Different Slants

The ceremony, falling off the ladder, and the hospital incident, but not in that order   

Part Six 

The actual religious ceremony, which Sarah shared with another boy, went perfectly. 

The temple’s longtime rabbi, Jonathan Magidovitch, provided a comfortable setting that made the event both special for the two participants and less tense for them as well.  Although he has done this probably hundreds of times, he nevertheless makes it seems fresh each time he addresses the child and blesses them.  I know he set Sarah at ease, to the limited extent that can be done as one hundred people were watching her, with half of them Christian relatives who couldn’t read Hebrew, nor were they familiar with the temple’s patterns and customs. 

Sarah was also assisted in her chanting the ancient melodies of the Hebrew prayers by the temple’s beautiful cantor, Lynda Dresher, who has a soaring voice and, initially, was a major reason I joined the temple in the first place.  When I was a child, there were no female cantors or rabbis either, so this, to me, is real progress in both equality and the quality of a religious experience.  With three daughters, I want no barriers to them. 

Sarah’s speech was an important part of the event, where she thanks people who have helped her to get to where she was, at the podium, but also to make a declaration of faith and how Judaism mattered in her life.  Not so easy to write at thirteen, but her speech was flawless and flawlessly delivered.  Many people said so to Joyce and me later on at the party. 

While our synagogue has many interfaith marriages, this was the first joint Bar/Bat Mitzvah I’d ever been to where BOTH of the children were blondes.  The concept of somebody supposedly”looking Jewish” may soon have no meaning.  Still, there was a degree of culture shock for me, being the grandchild of exclusively dark brown-eyed, dark brown-haired Yiddish-speaking Eastern European immigrants. 

 But I thought Sarah’s Bat Mitzvah in particular rather pushed the envelope on interfaith family events. 

Without too much elaboration, this is who participated: Besides Joy and I, and her sisters, Rachel and Lisa, and later David, all Jewish, Sarah’s grandmother Helen Bishop was there (her actual father’s mother) and she’s proudly Lutheran.  Joy or I drive her to her church on Sundays.  Her grandfather, Robert Coffin (her actual mother’s father), is Swedenborgian, people who follow the teachings of Emanuel Swedenborgen (1688-1772) Swedish founder of the Church of the New Jerusalem.  This is a rare case where there are less of his followers in the United States than there are Jews, not that it’s a contest or anything.  

Her (other) handsome older brothers were part of the ceremony, too.  William Nelson, 17 and Robert Nelson, 15, both Catholic, were there with their adoptive mother, Judy, whom Joy and I view as a sister to us and Sarah sees as an aunt.  Actually, it’s not all that confusing to any of us.  Religion has never seemed to be an obstacle to love, in any of our families.  Sarah had also been to Will and Robert’s Communions and nobody tries to convert anyone to anything else.  It’s confusing enough as it is. 

Lastly, and frankly, the most fascinating to me, was (Aunt) Sarah’s new baby niece, Natalia.  This beautiful child, with dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, is the seemingly unique combination of the following countries and peoples: English, German, Lithuanian, Polish, Byelorussian,  Native American (Ottawa, Ohio and Ojibwa Tribes) Mexican and best of all, Basque!  And Jewish. 

I can’t wait until someday, someone says to her, on a playground:  

“Hey, Talia!  So…where’s your family from…?” 

All of these wonderful moments occurred on Saturday afternoon, September 12^th 2009. 

Exactly two weeks earlier, however, on Saturday afternoon, August 29^th 2009, I was alone in my store and standing on a six-foot ladder, disassembling the seemingly endless and quite valuable wooden shelves so I could take them with me—enough lumber to build a small house—by  the time I was done. 

Somehow, I lost my footing and awkwardly fell off the ladder, slamming onto the concrete floor of the store.

Now, I’m pretty agile and know how to protect myself when I lose my balance, in most cases, but not this time.  It happened so fast with no time to brace myself or roll over or anything like that.  I fell flat, hard, and laid there for a while, stunned.  It was frightening and I was afraid something had broken, but I didn’t know where or what. 

I was carrying a large ring of keys, about thirty, from a leather loop on my belt on the left side of my hip.  The jagged keys dug into my upper thigh like a fist.  My first thought was I had done the greatest harm to my leg and maybe fractured that.  There was also quite a bit of pain where my left elbow had jammed itself into my ribs on the left side.  My hands were flat on the ground and amazingly, my head seemed intact. 

After about five minutes, I tried to crawl a bit to see what would happen.  Nothing happened.  A lot of pain, but nothing seemed to be broken.  A deep sigh floated up out of me.  First, resignation, and then, completely out of the blue, exasperation and humor joined together, and I said to God, 

“Is this really necessary?  If you want my attention, just call me!!  Or send a burning bush, damn it!!” 

I actually believe, when it’s my time to go, after all the anger dissolves, the last thing to leave will be my ironic sense of humor—the one thing that keeps me sane. 

