Mother's Day? None for Me, Thanks.

Mother’s Day is not for me. Yes, I am a mother, and this will be my second Mother’s Day, the first happening barely a month after the birth of my daughter. So why do I say that Mother’s Day is not my holiday? I consider Mother’s Day to be for women who have sacrificed, who have given up gym time to watch band concerts, who have stayed up beside a child’s hospital bed, who raised their grandchildren, or go it without a partner. But we have not yet been through any of the hard stuff. With my daughter still in diapers and not quite walking, she has caused little trouble. Other mothers have given up time, peace, and other resources in the interest of their families. Mothers should invest in self-care, of course, but there is still so much they give up in order to care for their families. I am not about to claim that parenthood has been easy for us, but we have had so much help from family, friends, community, and coworkers that we have bravely gotten through the sleep deprivation, extreme schedule change, and stress of keeping a helpless infant alive with little incident. Yes, high five, we made it through the first year, sanity relatively intact.

But my sentiment comes not just from my relative lack of sacrifice, but also from the depths of gratitude I have for having a child. I married late, after the magical age of thirty-five, when a woman’s fertility is supposed to greatly decrease. I watched friends as young as myself struggle with fertility, and witnessed the emotional and physical stress they experienced. There is a history of fertility challenges in my family, so I had reason to think we might not have the easiest time. I spent the beginning of our marriage waiting anxiously every month for my period not to come. And every month, when it came, I felt defeated.

On my commute to work, I began watching people with their children. They pushed strollers while watching their phones or dragged their kids across the street, hollering at them for not moving fast enough. I wondered how they could take their kids for granted. Children, I surmised, must have come easily to them, perhaps so easily that they did not understand the blessings they had. Not thoughts I felt good about and I realized that it was specious thinking—I knew as well as anyone else that kids can be difficult and not every moment of parenthood is filled with blissful adoration. My harsh judgments came from a place of sour grapes, a painful place of intense desire.

Similarly, when I attended baby namings and brit milot, my happiness for my friends was tempered by my fear that I would not be able to raise a family of my own. We went to see a fertility doctor, and the news was not good. Results showed that my fears were correct—I was not very fertile. With intervention, the doctor said, we might be able to have children.

One Shabbat afternoon about a month after receiving the various test results, we were at a friend’s home, where they were having a kiddush to welcome a grandson. During my friend’s grateful speech, I had to slink into the bathroom because I could not stop myself from crying. The test results had fed my growing despair. The thing that my body had biologically been made to do, it could not do.

Two weeks later, we found out we were pregnant.

We were blessed not to have to begin fertility treatments and not to have to wait years—in fact, by our first anniversary, we were already expecting. I felt terrible about my selfish thoughts and promised myself that I would be sensitive to the feelings of others while remaining grateful for the gift we had been given. I was so grateful that it showed on my face. During my third trimester, when I was encumbered by more than forty extra pounds, I still took the stairs every day and hit the gym before work. When I showed up to work in the morning, my coworker marveled at my smile. She did not understand how I could be so uncomfortable and still be happy. But what she did not know was that according to the data the doctor collected, I should not be pregnant. Statistically, the odds were against me. And soon I was to meet my baby. I was smiling because I did not feel any discomfort, just joy and excitement.

Mother’s Day, with its endless efforts to fill the coffers of the florists, chocolatiers, and, of course, the greeting card companies, can feel omnipresent. I remember the last Mother’s Day before I was a mother. Walking through the store during preparation for the greeting card holiday, it was painful to see all of the cards and chocolates and stuffed animals. I feel for my friends who are childless and wish not to be.

Regardless of whether you have children or not, whether you want to have children or not, I wish you a day of comfort and contentment. I hope that you have people you love to be with. I will spend the day with my beloved family. Maybe next year, when my daughter is causing holy terror running around and speaking intelligibly, I will demand a Mother’s Day full of presents and no domestic work. But for this year, I am good.

