The Year of Shopping Dangerously

This year was a busy one for travelling, because 3 grandchildren were born overseas (and 3 here...mazel tov, much nachas ptu ptu ptu), and travelling means jet lag, and jet lag means having time to scroll through my phone in the wee small hours looking at interesting shopping sites that pop up on my FaceBook feed. Especially when I am by myself, because of course presence of He Who Must Be Obeyed cramps my phone shopping style. A Lot.
So it's time to look back now and see how much was actually a supreme waste of money, and how much actually stacked up to be worthwhile.

Clothes:
It looked like such a good idea. OK of course it's a Chinese site so quality control is but a dream, but all I wanted were some summer dresses that I could just fling on, that covered arms, legs, not too low in the neck, and yet I would be cool and comfy. Yes, I know the models in the pictures are tiny petite Asian women, but they offered a good size range. Banggood.com was one site, I can't even remember the other. I measured myself and worked with their size chart. I bought 3 dresses for less than $100. I then bought another dress on the other site for about $30.
The first parcel arrived. The white dress made me look like an unlikely virgin sacrifice. The red dress, which looks like a brick red on the site but is actually vermilion red in the real world, will come in handy for Purim. The brown dress actually looked and felt great. And then I washed it- according to instructions!- and it shrank. Actually, the word 'shrink' doesn't really cover what happened. It contracted. Like 3 sizes, in all directions. Unwearable. My diligent housekeeper ironed and stretched it and it's better but too short now. So FAIL.
The second parcel came. The blue dress fit and looks ok - blue is my colour- and I wore it once, it got some food grease on it, and I had it dry cleaned. Of course, it is cheaper to buy another few dresses and throw them out, rather than dry clean them. So partial success, not as far as 'easy care' goes.
Inexplicably, there was another brown dress in this parcel, which I did not order - at least I don't think I did, but I probably did, it's all a mad whirl -which SAID it was larger than the other one, but was in fact far smaller, and didn't even make it round my shoulders, forget my tummy. So it's in the op shop bag. FAIL.
Contrast this sad experience with the US sites I purchased from:
Bloomingdales- Eileen Fisher skirt and top, crazy Columbus Day sale, WIN
Eddie Bauer - leggings, T Shirts, travel skirt, also crazy sale, WIN, had to return some leggings, no problem, my card credited.
Jockey undies- eh, so-so, I liked some that I had bought in store, so I ordered more, and turns out I don't like them as much as I thought. I am always searching for the perfect undies. Aren't we all.
Vanity Fair- same idea, bought in store and liked, and went online to buy more. These are supremely comfy but I would have liked a little more holding power. I don't want Spanx, but there must be something between these and Spanx. Partial win. (They really are comfy.)

Accessories:
While scrolling the Bloomy sales at 1 am, also ever-searching for gifts for my girls and grandies, I found assorted Kate Spade bangles, some lovely little single pearl necklaces and other bits and pieces which were well received, so big WIN there.
And I also found wearable tech, in the shape of a Q-bracelet, that you can charge your iPhone with. Big sale, like 60% off, so I bought a gold bangle; range was gold, matte black, and matte silver. 'We suggest that Small fits most women and Medium fits most men', so stupid me, I bought a Small, forgetting that I am not Most Women, although my wrists are hardly large. So I gave it to my slim-wristed daughter-in-law, she likes it, it looks great, it really can charge your iPhone enough to get you out of trouble, so WIN. And I went back and ordered 4 more, because I am mental, and because free shipping to Australia (I was home by then), through Borderfree, which is amazing. So I have 2 now, gold and black (Medium) , and 2 more waiting for a recipient. Semi Win.

Stuff for Kids:
I've bought lots of stuff online for kids in the past, but that was from reputable sites, so not really risky. But this year, I saw these mermaid tail blankets and I bought 3 which I will be giving to 3 granddaughters for Chanukah, so let's wait and see how that goes. They seem to look OK, of course some obscure Chinese site, so better be good. Win? not sure yet.
I'll just mention Peter Alexander, whose PJs I have been buying for grandchildren for years, but only on sale because overpriced. Such cute stuff.

Kitchen stuff:
Well, what a mixed bag.
The first thing that sucked me in was the Pyramid Pan. At first I looked away, but after a while it called me back, and again, and then I thought, screw it. And I bought 4. The parcel arrived and out flopped one silicone Pyramid Pan. Odd, thought I; maybe they are sending the rest separately. The invoice suggested that there were 4, and the rest was in Chinese, so, I waited. And waited. And then it occurred to me that there was an email somewhere confirming the order, so I found it and told them about only one, where are the others etc, and they said: Have you checked that they aren't all stuck together? And I did, and they were! So the good news is that all 4 came, but the bad news was that they were a LOT thinner than I thought they would be. BUT. They REALLY WORK. Reheat pizza, fried fish, schnitzel for a really crispy finish! So unexpected WIN.

Feeling confident, I ordered the Stretch and Fresh, 4 sets -  I don't know why I do that- and they came, no problem. And they are, in the main, despite glowing testimonials, unusable. It's as if what I have received bears no relation to what was offered. You need 4 hands to do it, they don't stay on, and when I tried using one in the microwave, for which they are supposedly safe, it tore. However, serendipitously, I have found that they are great for opening jars; they give you great grip. Still, I would call that a FAIL. All complaints have gone unacknowledged. So I gave them a really crap review. Don't mess with me.

Pictured: Stretch and Fresh FAIL.

House stuff:
BIG SHERIDAN SALE online and I ordered sheets and towels. The ones I bought 25 years ago (!) are wearing out, so this might be the last I ever buy. But does my party pooper husband appreciate that? No he doesn't.  Complain complain. They're coming tomorrow, I'm so excited, they had better look as good as they did on the website.

Thus winds up the Year of Shopping Dangerously; some wins, some losses, just like life.
I've got a bunch of these Stretch and Fresh things to give away, they're really great.

I think the correct term is WORSHIP.

I see a lot of mothers and babies in my line of work. All sorts of issues, all sorts of levels of distress. From time to time I see the rare creature known as The Father. These range from anxious first timers to calm and supportive types. And I do see my share of - how shall I put it - less than supportive types too. Unreconstructed jerks. Fortunately not that many real full on dicks, but a few. 

For the few Fathers that may be reading this, I just want to point something out to you:

Your wife has just turned her body inside out and produced the child that she gestated in varying degrees of discomfort for the last 9 months or so. She has pushed a large being out with tremendous effort and some risk to her life, through an amazingly narrow path, or had her body cut into, and hey presto. A baby. Your baby. The baby that you put into her in an event that was pleasurable to you, and now you reap the dividend. 

So CUT HER SOME EFFING SLACK. 

I cannot tell you the number of times that I've witnessed petulant little boys, sorry, fathers, get cross because their exhausted newly delivered wife can't remember something that she was about to ask or can't quite find the right way to say something like please pick up some groceries, or, can you come home early, I feel crap, or needs to be asked to, I don't know, make dinner or empty the garbage or say thank you. 

I'm not calling all men jerks because that's unfair and untrue. But many need to have some damned respect. When your wife can't even think what she needs because she is so exhausted and mental from hormones and fatigue, not to mention pain from a sore bum or nipples, BE KIND. That's all. Be kind. 

