Grief is shaping me into a woman I never expected to be

There is a Yiddish adage that translates to “man plans, God laughs.” These four words couldn’t be more accurate in describing my life at this moment. If someone had told me twenty years ago that I’d be a single mom in my mid-forties with three children and no surviving parents, I’d have done things much differently — especially my relationship with my parents.

My mother passed away when I was nine months pregnant with my youngest. That loss felt enormous, but I hadn’t anticipated how much I’d grieve her absence as my final child hit milestones she had relished with my older two. Navigating a painful and messy divorce without the unconditional love of a mother forced me to find an independence I didn’t know existed, let alone ever achieve. Yet even with this unique experience with grief while pregnant and beyond, I was not prepared for the sudden loss of my father two weeks before my 46th birthday (and on his wife of 27 years’ actual birthday).

My father and I were so similar that, for most of my life, we butted heads; but in the last three years, we both came into our own and learned how to bond without the friction. We spoke every day. He was a proud grandfather, and it was incredibly comforting to kvell — and kvetch — to a parent about my children. Single parenting with a contentious co-parent steals this aspect of parenthood. My father became my mother in many ways because of this dynamic with my ex. This, in combination with our new, healthy relationship, made it especially devastating to lose him so suddenly.

We still had so many memories to make, so much of life to live — literally. He was taking me and my kids on a cruise to Alaska the month following his death. He was waiting to see the production video of my youngest’s performance in the school play. He wanted to attend my daughter’s culmination from 8th grade (which fell on the last day of his shiva).

This is me now: a version of myself that perhaps I knew was coming, but not for another decade. Parentless. Some use the word orphan, but that doesn’t encompass what it means to be an adult without parents; to me, orphan implies childhood. Parentless is harsh. Cold. Detached. Untethered. Real.

I’ve used the word untethered many times over the last several months since my father’s passing. I’m an astronaut floating in space, having lost my connection to a homebase that keeps me from floating away without direction.

While my emotions and routine are still adjusting to my new reality, I acknowledge and am grateful for being spared from watching my parents grow old and lose their faculties. I’m witnessing others my age become caretakers for their parents, struggling to balance their own families while bearing the weight of looking after aging parents — many of whom don’t even recognize their own family members. It’s an odd sense of relief, knowing that my memories of my parents will forever remain untarnished by this type of deterioration.

Through this juxtaposition of emotions, I’ve learned that grief is shaping me into a woman and parent I never expected to be; though I’m parentless, their influence is now my compass. I’m learning to appreciate and encompass it daily (see what I did there. I’m grieving, but I can still make jokes!).

Indeed, man plans, God laughs.

I had envisioned things so differently, but I am finding my way. I may feel untethered, but I’m not lost. I’m still anchored in the lessons from my parents. While my life looks different than I imagined, I’m discovering a strength that, through loss, is uniquely my own.

This is Me Now was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In the past 3 months, I’ve lost my dog, my dad, and my car.

In the past 3 months, I’ve lost my dog, my dad, and my car. Of course, my dad dying was the biggest loss but losing my car affected me more. Not so much because of the car itself — it is replaceable — but rather how I lost it. The car, a fire engine red Model Y Tesla which I named Rosie, was the nicest car I have ever owned. Prior to Rosie, I had been driving a series of “mom” cars.

The first mom car was a metallic blue Honda Odyssey minivan. Then a pearl white Toyota Highlander Hybrid (basically a minivan masquerading as an SUV). My husband loved both those cars but he only drove them on family outings camping or on a ski trip. The rest of the time, my husband zipped around in his sleek bronze BMW Z4 two-seater convertible while I drove the oversized clunkers filled with empty juice box cartons, stray goldfish crackers, random socks, shin guards and forgotten papers from school.

When my kids got old enough to drive, I was more than happy to gift them the Highlander and I told my husband in no uncertain terms that it was my turn to get a “grown-up” car.

