Wacky Packs

I had to get a biopsy of a nodule on my thyroid. Just thinking about this test made me suffocate. I made the mistake of watching a video on You Tube of a woman getting a large needle jammed into her neck and jiggled around a lot.

I walked into the doctor's office, decorated with shmaltzy mirrors and black laquer, and this made me even more nervous. There were Jewish prayer books, maybe to say a prayer before you experience massive pain. There were also doctor's magazines in Russian, with stern looking Eastern European doctors staring right into the camera and articles about all sorts of disgusting things. That didn't make me feel any better. All of the geriatric patients in the waiting room were wearing sparkly clothes and too much gold jewelry.

Okay, now it's my turn. My husand, Keith came with me for moral support, but in the weeks leading up to the test, he seemed more nervous than I did.

In the exam room, there were large diagrams of tumors and growths, just to calm my nerves. There was also a large frame filled with vintage Wacky Packs. I love Wacky Packs!!! This made me feel instantly better. Keith and I laughed about Quacker Oats and Badzooka Guggle Bum.

The yarmulke clad doctor walked in. He was a sharp tongued intelligent guy who seemed to know what he was talking about. The needle was so thin, I hardly felt it, and before you could say Wacky Packs, the test was over.

We were called into Dr. Minkowitz's office, whose desk was full of slides of other people's biopsied gunk, and he told us the bad news. I have a suspicious lesion that is 2.4 centimeters, a big sucker. I have to have surgery to have it removed and I have a 20 percent chance of having cancer. Yippee!!! Now I'm in the club with my sister.

The news didn't quite hit me until the next day. My sister was more upset about this then I was. "It isn't fair," she said. "You already have enough health problems. Why do bad things happen to good people?" she cried.

I guess that's just part of life. It's just another wacky part of my pack.

I Have Cancer, No Kidding

When my sister Wendy told me she had breast cancer, I thought it was a joke.  I called her first thing on a Saturday morning to chat and laugh, as we usually do, and asked, "What was the result of the test?"  

She replied, "I have breast cancer."

I knew by the tone of her voice, this was not a joke, but for a split second I thought she would say,  "Just kidding!"  She didn't.

I felt like bursting into tears, but held it in, I didn't want to freak Wendy out.   My first reaction was, I cannot lose my sister, she is everything to me, my best friend, my world.  She is more than my sister, I can't even explain in words how connected we are.

I somehow felt like this wasn't the way it was supposed to be, I was the sickly one, the one who was always struggling with health problems, food allergies, exhaustion.  I was the sister who had spent time in doctors offices and hospitals, being probed and poked.  I was the one who I expected to get a serious illness, not Wendy.

Wendy is a fitness instructor and  a runner who lives in Oregon, where the air so clear and crisp, it can give you a nose bleed.  

I live in toxic Brooklyn with black dust on my windowsills, and vermin living in my couch.  It just didn't make sense to me.

I know Wendy was scared, I was scared.  We didn't know how bad it was or the chance of recurrence.   

We talked on the phone, a lot.  She was on a roller coaster ride of emotions, and I was going with her.  Wendy was angry and I just couldn't figure out how to help her navigate out of that stormy cloud.  I listened and tried to be positive, I chanted at my Buddhist altar for the strength and wisdom to help her feel better.

We joked, as usual about all of the annoyances in our daily lives.  That always got us through the day.  Even the prospect of radiation and chemotherapy became funny, "first they'll burn you, then they'll poison you," my sister said.  

After Wendy's surgery and test results came back, we both realized how lucky she is.  She has low grade cancer that will probably not reoccur.  I felt I could breathe again, I was so relieved.

We now have a new cast of characters to joke about, the overweight receptionist at radiation named Feather, and Martha the nurse who likes to give hugs (Wendy does NOT like hugs).  

Our lives are perhaps forever changed, but we will always laugh our way through it.

Just for Men

My husband Keith has been having a midlife crisis for the past few years. His long blackish brown hair has a few strands of gray in it, and his beard began going gray recently. An old time friend saw a picture of Keith, and commented that he looked the same, except the gray beard. Keith freaked out.

He announced that he was going to dye his beard at once. "Gray just isn't me," my husband declared and headed straight to the store to buy a box of Just for Men. You know those cheesy commercials where they show a couple relaxing on their couch, the husband gets up to look in the mirror and is horrified by his gray hair and beard, and voila! He paints Just for Men on his hair, and he looks twenty years younger!

Keith is convinced he looks like he's in his thirties since he started using Just for Men. I won't tell him that he actually looks the same, just like a middle aged guy who paints his beard.

After one episode of beard painting, Keith started sharing his Just for Men syndrome with me.
He started bugging me constantly about my gray roots. "When are you going to dye your hair?" Keith would ask about ten times a day.

"I'll get around to it," I answered. I secretly enjoyed putting off coloring my hair, just to torture Keith a bit longer. After awhile, I think I was torturing myself more than him. I really started to get a complex. Did he think I looked like an old granny with gray hair? Would he start making passes at younger women? Would he start dating a Just for Women model?

After a few months, I gave in. I have to admit, I was looking kind of grannyish with the gray roots. The hippie look just wasn't doing it for me. I just purchased some medium ash brown hair color, it's sitting on my dresser waiting to be painted on. Yes, I still look like a middle aged woman with dyed hair.

