Relentless Time

Time marches on - the year is in it's last quarter and I'm still trying to remember to write 2010 on my checks. I can't believe how busy this year has been and how quickly it is going, going, gone.

I am still struggling with back and leg pain and am hoping that Thanksgiving will work out without too much effort on my part. I did Rosh Hashana for 9 people this year and it was a week before I could walk without too much pain as a result.

I'm looking at the possibility of another back surgery - not that I'm looking for surgery, but I am looking for some relief of the pain so I can function at some level above a cockroach.

There are so many things I want to do, places I want to go and people I want to see and I have neither the energy or the physical ability to do them. I spent some time - about 20 minutes - in a book store the other day and it wore me out. This used to be one of my favorite pastimes - spending time with books; deliciously figuring out which ones I'll buy to read and enjoy etc. But now it's an ordeal.

My very dear friend and her husband and my husband and myself went on the Wine Train yesterday. You basically sit and watch the vineyards go by and eat a very NON OA lunch. Taste a few glasses of wine. Not a high energy day. But the walking the short distance from the train and through the winery was exhausting.

Gosh, I hope this entire blog isn't going to be whining!

Anyway, I have an MRI coming up. And my husband has cataract surgery and retinal surgery coming up. So that will take care of any events in the next few weeks.

It's always a surprise to me to find how much my brain lives a seperate existance from my body.
In my head, I can go and do stuff; I was fantasizing about travel on the Danube River and in my fantasy I forgot that I have trouble getting around. I was thinking we could rent bikes at the various stops along the way and explore a little that way - like I can ride a bike? I thought it might be fun to go on one of those travel tours that take you to archeological sites and you can even take part - although I doubt that crouching in a hole reached by rough travel is going to happen any time soon. I guess what I'm noticing is that my options are narrowing down. Waaay down.

I realized quite a few years ago, that it was too late to become a ballet dancer, concert pianist, or cellist. Not too long after that, I realized that it wasn't going to work out going back to school to become a doctor - nor a historian, nor for that matter a psychologist specializing in problems of aging!! That, at least, was familiar territory to me. So when they say at Yom Kippur, the gates are closing, slowly closing for another years - I worry about whether or not it's too late to do anything - even living comes into questionable - pretty basic stuff.

I read the papers, often the obituaries. In a small town like this, it's not unlikely that you know someone in the obits. I'm happy my name hasn't shown up yet, but I notice a lot of those people are younger than I am. And my husband's age numbers give me the heebie jeebies - he's OLD.
Really , OLD. OMG!

So whether you notice or not, whether you regret it or not, time marches on. Time may well be an illusion but it's one we cannot ignore at will. By the time you figure it all out, it's too late for it to be of any use to you. And your kids don't give a shit! Because they know it's not going to happen to them. Good luck!

I guess the real message - oft repeated - is to enjoy what you can while you can. Be grateful for being here and mentally alert enough to appreciate life with all it's pitfalls and mousetraps. And if you can make the most of those moments left to you - for me, it's the hugs and kisses of my children and grandchildren. It's the snuggle with my husband when I'm not hurting too much to let him near me. It's the sense of spiritual connection when services hit just the right note. It's being with friends and family to share in special events, to eat, to laugh and to hug.

It's all good stuff. They say in the temple "Choose life" - so even as life is slipping by me like an eel in water, I choose life.

Jewish Journey

Jewish Journeys

Hi everyone - L’shana tovah - or, as my family would say “Betta dir aus alles gute” - which means roughly “may your prayers bring good things”.

My name is Helga Spizman and I was asked to do a Jewish journey this year.

It’s made me think a lot about how I got from “there” to “here” so I’ll share some of the things that have come up for me.

July 16 th of this year, I was 73 years old.

August 14th of this year, I was Bat Mitzvah’d.

A little late - but that’s the journey.

If you h ad told me five years ago, that I would have done this - this Bat Mitzvah - I would have laughed, or at the very least been incredulous.

Who me? Well, yes - me.

How did I get from there to here. Good question - because I didn’t really know the answers. The opportunity to do a “Jewish Journey” made me look at my past and examine my reasons, my history - myself.