I knew I wanted an electric car — given global warming it made no sense to get another gas-powered car. I did not want a Tesla. I don’t particularly like Elon Musk and when the Tesla first came out it felt pretentious as only the uber-wealthy could afford them. But now they had made more affordable models — the 3 and the Y but still we resisted. We drove our friend’s Chevy Bolt and then test drove BMW’s version that was so ugly it was cute. Finally, and a bit begrudgingly, we decided to try the Tesla. Once we drove the Tesla, we understood the fuss.

The 0–60 acceleration in 5 seconds, the smooth drive, the heft and solidity of the car, the way it handled, and it was so quiet! I had never driven anything like it. Yes, the lack of a dashboard and doing everything on a tablet would take some getting used to but I was sold. We ordered our Model Y on the spot and paid extra for the red. I could hardly contain my excitement.

My beautiful Rosie was delivered to my home one month later. She was everything I hoped she would be: sleek, shiny, red…and all mine. I finally had the nicest car in the family.

Unfortunately, it was not to last.

Three weeks later while I was in our local grocery store, the truck that was parked next to Rosie, scraped her right rear bumper as it was pulling out of its parking spot. She didn’t even have her permanent plates yet. Thankfully the driver found me and gave me his insurance information but, my perfect car was marred.

Before Rosie was fixed, my son scraped up her right front bumper as he was backing out of our driveway. Two days later, my mom closed the automatic garage door while Rosie’s trunk was still open putting a dent in the back hatch. Rosie wasn’t even a month old.

We found an amazing body shop guy, Larry, who made Rosie look good as new. Unfortunately, 6 months later, I backed into a short post and dented the bumper at a Tesla Supercharger station. Rosie was injured yet again. And once again, Larry was able to put her back together so you would never know.

I made it another 6 months before I hurt Rosie again. This time, I had forgotten to put her in park and an accidental touch of the accelerator pedal sent her lurching forward over the curb and into a parking meter which she flattened. The meter did not survive and Rosie’s right front fender was severely dented.

Never in my life as a driver had I had so many mishaps with one car and during such a short period of time. I sheepishly called State Farm to file yet another claim — the female agent practically laughed at me, “Is this the Tesla, again?” And after withstanding her amused and slightly mocking tone, I sent a text to Larry with apologies and embarrassment. “No worries” he texted back, “I gotchu”.

After waiting over a month for the insurance check to arrive, I made plans with Larry to have the car fixed during the last few weeks of July. It was perfect timing as we would be in Denmark visiting our daughter who was spending the summer in Copenhagen. I looked forward to Rosie being whole once again.

Then the unthinkable happened.

It was July 14th, around 10 pm at night. I was engrossed in a jigsaw puzzle, enjoying a glass of chardonnay, and listening to a podcast on my white noise cancelling Beats headphones. I was in my own world oblivious to any sounds around me. And then, my Iphone rang through my headphones, interrupting my reverie and disturbing my light buzz.

“Mom, its Nik”. I was confused. Wasn’t he downstairs? I hadn’t heard him leave. And then I heard the sirens wailing in the background. I froze.

“Mom, I am ok but the car is not”.

“Wait, where are you? Which car? What happened?”. My words came out in rapid fire as I struggled to comprehend what he was saying.

“It’s Rosie. She’s toast. I’m on 280. I went to get Ben and his cousin,pounds and a car came out of nowhere. Everyone is ok. Can you guys come get me?”

Nik was eerily calm. And I was too. I felt confused about how I should be feeling. Rosie was toast — ok that sucked. But Nik was ok and in fact, sounded better than ok. Should I be angry or hysterical or worried or sick to my stomach? All I felt was numb.

We jumped in the car that Nik normally drives, our white Toyota Highlander and not thinking took the long way around and ended up in the traffic slowdown caused by the accident. It took us at least 20 minutes to reach our son.

It was surreal driving by the scene of the accident, seeing Rosie, indeed toast, with her nose crumpled in, her windshield shattered, her front tires askew and flattened, her airbags deployed. It was at that moment that my calm thawed, and I wanted to vomit. I didn’t care that Rosie was gone. All I could think of was that my son was alive. My 18-year-old son who had just graduated high school, who was heading off to college in the fall, who had his entire life ahead of him, was alive. My son was alive.