But that's okay. I accept my aging body, and still think I look pretty good.

Women's Circle

Hi Mom,

It's Jennifer, again. I went to a women's circle last night. This was the first time I've ever been to a women's circle. We all got to speak about ourselves and I talked about how sad I am that you're not here.

I'm sad that we didn't really know each other and couldn't be friends. I wanted to talk to you Mom, but I don't think you really understood me. Maybe you thought I was a weak person, not fierce like you. I think it takes a strong person to be vulnerable in front of other people, and I can do that, Mom. I cried in front of a group of women I didn't know, and we all held hands and supported each other. I don't think you could have done that, Mom. I'm stronger than you think.

I wish you were at the women's circle with me, Mom. I guess you were there, in spirit. The leader said your name when we joined hands, to honor you. I hope you were listening. Just know that I want to be your friend.

Love,

Jennifer

Letter to my Dead Mother

Dear Mom,

I'm making cranberry sauce today. It's Sunday morning, and I also made pumpkin muffins with Dylan. It's November, it's getting close to Thanksgiving. Remember, we used to make cranberry sauce together? I loved sipping the hot, sweet cranberries, mixed with water and sugar, as it was cooking. I tasted the hot cranberry juice today, and I was thinking about you. I'm going to make pumpkin pie this year with Dylan. I've never made pumpkin pie before. I hope it comes out okay.

We're going to have a quiet Thanksgiving this year, just the four of us. Remember how much fun we used to have on Thanksgiving? We used to help you make the apple pie and the stuffing, and always pick at the stuffing. You made the best Thanksgiving food, Mom.

I started a new job this year. It's really busy. I wish I could talk to you about it. I'm sure you would be proud of me, being a working mom, just like you were. I don't know how you juggled raising the three of us, and working full time. I'm having a hard time, Mom. But don't worry, Wendy is helping me, she's giving me advice.

It was Halloween Friday night. The kids had fun. Dylan dressed as the man with three arms, he had a fake arm in his pocket and his real arm went through the middle of his jacket. Summer was a furry gray mouse, and she was really cute. She loved trick-or-treating this year. Remember we used to hide the candy in the sideboard in our hallway, and secretly start eating the candy out of the bag before Halloween?

I miss you, Mom. I hope you're not too cold out there. I wish I could bring you a nice warm blanket. I love you, Mom.

Love,

Jennifer

Confessions of a Secret Sprinkle Eater

My sister Wendy and I have food allergies. We are both allergic to wheat, dairy and sugar. It's difficult to avoid these foods, so of course, we cheat sometimes.

Last night on the telephone, Wendy and I admitted we fell off the wagon. "I ate sprinkles for dinner the other night," I said. Wendy had never eaten sprinkles for dinner, but she encouraged me to continue my confession. "I drank a whole bottle of maple syrup once, and I felt stoned. I had to immediately go to bed."

Wendy admitted to drinking the same fluid, straight from a maple leave-shaped metal tin. A few days later when her husband was looking for it, Wendy pretended not to know what happened to the decorative container.

"I ate a whole bag of marshmallows the other night, and I toasted them over the stove and got melted marshmallows in my hair," I boasted. Now we were proud of our sins, like two bragging drug addicts.

"I squirted a whole tube of icing in my mouth," Wendy said gleefully. "Me, too," I said.

But the ultimate, most delicious and sinful item we'd both eaten within the last seven days was cookie dough. Our bodies react so violently to this perfect food, that we can only eat the very smallest amounts of the heavenly nectar.

I wish all food didn't exist and I could just live on cookie dough. In my dreams.

Pot Mitzvah

I'm at my niece's bat mitzvah in Portland, Oregon. She is a poised, popular, giggly girl. My sister and brother-in-law said she was born laughing, and that's true. Her mission in life is to have fun.

I remember my bat mitzvah in 1977. I wasn't as confident as my niece Samantha. I was shy, a little bit awkward, and just becoming interested in boys. I had braces, just like Samantha, or Sam, as her friends call her. I loved studying Hebrew with the cantor, a chubby man with swollen fingers resembling sausages.

My mother had a nervous breakdown right before my bat mitzvah. She was briefly hospitalized at Morristown Memorial Hospital's psychiatric unit. This wouldn't be the first time a family member stayed there. She was spouting jibberish, and couldn't take care of herself or her kids. My sister Wanda and Lolli ended up doing a lot of the bat mitzvah planning.

Wanda had a little business going at the time as a pot dealer. She gave me a half ounce for a bat mitzvah gift. It was the best gift I received, and I proclaimed this to some friends one day in a marijuana-induced stupor. "Hey, my sister got me a half ounce for my pot mitzvah." I thought this was hysterically funny, but my friends just stared at me. They didn't get it.

Well, times have changed. There was no pot smoking going on at Sam's bat mitzvah, although there was definitely some dry humping happening on the dance floor. Wanda and Mark are involved parents and fully aware of the trouble teenage girls can get into. They open Sam's e-mail, and follow her around when she hangs out with her friends. I used to think they were over protective, but now I know they have their eyes open to what's really going on - girls creating fake My Space pages for parents to read, and another one with body part photos; Halloween parties where girls show up as Victoria Secret models.

Maybe times haven't changed that much after all.