No, that's not all. This woman has done something which is the closest to Godlike that any human can do. She has created a person. And she has all but torn apart her body to do it. Yes, generally she wants that baby, it wasn't forced upon her. But it's still bloody hard work, even if it all goes smoothly. And it isn't over after the birth, because it's only the beginning. 

You should be prostrating yourself at her feet, not getting annoyed because you're out of milk because she forgot to tell you to buy it. Or maybe she ate the last cookie or something. Or she put a milchig spoon in the fleishig sink. Or she forgot to pay a bill or some shit. Or, heaven forfend, she spoke sharply to you. Whatever. I've seen scenarios like these played out and I just want to slap people. Fathers, some grandmothers, mothers in law. 

'Primitive' and traditional societies usually let mothers rest and recover with the help of a carer for 40 days or so after birth. Here, in our modern Western world, you have to back into your bakakteh skinny jeans by 3 weeks or you're just not trying. Back shopping in the supermarket with your baby in one of those delightfully clean plastic capsules on top of the trolley.  Back at work by some ridiculous time. Motherhood is so disrespected and so undervalued, and we wonder why there is so much post natal depression - 12% and rising- and so much anxiety. 

You can't fix the world, you can't heal today's twisted values, but you can BE KIND TO YOUR WIFE. I know you're tired too BUT. Do I have to say it again? You didn't gestate that fetus and you didn't give birth to it and your hormones are not like a bloody roller coaster. So GET OVER YOURSELF and worship your goddess wife. And remember to buy the milk without being told. 

Rant concluded. For now. 

PS I'm now going to appeal to your self-interest, fathers, because that usually works. Spousal support is the single most important variable for breastfeeding success. Supportive and kind men's wives have better psychological outcomes. Happy wife, happy life. Have you heard that one before? It's generally true. If you support and nurture your woman through the post-birth months, you are putting money in the intimacy bank and it will pay tremendous dividends when you resume your intimate relations. Short term and long term. In summary,  BE KIND. 

Further notes on grandparenting...

Well it's been a big year for this family BH.  Pesach 2015 when we got together from all over the world, my husband raised his glass and blessed everyone and said, 6 new grandchildren in 2016!

He wasn't to know that his father would pass away at the end of 2015, and that there would be 3 new grandsons born who would carry his name. And then 2 new granddaughters; and we await no 6 now with the usual mix of excitement and anxiety. 

So it's been a big year. Rozhinklech und mandelen as we say, raisins and almonds, the sweet and the bitter. 

I won't dwell on the number of grandchildren we have, ptu ptu ptu (my mother in law always answers the question of 'how many grandchildren/great grandchildren do you have' with the answer: 'Not enough!'). But I will say that it's a bunch, and the age spread is 11 to newborn, and the geographical spread  involves Israel, New York and Melbourne Australia. This means that I have travelled a few times this year and when you add it all up, by the end of 2016 I will have been away from home for about 3 months. 

I go overseas to help the new mums with the recovery and the breastfeeding. New motherhood can be a lonely isolating thing if you have no family nearby. 

If I get to be at the birth, that's a plus. Major bonus if I actually get to assist at the birth. My daughters are all ok with that, my daughters-in-law maybe less so, which I get, I'm not pushy (I hope). 

I've written before about growing up without grandparents, since my father's family perished in the Holocaust and my mother's family just did not live very long. And neither did my own mother. 

Most of my peers were children of Holocaust survivors and thus grandparents were a rare thing. I would gaze upon the occasional Bubby and Zaidy whom I encountered  with curiosity and awe. My parents were the oldest people I knew, apart from a few old people we visited at the Montefiore Homes for the aged, with whom we had some non-blood relationship as a rule. But I had to call everyone Aunty and Uncle out of respect so I never knew who was related or who came across on the same ship (shifsbrider or shifsshvester, literally Ship Brother or sister) or who was the aged mother of the ex-wife of my mother's brother (I'm not making that last one up either.) 

And not everyone had the full complement of marbles either so some of these old folk were a bit scary. 

And some spoke only Yiddish which I was not really au fait with, or else a Yiddish different from the Heimishe Yiddish of my father who was from Dzialoszyn. 

So the ideal of the gentle Zayda stroking his beard while poring over the Talmud or the Bubby with the floury apron and the huggable bosom was just that: an idealized fantasy, and rare as a unicorn. 

And consider the unsupported parents; in the main, Holocaust survivors who came to a new country with nothing more than what the Joint had provided them, sponsored out by families, real or fictitious, whom they barely knew. They built new lives, new businesses, new families, with hard work, having to learn a new language while they did this. And who had time for counselling even if there was such a thing, even if they could afford it if it existed? 

These were our parents. 

I was a latchkey child from about 8 years of age. Not only no grandparents but parents who did their best to put food on the table for us, and in doing so, left us kids largely to our own devices. 

And there was also the expectation that we would make something of ourselves. We had opportunities! Opportunities that were denied our parents. I used to hear about this so much that I thought 'opportunities' was a Yiddish word. To waste these opportunities would be an unpardonable sin. 

Fast forward a few years. 

A brother who made Aliyah in 1968, found his niche and then was killed in the YomKippur war in 1973. I've written about this too, and the effects that grief can have on a family. 

A medical degree- talk about opportunities!

A marriage to the son of a Holocaust survivor father and a Soviet refugee mother whose parents survived Stalin and Hitler and who were sent by the previous Lubavitcher  Rebbe to start a Jewish school in Melbourne. 

It so happened that I knew my future husband's grandparents long before I knew him, because Reb Zalman, as we all called him, befriended my father and encouraged my parents to send my brothers and I to the new Jewish school. Reb Zalman was the real deal, the Zeidy, the Chossid, the embodiment of Chabad Chassidus, and I won't go on about him because he needs a book to be written about him. Mainly he was the glimpse of the mythical grandfather. Anyway. 

So I got married. 

And then I had 7 kids in 10.5 years, 3 born after my mother passed away, and then, moving right along, a bunch of grandchildren. And no idea how to be a grandmother. Mind you, I had little idea on how to be a mother either, being that my eldest were only little when Mum died, so she also never really got to experience much of being a grandmother; nor did her own mother who died young. Generations of no role models of grandparenting and barely any for parenting! There are times I feel that I raised myself. 

So here I am, inundated with blessings and feeling like everyone wants a piece of me. Like I need to protect myself. 

I recently wrote a piece which earned me much opprobrium, about dealing with these challenges. I got all these comments from other grandmothers about how MUCH they LOVE their precious grandchildren, and how they CAN'T do ENOUGH for them or spend enough TIME with them, and how they LOOK FORWARD to every second, every playtime, every babysitting, and what an ungrateful ungracious wretch I must be, withholding my time from them, and how dare I express relief when they leave my house, and how dare I place boundaries on what I would choose to do for my kids to help them with their kids. 

It was a bit nasty, I thought. 

And then it turns out that most of these commenters had one or maybe 2 grandchildren (and maybe 2-3 kids) who were aged 4 and 18 months on average. And I'm like, well you haven't really got a clue about heavy duty grandparenting, have you. 

I always say that I will do anything in an emergency. I will take kids to the ER if parents can't. I will cook meals and drop them off or I will have them all over to eat (and do this regularly once or twice a week) and I will do school drop offs and pick ups and babysit if I have to BUT I'm not the nanny and I won't /can't do this on a set basis. 

