Biblical Prohibition of the Day

From the TMI department....there just might be something about that ancient religious prohibition against women cooking whilst, well, incapacitated by the monthly visitor.

Last night, I got home from my Board of Trustees meeting, all exhausted and pissy and starving. So I put some leftovers in the toaster oven and boiled up some frozen tortellini in some soup. Anyway, as it hit the boiling point, I did my usual, turn off the heat and cover. Only I forgot to turn off the heat. So my lovely tortellini soup ended up something like this:



(This was actually someone's pear and wine reduction that she left on the stove for three hours. Believe it or not, the tortellini looked pretty damn close to this. Just less pink.)

And as if that wasn't bad enough, apparently my leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory (half a chicken sandwich) were, unbeknownst to me, wrapped in plastic. My toaster oven? Doesn't like plastic so much. I'll spare you the photo.

For some reason, the Visitor tends to make me spazzy. Clumsy, moody, prone to accidents in the kitchen and outside. But this was the worst so far. I don't think my saucepan is going to survive this. It's sitting in my sink and as of this morning, the burn marks weren't going anywhere. And the smell is even worse. Like someone set a recycling bin on fire.

Moral of the story: I am so doing take-out for the rest of the week.

New Year's Erev

For those of my friends who are equinoctically inclined, I wish you a peaceful, sweet and joyful equinox. Wouldn't it be a lovely thing if the earth and the universe, and light and darkness could always achieve such perfect balance?

But speaking of light and darkness, that time of year approaches again, all sneaky and stealthlike and freaking out my friends in the clergy and even people like me, without official clerical responsibilities but a whole hell of a lot of cantorial soloist duties. As Tom Robbins once described it, the moon is currently rising like a bloated Elvis about to tip over from a surfeit of amphetamines and deep fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. That can only mean one thing: Rosh HaShanah is soon. Very soon. Some would almost say: too soon.

My dear friend and teacher Sandy says that no matter when they arrive, the Jewish holidays always take us by surprise. Even though I put in for my days off more than six months out, I'm always shocked when I look at the calendar and realize how much I have to do before I get out of here so I can leave with a clean slate, with the certainty that it'll be handled while I'm gone. And that hopefully, no one will call me from the office. But I do agree with Sandy: they're either too early (panic) or too late (total delusional oblivion, followed by panic) but never do they arrive like Goldilocks, at a time that's just right.

I spent a good two hours last week with Sandy, kibbitzing over turkey and pastrami sandwiches and going through the four services I will assist her with - erev Rosh HaShanah, Day 1, erev Yom Kippur and the Day Itself. She is an amazing and inspiring leader, one who knows her congregation and their needs. I'm always knocked out watching her, hoping that someday I can be as good at this job as she is. And I'm always touched, as we go through the melodies and responsive readings and liturgical cues, that she shares many of her memories of growing up in a liberal congregation: her family, the music, the recipes, the celebrations. Because I don't have those memories, it's always a learning experience for me. Generally, I don't know what happens in families on these holidays. Christmas and Easter I can help with, but the high holidays, not so much.

This is a year of transition for me - again. It seems like that's been the theme of the past several years. There has always been a major change on the horizon, whether it was going from mourner to a participant in life again, from sick to sicker and then, finally, to becoming healthier, from the Satanic boss in the not for profit dream job to the unexpected decency and humanity of my corporate colleagues. Even this year, there is still transition: from fighting against the limitations of illness to actually trying to do something about them.

I don't actually love New Year's. Not in the religious sense nor in the secular. The secular new year makes me nuts - I hate the false sense of celebrations, the ridiculous enforced sense of expectations, the stupidity of resolutions. The religious New Year is a little easier to swallow: at least no one is getting crap-sloppy drunk and acting like an ass for Dick Clark's rockin' cameras. Any new year freaks me out a bit, but I'm not as opposed to the reflection and introspection of the religious New Year, even though the notion of celebrating it without a family does make me feel a little alienated and excluded. But what can you do? Spend as much time as you can in your congregational community, seek out others who go it alone, and make the best of what you can. At least, that's the plan right now.

This past Shabbat my rabbi talked about how the New Year, how about bringing one's "first fruits" as an offering, wasn't merely about considering the past and how to make a better future, but also about acknowledging the importance of now. Not in a guilty or regretful way, but accepting where you are, and the beauty and sanctity you offer to the world on a daily basis.