My husband and I finally reached the rest area where my son was waiting — his friend’s mom had beaten us to the scene and had picked the boys up from the side of the freeway after they had given their statements to the police. My son is 6’2”, 280 pounds and a defensive lineman on his football team. As soon as he saw us, he walked over and collapsed in my arms, shaking and sobbing. I started sobbing too, my son was alive.

Once we were back in the safety and warmth of our home, we debriefed. Nik admitted he was wrong for leaving without letting us know. He thought he would go to Ben’s house and be back with us being none the wiser. He had no real reason to sneak out, I would have let him take Rosie. He couldn’t really say why he had just gone. He chalked it up to an ADHD moment. In the end, it would not have changed what happened, but we made a rule then and there: no leaving without telling us even if it is for a short trip.

Nik also told us that when the three of them got in the car at Ben’s house he had said, “Buckle up, boys”.

Ben dutifully put on his seatbelt but his cousin who was visiting from Hong Kong said, “We never wear seatbelts at home”.

Nik responded, “Well you do in my car.” The many years of me insisting that seatbelts be worn had paid off.

Not 5 minutes later, they slammed into the side of an SUV that was thrown suddenly into their path after being knocked by another car. Nik was going 70 miles per hour. The cousin’s wallet which had been sitting on the back seat next to him ended up wedged between the driver seat and the side of the car. I shudder to think what would have happened to Ben’s cousin had Nik not insisted he put on his seatbelt.

I got to visit Rosie two more times after that before she was finally taken away for good. Once to release her from the tow yard where she was taken after the accident and once after she was brought to Larry so he could confirm for the insurance company that she was not salvageable. She was not. When I could get up close to Rosie and walk around her, I could see how miraculous it was that everyone had walked away from the accident unharmed. It made me sick to think what could have been. Rosie, my sturdy 4400 lbs. beautiful shiny red car, had saved my son’s life.

Saying goodbye to Rosie was hard for me.

On the one hand, I was relieved not to look at her anymore and be reminded of the accident and how disastrous it could have been. Then again, she was my first grown up car and I felt about her almost like a first love. And there is nothing like the feeling of a first love. I remember walking away from Larry’s shop knowing it was going to be the last time I saw Rosie. I felt a mixture of sadness and gratitude towards her. It was another month before I could bring myself to delete her from my Tesla app.

Gracie arrived in December. She is our replacement Model Y, grey not red and with white seats instead of Rosie’s black ones. I am being very careful with her — she is already 5 weeks old, has her permanent plates and has not suffered as much as a scratch. I am happy to be driving Gracie especially after driving our 2007 Black Prius for the past 4 months. Driving the Prius is more like driving a golf cart when compared to the power of the Tesla. But I don’t feel the same way about Gracie as I did Rosie. I don’t think I ever will.

Rosie was my first. The joy and excitement I felt during the year and a half that I had her will never be matched by Gracie. And, besides, Rosie saved my son’s life.

Goodbye Rosie was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I rifled through the pile of mail on the kitchen counter and looked up at my boyfriend, who was staring into the fridge, looking for something to make for dinner.

“You got an invitation to your 50th High School Reunion.”

He managed to look back and grunt an incoherent reply. I wasn’t sure if that meant he was interested in going… or not.

Steve had been raised in a small town in Missouri, until his father decided to move the family of five and a shoe business to Southern California. He’d had enough of Missouri winters. Steve was just entering high school. He once told me they’d put him in remedial classes since the grading system back home differed from the one at his new school. They assumed the E’s he’d gotten (for Excellence) must mean he’s a dodo since they were lower than a D and just above an F. His mom marched into the school office and demanded he be moved to mainstream classrooms!

But, other than hearing a story here and there, like being forced to join the marching band so he could “make new friends,” he never talked much about it.

“I went to my 20th and 40th reunions. It’s really something you should experience at least once in your life.” I waited for his reply.

“I’ll go if you come with me. I’ll introduce you as my trophy girlfriend.”

The invitation said dress was California casual so we both wore jeans and Steve bought a light yellow shirt with pineapples on it at Costco. We drove the two hours from our home in LA to his mom’s house, about a half hour from the reunion venue. He borrowed her iron to press his new shirt and we were off!

