At night at the German Embassy

Tonight, Lili was invited to attend one of many events commemorating the Holocaust Generations Conference.  As her "plus one", I had the privilege of accompanying her to a cocktail party at the private residence of Germany's ambassador.

I go to these events with her as a family representative of the "2nd generation" of Holocaust Survivors.  The more of these events I attend, the more I realize that the survivors are all getting on in age and there is an urgency for their stories to be told and not forgotten to history.   It behooves their children and grandchildren to carry on the legacy of telling their stories that we may never forget the horrors they suffered as a result of anti-semitism, particularly as rears its ugly head once again, 70 short years on.

The German ambassador, Dr. Peter Ammon, gave a moving speech on the occasion of the liberation of Auschwitz at the end of January, 1945.

He spoke of the Nazi regime as being "utterly criminal". As the former ambassador to the USA & France he said "we must & will stand united against the forces of evil" referring to the recent tragic events in Paris.

Many of the attendees had spent the day at a lengthy conference and closed the event out at the embassy.  It was interesting to hear some of the European jews speaking in hushed tones how they never thought they would be invited let alone attend an event at a German embassy. Most of the ones who directly suffered in Europe during WWII are required to present themselves once a year to prove they are still alive and therefore still eligible for reparation or restitution monies owed to them as decreed and agreed by Dr. Konrad Adenauer in approximately 1950. 

Dr. Ammon's words were warm, welcoming and contrite, firm in its apology for the past and reassuring that today's Germany is a safe place for Jews to call their home.

It was freezing cold inside.  No heaters were on in the magnificent Belgravia mansion, as seen in such great classic BBC series as"Upstairs, downstairs".  To make it worse, the front door was open and there was a nasty draft blowing through the rooms.  As the speeches came to a close, we were pleasantly surprised when we were invited to an ante-room which had a most delicious buffet with some much appreciated hot pumpkin soup - how Germanic.

The irony was that pumpkins represent one thing to me: Halloween and carving.  Not one for dessert, I have never had pumpkin pie in my life and rarely ate the seeds.  But the frost bite that was overtaking my toes screamed "eat it" and I was more than pleasantly surprised! Not only was it piping hot, but it has given me a new soup to make.

January 18, 2015

On caring for the aging.

I read this today & all of it applies to the situation with Peter & Lili. 

It validates my mantra of patience, kindness & compassion.

Even when you want to pull your & their hair out!

My dear girl, the day you see I'm getting old, I ask you to please be patient, but most of all, try to understand what I'm going through. If when we talk, I repeat the same thing a thousand times, don't interrupt to say: "You said the same thing a minute ago"... Just listen, please. Try to remember the times when you were little and I would read the same story night after night until you would fall asleep.

When I don't want to take a bath, don't be mad and don't embarrass me. Remember when I had to run after you making excuses and trying to get you to take a shower when you were just a girl?

When you see how ignorant I am when it comes to new technology, give me the time to learn and don't look at me that way ... remember, honey, I patiently taught you how to do many things like eating appropriately, getting dressed, combing your hair and dealing with life's issues every day... the day you see I'm getting old, I ask you to please be patient, but most of all, try to understand what I'm going through.

If I occasionally lose track of what we're talking about, give me the time to remember, and if I can't, don't be nervous, impatient or arrogant. Just know in your heart that the most important thing for me is to be with you.

And when my old, tired legs don't let me move as quickly as before, give me your hand the same way that I offered mine to you when you first walked. When those days come, don't feel sad... just be with me, and understand me while I get to the end of my life with love. I'll cherish and thank you for the gift of time and joy we shared. With a big smile and the huge love I've always had for you, I just want to say, I love you ... my darling daughter.

To be Jewish in the 21st Century

This article was on page three in The Daily Telegraph in London on January 15, 2015.

The London I visit is a far cry from the London I grew up in, during the 1960's and 1970's.

Yes, there was still a degree of xenophobia then but the country was still reveling in the end of World War II and Britain was rebuilding itself with a succession of Conservative and Labor governments.

As a very young girl, of 9, I was sent off to a boarding school, deep in the English countryside.

It was a Church of England school and the pupils all came from very English families.

My upbringing, by east European holocaust survivors, did not prepare me for the world in which I had been sequestered.  I knew I was different upon arrival.  It began with the matron going through our personal items.  One that was required was a "tuck box", something well known among the landed gentry.  It was a wooden box, approximately 3' x 2'  x 18" or so with a hasp for a padlock.