I'm the on call doctor for sorting out health issues - Doctor Booba! I look at throats and ears amd rashes and listen to chests and feel tummies and I wrote referrals to paediatricians etc and I call in favours from Doctor friends. 

I'm the booba who reads and draws but I'm not the booba who goes to the park and climbs equipment and jumps on the trampoline. 

I have had kids move in while parents go on babymoons or overseas visiting family etc, I have paid for extra help to mums who need it, I have stepped into the breach many times. But I'm not the paid help and I won't raise my grandchildren. I love them and I feel blessed 

and I am amazed that they are flesh of my flesh, but I've been through it and I've done my bit, and considering that nobody helped me, I think I'm paying it forward better than expected. 

Here I am again, sounding like it's a burden and I'm resentful but this is not the case; still, I'm only human and I do my best. I hope everyone appreciates this. 

I am a springboard to help my kids into parenthood; I am a sounding board for discussion and solution of problems; but I am not a doormat. 

That's all. 

Now for the comments. 

PS The picture is neither me nor my grandchildren. Mine are cuter. 

Too quick to fast?

(No, you can't have this on Tisha B'Av, unless Moshiach comes!)

Every year before the big fasts - Tisha B'Av and Yom Kippur - I get the phone calls from women in the community. 'I'm breastfeeding - should I fast?'  So I give them an answer and advise them to take it to their Rabbi. And maybe they listen and maybe they don't. 

The ones that don't call me, I don't hear from most of them, obviously. But I hear from some of them, a day or two later. With mastitis. With supply crash. In one case, with grossly abnormal liver function, and liver pain, as a result of vomiting and dehydration. 

Now I will just come out and say that I think that breastfeeding women should not fast. Not at any stage. I will also say that I don't think that pregnant women should fast either. I don't know how much science is in this, but it seems that fasting can bring on premature labour. The maternity hospitals in Israel have a rush of patients after YK every year, so maybe there is a study out there. 

I know that 9Av and YK are different but fasting is fasting and dehydration is dehydration. You can also talk about how it's different if the mother is Yoledes (recently gave birth), or if the baby is under 6 months or if he is fully dependent on breast milk yada yada. But the fallout is the same. Dehydration is a real risk for mastitis AT ANY STAGE of lactation. And mastitis is serious. It can land a mother in hospital needing IV fluids, but even if it is not severe enough to require hospitalization, it can make her pretty sick and incapacitate her. 

Then we have the situation where I say my part and the mother takes it to the Rabbi and he gives her a Heter (permission) to drink and eat, yet she still decides to fast, out of what, guilt? Piety? Ladies, this is not Halacha. This is AGAINST Halacha.

Another recent case I was involved in was that of an older gentleman who had multiple health issues including diabetes, who was on antibiotics recovering from a chest infection and dehydration and actually argued with me when I forbade him from fasting (and this was for 17 Tammuz). I thought that was pretty extreme and certainly there is no question that he had a Heter to drink and eat freely. And yet he argued. I can only hope that he actually listened to me. Ignoring doctors' orders is not Halacha! 

So on YK if you have a Heter to not fast, then you don't fast, and you REST and you STAY HOME. You do NOT go to Shul. Always remember that, in active childrearing, pregnancy and breastfeeding, that you are doing Hashem's work and that is the greatest mitzvah of all. It is not a mitzvah to be sick and incapacitated and unable to care for yourself or your children. 

I'll say something else here: I recently saw a FB post where a mother was praising her 8 year old daughter who fasted on 9av and also looked after her because she was unwell due to the fast. 

Now I am sure that this child is a wonderful person and a credit to her parents and Klal Yisrael, but she is too young to fast. There is no Halacha that demands this of such a young child. I also hear of this thing of doing the last 3 fasts before turning Bar/bas mitzvah and I would like someone to enlighten me as to where this is written. So if any Rabbis out there could discuss this with me, please do. 

Oh, it's about chinuch (Jewish education), is it? I'm not saying that the kid should do nothing at all; they can 'fast till breakfast', or not eat treats. Older kids can fast till noon if they want to; some kids really get a feeling of achievement. But a young child should be actively discouraged from trying to do a full fast, especially where these days fall in the summer where the day is hot and long. Kids are vulnerable to dehydration and it's just not necessary. 

And, final word, watch out for the little perfect pious girl who just loves to fast, because it can be a mask for an eating disorder, just as excessive religiosity can mask OCD and other psychological issues. Just saying. 

Religious fasts have their importance, but please, approach with common sense in these cases. 

PS

I've had a fair bit of interest in this post now that Yom Kippur is imminent So I'm adding this comment:

My opinion and expertise relates largely to breastfeeding women, and my problem with these women fasting is the real risk of dehydration triggering mastitis. It can also trigger duct blockage which is less serious but mastitis can land you in hospital and even if it's not bad enough to cause hospitalization, it still can incapacitate. I think it's not good enough to say 'fast until you feel sick and then you can break your fast'. That's not the point. The point is to avoid falling sick; mastitis can strike the next day even if you didn't 'feel sick' with fasting. You need about 2 litres of fluids a day when breastfeeding; you can have 39mls (a 'cheekful' of fluid) every 9 minutes, so that would mean doing this for 7 hours or so to get enough fluid to stay out of trouble. This is referred to as 'shiurim' and is not considered to be breaking the fast. Water is probably good enough but those with a poor track record of fasting might have electrolytes. But I am not a Rav so please discuss with a sympathetic Rav. 
Re pregnancy of course it is NOT a good thing to go without water and fasting can bring on premature labour. But more than that I can't advise, speak to a Rav.

Putting A (Well Behaved) 2-Year-Old To Bed

In my Visiting Bubbeh persona, I found myself babysitting two of my granddaughters the other night. Their eldest sister Y was out at a barmitzvah with her parents. They live in New York. 

R is 2 and FB is 6. 

R is in her preferred state of nudity+nappy. And purple socks. We are in the front room, where there are many books. 

-Ok, here's the plan. I'm going to read you these 3 books and then we'll go upstairs and we'll put pyjamas on you and then I'll read you 2 stories and then you'll go to bed. Ok?

-Ok. 

(Read 3 books. Go upstairs)

-Look at these pyjamas, aren't they cute! I got them for you. I am a major supporter of Peter Alexander. See, Eiffel Tower on the front! Pink! Ok on goes the top. And now the shorts! 

-NOOO!

-Oh you want them on back to front? Ok, why not. Happy?

Nods. 

-Which books do you want me to read? Oh this one? Longish? With 4 stories in it? Umm. Ok. 

(Start reading while FB hops and jumps and climbs and forages while R giggles)

-Um FB I think you should go to your room and wait till I'm done here, you're distracting R, ok?

FB-Sure. (Bunny hops out.)

R-Another book!

-Ok, that's what Bubbehs are for. Which one?

-Wild tings!

-Oh, I know that one! Where the Wild Things are. And here's the book! 

Wait, it's in Spanish. 

FB, is there an English version somewhere?

(FB pops head into room.)

-Sure. 

-Can you get it?

-Don't know where it is. 

-Oh ok then. I guess I'll manage. 

(FB pops head out of room.)

-Here goes: 'La noche que Max se puso un traje de lobo y comenzó a hacer una traversura tras otra, Su mamá le dijo: "¡ERES UN MONSTRUO!" y Max le contestó:"¡TE VOY A COMER!" y lo mandaron a la cama sin cenar-

-Need pishy. 