There was a giant Welcome Class of 1974 sign that we passed under and onto a large grassy area set up with several tables and chairs.

The party was in full swing since it had started at 5p and it was now closer to 6p. The plan was to get there right before the barbecue buffet was served. We looked around to see if we could spot any open seats. In the process, we took in the aging men and women around us. I’m a little bit younger than Steve, but not by much, and a lot of these people looked old. Maybe they were thinking the same about us.

We walked from table to table looking for two empty seats.

“Are these seats available?” “No, they’re taken.”

We moved to the next table…

“Can we sit here?” “No, our friends are sitting here.”

We made a giant loop around the entire lawn and couldn’t find two lousy seats. No one recognized my guy or even seemed to want to talk to us. This was not going well.

We went to get some food at the buffet, which was surprisingly tasty and ended up sitting on a raised dirt bed around a tree. We tried to make light of the situation. Steve even re-created the scene. “Excuse me, may we sit here with you?” “No! Go sit on that tree stump, loser!”

He also managed to spill barbecue sauce down the front of his new pineapple shirt. Guess that’s to be expected when you’re sitting on a pile of dirt and not at a proper table. So, he trudged off to the bathroom and came back with a big water stain where the barbecue sauce had landed.

After we finished eating, we walked around a little more and a woman with long blond hair approached us.

“Did you used to work in a shoe store?”

Finally! This woman said her mom always took them to his family’s store for shoes. Then another woman came over and remembered him and they spoke for a bit until the first woman grabbed the other woman’s arm.

“Sorry, I need to borrow her so we can go find our friends.” And off they went, hand in hand, practically skipping away.

I was feeling a tremendous sense of relief. It would’ve been awful if I’d pressured him to attend this thing and he didn’t see a single person he knew. But now, Steve was starting to get into it. He recognized the name on a guy’s tag and went over to say hello. The interaction lasted all of 30 seconds.

But, undaunted, he said, “I think I might see Cindy Smith. I’m going to go see if it’s her.”

I had no idea who that was but the more people he talked to, the better! I told him I’d meet him back at the dessert area, where they were getting ready to set out apple cobbler with whipped cream. I would’ve preferred ice cream but hey, it’s Southern California in early June, so melt-age is definitely a factor. I looked over towards Steve, who was now talking to a very pretty slim blonde, with long legs. There seemed to be a lot of laughing and arm touching going on.

I got tired of waiting for him so I went to the bathroom to waste some time. Just as I entered the ladies room, a man in a huge electric wheelchair was moving backwards out of the handicapped stall. His wife followed. A few of us had to quickly slam our bodies against the wall so he could make a 180 degree turn in a tiny space.

Calm as could be, the wife said, “Come on buddy, turn this baby around so we can get out of these ladies’ way.”

My phone buzzed, “Where are you?” I texted back, “Bathroom. Meet me by the cobbler.”

Turns out Cindy Smith works for the forest service in Washington State and takes tour groups up mountains. Wow, this woman was a few years shy of 70 and obviously in great shape. So maybe that one made the “trophy girlfriend” feel a little bit jealous. I didn’t have too much time to feel bad because, just then someone came over and congratulated me on winning the golf tournament that had taken place the day before. I said thank you but that definitely wasn’t me. I’m a pickle baller not a golfer.

We ate our cobbler standing up, threw the little empty styrofoam cups in the garbage. Then, I looked at Steve. “You ready to go?” We’d only been there a little over an hour.

“Yep, this was fun. I’m glad we came.”

We left without saying goodbye to anyone because, really, what was the point? As we got into the car I was secretly grateful we’d only driven a few hours to get here. My 50th is coming up and it would be a five hour plane ride. Is it worth it? Do I need to experience the rejection and awkwardness. Do I really want to go back to high school? Maybe I’m done with reunions. I think Steve probably is too.