Then I slowly raised myself to my knees, got up and went back to work.  There was intense pain in the two places that absorbed the most shock and impact, and it would soon worsen in the days to come.  But I only had that day and two more to collect all I could to take with me, so I could start over somewhere, somehow, someplace.  I didn’t have the luxury to bemoan my fate or anything like that.  I had shelves to take apart and too many of them to stop and bitch and moan because of a stupid accident. 

I reflected on what might have been, when I climbed right back up that same miserable ladder with my electric drill switched onto reverse so I could remove the million screws that kept the shelves from reverting back to lumber.  In a strange way, I was very lucky.   Amazingly lucky. 

I have a little door in the top of my head where a couple of benign brain tumors were removed in January and April, 2004.  I can feel the four tiny screws under my scalp, if I press them slightly.  My left jaw was removed in December, 1968 due to a rare form of salivary gland cancer and was first replaced with Titanium steel wire.  Not as quite as strong as it sounds, that was soon replaced by the top of my left hip.  That failed almost immediately, but twelve years later, at age thirty-two, I had a rib transplanted to my face from the left side of my rib cage.  The side my left elbow had just smashed into.  So, consequently there was less protection than would normally be there.

Altogether, I’ve had about a dozen large and small operations on my face or neck. That can eventually make a person philosophical, or should.  So the fact that my head was uninjured in any way was truly quite remarkable…and lucky.   Knowing this, it can be easier for another person to understand the source of my bizarre sense of humor.  What else can I do but laugh at these things that are beyond my control? 

In the days following, the impact of the bunch of metal keys on my legs became a very large black, blue and purple bruise on my upper left leg, but it hurt only when I was standing or sitting.  It was ugly, but tolerable. 

My chest however, with no visible damage, was another matter.  The pain on my side was intense and terrible.  I could only sleep on my back, when I could sleep at all, and my old beagle, Betsy, so used to cuddling up to my left side while resting her muzzle on my left shoulder, was unable to comprehend why I couldn’t have her touch me.  I felt bad for her, because how could she understand why?  I endured this misery as long as I could.  

One week later, Saturday morning, September 5^th, when I could feel two ends of my rib cage rubbing freely against each other on the left side of my chest, near my heart, I went to my local emergency room in a nearby hospital.  I was 59, my old store was finally emptied out and now I was unemployed.  During the month of moving, my weight dropped from 183 to 160.  So far, that was the only positive result of all that had happened as a result of the exodus from my store.   The Bar Mitzvah was still a week away. 

Having broken ribs seems vaguely logical to me, in my current situation.  I mean, why not pile on even more? Needless to say, I have been to many, many ER’s in my strange and intricate medical life. 

I sighed and thought, “Here we go…again.”    

So, the first of the usual sequence of four people came in to look at me and asked me the same questions over and over, for what would become several hours.  I have learned, if conscious, to always bring a New York Times with me to the ER.  Or a thick volume from the Encyclopedia Britannica. 

My second inquisitor was a lovely young nurse, about 25, blonde, built, etc. who took my blood pressure, asked the height and weight questions, wanted to know my political affiliations and my astrological sign, and then asked me my birth date and age.  

I replied, 

”Fifty-nine. Sixty next April, Miss”. 

She stopped, lowered the clipboard, and stared at me.  I knew what was coming.  This happened repeatedly with my father, even in his eighties.  Now, I guess it was my turn. 

“You’re fifty-nine? She exclaimed. 

“I don’t believe it!  Your blood pressure’s perfect.  Your weight is really good; you have excellent musculature for someone, uh, of your age…….” and so on, from Miss America. 

This only happens to me when I’m either incapacitated or in the ER.  So, I decided to go with it.  I suspected she’s wasn’t a member of Mensa.  Not much else to do in the ER, anyway. 

“Well, it’s this new diet, Miss, called the Antique Magazine Diet.  All you have to do is lift ten thousand magazines for sixteen hours a day—to keep your heart rate up—and you’ll lose at least one pound a day, guaranteed.”    

She stared at me.  The Cutie Without a Clue. 

“I don’t think it’ll catch on though,” I continued, “but that’s just a hunch.”

And then, lastly, before her eyes crossed completely,”  

But, y’know, you’re in pretty great shape…for your age…too, Miss.” 

Then Florence Nightingale blushed and she went away. 

And that was the most fun I’d had since falling off that damn ladder.  Almost worth it, too.   

Then, about two hours later, the actual doctor arrived. By then, I was no longer in a humorous mood.  The pain was as bad as before, and I was given to understand that there was nothing to be done about it, in any event. 

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All four of my books are currently on sale at Quimbys Bookstore in Chicago’s Wicker Park area on the near north side.   If enough people go there and ask for them, maybe they’ll put some of them in the window on display.  I’d like that very much.  www.Quimbys.com  

They put them in the “local interest” section, they told me, but hell, I don’t know where I oughta be classified!   A Jewish writer who tells the truth about street-level Chicago, cops, the Mob, corruption, class wars, sex (in wooden newsstands and other places) loyalty, honor, revenge and friendship from a Nineteenth Century perspective…well, where would you classify me?