First of all, I was born in Berlin, Germany in 1937. NOT as auspicious time or place for Jews. We escaped Germany in increments, first my Father, then my Mother and myself, leaving behind friends, family, home, history and roots.

First my Father went to England to help build a refugee camp in 1938. From there, he had a better picture of what was happening in Germany and wrote my Mother to leave - leave everything just take the baby - me - and come.

My Mother had a visa to be a housemaid in England but she had been trying to sell the business, household goods etc. She and I arrived in England in July of 1939 and war was declared 6 weeks later.

When the war broke out, my Father was put in a detention camp for enemy aliens - after all he might be a spy. Mother was told she had to work, but no-one wanted a maid with a 2 year old in tow. So the agency that had organized the Kindertransport, helped find a family who was willing to raise a Jewish child.

From a religious perspective, my family was assimilated or thought we were. My Father, German through and through - proud of his heritage, proud of the German history, culture and accomplishments and angry at the Allies for the resolution of WWI which left Germany in tatters and prey to Hitler.

My Father died young, at 46 only 5 years after we came to the United States. I was 14 and had no chance to really get to know him. No opportunity to find out how he felt about Germany now - after the war. After we had seen the photos of the concentration camps.

My Mother said my Father was Bar Mitzvah’d but, though he attended temple here in the United States on High Holy Days, I saw nothing that indicated he had any attachment to things Jewish. Or ever had.

My Mother, on the other hand, was a Polish “schtetl” Jew. Raised in a pretty Orthodox home in a small community. My Mother lived and breathed Judaism. Without even thinking about it, sentences began or ended “thank G-d” or “G-d forbid”.

My Mother lit candles every Friday of her life even when it was dangerous in Germany. And I grew up thinking the candles needed to be hidden - not visible from the street, not “out” when people entered our home, and I interpreted that as being ashamed of being Jewish. Or that being Jewish was dangerous. And it was.

Oh yes, I knew I was Jewish. But I had little or no clue of what that meant.

I was different. I was not included in the social activities of my school friends. I was sent out of the classroom when prayer time came (I suspect at my Mother’s request) and waited in the hall with the gypsy children. The teachers called me “the little Polish girl”. I think to relieve the onus of being from Germany and Jewish. I’m pretty certain that town hadn’t seen a Jew since the 13th century and maybe longer than that.

All I knew, was we had to lie. To hide our Jewishness - and who were really were.

When we collected canned food for “refugees” I was sure I would be struck dead in church - where the food was collected - because I knew I didn’t belong there.

My Mother accommodated my Father. He liked pork. She cooked pork.

Far from keeping kosher as she had been raised, she accepted the label of being a backward, superstitious Polish Jew - a label my Father’s family apparently applied to her. Yet………..she made holiday meals, said the prayers and tried to teach me Hebrew.

One day when I was 5 and my Mother had taken me back from the English family with whom I had lived for a couple of years, she took me out into the garden on the farm where we lived and said “Look around, see the beauty of the world around us. This was all made by ONE G-d.” And I thought - something like “well, of course, that makes sense.” She also taught me the Sh’ma.

Somehow my Mother found for me, religious books for children. Maybe only one or two. But I remember loving the 23rd. Psalm and memorizing it of my own volition.

In England, we were one of two Jewish families - both refugees - in the town where we lived and as I said, I don’t think the people there had seen a Jew since the 13th century. I had Shirley Temple curls and on more than one occasion someone would run their hands through my hair looking for horns.

I must have been about 7 when we went to the movies as we did religiously every Saturday night. In those days they showed the Movietone news as part of the “entertainment”. On this occasion, they showed the Allied soldiers entering concentration camps. I was appalled. I didn’t know what we Jews had done to deserve that - but I certainly saw the price of being Jewish.

My parents sat next to me in the movie. We didn’t discuss the news or talk about what we had seen. What they felt or thought about it was not available to me - only many years later did I realize that there were my grandmothers, my aunts and uncles and a cousin who were swallowed up on that Holocaust - my parents brothers and sisters, mothers……..