Back To High School was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It’s two in the morning and suddenly, I’m ravenous. I stand at the kitchen counter over a tub of artichoke dip piling some into my mouth with the remnants of a bowl of tortilla chips, a leftover party favor from my very recent party of two. Only moments before, the other half of my party walking out the door after a five hour makeout session. 52 baby. These teens got nothin’ on us. Seriously, when is the last time that you made out for hours upon hours, breaking only for the occasional sip of water or race to the bedroom? Did I mention 52?

The skin on my chin feels raw, my lips swollen, but I don’t mind a bit. In fact, it puts a smile on my face, remembering the night before…his hands, my hands, hips, arms, face, hair, kissing. Oh man, is there anything better than when two people meet in the middle of a good kiss? Sweet, sexy, passionate, playful, there’s nothing better than a good kiss with a well-matched player. Those teens wouldn’t even know what to do with that. 52 years of practice: knowing, sensing, connecting. 52 years of wisdom, experience, being in the moment-no thoughts, just being in the moment.

The endorphins are still coursing through my body, so grateful for the time to just be me. Not a mother or a woman with bills and responsibilities, just space and time to be me. To connect. To play. To feel like a teenager again. Only better. So much better. His tall muscular frame enveloping me in his arms. His deep sexy voice. That couch got a healthy dose of makeout olympics and we just won the frickin’ gold medal. No one existed outside of our party of two and that’s just the way I like it. Mmm, there they go again, those endorphins coursing through my body, tacked on to my sleep-induced hangover after night two of our 2:00 A.M. closing time rendezvous.

It’s a good morning. Sun bright, house quiet, body relaxed, brain calm. Who needs church when you have the memories of party of two to elevate you higher? Hallelujah! Amen.

52 Baby! was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

the next dive, a diaper-wearing military woman fighting Lyme disease.

Inside a chamber, forever changed from this ascent, descent into one

who publicly pees. I forgive myself. I cleaned the floor, I wiped myself.

Lana, let it go. Remember who I am. I just had a full bladder of IV in

Urinetown. Look around. I’m still here. Humiliation seeming ever-near.

Much to my humiliation, I had more stored up, URINE of

or not in the chamber, this yellow submerge is a top-10 shamer.Urinetown

A PICC line dangles from underneath a designer blouse,

again at Dr. Sultana’s office, in MD, a home, pseudo house

filled with the sounds of Lyme patients, families, IVs, doubt,

foot baths, hyperbaric oxygen chambers. An unreliable bladder.

I emptied it before entering one of the oxygenated submarines.

Much to my humiliation, I had more stored up, URINE of

no limits. Just in case, check on me, every fifteen minutes.

They did. Sort of, or maybe time just then slowed down.

I have to go. Now. Texting. Calling. Banging on the fake

Meanwhile, I avoid also soaking my blouse, socks, remaining

Too late. No one came. I stood up. Out came a lake

of yellow pee. I made my own yellow submarine. In the

chamber, on the floor. I can’t stem the tide, quick run

outside of the zippered submarine. I am still peeing.

In Urinetown. There’s a flood on the ground and now my

designer Theory pants are soaked to their labeled brim.

Meanwhile, I avoid also soaking my blouse, socks, remaining

I fashion a non-designer skort of paper towels and scrunchies.

Don’t look. I can’t stop the flow, I squeeze. This is

humor-ish humiliation. I make it to Dr. Sultana’s bathroom,

screaming obscenities at the yellow submarine and its trail

of pee pee drops. I’m 55. I find baby diapers in there, but no

towel, no robe, no emperor, nothing for covering the shame.

“Lana?” Don’t say my name.

I fashion a non-designer skort of paper towels and scrunchies.

I’m numb, devoid of any definable sensation, except frustration

away in the toxin-emptied sink, sniff, pants. There’s a faint stink —

of Urinetown, throw them in the trash. Rid evidence of my pee

that has finished its share with the public. I’m washed in baby soap

and hand sanitizer. I march a paper-toweled tush and humiliation

into the pseudo-spa room, squat in the sauna to let the heat soak

Add it to the list of humor-ish humiliations. I will be like an astronaut

I’m numb, devoid of any definable sensation, except frustration

and total, fucking resignation. Well, I’m human. I peed and turned

the submarine yellow along with its oxygenated healing vapors of

air. People have begun to stare. I don’t care. I finish an IV and enter

that spa sauna to collect Theory pants. Replace paper-towel of skort,

I look to shirk and skirt away as quickly as I can. From Urinetown.