When it came to presenting mine, I produced what my mother gave me:  an empty, over-sized cardboard chocolate box.

Everyone laughed and I felt confused and deeply humiliated.

This was just the beginning for me.

I was totally unfamiliar with the foods they served, such as steak and kidney pie, Shepherd's pie, haggis, black pudding ... the list went on and on.  My diet at home revolved around soups and potatoes with every meal, sour dill pickles, rye bread, gefillte fish according to my family's Polish, Jewish traditions.  My duvet was a continental one, unlike the British ones which were more like the thin comforters sold in the US today.

Sunday mornings were spent in church where I learned the Lord's Prayer, many psalms, hymns, liturgy, etc.  I participated in all of it and rather liked the hymns which were more patriotic than religious ... lots of Benjamin Brittain, "There'll always be an England", "Onward Christian soldiers" and so forth.  I liked going to Church because it was always followed by a trip to the local bakery, Wakefields, whose aroma of freshly baked delicacies filled the small town of Horsham, Sussex.

I only had one friend there.  She was a 13 year old girl which for a 9 year old made her the epitome of maturity and wisdom.  What brought us together was that she was also Jewish.  Our heritage linked us and we were virtually inseparable.  Even though her parents spent the war in Britain, we shared traditions and that bonded us deeply.

I was desperately unhappy at Springfield Park and on the few occasions that my mother visited, I remember watching her from a top floor window walking down the long, winding road of the school's former manor house walk until she disappeared behind the trees.  

I cried and cried, begging her to bring me home.

By the end of the school year, it was recommended that I be removed as I did not "fit in".  During school holidays, classmates went off to their homes deep in the English countryside, to their horses and hunts.  I went to Switzerland, Israel and the US to visit my father.

This made the divide between me and the others even greater.

No one could understand going 'abroad" when there was the English coastal towns of Brighton or down south in Devon and Cornwall.  I could not explain it.  It was what we did.

In my own innocent way, this was my first personal experience of anti-semitism.

In the 1970's, the situation in the middle east blew up and with it came a huge influx of predominantly Lebanese refugees but Syrians and Jordanians followed suit.  Those that abandoned their motherlands in search of freedom and security came with huge amounts of money.  These were not the people seen in the growing refugee camps.

Money was no object and thus began the rapid rise in real estate prices.  At the time, I worked on Saturday's at the then exclusive Harrod's department store.  What was once the go-to destination of the British landed gentry, warranted by assorted members of the royal family, etc., was quickly being overrun with the harems of hijab cloaked women, children having their nappies (diapers) changed on the floors of the shoe aisles between the Queen's official shoemaker, Rayne and Ferragamo.

All "decorum" had gone to hell because, despite these displays of unacceptable behaviour came lots and lots of cold cash.  Huge sums would be dropped in each department and what was once an elegant department store, with discreet assistants and softly spoken landowners buying their Barbour hunting jackets was quickly devolving into a shouk.

One lady who worked at the Chanel counter told me that a sheik had come in with several of his wives.  He pointed to the huge, display bottle of Chanel no. 5 which dominated the display.  He wanted that.  The sales woman explained that if he wanted that much cologne, he would be better off buying a substantial quantity of smaller bottles as the large one would evaporate at best, at worst, lose its scent.

"I don't care.  I want that big one there.  It is going in the bath anyway".

Such was the spending that went on, unheard of by citizens.  A dear friend who was a doctor told of us several occasions that he had treated members of the Saudi Arabian embassy, who vehemently complained about their bills.  He would break it all down according to x-ray, blood work etc.  It was not the size of the bill that bothered them.  They did not feel they were paying enough and thus felt that they might not be getting the proper treatment.

Examples of this over spending of petro-money caused real estate to sky rocket making home ownership harder and harder for the British themselves.  I found that I did not stand a chance in this type of economy, based on what I was earning and knew I had to make a change.

I returned to the States in August 1980.  Oil became the standard by which countries wealth and status were judged.  As tensions grew in the middle east, London became more and more popular due to its great location and easy access to Europe, the Middle & Far East as well as the United States.

Small, corner shops that used to be the domain of immigrant Indians and Pakistanis (members of the Commonwealth) were slowly being taken over by Arabic speaking nationals.  Many came seeking political asylum, for which England is a huge sucker.  Many just loved the freedoms afforded here while still actively practising their religion freely.