So what did I know about being Jewish? Well, it was something that made me different; it was something that was somehow dangerous to be; it was regarded as a “less than” quality. I didn’t know any other Jewish children

And had no one to bounce my identity off of other than white, Christian,

Anglo Saxon, small town, English people. And in the United States, it wasn’t that much different in 1947 when we came here.

It has always been hard to me to imagine a G-d, the G-d my Mother talked about, who was all knowing, all powerful, all good and yet who would allow this, this Holocaust, to happen. It has been the biggest stumbling block on my journey.

We went to London a couple of times when it was safe. My Mother took me to a Jewish temple for a service. I thought it was the most exotic and alien thing I had ever seen or heard. Nothing there related to anything I understood. No surprise.

When we came to the USA, I was 10 - we went to Los Angeles because one of my surviving Aunts and Uncles lived there and had sent us a visa. They were closer to my Father’s point of view than my Mother’s. BUT, we did do Pesach, Rosh Hashana, and Yom Kippur with them. My Uncle went through the motions of reading in Hebrew while everyone else talked about other things. It was perfunctory and cold - disrespectful even although the table and food were lovely.

I think my Uncle was concerned about my ignorance, because he bought a comic book version of the “Old Testament” - and that was my source of information about the stories and drama of the Torah. That was ALL I knew. I am now grateful for that - it was another step in my Jewish journey.

A much more positive step than much of anything else I had experienced to that point.

When we bought a house it was in a totally Christian working class neighborhood. If there were Jewish kids in my school, I didn’t know more than one or two of them. My closest friend was another refugee child whose family came from Vienna. And they were even less observant than my family. SHE went to school on the High Holy Days.

The “temple” we went to was whatever store front was rented for the purpose. I spent most of my time outside playing with other kids. Of Jewish education there was no sign or, as far as I was concerned availability.

I don’t think Jewish education was something high on the list for girls of my generation. My family seemed not to think it was important and the focus was on cooking the right foods for each holiday and that was about it.

After my Father died and my Mother remarried, my stepfather was concerned I would never meet any Jewish boys and drove long distances to take me to a Jewish Center and to Bnai Brith Young Women meetings and activities. That was where I met my husband.

.

I married a Jewish man because, among other reasons, it was inconceivable that I marry someone not Jewish. One Jewish guy I went out with shot himself in the foot, when he asked me if I HAD to wear that - Star of David - ALL the time. I did.

Don’t ask me why. But I did.

Conflicted as I was by my Jewish identity, I clung to it. I had Christian friends, but, as one friend said, I became more Jewish the longer she knew me, because I felt safe the longer I knew her. When I met new people, I told them I was Jewish right away and asked if they had a problem with that. I didn’t want to be rejected after I had developed a connection with them.

My husband came from an Orthodox home, but rejected all that. He asked nothing of me in the home other than we not have pork or shellfish. We expected to circumcise our sons and Bar Mitzvah them - we only had one.

Our girls, we chose to send to Sunday school because I knew from my experience that they would always be considered Jewish and had a right to know what that meant - historically, culturally if not religiously.

We went to my husband’s Uncle and Aunt for the holidays - at least initially

And there I found little difference from my own family’s holidays. The patriarch read in Hebrew, mostly to himself, while the rest of the family talked and cooked. I did find out that children had four questions to ask and afikomen to seek - something my family didn’t do. But there were lots of children to do that and it bypassed me.

I was interested in things Jewish and read books about history, Israel

And folklore. But I didn’t find a foothold for me to grow as a Jew. I didn’t even know that I was looking for that foothold.

It was many years later that I was invited - with my husband - to a Passover at a Jewish friend’s house and I was surprised - even stunned - to see that they LOVED the songs (which we had never sung), the ceremony (which we had glossed over) and being Jewish. That was a real milestone in my Jewish journey. To know that there were people who really LIKED being Jewish! And that it was possible to take joy in Jewish ceremonies.

We lived most of our married lives on the fringes of the Jewish community.

We lived in an area where every 4 th person was Jewish.

I took classes on World religions, I tried Transcendental meditation. I read about Buddhism. Did I know I was looking for something? I don’t know.

Those years were ones where I called myself an “atheist” or, at best, an “agnostic”.