-Umm, ok, even though you are wearing a nappy, sure. 

(Off with the back to front shorts and the nappy.

FB, ever helpful, readies the step set for the toilet.)

R sits. Smiles. 

-Do you really need pishy?

(Dreamily)- Kaki. 

-Oh really? And yet there you sit, and nothing happening. 

You know, I think you are totally stooging me and you don't really need, right?

-Pishy kaki. 

-And yet you are doing nothing. 

(Shrug)

-Ok, that's enough. 

(Back on with the nappy and the back to front PJ shorts.) 

Let's go to bed. 

(R runs into sisters' room and snuggles into a bed, plays possum)

FB -She can stay there! I don't mind!

-Uh yeah, as if the two of you won't be running around as soon as I turn my back. 

Come on, into your cot!

-NOOO!

(I pick her up, and deposit her in her cot. She sits up.)

-Water. 

-Ohhkay. 

(I go to bathroom again and fill cup. She drinks.)

-Tenk you. 

-Ok, now lie down. 

-F'ozen!

-What?

-F'ozen! 

(Points to slim reader emblazoned with the ubiquitous princess sisters and Olaf the snowman)

-Oh ok. One more then. 

(Fortunately book has about 4 words per page. )

-Blanky. 

-Blanky?

-Blanky. 

-I didn't know you had a special blanky...FB, where is R's blanky?

(FB pops head back into room)

-Don't know, Y had it before and she put it somewhere. 

-Great. 

-You can just take one out of that cupboard. 

(Pops out)

-Ok (reach in, take random flannelette blanky)

-NOOO!!

-Hey, ok ok, what about this one?

(I take out almost identical one.)

-Yes. 

-So lie down, I'll cover you. 

(Lies down, snuggles under blanky.)

Shema

Kiss

Shlof gezunt. 

(Close door. Blessed silence.

That only took an hour and a half.)

FB -Can you read Willy Wonka to me?

-Of course. The night is young. 

*The photos used are not my grandchildren. Mine are much cuter. 

Tween girl

I've been wanting to write about this fascinating stage of childhood which we have come to call 'tweenage', 8-13 or 14, and when I started it came out like a poem. So I went with it. 

Tween girls

On the brink of they don't know what

Not little kids anymore, they think

Posing in front of mirrors (or any reflective surfaces)

Examining faces, imaginary blemishes

Hand on hip, pelvis tilted, looking back over shoulder at reflections

Shy smile, bold smile, batting lashes

Minx coquette and yet

Innocent. 

They can't know what lies ahead. 

And then giggles and tickles and being mean to little sisters

then being helpful 

To mum and then hating her and then wanting her stuff and her approval;

And then

Attitude. 

Clear skinned and coltish and pouty and laughing and cartwheeling and twirling

unselfconscious and self-conscious in turns

Sitting hugging knees, or with legs flung out, unashamed and then embarrassed

Flick hair up flick hair down 

Side pony tail then not, then braids then not, hair never long enough

Bikes and skates and scooters and longing for makeup

Hate boys like boys hate boys 

Dirty boys stupid boys 

Boys

Too old for play dates, too young to hang out at the mall Hanging on to older girls, sitting at their feet, worshipping and listening and learning

They don't know what

They are

Between

Tween

Yizkor

I first encountered death of a family member when I was 18. My brother Yehuda had been killed in the 1973 Yom Kippur war. After that, my parents were subsumed with grief and went AWOL as it were, mentally and physically. They went to Israel to visit Yehuda's kibbutz several times after that, and would stay away for around 6 weeks at a time. 

It was during one of these absences that I first found myself without my family over a Yom Tov. 

I was spending Yom tovim and Shabbosim in the home of Rabbi ID Groner during the times that my parents were away, so over the years I would have spent every Yom tov there. I was a part of the 'family'. And although I'm not really a shul-goer, I did go to shul, and Yeshivah was my shul. 

So came the inevitable time of Yizkor. All I knew of yizkor was the Gabai's THUMP on the Bima, and the announcement 'Kinder arroys!' And of course when I was a Kindt, untouched by bereavement, that's what I did. I went out with all the other kids. Who knew what went on in the shul for those 15 or so minutes that we kids all milled around and chit-chatted outside? Old ladies stayed in and we went out. 

But at 18 at that time in the davenning, suddenly I didn't know what to do. Do I stay? Do I go? Is it only about parents or also siblings? For whom does one 'stay in' for yizkor? Never thought about it. The Tehillas Hashem siddur says only parents. But everyone else says siblings too. What is it about, if not remembrance, obviously, and why would one not memorialize a brother? So I stayed. I didn't say anything but I stayed. 

I saw old ladies (of course I am now older than many of those old ladies) weeping quietly and swaying with their faces hidden in their machzors. I heard murmuring of silent prayer. I heard the Kel Melai Rachamim, maybe for the first time, and then it was over. 

Afterwards, at lunch, R Groner told me that I shouldn't stay in because my parents were alive. Oh. Whoops. But I don't remember if I gave it much thought because when you are 18, even a traumatized 18, life beckons; well, it did me anyway. 

My mother was also not a big shul-goer, and had been raised in a traditional but pretty secular family. But she always made a point of going to Yizkor (Yisskeh, my Aussie mum pronounced it, as she mispronounced so many Jewish terms - 'Mejeshem' instead of 'Im Yirtzeh Hashem', Moydi Ani, Kenorah, a sort of pastiche of Tzvosser Yiddish and Australian vowels). She had bad knees and hips and walked with a cane from her mid 50's but she would go for Yizkor come rain or shine, to Yeshivah until she could no longer make the distance, and then to Adass which was much closer to home. She had lost her parents while in her 20's. 

She passed away when I was in my 20s and her 31st yohrzeit falls on 10 Sivan. Her last Shavuos was terrible, awful, and has cast a cloud over Shavuos for me ever since (and then my other brother died 2 Sivan, so.) which I try to dispel by making a Kiddush in her name. 

And I always go to Yizkor. Rain or shine. Just as she did. 

It's not as if I don't think about my parents every day. Your loved ones are never forgotten. 

It's not as if I don't dedicate Tzedaka to their names anyway, or at least I think I would, even without the prompt that the Yizkor prayer gives me. 

Those few minutes of time with others who have lost parents- and sooner or later, in the natural order of things, that means everyone- give me a few minutes to remember and to really focus on them, and also to realize how we are all temporal and temporary beings, yet we are also part of an endless chain. 

I still don't know what to do during Yizkor. The prayer that my parents - and, less officially, my brothers- are in Gan Eden and the pledge to give Tzedoka in their names take only a few minutes. Then the Av HaRachamim and then the chazan's Kel Melei Rachamim- it all takes about 3 minutes. What am I supposed to do the rest of the time?

Remember. 

That's all, I guess. 

Remember. 

Sometimes with my face shielded by my machzor as I weep silently. Like the other old ladies. 

Yom HaZikaron 2016

Today, Yom HaZikaron, I addressed the high school students of Yeshivah College in Melbourne. I don't know if many knew about Yom HaZikaron, but I think they do now. Here is the text of my speech.

Thank you for inviting me to speak.

My brother, Yehuda Pakula, was 17 when he left Australia in 1968.

He left for several reasons.

He wished to explore his roots in Israel, as our mother’s family came to Australia from Tzefat, pre WW1.