That's my New Year's resolution for 5769. To hopefully offer beauty and sanctity every day - whether it's through teaching or working on a client project that may seem worthless on the surface, but might end up really helping someone. And also to accept that good change sometimes makes for difficult moments: like the fact that my 34 pound weight loss so adversely caused the steroid panic of last week (lower doses from now on, says my doctor). And vice versa: sometimes the worst change in the world can bring about good. Like if I can't get to school for whatever reason: economic, health insurance, crap Hebrew skills, whatever - if I don't go, it will be for a good reason. And it doesn't mean I can't do good without the title.

Like so many people looking inward for these last ten days, I'm trying to make a good end and a better beginning. Of course, as the joke goes, the best way to make the Holy One laugh is to tell Her your plans. Then again, I have wonderful, joyful, happy faith in my loony, imperfect, Law & Order-watching, moody diva beatlefan novelist, methotrexate-injecting, treif-consuming G-d. After all, it's all about being created b'tzelem Elohim, and if so, She's struggling to get better, too.

Don't need a sword to cut through flowers...

I quit taking the steroids last night because believe it or not, I came to the conclusion that the physical pain was easier to deal with than the panic attacks. I did what I could: last night after blogging I took half an Ambien and ended up getting a decent night's sleep. At work today I felt another panic attack coming on, so I took half a xanax and warded it off. I hate that I'm fighting the side effects of one pill with several others, but as the late John Lennon wisely sang, whatever gets you through the night, it's alright.

Last week my therapist told me I should try to do some good things for myself, so I spent a whopping $146 today on two new dresses and two pairs of shoes to wear to services on Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. True, I am focusing on exactly the wrong elements of Elul; I should be looking inward and repenting and reflecting, but for some odd reason I am looking outward at my appearance and trying to be a little more aware of bringing what beauty I have to the surface by dressing better, wearing makeup again, feeling more confident, making the most of what I have because it beats dwelling on the pain and the yuck and the sad.

Besides, on a practical level, I can't wear slacks for my cantorial soloist gig, and I do want to look somewhat pretty on the days of awe, even though I know I can't hold a candle to most of the women in my congregation. So I did some online shopping today and bought a chocolate-brown wrap dress (which I would love to pair with some high leather boots, but I'm thinking that's pretty much a bad scene for Yom Kippur morning) and a little black A-line dress with satin accents on the sleeves and hem. If it looks OK, I'll wear it for Kol Nidre. If it looks like crap, it goes right back to the fat chick store.

So today was a better day for a number of reasons: a decision to blow off a project until Monday (it'll keep), the retail therapy, a beautiful service this evening at temple...I do feel better, but I'm not there yet. I feel the pain creeping back in because the medicine is transitioning out, but I'll cross that bridge when I have to. In the meantime, I think sleep would help more than anything.

Shabbat shalom.

Flare

It felt like a miracle this morning when I woke up: I could walk. This was not the case yesterday. When my clock radio went off, the pain was not only still there, it had intensified overnight, so that when my left foot hit the floor it felt like I'd been doing 85 MPH, Fred Flintstone-style, cross country. As if someone had dipped a fine gauge wire in gasoline, threaded it through my left leg, up to my lower back, and then set it on fire.

This is RA, folks. Unpredictable and excruciating. Most days, I'm not like this. But on the days I am, I have no idea how I'm going to get through it. I'm cranky, snappish, in a bad mood, because I can't even figure out how to walk the twenty steps from my office to the coffee machine or the manage two minute walk to my car from my apartment or get up the steps in my building -- I can't figure out how I'm going to get through the day without being in pain every single minute, pretty much unable to focus on anything else.

I limp from my apartment door to the elevator, ease myself down the steps one by one, holding on to the wall and the rails. I rest on the way to my car. When things get as bad as they were yesterday, I use the silver crutches that I keep in my bedroom closet. They help a lot. But when I'm like this, I can't get my own coffee. Or water. Or lunch. If I want to go to the ladies' room, I have to plan accordingly - devise the trip when hopefully no one will see me limping or using crutches, so I don't have to answer the questions, "What did you do to yourself? Are you OK?" or worse, have my colleagues look at me as if they know I'm not good enough or strong enough to be doing my job, that I'm unreliable, weak, and can't be trusted to handle my clients or projects.