I realize now that I was very angry with G-d. I wrestled with feelings of attachment to a G-d I neither understood, nor seemed to care for my people.

What I realize now, is that although I was angry - I was always engaged in a dialog with my faith, trying to find a way to reconcile rational knowledge

With a need for something more - something “spiritual” in my life.

What I had seen of Judaism seemed to reject me as a woman - to make me feel less than in the eyes of G-d.

Only now am I seeing how all those social and cultural influences affected my religious and spiritual life. Sometimes it just takes time to come to understanding of some sort.

We took a trip to Israel in the 1980’s and I found another milestone. We stood on the Mount of Olives on that first day and I looked back at the city of Jerusalem and I cried, and cried and cried. I realized that that city, this country, had meant so much to my people for centuries. To actually be there and walk in the steps my people had trod so long ago was powerfull and unforgettable.

When we moved to Sonoma County, I missed my Jewish friends and neighbors. I felt isolated - much as I had felt in England. One had to be careful what one said - I felt. One could not find matzo for Passover easily

And certainly not anything like Chanukah decorations or good corned beef.

The important things in my Jewish life.

I became careful again about what I said to people I wasn’t sure of.

My first job in Sonoma County was as Home Health nurse. People commented on my being the first Jew they had hired. When they hired a second one, everyone ran to tell me. I think we were supposed to be best friends.

At Christmas time they exchanged ornaments and I told them we didn’t have a Christmas tree at my house - and they were amazed. I felt, once again, alien and out of step. Although they were kind enough and curious

About Jewishness.

Every patient I saw that first Christmas asked me if I was “ready for Christmas”

And my stock answer became “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” I just didn’t feel safe to announce that I was Jewish.

We decided we needed a Jewish connection, a community. What I called my Jewish “fix”.

The next thing we did was go to a community Passover. We knew no-one.

We sat at the first table we saw seats and found to my surprise that I was sitting with women who were immersed in Judaism. They were the expression of feminist feeling in Judaism that was a growing force in the community and I hadn’t even known that such a thing was possible or growing around me.

What a surprise. The old, cold Conservative Judaism which was all I had experienced really; had been filled with misogyny and untenable dogma (at least for me). And here were the antithesis of that - women who learned, taught, prayed, (with a tallis yet!) chanted and sang! I was jealous.

So another step in my journey - a BIG one.

We went to a few temples and I was amazed to find that that was no aberration, that Judaism had moved on - Reform Judaism - which we had explored briefly in Los Angeles and which felt more like church than Judaism - had changed - at least here in Sonoma County it was warm, welcoming, inclusive, accepting and felt like home. It also harbored the possibility of intellectual and spiritual change………..Wow!

I need not feel uncomfortable because I didn’t know the prayers or the service. Someone would come over and show me the page, or words for the songs and prayers we were singing. Usually Judith.

I need not waffle about our practice or non-practice of dietary laws - no-one asked.

There were classes to introduce Judaism to Jews - there was Torah study to help interpret what we read.

I was always surprised at the freedom I felt to ask silly questions, to challenge unpleasant passages, to tear into the deeper meaning if I could find it.

No-one frowned at me; no-one criticized me; no-one condemned me. Because you see, although I identified as Jewish, and felt Jewish (whatever that means), I didn’t know what that meant beyond victimization and ostracism. And the strangest thing was the more we ripped into the Torah, the more spiritual I felt when I walked out. Another milestone on the Jewish journey.

There were people who befriended me - who offered me time and knowledge and exposure to Judaism as they live it now. Who shared their emotional connection and gave me suggestions as to how to pursue my own journey. I went to a mikvah - it was very special and only now do I realize what I did when I went. I thought I went for the experience - but I went to make a commitment….to follow through on my Jewish journey. All these mentors, guides and role models were around me.

Go figure.

And then my Mother died.

Even sick and in a skilled nursing facility, she had been the center of my Jewish life. The center of our family’s Jewish life. And then she was gone.

I suddenly felt a great responsibility to reconnect with my family’s history.

To take my place in that generation to generation that “dor v’ador” of Jewish history. To pass it on as best I could. I had a commitment to all those who had died and I needed to do something more to give meaning to their lives and loss.