He wanted to visit ancient places about which he had learned in the TaNaCh while at school in Yeshivah College, where he had just completed year 12.

He was inspired by the recent miracle of the 6-Day-War, and wanted to be part of the thrilling story of Modern Israel.

AND

He had been the target of one too many anti-Semitic attacks, where he had been pushed off his bike, beaten and called a ‘bloody Jew’.

He bought a one-way ticket to Israel and swore that he would not return to Australia.

We must be careful what we wish for. He never did return.

After meeting family and doing some touring, he did Ulpan on Kibbutz Sde Eliahu and integrated very quickly into the kibbutz community, eventually becoming a Chaver Kibbutz and then a member of the ‘Yachdav’ Garin. He was expert in driving heavy tractors to till the fields for planting. He had found his niche.

He enlisted in the IDF January 1971, underwent basic military training and joined the Armed Corps as a tank driver.

He was on Miluim, reserve duty, when he was stationed at the Mezach, on the Suez, and was one of the first casualties of the Yom Kippur War, falling on the 6^th of October, killed by a sniper’s bullet fired across the Suez. He had been due to be married in November of that year. He was 22.

His platoon were forced to surrender after a week of fierce fighting, under constant artillery attack by the Egyptians. They were out of food and ammunition, and the IDF had not been able to rescue them. The commander of the unit, Shlomo Erdinast, aged 21, insisted that the Red Cross be present for the surrender, which took place on the 8^th day of the war, a Shabbos. The men had washed themselves and their uniforms as best they could so as to not go down in history humiliated and in tatters, rather as proud representatives of Israel.

Erdinast had also insisted that the Red Cross supervise the return of the 5 fallen to Israel for burial. But this did not happen; Yehuda and his fallen fellow soldiers were left where they fell. The bodies were not returned for burial until after the 1978 Camp David Accords.  They were left for 5 years in the desert. After the Accords, IDF soldiers with specially trained dogs were brought to find the remains which were identified with their tags and with dental records. Yehudah was brought to Kever Yisrael in Har Herzl military cemetery.

Yehuda’s death was a terrible tragedy in a terrible war, and it took a terrible toll on my parents.

 My father was a Holocaust survivor who had lost most of his family, including his first wife and 2 sons, murdered by the Nazis.

My mother never recovered emotionally and died 11 years later of cancer, but grief definitely played a part.

I was 18 and my parents were devastated. There was no such thing as grief counseling then, and we survived in our own ways.

My parents and I were flown over to Israel by the Israeli Government in December, shortly after Yehudah’s death was confirmed as his platoon which had been taken prisoner by the Egyptians was released after 5 weeks, in prisoner exchanges. We stayed on Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu where we all were assigned jobs; for my parents, my father especially, work was therapy as he was skilled with a sewing machine and mended all the kibbutzniks’ clothes.

It was a strange, difficult time in Israel after the war. People were mourning; every family had lost someone or had a wounded son.

To give you some perspective, the population of Israel at the time was under 3.5 million; 2,688 soldiers had been killed and about 9,000 physically wounded. These numbers do not take into account psychological injuries. There was a sort of numbness in the people, which ran parallel with frenetic activity and partying of the youth. The economy was pretty poor then and people were struggling. I was only 18 and spent a lot of the time on kibbutz. It took me years to even realize that I was also psychologically affected, not least because my parents, my mother especially, were prisoners of their grief and were functioning at a very low level, getting the bare minimum done in order to live; it was a very quiet house.

Fortunately I was able to focus on my medical studies and with the seeming carelessness of youth, I had a busy social life and was active on campus, editing the student newspaper, getting involved in student politics, campaigning for the release of Soviet Jewry etc. Around 1970 Ali Kazak had come as a PLO lobbyist and started whipping up pro-Palestinian and anti-Israel sentiment on campuses. There were rallies and there was violence but I feel it is far worse today.

Unfortunately, Israel has had to make too many sacrifices in fighting for her freedom and very right to exist.

But, until Moshiach comes, we must be prepared for this terrible ongoing loss of life in defence of our land; we must be strong and of good spirit, Chazak veAmatz, because Eretz Yisrael is all we have.

It was true for Yehuda and it remains true today.

Far all those, nearly 28,000, who have fallen in defence of Israel, and as victims of terror:

YEHI ZICHRAM BARUCH.

Am Yisrael Chai.

One Damn Thing After Another

Suddenly the house is so quiet. Suddenly I have time to organise my thoughts and put them down in writing. And of course, I go blank.
After the torrent of events and celebrations and some glitches - good old raisins and almonds, sweet and bitter- suddenly I am drained. Depleted of adrenaline. Just plain old tired, with my 60 year old body creaking and groaning and whingeing about everything. Shut up, already! Here, take a Celebrex and leave me be!

The last of the Pesach visitors left this morning and after weeks of Party Central, endless noise, people wandering about looking for things to eat, Olympic-level grocery shopping, sampling every kosher eatery in Melbourne after Pesach at the behest of My Daughter The Chef, after the Seudahs and Yom Tovs, including all the celebrations for 2 new grandsons and a Sefer Torah, after all the 2, 3 and 4-year-old grandchildren battling for control of the toy stroller/easel/scooter/teddy- quiet.
Even my work phone has gone quiet- not complaining! Need a break!

And the weather has gone all wet and mopey, after 2 weeks of almost perfect days, children playing in the garden, meals fressed al fresco. Today- grey and windy. (Sort of how I feel.)

And Mother's Day yesterday. Bless. Mother's Day is not for mothers of young children, and if I ever hear another idiot say 'But EVERY day is Mother's Day', I will afflict them physically. All I ever wanted for MD was to be left alone for the morning and not to have to do laundry or cook or work or anything. I never wanted poxy breakfast in bed - yuk- but I was polite enough to fake it until the kids actually understood that I didn't want it. When the kids were grown and had kids of their own, we started doing brunches at home, because people who take small children out to brunch on MD are delusional. Adults can take out their mothers, do whatever they want, why not? But it is only torture to take out a bunch of young kids,  and I can assure you that the mothers of said kids are not having a good time.  I speak as a grandmother of 13, KA'H, B'H, ptu-ptu-ptu, but even one small child will make eating out unbearable as a rule. So please, be sensible, save all that for when your kids are grown up enough to actually pay the bill.

And the 'Yoms'. Yom HaShoa last week, Yom HaZikaron this week. As a member of a family of 2nd generation Holocaust survivors who also lost a brother in the Yom Kippur War, I feel bookended by misery. I still don't know how they switch from sorrow to elation the way they do in Israel, from Yom HaZikaron to Yom HaAtzmaut; flick. From wailing sirens to dancing in the street.

So I guess this is what passes for a breather in my life! I sound like I am complaining, but I'm not. My life is privileged and amazing even if I don't go around hash tagging how blessed I am. It's just life: 'One damn thing after another', as Mark Twain put it.

But I don't know what to do with myself. So I thought I'd write about it.

(Huh, looks like the sun's out again.)

WE SHOULD NOT EXIST

We shouldn't exist. We should never have been born, conceived, thought of. We, the children of the survivors who lost their first families, their spouses, their children, their extended families. 

My father should have been able to stay in Dzialoszyn with his wife and sons, his sisters, their mother. He should have been a successful tailor and his 2 small sons should have grown up and learned trades or professions, along with their unborn siblings. 