Accordingly, I started the emergency Medrol pack. This is the only thing that helps me. Its side effects are legion. It drives blood sugar through the roof, and in my Type 2 diabetic current situation, I've got all the symptoms back - dry mouth, light-headedness, and the overwhelming need to consume, let's see: I'm on my fourth liter of water right now. The steroids also contribute to severe panic attacks like the one I had this morning, and the one I am trying to stave off right now by blogging, because hell knows, I won't be sleeping anytime soon. I can choose anything I'm anxious about: love, money, the novel I've written, Selichot, the friend I haven't seen in four weeks, my old job, the friend who got laid off this week (thanks, Lehman), my current job, the client who's pissing me off, the novel I haven't written, the friend I haven't seen in ten years, the focus group I have to pull out of my butt by tomorrow at 3PM, my retirement account, the High Holidays, the students I taught tonight who are struggling with family and religious and identity issues, the novel I want to write, the El Maleh Rachamim melody I have to learn by Yom Kippur - and the steroids help me to blow it up into another hurricane system sweeping the confines of my brain. And like Texas, New Orleans, etc., there's nothing I can do. Because the land itself cannot evacuate.

I know I'm sounding a little insane right now. That's okay: I'm feeling a little insane right now. So worried and yet, on Metro North earlier this evening, I know there are people with more worries than me. I know there are so many people struggling this week: afraid, with families, worried that it's all going to blow up in their faces, that their houses made of (credit) cards will fall. My company booked $156K of business this week: I do not have to worry like other people. My job is secure - more secure than it ever was in the Jewish world. I do good work and I try to do good works when I can. But I am so scared right now, scared that this pain situation is going to be forever and the only cure is driving me into this state of anxiety that's almost worse than being unable to function physically. What is the better trade-off?

Tonight as I was waiting for the train at Larchmont I was watching the headlights of the train move forward down the track - and almost so afraid to even admit this - I felt that I could understand the compulsion to jump on to the tracks. I would never do it, but I could understand the seduction of that moment, to be free of the worry and the anxiety, to be free of all this medication and these side effects, of these diseases and their dark roads forward. The endless hours of having to deal with meaningless tasks, the gym and the office and the constant wishing I was doing something that was life-affirming, that was helping someone, helping the world be better, instead of just being some stupid rat on a treadmill. But I stepped back from the yellow line, because if nothing else, Torah demands that I choose life. And being given the gift, the miracle of being able to walk this morning, was not meant for me to walk in that unspeakable direction.

In three weeks I have to chant my favorite words from the Torah...This mitzvah that I command you this day is not too distant, nor too difficult; it is not in the heavens nor across the seas, so that someone should bring it back to you so you can do it - no, it is very near to you, in your heart and in your mouth, and you can do it.

I know I can chant it. I just hope I can mean it.

Not Fade Away

Many people far more articulate than I am have offered their reflections today, ranging from the world stage to the deeply personal, but as a witness to the events that took place seven years ago, I feel somewhat compelled to offer my own. It's an odd balance: it's a day when I appreciate being just another New Yorker who was downtown that morning, but it's also still true that the memory of that morning still exists in painful, singular detail; as universal and allegedly unifying as the day remains, it's also true everyone has their own experience of it. It's exactly the way one of my friends put it: the memory divides people into us and them - those who watched it go down in the safety of their homes and offices, and those of us who were right there, who had the story even before the networks did.

Like most people who were downtown that morning, I can recall, minute by minute, every step, every breath, every expression of disbelief: even the long, painfully endured vision of standing in my old conference room during those few minutes between the first plane and the second, when we still thought it was just a terrible accident. I was alone, staring out the window, my shock-addled brain bouncing from thought to thought: How will they ever fix the damage? There are people who are dying, right now, before my eyes. I am dreaming this. This isn't really happening.

I cried most of the way to work today, safe, in my basically armored vehicle, alone with my radio and my thoughts, alone with Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising" and the moments of silence. My thoughts moved from that morning in the conference room to the moments of now: Abby lighting the yahrzeit candle in the Museum lobby, Audrey with her new baby, Connor in his 3rd grade classroom, Ellen still asleep in California. I wondered if there were any other people crying in their cars. I wondered if there were people crying on the subway and Metro North.

I no longer take the subway to work, no longer trace my steps downtown each morning with a sense of fear and dread, that today will be the day, that this train will be the one, that the guardsman standing in front of the florist in Grand Central can't really help if something goes wrong; that his job will be recovery, not rescue.

But there wasn't really any safety from today's sadness. This year it is hitting much harder for some reason that I can't quite figure out, nor do I have the energy to try. Even in Westchester, a place I consider inhabited mostly by "them" (those who watched it on TV), everywhere I've been today, I've heard and overheard conversations I didn't expect to hear: a woman's voice drifts out of her open car door, saying: "They didn't know I was alive. I tried and tried calling, but all the cell phones were down." Two colleagues smoking in front of our building's doors: "It wasn't like Mother Nature got angry. It wasn't an act of G-d." "3,000 people dead and we're no safer now than we were that morning. Probably less safe now, actually. What does it all mean? What was it all for?"