So we did Passover, Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Chanukah as we had done for years but added Friday night - Shabbat. That felt really good. My Mother had done it without fail as long as she had her senses about her. And now I was doing it. Another step in the journey.

And then one day, a friend invited me to her Bat Mitzvah. I was stunned.

She was my age and it never occurred to me that such a thing was possible at our age. I went and loved it. I was so touched by these women, who at this stage of their lives were willing to learn, to commit themselves (as if they hadn’t all their lives) to being part of the Jewish community.

I wanted it. I wanted to know more, to understand more, to take part more,

And the more I did, the more I felt like an undernourished part of my soul was finally being fed.

I let go of trying to explain G-d to myself. I realized that for most of my life I had been angry at G-d; or trying to create a G-d where all these terrible things that had happened made sense. It finally occurred to me that any G-d I could imagine would be too small. I was like an ant trying to explain the Milky Way - it was enough that I prayed. It seemed to serve me to just be there, to sing, to say the prayers. To sing and sing - how I loved what that music could do for me. How I seemed to know that music in my genes.

There is no other explanation.

I don’t know if I would have been able to make this journey without this temple; without our Rabbi George. There is just so much heart, and love and spirituality here if you reach out for it.

So I signed up for the Adult class. 10 women - me being the oldest committed to study and learn Hebrew - to read Torah - to learn the prayers - to attend services. And to lead a service on a Saturday morning - sometime in the distant - at what seemed then a very distant future.

I can’t say it was easy. Learning to read from right to left in a different shape of letters with vowels popping up like fly specks here and there.

It takes time and lots of practice. But doing it together made it easier.

Then I had to learn my parsha. My portion of the Torah complete with trope (or singing patterns). I didn’t know if my brain could do it - but not only did I learn it, but I loved it. I love the sound of the words and music - I love the feelings that grip me when I read from the Torah.

And I have to mention my husband and myself writing our letter in our new Torah. I stepped up under the chuppah after saying all the prayers and washing my hands - And at that moment felt as though my brain whirled out into the cosmos eager to join with the stars. It was that kind of a moment. Transfiguring, transforming - certainly unexpected. And another step on my journey.

And all through this 18 month period, I kept getting messages that this was a journey I needed to do.

I heard from Germany about reparation for my Father’s business - this was 17 years after my Mother had instituted a case in our name. Finally, it all came together and I got my “inheritance” from my Father. It forced me to face being German, from Germany and deal with what it meant in my history.

Then I got a letter from the Red Cross giving me particulars about the time and place of my uncle, aunt and cousin’s death in Auschwitz. This was a search I instituted at least 10 years ago. The universe said “deal with it”.

Face it and let go.

I “shared” my Bat Mitzvah with my cousin who was only four when he was killed at Auschwitz.

Then I heard from an organization in Berlin that sponsors people like me - Berlin born but forced out by the Nazis - and provided a “free” trip for my husband and myself to visit the town of my birth for one week. That happened in June of this year.

I went reluctantly, and fearfully but found it lanced a psychic boil and I was free. The past would be the past - not forgotten, but not festering either.

So all these things happening made me realize that it was time….

The Bat Mitzvah was a transfiguring event for me. Many of the people who had changed my life and influenced my growth as a Jew were there. I saw their faces in the congregation as though shining out at me. I have spoken to audiences before, and they were always a blur in front of my eyes. At the Bat Mitzvah, I saw each individual face, glowing and shining with love and caring. It was a beautiful and remarkable experience.

My fears of failure to remember how to read or sing my parsha were not realized. My anxieties that we would bump into each other or fall off the beema didn’t happen - I can always think of something to worry about - I AM Jewish, after all. It all came together in a way that felt like a piece of my puzzle had finally found it’s niche.

So my Jewish journey is not at an end. I intend to study, grow, learn, increase my practice and teach my grandchildren what I can - if nothing else, model that growth is possible after 60 (or even 70).

I come to the High Holy Days with new insights, resolutions, and sense of spiritual completion.