My father in law should have been able to live comfortably in Sosnowitz along with his parents and siblings. He should have married a nice Jewish girl from Sosnowitz and settled down to raise a family, who would then raise theirs in turn. 

Maybe some of them could have gone to Israel - which would have been established anyway and where Jews lived even before it was declared an independent state- to live a Zionist dream. But if not, they would have probably stayed in Poland. Or maybe gone to America to seek their fortunes. 

My father's and father in law's parents should have died in ripe old age surrounded by their loving families. 

Instead, my father followed 2 of his sisters to Australia, May 1939, as the situation for the Jews was not good. He kissed his wife and little sons goodbye and he hugged his mother and other sisters and promised to get papers for them to join him. 

He tried but he ran out of time. They all perished in the Holocaust. 

My father in law and one brother were the only survivors of their family. Parents, siblings, cousins- all murdered. After a 4 year convalescence in Davos, recovering from the unspeakable horrors of the camps, he went to Australia. He married another refugee from Russia and they raised a beautiful family. 

My father married a spirited Jewish Australian girl and had two more sons, and me. 

I married my husband, children of survivors and refugees together. We have children and grandchildren. We are blessed. 

But we shouldn't exist. 

WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ANTI-SEMITISM WITH YOUR HUMMUS?

I'm not writing this because I am upset about the Australia Day ad. It's a marketing device to sell more lamb, after some 5 years or so of creating an association between the eating of Australian lamb with the patriotism of Australia Day. The ad is pretty silly and has its tongue firmly in cheek. It tries to please everybody - there's Sam Kekovich, for the footy legend lovers! There's Lee Lin Chin for the Multi-Cultis! There's a bearded hipster type who has 'gone native' (hmm, poor choice of expression as you will soon see) and vegan in Brooklyn, allowing for some sledging of vegans. There are other people who are probably some sort of celebrities but I have no idea. It's a silly but pretty expensively produced ad which makes no concession at all to political correctness. I fond it pretty funny, but it won't make me buy more lamb because kosher lamb it hellish expensive and my lot aren't such big fans anyway. And thumbing one's nose at PC is pretty Australian, so I guess I like the ad more than I dislike it.
Now, one of the rules of life is that no matter what happens, there is always someone who will take it too seriously. And political correctness is the latest and greatest way to suck the joy out of anything remotely light hearted or humorous in life. And the next step in PC is not to open avenues of discussion but to shut down debate and shout down anyone who might have another opinion. So comedians such as Chris Rock or Jerry Seinfeld no longer give free shows on university campuses because there are too many people who take offence at the 'microaggressions' in their comedy routines, and the po-faced PC student activists have won. Way to go. <slow handclap>
And of course any political opinion that varies from the PC brigade's is protested and shouted down, often violently, no debate is allowed, and this occurs at universities. Back in the day, the university was the place where all ideas were supposed to be discussed and exchanged freely and fearlessly. But not now, in many such places of higher learning. Never let truth distort one's preconceived opinion or belief! And that's progress.

Enter Ruby Hamad.
Her piece was forwarded to me, because I had no idea who she is, but I sure know now.
She starts off with a tirade about this ad, pointing out that the ad 'contributes to everyday cultural erasure.' The use of the term 'Operation Boomerang' in the ad, where Aussies overseas are brought home to Australia so they won't be deprived of lamb chops on Australia Day, well, that's cultural appropriation. On a day which many indigenous people of Australia call 'Invasion Day', to use an icon like the boomerang, to talk of bringing white people 'home' to Australia, is 'to celebrate the triumph of colonisation.'
As I was reading this, I actually thought she made some good points. Yes, the Indigenous people of Australia had a terrible time of it. Yes, the history of colonisation is a cruel one. When a Mother Country sends out its people in order to exploit resources or land or native peoples, the outcomes are rarely pleasant for either side, one the side that 'wins' is usually the invader, because they have more sophisticated weaponry among other reasons. We see how things played out over the centuries, some ways better than others. From Cortez and the conquistadores in the Americas, to the Portuguese in South America, to the Dutch in the East Indies, to the British in India, in Africa, in the Middle East, and the French in Indochina, and the Belgians in the Congo and so on. And the British in America, whether the 'Founding Fathers' or the military; and the British in Australia, looking for where to park their petty criminals while expanding the Empire.
The era of colonialism spanned many centuries. And that's just 'White European' colonialism. Do I have to go as far back as the Roman Empire? What about Imperial China? Or even modern China, in Tibet. What about Arab Slavers exploiting Africans, and forced conversion to Islam?
Long, long history. Mother country, sends out its people to exploit the resources of another country for reasons of expansion and acquisition of riches. Indigenous people suffer, die, are converted to different religions, are treated as inferiors. Strong establishes mastery over weak. Indigenous culture destroyed by disease, by alcohol, by conversion. That's the scourge of colonialism.

Now for the concept of 'cultural appropriation'. The boomerang as a 'potent and recognised symbol' used to celebrate the 'triumph of colonisation.' Using the recognisable symbols of a defeated people in mockery of them, or just for fun, or because it's there. I confess, I don't like it when Australians or other non Native Americans wear feather headdresses, at parties or for fun. I certainly don't like it when people dress in blackface or brownface for fun, and I have been guilty of this at times in the past (specifically on Purim, wearing a sari and brown makeup complete with bindi. I wouldn't do that now.) I have learned to be more sensitive to issues of race/ skin colour mainly from the US experience, where the twin historic facts of destruction of indigenous people and importation of African slaves have given rise in certain parts (but not all parts) of the country to a form of 'White Guilt'. The struggle to become a post-racist society is a real one, and it continues. (But would I boycott the Village People, because one member is an 'Indian Chief'? No. Would the group, if it formed to day, feature such a character? I don't think so.)

So for the first few paragraphs, Ruby kind of had me agreeing with some of what she had to say, although I didn't like the strident and sophomoric way in which she said it. But she had some decent points.
AND THEN.
And then. She managed to segue into an anti-Semitic rant.
Somehow, selling lamb chops as 'Australian', even though the sheep is not even a native animal! becomes how the Israelis  (i.e., the Jews, not the Israeli ARABS), have stolen hummus.
And in this act of cultural appropriation, they have erased the indigenous link of the Palestinians to their national food; not 'cultural appreciation', but 'cultural erasure'.
And it was then that I realised that Ruby Hamad is an anti-Semite who has completely swallowed the canard of White Jewish colonialism, fed directly by the 'Palestinian narrative' aka the bullshit story negating any historic truth, which fuels the current conflict there today.
Nobody seems to care about historic truth anymore, and this piece will go on forever if I spell it all out, so I will try to use bullet points to destroy her 'argument'.

• Jews are indigenous to the Land of Israel. We would not be sitting on the floor and mourning the loss of Jerusalem for the past 2000 years every Tisha B'Av otherwise. We would not pray for Jerusalem every day in every prayer, at every wedding, after every meal, after every Yom Kippur and Pesach Seder, if the connection to Jerusalem and Israel and the Jews were not a deep and true one. 
• There has always been a Jewish presence in the land, whether after the Roman destruction all the way to the Ottoman Empire and after, in the modern era. All the attempts by the (Jordanian) Muslim Waqf to destroy the ancient historic record of the Jewish Temples etc, are doomed to failure, because the record is so strong. And try as you want, Mahmoud, the Menorah is a far more potent symbol of Jewish identity than anything you can come up with. And they just keep finding these coins and sherds emblazoned with menorahs EVERYWHERE.
• From 1948, 800,000 Oriental Jews were stripped of all assets and kicked out of their Arab countries where they had been for hundreds if not thousands of years. Most of these Jewish refugees went to the nascent state of Israel and became Israeli citizens. I can assure you that these Levantine Jews knew what hummus was. (BTW, many spoke Arabic and followed Arabic customs, but they observed the Jewish religion. You could say that these Jews were also Arabs, but don't let that do your head in.)