Add it to the list of humor-ish humiliations. I will be like an astronaut

the next dive, a diaper-wearing military woman fighting Lyme disease.

Inside a chamber, forever changed from this ascent, descent into one

who publicly pees. I forgive myself. I cleaned the floor, I wiped myself.

Lana, let it go. Remember who I am. I just had a full bladder of IV in

Urinetown. Look around. I’m still here. Humiliation seeming ever-near.

And yet, tomorrow is another day. I choose to stay. Whether I pee

or not in the chamber, this yellow submerge is a top-10 shamer.

Urinetown was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

REFLECTIONS OF A TOWER

Lana, WAKE UP; the world is coming to an end!

Shawn, I worked late last night; I need more sleep.

Lana, look outside. I think this may be Armageddon.

GET

UP

RUN.

I don’t know what the fuck

is happening. I’m walking Smedley.

A plane flew into the World Trade Center.

We are under attack. GET UP. Should I pack?

I’ll GET UP, what to wear for the end of the world?

What do I take? We have Smedley. We have each other.

Wait, there must be another something we have to bring.

Food, drink? Phone? Photo albums, our home.

Are we safe? GET OUT. People are running,

unsure of where, just fast-paced.

We gather with the rest of our neighbors

in Brooklyn Heights on the Promenade.

It is a part of the brain I can never retrain

to unsee, buildings on fire, bodies jumping

into the air. Watching the falling

of Tower 2. My cousin has a meeting at 9.

Did he enter the inferno or turn

his car around in time to go home

and stay a father to his young children?

Papers are flying into the Hudson River;

ashes have begun to land on us in little slivers.

RUN HOME, open doors. For those who live.

Dazed survivors, moving robotically across

the Brooklyn Bridge. Survivors. Shawn races

back to our brownstone a few blocks away.

Opening doors to greet them with water,

towels, a brief stay. Run to the hospital,

donate blood. Stacey and I spring to

St. Vincent’s, turn back. No blood

is needed. The buildings have fallen.

None inside or in the air can be treated.

They are all dead. Shawn felt each soul pass

and shuddered in the sunny wind of this day.

The pain of life proved too much, Shawn said.

Shawn didn’t want to live much longer.

Though so much stronger than I.

Shawn died in the first days of COVID.

The evolution of the WTC reflects parts

of me and my life — special trips to NYC

to see my famous back surgeon

allowed me to photograph up and down

from the top of these two skyline buildings.

Somehow the pain of my brace was placated

connecting with the place I’d soon call home.

NYU. Out my Greenwich Village dorm room

window a tiny bit of view of a city’s symbols

I adopted as home, reminders of my fortitude,

what I could accomplish on my own. Here is where

I started my solo career in 2000. Ready to make it

in New York, New York, once again.

Open door to an open city. The towers

standing tall, offered its bolstering stability.

My latest move back to NYC was in 2009.

Smedley was gone. Freud took his place.

We lived in Battery Park. I can see the space

where those two towers belonged, now a city

sans a face of recognition, World Trade Centers,

glaringly missing. I walked the Promenade

nearly every day with Freud. Working hard

to see the sun, and even harder to avoid

nightmares of falling ashes and dropping bodies.

Some years passed.

I couldn’t stay away.

I MOVED BACK.

Ground Zero. So much controversy.

What will go in its place? What can

memorialize the lost souls with grace?

Alex and I watched the four buildings

of the Freedom Tower GO UP.

Slowly, ever so slowly,

but with each new floor and window

installed, corresponding sense

of trust and healing.

Having lost friends, seeing their names

on the wall, hearing the water, looking

deep down in the fall of the wells

where the buildings once stood. I understood.

I am evolving with you in humility. These four

new towers, symbol of resiliency and humanity.