Over time, let's jump thirty years, the United Kingdom is now overrun with Muslims.  I stood at a bus stop last year and I was the only western woman amongst 12 others waiting for a bus.  They were all dressed head to toe in traditional black garments, their eyes staring out from the slits in their hijabs.

With this huge influx, came many wonderful, peace seeking Moslems.  It also opened the flood gates for many radicals who took full advantage of their refugee status, espousing hatred and spewing vitriol from the safety and sanctity of their numerous mosques.  The imams do not limit their hatred to just the Jews and the destruction of the state of Israel.  They hate the very country that has given them security and a safe haven not to mention all the benefits that come with asylum status.

65 years after the end of the World War II, anti-semitism is on the rise again.  Not just in England but in many countries across the world.

When I used to proudly wear a Star of David, I now hide it, something which shames me personally.

I am a Jew.  I feel it deep within my soul.  It's embedded in my DNA.  Although I am a very liberal one, I remain Jewish to my core.

It is tragic to see what the legacy of Abraham's sons, Isaac and Ishmael has done to this world.  Both Jews and Muslims share the same father of a monotheistic religion.  Abraham.  Both are fighting for right to worship their branch of the family.

As the child of three holocaust survivors, I fear for our future while I still hold hope and pray that peace will come to pass.

For the Jews, for the Muslims.

For the planet human.

My family in Krakow, Poland prior to the outbreak of war. 

My  grandmother and mother survived.

Mother's father and young brother were exterminated in the local concentration camp.

Five years is a bench mark for cancer survivors.  If you go five years without the big "C" rearing its ugly head, you are supposed to be "in the clear".  You will always have cancer, as we all do, in some form or another.  It's just that the body has found its own way of killing the genetic mutants.

Every survivor breathes considerably easier when they reach five year, all clear ...

I am stunned that I have not visited this site in almost three whole years let alone written anything.

Where had I been?  What went on?  Have I reached my five year all clear from grief?

It is hard to realize that so much time has gone by.  So many changes.  So much growing up within our little family.

My father, Tolek, finally made the big move to Vero Beach from his sumptuous apartment in Aventura, Miami in August on 2011 at the ripe age of nearly 85.  It took many years of intense persuasion but we finally got him a great condo a mere six - not five or seven - minutes away from our home.

My father and I struggled my whole life with our relationship.  As an alcoholic and survivor of not only the holocaust but also as a fighter for the Promised Land - a Jewish State, he never really recovered from his early teenage traumas, and coped as best he could. Alcohol. 

Tremendously intelligent, he was a loner and often lived a fantasy life which included having business cards printed up that said "Dr. Teofil Cadmon".  When I asked him what the heck he was doing handing that out, he told me that he had gone to enough courses through his work with Western Electric/Bell labs/ATT to afford him a PhD so he gave it to himself!

Although his health was declining, he was still very independent, driving, shopping and cooking for himself.  Living so close to us, one of us saw him daily and we really felt like a little family for the first time.  We developed a routine and he was always up for an outing anywhere.  He was particularly happy if it included a meal for which he would always gladly pay. 

As a newbie resident of  Vero Beach, we went about the geriatric task of finding all new doctors and made regular visits to each one of them.  Slowly, Tolek began to let go and trusted me with his medical information and speaking to the doctors.  He believed he was as tall as he was when he was 50 even though he was at least two inches shorter than me and argued it at the offices!  He also believed himself to be at least thirty pounds lighter.  Many times, I would  excuse myself when he was in the examining room to go and get a quick word with the attending nurse or doctor to give them the real low down ...

In August of 2012, he was hospitalized with heart failure.  He had arbitrarily decided to stop taking one of his medications, which led to massive fluid build up in his chest.

He was discharged after three days but it was the beginning of the end.  

I have to give huge props to the staff of nurses from the VNA of Vero Beach.  Each and every single one of them who came home to visit and care for him was beyond caring, loving and so very kind.  After a second visit to the ER, he asked me to sit down when I was finally allowed in his room.  He wanted to speak and he did not want me to interrupt, a bad habit which drove him bananas.

He had been alone in the room for over forty five minutes and had clearly come face to face with his own mortality.  He apologized to me for being a terrible father.  In fact, he said that it was remarkable I turned out as well as I did considering how dreadfully I had been parented on both sides of the Atlantic.  He held my hand, thanked me and told me he did not deserve as kind and caring a daughter as I was.