Writer in Stasis: Flight Risk

Our actions affect everyone in our pond.

On December 29, 2017; minutes before Shabbat, I fell and broke my kneecap. I was on winter break with my husband and eight-month-old, visiting friends and family in Philadelphia. We had plans to visit friends we had not seen since moving to Portland last August. My knee hurt, but I had no idea it was broken, and did not want to change our plans, so we walked to a friend’s house for dinner. During the meal my knee swelled and when we left, I was not sure I could walk back to where we were sleeping, but we made it. By then, I knew that there was something wrong, maybe a sprain, and I stayed in instead of going to Synagogue or out for lunch. However, when I went to an urgent care facility after Shabbat and the x-ray showed that the kneecap had a crack in it, I was still surprised. Hadn’t I walked over a mile to and from dinner? And besides--who breaks their kneecap? The physician’s assistant put my leg in an immobilizer, gave me crutches, and sent me back out into the world.

Because it was the end of the year, and a weekend, I was not able to see an orthopedist until January 2nd. In the meantime, hobbling on crutches and trying to care for a baby was quite a challenge. At my sister’s house, where we were staying for most of our visit, my family had already moved our things downstairs, and we were set up in the living room. My brothers, parents, sister, and her family all helped us. We joked about my exquisite grace. While it was a difficult few days, since I could not carry the baby or get anything for myself, compounded with not being able to take anything for the pain except ice and Tylenol, my family made sure I had everything I needed and helped with the baby. When I finally saw the orthopedist and he told me I did not need crutches, I was terribly relieved.

“Let’s get rid of this one-size-fits none immobilizer,” he said, and gave me a new brace. He said that I would be in the brace for at least six weeks. At least, that is what I heard. It turns out that I would be immobilized in the brace for six weeks, after which the orthopedist in Oregon would begin to increase the flexion so I could slowly begin to bend my knee again. At the time, six weeks sounded endless. If I had known I would be in the brace for ten weeks and six more weeks in physical therapy, I am not sure I could have been so civil.

The orthopedist also informed me that I would not be able to fly back to Portland for another two weeks, due to the risk of a blood clot. We were scheduled to fly back in three days, and school started back in six.

Not only would I not make it back before classes restarted, but I was not going to be able to drive the hour and a half commute to and from work. I emailed the principal to catch him up and to ask if there might be a way for me to teach remotely. It was the end of the semester, and I was concerned that a substitute would not be able to prepare the students for their final essay assignments.

I should not have worried--my principal, always understanding and kind, helped arrange for me to Skype with my classes until I was back. Two of my amazing coworkers also live in Portland, and they kindly organized a schedule to ferry me to and from work.

For the next two weeks, my husband and I had to tend to my recovery, my job, and the baby. While we were visiting, my husband’s grandmother died and my father had scheduled surgery. We were able to be there for our parents both emotionally and physically, which, given the current distance between where they live (my husband’s parents in southern New Jersey and my parents outside of Philadelphia) was quite a blessing.

Even as the experience was manageable, my injury helped me to have an understanding of others’ challenges. A good friend of mine, for example, has fibromyalgia. For her, pain is a daily reality. For me, with my grossly swollen knee, I knew that the pain was temporary. However, in the beginning, it was a constant pain. Sometimes it hurt less than others, but it did not go away. I found myself more agitated and less patient. In circumstances in which I would not have noted irritating behavior, I found my nerves jangling. And then there was the pain itself. It would sometimes engulf me, to the point where my vision was literally darkened and I felt weak. At such times, I would ask for an ice pack and sit quietly, trying to distract myself with my cell phone. I did not want to speak to anyone then, and I did not want to do anything or move at all. Really, if I could have paused my existence at those moments, that would have been ideal. It was not the worst pain I have ever experienced, but it was unrelenting for an extended period of time, and I was unable to take anything that would greatly lessen or remove the pain. I could see how having the prospect of pain as a part of daily life could make a person miserable, anxious, depressed, and irritable. I was very grateful that my life has been relatively pain free and for the most part, quite healthy.