This photo was snapped during one of those

afternoon walks. Freud smiling in the sun,

I am capturing the clouds, nearly touching

the sky, so many objects. In one photo,

there is hope. Faith. Feel the fortitude.

NYC, I love you. I’m arriving tomorrow.

And the first place I’ll go to is the

the newly erected Freedom Tower,

Looking for my shadow in its reflection.

Shadow of renewal in the city of possibility.

I see you, cousin, who gratefully ran late

that morn. His daughter wasn’t feeling

well; thank you, my little cousin, Lorn!

Pete and 11 other firemen from engine house 23,

orphaned children, CEOs, janitors, lost spectrum

of those inhabiting the WTC.

A day that changed our sense of having any center.

Shawn, I see you. The world didn’t end. I hope

to see the clouds reflected in the new towers again.

In a few hours, I’ll look into them, looking for you.

Snap a photo of life, the three other towers,

then up to the sky it almost touches,

recalling the horror

while I honor its new

life-affirming POWER.

REFLECTIONS OF A TOWER was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Funny — for years, I always had beautifully painted toe nails, always a pedicure. And then one day this past spring, my ten-year-old David smashed into me in our hallway, excited to hand me my phone: Someone was calling!

Who knows who called, because David accidentally slid into and then stomped onto my left toe so hard that it began instantly to swell and turn purple. I recalled that my father and my sister had lost toenails over the years and I DID NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN TO ME.

For a week my entire foot ached. After two weeks, I was still in pain. The toenail appeared to float atop a blueish liquid. I bit the bullet and paid for an expensive urgent care doctor to drill tiny holes into my precious toenail in order to let out the seepage and — hopefully — save my nail. The elegant doctor stroked her thick brown hair and reassured me it would work. Spoiler alert: it did not fucking work. I went back a week later, paid yet again, drilled yet again, two gaping holes in the beautiful smooth large toe nail atop a bloody and bruised landscape below.

For several more weeks, I felt pressure and sometimes pain. And then, months after the initial injury, my eager, lovely, rambunctious ten year-old slid over to his mama to share some good news, inadvertently stomping again on her toe and this time dislodging the nail for good. Holy motherfucking shit!

Surprisingly, it was a relief to have the toenail off at long last. Nothing left to worry about.

Now, polish gone, my long slim toes stripped bare, my feet still look beautiful to me. How nice. I find fault with my stomach, my face, my hair, wrinkled skin… but my feet? I love my feet.

Today, at the supermarket, I put two jars of tomato sauce into the top ledge of my shopping cart. The first jar immediately rolled out of the hole meant for a baby’s leg and crashed painfully onto my toes before rolling across the aisle. I barely had time to think “Well at least thank God it hit my toes and didn’t smash open when it fell (P.S. I pray my toes aren’t broken)” when the second jar rolled out and, missing my poor beaten up toes, headed straight for the ground.

Smash! The jar shattered and red sauce splattered everywhere. Maybe I should feel ashamed that I simply left it where it lay, turned around, and walked resolvedly out the door, limping slightly and wondering whether my toes would swell to something more serious.

This day had been strange and stressful — I went to this neighborhood store because I had just made everything for my kids’ dinner and then realized last minute we were all out of red sauce and I would need a couple of bottles to complete the dish.

But I had been given a clear message to get the hell out of that store, so that is what I did. I went instead to Target. There, I got a better sauce at a better price and went home to serve my kids their pasta and meat sauce. Late, but at least they are eating, and now I can put up my foot and ice my beloved toes.

Injured Toes & Red Sauce was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

As we wandered around Big 5 trying to see if we needed anything else, we landed in the gun department.

At dawn on Black Friday, we drove to Big 5 to look for new sneakers for my husband. Not sure why I needed to go too because he is a grown human, but he’s a shopping baby. I was up at 5:15 am anyway so it was fine. We were the only customers in the store at 6:10 am because who needs to go to Big 5 that early anyway? Apparently, no one.

Rick quickly found a pair of shoes that fit and were on sale, so it was a win win. As we wandered around the store, trying to see if we needed anything else in Big 5 we landed upon the gun department. Glass cases and pegged walls stocked with guns. Right now, our world feels as rotten as the moldy, drippy, gross avocado in the back of my fridge, but a gun in our house?