Although he was coasting, hospice came in for long term assistance.  I was supposed to go to London but cancelled my flight in the last minute as he was beginning to fall from a weak heart.  

I moved in.  We were the unlikeliest of room mates.  After fifty years, we were living together again.

On October 28th, 2012, Kaelin, Corey, Daniel and I along with two dear friends, celebrated Daddy's 85th birthday.  That made him the oldest member of his family to ever reach that age and not die an unnatural, early death.

On Halloween morning, I went into his room.  He was cold but so was the room.  He was peacefully sleeping, the oxygen machine pumping away.  I went to call my mother and while I was on the phone, Daniel came over to visit.  A few minutes later, he came into my room and just held out his hand.

My dad had passed away as everyone should.  Peacefully, happily, safely in his own bed, in his own home.  In his sleep.  

Those last three weeks were the best time we ever spent together.  In dire circumstances, in the shadow of death, he gave me the greatest gift of all - he let me know that I really was loved and appreciated by him and his apology erased a lifetime of painful memories.

Kaelin stayed with me at Daddy's and for some reason, I did not return home but rather remained in his condo until December.  I felt his presence all the time and it was comforting.

Two days after his passing, I made reservations to come to London to spend Christmas and New Year with my mother and a very ailing Peter.  I wanted to spend the holidays with family, as it should be.

Upon my return to the States, I also returned home, much to the disappointment of my boys who got quite used to having the house to themselves!  I really needed to reclaim my territory and made sure I marked all corners.

My dad's death was more bearable than Vic's as it came after a long, long life well lived.  But I realized that my father had also become my buddy, my go-to friend when I needed company or an outing.

I missed my pal and again, I sort of disappeared into my own world, my room, forsaking the gym, people.  My life, which had taken on some meaning whilst looking after Tolek, was again rudderless.

It was not but a few months later that I ended up in London as Peter's diabetes affected his right foot, culminating in the leg's amputation last year, at the age of 91.

I spend six weeks in London that summer to help.  I have been returning every two-three months since.

We all returned last year again for Christmas and New Year, flying on Christmas Eve and leaving on New Year's Day.

A new tradition.

It is now December 2014.  I am in London again, spending my first Christmas without my children, who will be arriving next week.

I have learned the importance of compassion, kindness and patience.  I have learned that the smallest acts of kindness can make a difference in someone's life.  I have learned not to have expectations of people or things as it usually ends in disappointment.  Being expectation-free with very liberating.

I have rekindled old friendships and firmly established and cherished the precious ones I have.  I am so grateful to those people who have stood by me and just loved me, unconditionally through these past years.

What will happen with my mother when she loses her partner of 29 years?  It is my hope that she will pick up her life and continue with her causes, which still excite and fuel her.  It is my hope that my children will get to experience the Lili that I used to know, full of life, laughter and song, a happy woman, far from the burned out caregiver that she has become.  It is my hope that she and I have a few more years together, that we can enjoy life and that we can still share some journeys - together. Just the two of us.  

RIP  

Teofil Josef Angstreich-Cadmon

aka Tolek

October 28, 1925 - October 31, 2012

today's facebook posting ...

"The reality is that it is 2 yrs 3 mos ... I still have not opened all the condolence cards & letters as it hurts too much ... I still have clothes in the closet that I just hold & smell ... how does one mend a very broken heart? Thank goodness breathing is a reflex".

End of posting.

Listening to Steely Dan on Spotify. It's been a while. It still works upon me as a musical balsam.

So, yes, it is still very much about the grief. I gave up several dedicated years of anti-depressants & anti-anxiety meds just in time for the holidays. Timing sucked but all my reading has made the distinction between grief and depression very, very clear. Grief cannot be treated with anti-ds.

If that was the case, why put my body through all the additional stress of processing unnecessary drugs?

Accupuncture has been working very nicely for my migraines. They are now less the norm than they were, a predictable and unwanted, painful presence just the turn of my head away.

Jon has been working on accupuncture detox points as well. Perhaps they are helping. I certainly did not go into full blown withdrawals, which was anticipated. Far from it, much to my doctor's great surprise. I will give 50% credit to Jon's healing needles & 50% to the power of my will.

Or won't. As in "I won't have a problem", "I won't give in".

It is hard enough to experience the death of a loved one, a spouse, but painful issues like single parenthood, financial insecurity, isolation, all becomes dominant players in the grieving process.