• Thus, to speak of the Jewish Israelis as if they were all of Ashkenazic origin, or 'white', is complete nonsense. Ditto, to say that modern Israel exists only because a bunch of Europeans who were guilty about the Holocaust decided to give Israel to them in order to assuage their collective conscience is a puerile and ignorant opinion.

• Who are the ethnic Palestinians? I can tell you with certainty the the term 'Palestinian' was reserved for the Jews in Mandate Palestine, and an Arab would have been offended to be called that term. The Arabs were proud to be called Arabs. 'Arab' is not a nationalistic term; it describes a people of a certain culture who speak Arabic. The Arabs of the area had links over family and tribal lines which did not adhere to any borders drawn before or after 1948.
• The term Palestinian, referring to Arabs, mainly but not exclusively Muslim, only came into common use after the 1967 war. There is no ethnic group called 'Palestinian' who have a special and unique culture. They are Arabs and they enjoy Arabic food and music and clothing and language.
• If Jewish Israelis are colonialist, please tell me 1) what Mother Country sent them? and 2) what resources were they exploiting? What sort of colonialism is this? Answer: IT'S NOT. It's return to homeland.
• I could go on and on, filling in the gaps and going over the historic record, but I think this is enough for here and now.

Ruby, I see it like this. The Jews in Israel SHARE with the Arabs a culinary tradition which relies on foods that grow in the area. A Jewish Israeli, as well as an Arab Israeli, is entitled to call the falafel an Israeli national food. Because it is. I'm sorry if you feel that this causes 'cultural erasure' of the noble Palestinian people. Jews and Arabs have a long and chequered history in the area, and I'm sorry if you think that having light skin or blue eyes makes a Jew less of a Jew and less entitled to be in the Jewish homeland. That actually makes you racist, I think. My (blue-eyed) grandfather and (brown-eyed, olive-skinned) grandmother were natives of Tzefat; they were Ottoman Palestinians. They had every right to be there and eat hummus as well as couscous and preserved lemons, and stuffed courgettes and ful, and so do I. 

Your attitude may feel oh-so-noble to you and your fellow travellers, but it's just another example of racist anti-Semitism, and it just feeds into the lies that perpetuate this tragic conflict. Not to mention the reversal of reality. It's not the Jews who want to 'erase' the Arabs; it's the Arabs, specifically the Muslims, who want to annihilate the Jews, and make no secret of it. If the Palestinians wanted peace, they would have had it a while back. They would be minting currency and printing stamps and welcoming tourists to the beautiful Gaza beaches and the historic (Jewish) heartland of Judea and Samaria, aka 'the West Bank'. But they, and all the Arab states, only seek the destruction of the Jews and the appropriation of their land which they have paid for over and over again, with blood and treasure, for centuries.

Yesterday I heard on the radio how avocado on toast was a 'classic Aussie breakfast'. Why, If I were a MesoAmerican, having my native avocado appropriated like that- why, I would ...what would I do? Nothing. Just eat it. Bon Appetit! (Oops, that's French!)

CHOOSING TO DIE/ CHOOSING TO LIVE

I have just read two articles about euthanasia, specifically , of elderly people self-euthanising, that left me immeasurably sad. Nikki Gemmel tells of her mother, crippled by chronic pain after foot surgery 10 months earlier, who chose to end her life alone; and the other of a suicide pact of two scientists, Pat and Peter Shaw, both 87. In both cases, the fear was of dependence on others, having to be cared for in nursing homes, or being 'in the hands of medicos', losing all autonomy. In the case of the Shaws, Peter was concerned that his mind was not as sharp, while Pat was increasingly frail and had recovered from a broken femur not long before. They had 3 daughters who knew of their plans, which they had discussed for many years, and could do nothing about it, nor did they feel that they should. Their parents had always been rational, intelligent and independent people who had lived a full life, travelled extensively, climbed mountains, skied, hiked, had rich lives appreciating music, theatre, wine etc, and had been generally fit and active. One daughter when interviewed said that she would have wanted the parents of 10 years earlier to stay around; but the parents at the end, no; it would have been too hard for them and too hard for her as well, she admits.
Legally, no other person can be involved in these cases of voluntary self-euthanasia, or suicide, as that make them accessories and thus liable to prosecution. So although the Shaw daughters knew of their parents' decision and when they planned it, they were not culpable in any way; but the police and paramedics still descended on the couple's home and there had to be an investigation. This disturbed what had been a peaceful decision to 'go to sleep and not wake up'. Nikki Gemmel feels that 'If the family cannot by law be involved in the wishes of a person wanting to be euthanised, then you are condemning that person to a monstrously bleak and lonely death. One that I, as the daughter, will never recover from.'
These cases are not identical, and I would say that no two are. One was of a woman racked with pain, addicted to painkillers, doctor shopping for them in fact, whose life had been destroyed essentially by a bad medical decision for which the doctor involved has not been questioned, nor does it seem that there has there been any legal measure taken for compensation or any accusation of negligence, according to the article Ms Gemmel published.
The other, a suicide pact between two rational people who were suffering in their own ways and who decided that life did not offer them enough in order to make them want to live.
In neither case were the people demented, nor did they think they were depressed. In both cases, the people were not religious and did not talk of an afterlife etc. It was about fear of dependence, loss of autonomy, and release from physical pain or frailty.

So why am I so saddened by this? Why am I not hailing Dr Philip Nitschke as the saviour of Mankind? There is a part of me that thinks it is a good thing to be able to legally end one's suffering, and I won't argue against it. My religious beliefs do not allow me to commend it, because it is against the basic tenet of Life being sacrosanct and suicide being a sin, because life is a gift from G-d and it is not for us to make these decisions; but the doctor part of me knows that there is such a thing as unbearable suffering and untreatable pain. The big problem is who gets to decide, and how. A doctor and a psychiatrist? A panel of medicos and ethicists? The patient ? The family? Everyone? Surely it would have to be disinterested experts, for there are many situations where children don't want to keep frail parents alive; they would rather push things along a bit to end their own misery or to get an inheritance. A friend of mine is involved in a case where an adult son, who lives interstate and hasn't visited his elderly mother for 4 years, had his mother evicted from her home where she had been living comfortably with carers (but that was getting expensive), placed in a nursing home, and then attempted to expedite the sale of the home, clearly for his own gain; this sale has been blocked by my friend who is the only person advocating on behalf of this elderly woman, who has been a lifelong friend but has no blood ties to her. Meanwhile, in the nursing home, the previously ambulant woman has been confined to a wheelchair, has developed, terrible eczema,  bedsores- an indication of poor nursing if ever there was- and has slipped into early dementia. The court case is pending, but it is pretty clear that the clock is ticking and it will probably be too late for her no matter what the decision. So I don't think it's a good idea to have family involved in decisions regarding euthanasia, even on the basis of this one case.