I am among my people and I am home

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh my

This morning I got to thinking about how hurt I was when my daughter didn't tell me about her breast cancer. Not only that, but she told my granddaughter not to tell me!

When she finally did tell me a year later, I was devastated. It hurt me so much that my daughter, in this time of great need and stress, couldn't come to me and allow me to hold her hand and be there for her.

She went through the entire lumpectomy and radiation therapy alone. Her husband was in Texas starting a new job. She probably told him to go. She managed the entire packing up and moving the household to Texas while going through all of this too. Pretty incredible.

But the truth is complex. My daughter has always been stoic and avoided emotions. She does not like to be the center of attention. She believes in naturotherapy and holistic principles.
All of the above lends itself to the situation as it developed.

I'm pretty sure she didn't want to upset me; probably didn't want me to get all emotional and tearful (which I would have). Dealing with my emotions is part of why she represses hers (or am I delusional placing myself at the center of her reality?)

I'm an Oncology nurse - I would definitely have been against the possibility of NOT treating the cancer - or treating it holistically. I've seen too many women die of "treating it holistically".
It would have been very hard, if not impossible for her to make up her own mind about how she wanted to go about it with me huffing and puffing in the wings.

But even knowing all that, I was hurt. Hurt that she didn't trust me enough to think I could or would rein in my own emotions - let her make up her own mind and did not want my support, love, care or help in any way. She relied on her friend or friends (I don't know how many).
She told my granddaughter to confide or talk to one of her friends if she needed help - not Nana.
So my granddaughter got the message too - don't trust Nana.

Truthfully, I don't know if I could have done all those things - gracefully - or not. Could I have told her what my opinion was and then shut up? Could I have not wept over my fear for her?
Could I not worry about what the future holds for her? - G-d knows I worry now! I've seen plenty of people show up with advanced breast cancer years after their lumpectomy or radical mastectomy. I've had friends die before my eyes, slowly and painfully. How could I not worry about my daughter? My first born baby?

But I have held the hands of strangers, hugged family members struggling to deal with death and dying; wiped away tears for people I've cared for for many months; gone to funerals for some who we cared for for years. Could I not have cared for my daughter?

Well, it boils down to what she thought - not what I could or could not do. Perhaps we aren't so different. I know that when I was in labor with her, I told my husband not to let my Mom know because I knew she'd come to my bedside and weep and wring her hands over me - she'd tell me how she would rather take on my pain than let me suffer - and all the time I'd be trying to get through labor and deliver this child and I didn't want to worry about her needs for a change.
How different am I then?

How we hurt the people who love us - sometimes because of the bond between us we try to protect them, protect ourselves, save everyone pain and cause more. Complex human beings that we are. We can't read each other's minds to know how much we love or hate what they are doing - we can only imagine from our own point of view what's going on and that can be dead wrong!!

My daughter was dead wrong...........I think..........

Something shifted in me when she finally told me about her cancer. I asked her then if she would tell me if she had a reoccurrance and she said "yes" - but I don't trust her. Awful thought
I don't trust her to tell me what is happening in her life - good or bad (OK, probably good stuff would get told)...........but didn't I just say "we can't read each other's minds"? I think something shifted in me because I don't want to get hurt like that again - so I detached myself a little teeny bit from her. Maybe that's a good thing. It doesn't feel that way but maybe it is good.
She has her life - I have mine and my delusion was that we were in sync but even I know that's a delusion - I just forget.

This business of having children doesn't end with their adulthood. You love them just as much, worry about them and feel even less useful to them - sometimes feel you have NOTHING in common with them except the memory of childhood. But the bond of love holds you fast.

Can you protect them from the lions, tigers and bears? Probably not, but it would help if we could hold hands and sing together as we march along. Who knows, after all, what life has in store for any of us.

High Anxiety

I don't know what it is about me. Maybe it's my childhood. Maybe it's an overactive imagination but I get crazed when my kids don't call me. There is a certain time span when things are OK. I tell myself "Oh, they are busy." or "Oh, they are busy." but very shortly it becomes "Oh, they are dead."

Every headline I've ever read about people running off the road into a ditch and lying there for days before they are found. Or are never found ....run through my head and, late at night, and become ever so believable. Or freeze to death in the snow when their car runs out of gas.
Or flip upside down into an innocuous pond that just happens to be right there...............