I know they are with me ...

Something about Vic's passing has overly sensitized me to people's pain & suffering, particularly the illness of cancer & all that it entails ...

Reading that Joe Paterno's family were making a decision about his ventilator threw me into a mini breakdown. It reminded me so vividly that my last decision made on Vic's behalf was not to put him on a ventilator as I was advised that once on it, he would never come off.

So to have him hooked up to a breathing machine, to feed him through a tube in his stomach ... not an option he would have wanted anymore as the quality of his life would have been completely compromised & he would have been helpless & dependent, two things that were unacceptable.

I miss him ...

Moving out

For the best part of the past two years, I spent my home time in my room with ventures into the kitchen for sustenance & into the den to keep the bills paid.

Actually, that has since changed as I finally discovered online banking! Now the den really serves as the custodian of the family paper trail, the bane of my organizational existence.

When Vic died, I made a couple of very subtle changes to the bedroom, a place where so much time was spent during his illness ... the changes included emptying out his bedside table drawers, moving my "stuff" over to his drawers in the bathroom, strange things like that. I had given Shay & Angie a lot of his clothing immediately upon his death so I took over more closet space even though there remains a number of Vic's items that I cannot touch, move, look at still. I want them there, I just want them there.

My room has served as my womb room, the place I feel most connected, most protected, most safe, most detached from the world.

I have everything I personally need within a few feet of my bed, which serves as my hq. Comfortable beyond belief, totally inspired by the incredibly luxurious bedding in Miraval, my room is often referred to as my own hotel suite.

My room has nursed & nurtured all my emotions these past years have evoked. My billowy pillows are piled high, downy & soft. I have buried my face in them, the sheets over my head, more times that I care to admit, let alone share.

I have candles of all types everywhere, mainly inside an assortment of crystals, salt lights, etc. I have a lifetime of photos in multiple photo frames & I like to look at them.

Some people tell me I should not have them around. That's it is not good for me to keep looking at the past.

But I like it. It gives me great comfort. It reminds me of just how fleeting life is & how many wonderful moment we all shared.

Our living room is the central point of our house. A large, high ceiling, you walk through it to get to all rooms. It's a fabulous room, focal point being the fireplace that we all love.

But it is a room that I rarely frequent. It is the place where the Xbox was played, where football games and "Hillbilly Fishing" is watched. It is not a room that I use or have ever used, to be frank.

The only time I really come out of my room is to enjoy the fire but that was always quite short lived. For some reason, I always liked it most when everyone was sleeping & it was just me, the sound of the wood charring & the smell of oak burning.

Here it is winter again and the fire has been roaring away.

There have been small, almost imperceptible changes that have been insinuating themselves into my life.

One of them has been a very conscious effort on my part to spend more time in the living room, in the center of my home as opposed to sequestered in my "suite".

Those friends who come over all "get" why we always end up in my room. It has a really, really good, soothing vibe.

However, the seguaying into the living room is quite symbolic for me.

It represents a part of me that is getting ready to come back into the world ... it is a very slow process for me.

I have finally made the distinction between being depressed and the state of grief.

I am very jealous of those people for whom the grief process was a one, two, three event. I am more curious than envious about those people who became widowed who are right there, wham bam, back in the game.

I am questioning as to when I go from being "widowed" to being "single" ... being widowed still makes me feel connected to the relationship, as in we didn't want it to end. Being single seems overwhelming to me as I really never expected I would be that again. Even as we learned the true nature of Vic's illness ... death was not an option for him & we operated from that mind set ALL THE TIME.

I am thinking that the word "solo" does not present me with such angst, like I am "out there" ...

So there it is.

No rush. No pressure. No hurry.

And ...

Moving out of the bedroom into the living room.

Moving out of widowed into solo thinking.

From my heart to G-d's ears ...

Le roi est mort ...

Vive le roi. "Le roi" being the old.

"The (olde) year is dead. Long live the year".

I gave up on resolutions many lifetimes ago. They just set me up for failure as I simply put too ridiculously much on myself.

Now, decades later, I am happy to say that I have simply resolved to keep moving forward.

That's it. Just keep moving onwards.

The past couple of months, although at times
rocky, have all brought me to what I am perceiving as a new state. A new stage of my life.

One of my favorite Van Morrison songs ended with the haunting line, "the best is yet to come".

May it be so.