“Should we be getting a gun?” Rick asked.

“Gosh I don’t know. What are you thinking?” I said.

“It’s going to get worse in America, especially as the election nears, and we are Jews, and should we get one for our house? To protect ourselves from bad guys?” He said.

“I have no idea,” I said.

We went to the counter to get a closer look. We were still alone in the store, and I was good with that since we were in the gun and ammo department. I’d probably be more freaked out if there were actually other customers there buying guns too.

Were these gun guns or bb guns or pellet guns? They all look the same to me. Very shiny and big, heavy and dangerous. Rick and I discussed the idea a bit more in the aisle between the sport socks and the insulated ski pants.

It wasn’t the first time we’ve talked about getting a gun for home protection. The conversation came up during the unrest in LA a few years ago, and then again because of the uptick in homelessness and crimes in our neighborhood. I love our neighborhood but after the sun sets and before the sun rises, it looks a bit like Zombie Land. Every other time we talked about getting a gun, we put aside the idea. Do we put it aside now?

“Maybe a bb gun would scare off people?” Rick said.

“My brother shot out our den tv with his bb gun when I was a kid. He said it was an accident but who knows. BB guns seem dangerous too,” I said.

“How and why did your crazy brother have a bb gun in your house? What were your parents thinking?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said.

My head was swirling with protection needs and risk tolerance and where would we even keep a gun, and on and on. I’m not sure what Rick was thinking but for about 5 minutes I entertained the idea of having a gun in our house for protection.

We decided to ask the professional, a way too young salesclerk working at Big 5 at 6 o’clock in the morning.

“Are bb guns good for self-defense purposes, to stop a bad situation in the house?” We asked.

He said, “No. Definitely not. They don’t stop attackers. What stops the bad guys is pepper spray. That works.”

I lit up with this professional’s advice, even if he was under 20 years old.

Oh! We have pepper spray at home! I knew that. We left Big 5 with new shoes in hand and new thoughts swirling though my mind. Where is all our pepper spray that I think I have? Does it still spray? Would it work if we needed it to?

I have no idea.

We asked our couples therapist about guns. I didn’t actually ask, Rick did, in the middle of our monthly session.

“Are you Jewish?” Rick asks her.

“No”, she said.

I had no idea why he was asking her.

“Do your other clients talk about getting guns now?” He said.

“Actually, they do. And not just the Jewish ones, but people are talking about it,” she said. “My partner has a gun collection of about 50 pieces and he and his buddies were talking about having an additional gun in the house for self-protection. That’s something that they never talked about before.”

She went on to tell us that one needs proper training to shoot a gun, and store a gun, etc. etc. Rick and our therapist discussed at length statistics about accidents involving personal guns. It was a lively discussion that didn’t have anything to do with our marriage.

When we got home from Big 5, I searched my drawers and closets for our pepper spray. I found two canisters in my nightstand, one in my fanny pack, one in the kitchen drawer and one by the front door. I also found one in my car. I am very prepared! I’m a bit surprised I have so many pepper sprays, but I remembered I bought one or two cannisters years ago to protect myself against my mentally ill brother. I also was given one for safety purposes at the school I worked at.

After Black Friday thoughts of gun purchases and pepper spray, I took a mental break. Although I am concerned, I’m not consumed by fear, at least not yet.

In the meantime, I’m reading cookbooks. Lots of them. Baking specifically. I’m currently ogling Bake Your Heart Out. I have reread this book at least 6 times now. The photography is beautiful, and the recipes are mouthwatering. I baked the birthday cake cookies and will tackle the dark chocolate orange bundt cake for an upcoming holiday party. Baking gives me comfort. I love to eat what I make, but I truly enjoy giving away the treats. Baking to me is love and reading recipes makes me happy.

If only the world was filled with rainbow sprinkles and cinnamon crumble instead of fear, hate, anger, desperation, etc. etc. etc. Imagine how sweet it could be.

Guns and Cookies was originally published in HEART. SOUL. PEN. on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.