leg and one fake leg, but only one was working at the time. I probably needed to do a better job of explaining, but it pretty much happened like that. It was just hard to put into words.

We surmised that his prosthetic limb must have detached somehow while he was driving, and knowing he lost control of truck, he bailed out while he could. Clearly, he did not have a seat belt to hold him back from his stunt man move. He also didn’t seem too concerned about that poor woman in the passenger seat with the head injury. Again, fight or flight, am I right?

But he had to be okay, didn’t he? I mean, he could walk, er, hop, right away. It was almost as if he knew exactly what to do, as if it had happened before.

I still feel a tad guilty for not stopping to help. I know at least two friends who are much better people than I who would have never hesitated to get involved. Not me. I assume I will just be in the way, and then I count on the kindness of others to step up. I assume if I were the only one who saw an accident, I would definitely stay and do the right thing. But how many people need to? Two? Four? All of us? At some point, I figure, too many cooks spoil the soup.

Sunday, May 6, 2018

The End of an Era


     Today was my younger daughter’s last Religious School class. After thirteen years of going most Sunday mornings during the school year, she, much like her sister did two years ago, will find herself able to sleep late on Sunday mornings. She will no longer be able to complain about getting out of bed or getting dressed or sitting in the sanctuary with a bunch of wild younger kids or singing along or trying to make friends with kids that she doesn’t have much in common with outside of her religion, such as it is. Her faith may not have stuck after her many lessons about Judaism, but her Jewish identity is strong, for which we have religious school, and the rabbi, to thank.

     She started when she was three, attending a monthly pre-school class that did not always hold her interest. As a three-year-old, she was head-strong, stubborn, and non-compliant, which dominated both her Montessori experience as well as her religious school hours. No one had determined yet how to make her participate in anything she didn’t want to do. I recall her pre-school teacher at temple asking me if she understood how to color, or if she even knew her colors. I knew she just didn’t want to do what she was told to do, and she didn’t want to do what the other kids were doing, and pretty much fuck you, but in a three-year-old way.

     When kindergarten started, everything changed. A girl her age joined her religious school class, and suddenly, she had an instant friend with whom she could relate, rather than the rest of the class, all boys who liked boy things and didn’t appreciate her passion for fashion or stuffed animals. The new girl did, and they became best friends.

     Suddenly, we had another family to be Jewish with. We celebrated holidays together. We had cookouts. As the girls got older, they had sleepovers at both of our houses. We took vacations together and generally looked out for one another.

     When fifth grade ended, her best friend, along with the rest of her Jewish family, moved up north, where they quickly assimilated into a community with probably ten times the number of Jews, if not more. My daughter went back to being the only girl in a religious school class of boys at a time when they were all on the verge of middle school and puberty. It wasn’t an easy adjustment for her.

     She rallied a bit for her bat mitzvah, and because she loves our rabbi, she agreed to continue past her b’nai mitzvah year to confirmation. Those few years saw more of her religious school class leave, either just because they had enough, or, like her best friend, they moved away. She tried to be involved with the youth group as a way to stay connected to her Jewish peers, but the experience wasn’t really for her, even if she did make a few friends.

     Which brings us to this year, her confirmation year, her last year of formal religious school education. She half-heartedly continued to join in youth group events out of obligation, but she made a point of being present and engaged for her class with the rabbi. It was her and one other boy, the only two who made it all the way from the beginning together. They are friends and share a bond that comes from shared experiences, but I suspect they too will grow apart as their paths diverge with each of them going to different high schools and having different interests.

     They have one joint shabbat service left, and then, well, it will probably be high holy days and holiday celebrations at home here on out. In a couple more years, she will go to college, and she may or may not decide to participate in Hillel or other Jewish college groups. She may take her Birthright trip, or she may never make it to Israel. And as she grows up, she may get married and have children and have to decide if she too will enroll them in religious school so that they can understand the faith that goes along with the culture.