I thought about having a pumpernickel bagel for breakfast this morning. I happened to stop at Zaro's in Grand Central that morning for one, but they were all out. In a typical entitled New Yorker snit, I bitched out the girl behind the counter before settling for onion. A few weeks later, afflicted with the fever of kindness that had descended upon the city when I returned to work, I apologized. She looked at me like I had three heads. The onion one was still in its wax-paper wrapper on my desk when I got back to my office, covered in a fine layer of buttery grease and grayish dust.

I'm used to the skyline now. When I came back from Delaware this weekend I didn't feel the sadness and shock of not seeing the towers, all through college my first sign of home, the signal that I had only about 45 minutes to go before pulling in my driveway. For all the years of college and grad school they were the sign that I had escaped - from tough classes, from idiot boyfriends, from the fear that nothing was going the way it was supposed to; the skyline's message was that it didn't matter - I would be home soon, and someone would take care of me. But coming back this weekend, I realized that none of that is true anymore, so I just took the exit for the bridge and kept going.

And yet, for all of the painful memories of that morning, when I close my eyes I can still remember that summer Saturday in 1976, the ride into the city with the bicentennial star everywhere, even on the fire hydrants, and my dad's hand in mine as we stepped off the elevator and made our way through the glass doors to the rooftop, snaked with cables and wires and equipment, a place where most people weren't allowed to go, but where we had special access.

It was before I had ever been on an airplane, before I learned how to be afraid of heights. Together we walked the perimeter of the rooftop and looked all around, at the bridges strung across the East River, at the flat, industrial plain of New Jersey across the Hudson, at the companion rooftop of the south tower looming comfortingly close by.

My dad had just solved his first big case in the towers and I remember how the other officers greeted him like a hero. But more than that, I remember the city that he showed me that afternoon, as we looked from the top of the north tower and he pointed out landmarks and buildings and streets as if they were gifts he was giving to me, as if it was a kingdom that I would inherit, a place that would belong to me the way it belonged to him, someday.

The Elevatrix Files

Upon my return from Delaware (where I had a really, really good time this weekend gallivanting around with my dear friends, none of whom look a day older than they did senior year), I arrived home to find that the elevator shaft in my building had flooded, the car itself was stuck in the basement (full of water, according to reports), so it wasn't merely the Delaware Valley that Hanna had her way with. For those of us who prefer to dwell on upper floors, it's been a bit of a tough week. Occasionally, a big rainstorm will knock out stuff in my apartment building, but four days later, we're still without an elevator, I've been schlepping up and down six flights of stairs a couple of times a day and my RA isn't liking it. Not one little bit.

My trusty handyman kindly informed me this morning that they expected it to be repaired sometime today - in fact he PROMISED me that we'd have a working elevator by the time I got home tonight. Not that I mind; I mean, sure, it's good exercise, and heaven knows I could use it. But when all is said and done I would really prefer not to have to do stairs. I don't hate stairs per se, but given my tendency to klutz myself on a consistent basis, and the fact that my flaring knees hate, HATE going downstairs (surprisingly, upstairs is a breeze in comparison), it's hard to remind myself that it's not laziness - it's actual pain that puts me in this position. Then again, it's not as bad as it could be - I am, in spite of all this RA crap, young and strong, and not a dog owner - so it's not as bad for me as it is for a lot of people in my building. I keep seeing friends and neighbors huffing up and down the stairs, all annoyed about the elevator, while their dogs (Coco and Biscuit and Callie) look as happy as anything. As much as I would love a happy little puppy in my life, it's a good thing I don't have one this week, since I would be totally screwed. And not in a good way.

Speaking of which, I have elected to forgo my dose of methotrexate this week, since I want to get back on a Monday schedule and last week's Wednesday shot played havoc with it. So I'm not nauseated so much this week, but for some reason, just tired as all hell. I've been going to bed at 9PM, sleeping straight through till 7AM. Again, not a bad thing - just unusual. Especially for this time of year, when I tend to feel more energized than normal.

I think a lot of the fatigue is more about this week than anything else. Seven years ago, that weekend in September of 2001, I also came home from a weekend in Delaware, after visiting the Brandywine Arts Festival (which was rained out this past weekend) and I remember very clearly being there, coming home and really trying to make sense of the direction my life was taking at the time. I actually had a doctor's appointment on the night of Monday the 10th, and I remember telling my doctor that I was really stressed out, and anxious, and wasn't feeling like I was handling things well, because I didn't have a whole lot to be stressed about.