Or axe murders....who knows, some berserk landlady with an axe just hacked her way through my entire family.

I used to call it my 2am insanity. For some reason, at 2 am every disaster becomes real. Is there a disease running rampant through the city killing people in hours? Could be. Is there a Moslem riot in Paris and they've begun attacking Americans here in the U.S.A? Well, it's possible. Did I just read about an earthquake in - you name the city? Maybe they were there and buried under the rubble.

I don't remember being this way years ago - well, years ago, they were all safe under my roof where I could protect them from the vicissitudes of life - or so I thought. Once they took off on their own, I became a victim of every headline, every Cold Case File, every rotting body discovered in a suitcase, every crocodile attack in the Deep South, every shark attack on the West coast.

Never mind that these are rare events. Just ask the grieving parents of some victim or other whether it's rare. In my fevered imagination, I'm not exempt from life's disasters - no matter how rare. I empathize with every grieving parent. I weep with every raped child, every kidnap victim and every war widow. I swear if any of my kids had joined the military during an active war, I would have committed suicide rather than live with the stress and anxiety for however many years it took.

I think it's the childhood thing again. For most of my early years disaster loomed on the horizon. Unnamed villains chased me through forests and fields. Nameless dread hid behind the door of my closet - only it wasn't nameless. It was "They" are going to get me. It was "It" knows where I live. In the dark of the night, every flicker or shadow was one of those out to get me. Maybe I listened to "Inner Sanctum" once too often. I remember nightmares for years from some of those shows.

Is it wise to let children watch those things? Is it a good idea to even read books like that? Well not if you are like me. I can name you books that the name of which will give me willies today - forget back then when I was a kid. There are movies I've never seen - just the trailer was enough to keep me awake. Maybe if I had watched things like that I would have developed a thicker skin - or maybe I'd NEVER get any sleep.

Not for me the "Texas Chainsaw Massacres" or what was that movie that scared the bejeebers out of everyone as it purported to be a hand held camera some teenagers had taken out on a camping trip............just reading about it made my stomach hurt.

As I grow older, I seem to be more vulnerable - not less, to these fevered imaginations. On some level I think how lucky can I be that nothing has happened so far. How much longer can I go on counting my blessings?

I used to say that it was a good thing I didn't become a nurse until my kids were grown. And it was true. Every cold would have been pneumonia. Every allergy attack would have been leukemia. Every stomach ache would have been appendicitis....etc. ad nauseum.

We nurses used to joke about it. But it was no joke. I know nurses who went to neurologists FIRST because they were sure their headaches were brain tumors. Every freckle was skin cancer. Every ache or pain was metastases. One of the oncologists I used to work with made jokes. Do you have hip pain? Must be bone mets. Is that a lump on your chin? Must be melanoma. Until, one day it was true. Our Social Worker complained about bone pain and he made the usual joke, but it turned out to be a kidney cancer that ultimately killed her. I don't think he cracked that joke again as long as I worked with him.

So living and working every day with death and the dying didn't make me less sensitive. It made me more so as I saw every day people who had ignored signs and symptoms. Every day I saw families in shock as the unbelievable happened to their loved ones. I saw perfectly sane people do perfectly insane things - like leave a coconut under the hospital bed because someone had told them it might forestall the inevitable - it didn't.

Aha, I've been reading Holocaust materials again. A book recommended to me about the origins of Evil. Where does it come from this insane behaviour from what are apparently normal every day people. I looked at them in Germany and wondered - is that kind and calm face hiding a killer? Is that attractive young woman capable of killing babies? That's what you read about in these books. Ordinary people who killed off 80,000 Jews in one city - Kiev - in a matter of weeks. Very specific information on how they did it too.

No wonder my hyper is hyperventilating. Why read this stuff? Still looking for answers....still hoping I'll find a "reason" in an unreasonable world.

So how sane am I when I leave messages or send emails and get no answer. At first it's like I said. "Oh, they are just busy." "Oh, they are just too busy." and then finally "If that axe murderer didn't get them, I will."