     In the meantime, we can sleep in or go out for brunch on Sunday mornings. Our lives will spill over into that time slot that for over a decade was devoted to being Jewish, and chances are pretty good, at least for now, that another time slot won’t open up on a different day to replace it. Will she miss it? Will I? Does anyone miss going to religious school?

     Thirteen years ago, I drove her to religious school. Today, she drove me home from the temple. It feels so final. Of course, we can go to temple whenever we want, but will we? 

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

This Is the New Year

I just popped in on my blog site for the first time this year, and I was dismayed to discover that I only wrote four blog posts last year. Four, that’s four days out of 365. Not quite a prolific year, huh? How did a whole year go by without more to say?

As disappointed as I am in my lack of words and posts, I am even more disappointed in my lack of stories to share. What can I tell you: 2017 was not the best year. What made it subpar? I wish I could sum it up in a word, a phrase, or even a sentence, but the reality is that it was more of a mood, and it wasn’t positive.

I started the year feeling motivated and proactive, much like some of my friends who were also out of sorts after the 2016 election. I went to the Women’s March in D.C. with two of my favorite people. I came home ready to fight, but no amount of book clubs and post card parties and meditation apps could make up for the relentless news stories that seemed to affect many things that matter to me. Everyday felt like another step backward, another liberty lost, and I couldn’t stop watching because I thought it was my civic duty to bear witness. The more I paid attention, the more outrage I felt, which in turn chipped away at my ability to find joy in the everyday.

I definitely made happy memories in 2017, but in between those bright moments was that sense of disappointment. I took one day at a time, whether it meant focusing on work, helping my family, or whatever other tasks I had. I filled my days with busyness to tamp down the disappointment, but at night, when I would sit down, it was still there, ready to color my mood gray.

How do I sum up the year? I smiled less. I stayed home more. I wrote fewer words. I ate more chocolate. I dealt with my husband’s stress, my children’s stress, and my country’s stress, all while denying my own. Turns out, my lack of a strategy didn’t work so well. As the months passed, so did my motivation. Every time I tried to change my attitude, I found myself giving into the disappointment because it felt safer, like staying under the covers on a rainy morning.

And then the year ended, with yet another loss, this time of a dear friend, an unexpected heartbreaking tragedy that was the symbolic culmination of everything about life that isn’t fair. I stumbled through the last two weeks of the year thinking about my friend who passed away, about what a positive person she was, even as she too had to work hard to stay that way, each day of her life. She loved her husband, her daughters, her pets, but she really loved herself. Hers was a life well lived, and her memory will be for a blessing, but for now, many people who knew her, including me, are still in shock.

Fast forward to today, January 2, 2018. It’s a new year, but can I make a new me? I’m no soothsayer, but I still have my words and I’m going to try. I don’t need to stay silent; it doesn’t serve me to keep a low profile. I’ve spent a year trying to ignore or suppress how I feel, and all it got me was twenty extra pounds and an increase in my medication.

I am not a big believer in resolutions because they never really pan out for most people. A few years ago, I tried to simplify my goals to make them realistic. Read four books every month. Meditate for ten minutes every day. Lose one pound a week. Nothing stuck past February, and then I would just feel worse about myself because I could add failure to the list of things that hadn’t changed.

What’s going to be different about this year? Hopefully a lot. For starters, I am going to write it down. It isn’t enough to bear witness; I need a tangible record and a sense of accountability. I need to give up excuses and just do things. I need to take chances and trust more. I need to stop eating so much chocolate and take more walks. I need to say no, but I also need to say yes. I need to honor my friend by loving myself.

So, here’s my resolution: once a week, at a minimum, I am going to write, here, for me. One thing I know is that writing makes me feel better, and when I stopped, so did the feeling better. It’s time to make a change because what’s happening now isn’t working.

You can read it if you would like, but you don’t have to; you do you, and I’ll do me. Yes, I still want to lose some weight, and read more, and be mindful. No, I don’t want to see our world suffer more injustices and setbacks. Maybe I’ll write about it, and just maybe, it will help.