Of course, that all changed the next morning.

But more on that tomorrow.

In the meantime, hopefully things will be looking up (or at least going up) when I get home tonight.

Major Deegan FAIL

Yeah, it's spaz week in Andi-land. Yesterday, I caught my shoe heel in the hem of my trousers and succeeded in launching myself down a flight of steps, ultimately landing in an Olympic-style ass-plant at the bottom. In front of my boss. Fortunately, I only sustained a slight injury to my left knee. Oh, and my dignity.

Then today, on the way back from a client meeting, my car got rear-ended on the Major Deegan, and not in a good way. Fortunately, my Infiniti is a big heavy car with a big heavy bumper, so it only ended up with a couple of scratches. But it wasn't a jolt that my already injured, rheumatically-challenged body really needed. I just hope I can get out of bed tomorrow.

Thankfully, I am on my way south tonight, to Delaware, ostensibly to attend the Brandywine Arts Festival but really to hang out with my college buddies / sorority sisters / partners in crime, etc. I'm leaving tonight so as to not have any unfortunate encounters with Hanna; given my mojo this week, it seems like a good idea to avoid as much trouble as possible.

Back to posting on Monday. Shabbat shalom, y'all.

Methotrexate, mon amour

I guess the only good thing about having survived bad relationships is that ultimately, it teaches you how to deal with taking medication, especially when it's a medication that's almost as bad as the illness itself. I've been in too many relationships like that, heaven knows, where living with love and its consequences is almost as difficult as feeling like you're all alone.

And so it is with methotrexate, the weekly wonder shot, the yellow syringe of doom, the drug my insurance company won't pay for me to self-inject, which has enabled me to get to know every one of the doctors in my medical group, many of whom have now experienced the joy of asking me to expose my tushy to the slings and arrows of rheumatoid fortune.

I'm rhapsodizing a bit because today is bad. Labor Day, and yesterday's doctor's appointment, afforded me a little delay this week. Obviously couldn't get the shot on a holiday, and my insurance company in their infinite wisdom, won't allow me to see two doctors in one day. So at 7:45 this morning, I presented butt to the covering physician (my regularly scheduled doc is on vacation) and let the Rear Admiral do the honors. I was fine for about two hours, and then it hit. Stomach upset, throwing up, fatigue, the dizzies...it's just not a good day.

That's a reason why this is sort of like being in a lousy relationship. You hate it, you wish you could find another option, but ultimately, when it's not being a total pain in the ass, it makes you feel a little bit better about your existence. It even, on occasion, succeeds in taking some of the pain away.

And then just when you think you're feeling better, and that maybe you can live with things the way they are, you find yourself head down in the toilet again.

Ugh. I'm off to get a diet cream soda out of the fridge, the best sugar-free low carb cure for nausea that I know of. Any other remedies you can recommend, please let me know.

Freestyle

Unfortunately, it wasn't all good news at the diabetes doctor today. Today was our first consultation - she's wonderful. Sweet, kind, smart, and clearly looking at all the factors - genetic, medication, and lifestyle. She acknowledged right away the issues at hand: being double-whammied genetically from both sides of the family is a huge thing to fight right out of the gate. The good news is that I've pretty much got the lifestyle piece down: I'm down another seven pounds since my last doctor's appointment, and once I really start exercising, I'll have made most of the changes I need to make. Losing sugar and switching to mostly whole grains has already made a big difference.

The bad news is that my RA medication is likely playing a major role in this whole nonsense: the steroids, apparently, do more than just lessen inflammation and make me feel better. They also send my sugar values through the roof. For example: I'm on a steroid pack at the moment, and my blood sugar was 253 fasting. Not a good number.

So I got a new toy as a result - the lovely Freestyle Lite test meter (pictured above), which I am supposed to use faithfully once a day (just once - thank heavens) to see where my blood sugar is at. I also got a new medicine which is not only supposed to help lower it, it also helps with weight loss. (Me: "Can I start it now? Do you have any here?") The nurse trained me on how to test, and it's not too bad - it doesn't hurt or anything, but I am really disappointed that I have to take all these steps to make sure it's under control. Apparently, with the three strikes of genetics, RA meds and not-quite-being-svelte yet, I've got some work to do. And it will be safer and healthier work if I am aware of what's going on sugar-wise.

I have to say I do like the name Freestyle. Kind of a Michael Phelps-ian, Californian eclectic sound to it. I figured I'd end up with the Aviva, given that it's my name, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. I mean, how closely does one need to identify with their testing supplies? Ah, marketing.