The broken kneecap also limited my mobility. I could not walk as quickly or for long periods of time. I could not sit normally, as the brace prohibited my knee from bending, and so I had to sit in a position with my leg up at all times. Getting into a car was a challenge, as was getting in and out of buildings. Finding a place to sit was more difficult. This was most problematic when we could finally fly, but it also made each car ride excruciating. Our rental car just did not have enough space in the front, even with the seat pushed all the way back. I could not sit in the backseat, because the baby’s car seat was in the middle. So each ride, I shifted, moved my leg gingerly, and practiced the breathing techniques I had learned in hypnobirthing class.

Once I took the subway from Crown Heights to Manhattan with a friend who used an automated scooter to get around. She had an app on her phone to show which subway entrances had working elevators. The elevators on subways are often out of order, which was not something that I had ever thought about. In addition, not all subway platforms have a ramp into the car. Without the ramp, the gap between the platform and the car prevented her from entering the car. We went to two different subway entrances which were marked as having working elevators, but the elevators were actually out of order. Once we were underground, people did not move to let my friend through. I was impressed by her patience at not plowing through the crowd and running over toes or ramming heals. Even when we were in the door of the subway, people did not make room. I could not believe how inconvenient, how truly problematic it was for her to take public transportation.

My own temporary situation did not compare, but I now had to plan my movements and consider where and how I could sit once I arrived places. I had to watch how I moved my leg and plan getting up and sitting down. I had to figure out how I was going to open and close doors. Bathrooms, because my leg could not bend, became another issue. I knew that my situation was minor and temporary, unlike others who, again, found that planning how they moved and got from place to place was how they lived their lives.

It was not fun asking for help or for accommodations. Even from friends and family, I did not want to ask them to do things I could not do for myself. I worried that my requests would become annoying or overwhelming. My family and friends, of course, did not feel that way, but the reality of my situation was slowly coming into my understanding, and I was feeling the enormous limitations. I am stubborn. If I am told not to do something, I will try to do it anyway. But this time, there were many things I could not do, and I was also making an effort to listen, as I did not want to prolong or endanger my recovery.

Of course, my husband had the brunt of the responsibility. When the baby woke up hungry, he had to get her and bring her to me. He had to help me with things like bathroom and shower. My difficulties were his difficulties. As the old joke goes, our knee hurt.

When it was time to fly back, the attendants at the airport were extremely helpful. In addition to pushing my wheelchair, they also helped my husband with the luggage. We would not have made it through security without the nice gentleman at the Newark airport who pushed me and wheeled a suitcase at the same time so that my husband could push the stroller and wheel the other suitcase. Once home, people from our synagogue brought meals. A friend picked us up from the airport and helped my husband load the luggage and get the baby’s car seat in place. My coworkers were amazing, picking me up every morning and taking me home every afternoon, while requesting nothing in return. It has been really wonderful getting to know them better. They are even more amazing that I originally thought.

The big takeaway is that I am blessed. I am surrounded by people who care about me and for me. My family, friends, my community, and my work all came together to help. During winter break, I was also following the story of Blaze Bernstein, a Penn student who disappeared from his parents’ home in Newport Beach, CA; and who was not, unfortunately, found alive. His killer belonged to a neo-Nazi organization, providing evidence of hate and evil in our country. I watched as Bernstein’s parents publicly grieved and requested that the focus be not on their son’s death, but on his life. They requested that their son be remembered by acts of chesed, or loving-kindness, done for others. Even in their pain, they were trying to continue their love for their son and encourage hope in not just themselves, but others, as well. What an incredible gift they are giving to others, and what an incredible model they are for us. With our differences, with our own private suffering, with our challenges that we face, we can still extend loving-kindness to others. Thank you to all who have helped me and my family. I wish to dedicate this writing to Blaze Bernstein, Chaim Natan, may his memory be a blessing, and may his family be comforted among the mourners of Zion.