So who should decide?  When is a rational, non-depressed person who fears dying without dignity and loss of autonomy, really able to make a sole decision, or a suicide pact? Maybe the pact was the idea of the dominant person in the relationship? Poor pain control, emotional despair, loneliness - no, these things are not 'depression', but quality of life issues; maybe these can be improved.
There is a 'slippery slope' here, and I'm not the first person to say that. But I don't argue that life can become unbearable and people can become fixed on the idea of 'the final exit', the 'big sleep' as the answer to their suffering.

But I have recently lost my father-in-law who passed away on his 93rd birthday after a difficult couple of years of declining health, especially in the last 2 months. His physical dependence was great and his quality of life had plummeted. Yet still, he never ever talked of ending it all. He relished every minute of life, every minute spent with his family; his wife, his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Especially his grandchildren, for whom, with his very last breaths, he had advice and expressions of love and support.
He refused to have carers and his wife took on the burden of his care, despite her own health issues. After 63 years of marriage, she wasn't going to allow him to be humiliated by his frailty and loss of physical autonomy, to be handled by strangers.
She made sure he took his meds, she drove him to his appointments with his doctors, was in constant communication with them. When one of his doctors became ill himself, she took him chicken soup and inquired after his health; the doctor later said that it was the only time ever that such a thing had happened. You might call it blurring boundaries, but it was sincere on her part, and it fostered perhaps a more caring relationship that could only benefit my father-in-law; although his own charm was enough to elicit caring from his doctors and nurses, with the increasing frequency of medical events and hospital admissions.

We talk of dying with dignity and think that this can't be done in hospitals 'in the hands of medicos', which had been a great fear expressed by Pat Shaw. Yet my father-in-law passed away peacefully and comfortably in hospital, surrounded by loving family who were all there to witness his last breath. The 'machines that go beep' were all disconnected at this stage and the staff were solicitous and respectful of the family and looked in on them without disturbing the active dying that was taking place.
It was not easy for us, as observers, but the 'medicos' soothed us and explained every step, and we all remained calm; it was a 'good death', and that is a good thing.

So why so different?  I think that my father-in-law, a Holocaust survivor and a religious Jew, who had been through the depths of Hell 70 years earlier, losing all his family but one brother, had a profound respect for and love of Life. He might have been angry at G-d but he also loved G-d and his religion and sought every other way possible to prolong his life; he felt he had so much more to do, and was tying up loose ends and getting his affairs into order for quite a while before. He left written instructions on how he wanted his funeral to be run, and they were followed to the letter; I and many others thought it was the best funeral service we had ever seen. Here was a man who wanted to be in charge! But he never wanted to hasten the inevitable end. He had something to live for. He had meaning in his life. Despite his pain and frailty and the indignities that they entailed, he loved and was loved.
I think of the Shaws, with their wine appreciation and culture and daughters, and wonder; why was this not enough? I can't imagine that there were grandchildren, at least, they are not mentioned. Wouldn't grandchildren have given more meaning to their lives? Wouldn't they want to be around to see them grow (I almost said, to dance at their bar mitzvahs, but whatever the equivalent, to see them graduate school and university and marry)?

We learn that the patriarch Jacob was the one who prayed that death should come slowly; we see for the first time a deathbed scene in the Bible, where he has time to bless his children and grandchildren. What we think of as an awful, protracted dying, can at least at some stage actually be a part of healing for the children, as they farewell the dying one and they witness his passage from life. Those who have lost a parent through trauma, or sudden death, have a harder time adjusting, as a rule.

So why would someone choose life, and others choose death? It isn't just about pain or loss of independence, and it isn't just about being lonely or being loved. It even isn't just about belief in G-d, for there are even those who, despite belief in G-d, cannot overcome their suffering and plead for death. It's certainly not about having had a wonderful easy life, for we all know stories of people who seemingly had everything, charmed lives, yet chose suicide. But my Holocaust survivor father-in-law loved and savoured every moment of life, despite, or perhaps because of what he had suffered.

It is about a belief in Life, and its worth.

I confess that a part of me is conflicted. Morally, I am against euthanasia; but I have seen situations where I could only envy veterinarians who can euthanise beloved pets who are just suffering too much (yet plenty of pet owners decline this service even for their animals, and prefer to take expensive and extreme measures to keep pets alive). And if there can be a case made for euthanasia, then, shouldn't it be legalised so that family can be involved and not blocked out of the process, condemning the patient to a bleak and lonely death?

I don't know the answer. I hope that I can have the courage to choose Life if the choice is given to me.

SOMETHING STINKS IN COLOGNE

Well, the new year began with lads behaving badly. Cricketer Chris Gayle was fined $10,000 for making inappropriate comments to sport reporter Mel McLaughlin during an interview, basically chatting her up on camera. Jamie Briggs lost his ministerial position for what sound like a drunken pass at a consulate employee in Hong Kong. Lots more, but let's stay with that for a minute.

Let's pick this all apart. Firstly, what is striking is the size of the punishment for these misdemeanours. I am not for one second saying that these actions were not deserving of some degree of opprobrium, but I'm not sure that the punishments fit the crimes. So one can chew on that for a bit.
Then, nothing terrible happened really, and if Gayle had made his offer for a drink AFTER the interview was over, or if Briggs had behaved with a bit more decorum, then really, who cares. Private lives. So it's all a storm in a teacup, or is it?

But what also disappointed me was the attitude of Brendan O'Neill, whose columns usually have me nodding in agreement. He is a pretty common-sense sort of fellow, but in this case, I part company from him.
His take is that 'flirtation' has been crushed by the grim, joy-sucking PC people who are acting like a) the nuns who taught him in school, and who are 'schoolmarmish feminists', and b) grim advocates of the perennial victim status of women, thus ironically disempowering women who should be, and usually are, perfectly able to handle unsolicited 'flirtation' themselves.
He goes on to pull more examples of the PC destruction of all that is fun in life, e.g., how campus activists in the University of Wyoming inform students that 'sex that occurs while a partner is intoxicated...is sexual assault'. Says Brendan, 'This would mean that I and absolutely everyone I know has committed sexual assault. Who didn't have drunk sex at uni?'

Well, I for one didn't. Ditto  almost everyone I knew. And it was then that I had this insight: You know when people talk about bullying in school? At school reunions or whatever. There are often people who say how they were bullied and how difficult their school lives were and how they managed to overcome their trauma, etc etc; and then there is always someone who denies that there was any bullying. And that's the way you know who the bully was; the one who denies that bullying took place. It was just fun! It was kids mucking around! What bullying? Don't be so sensitive.

So Brendan, your statement reminds me strongly of this, and therefore I think it is actually quite likely that you did commit sexual assault in some way. Oh, just a bit of fun, a bit of  drunken sex at uni, hahaha, and I wonder if your erstwhile partner would reflect in a similar way on those good old days. Maybe. Probably with great embarrassment.

So I guess what I am saying is, that if you think it's OK for  men to say 'flirtatious' things to women, and I don't mean while on a date or in a romantic situation, but while at work or otherwise 'inappropriately', then you bloody well don't get it, do you?

Men who think that it's perfectly OK to stare at women or to make comments to passing women about their looks or whatever, or who stand about in groups whistling and cat-calling women, or who think it's OK to pinch or pat or grope women, or who think it's fine to pat a female employee on the bottom or make suggestive comments, all the way through to the further end of the spectrum of what went on in Cologne on New Year's Eve, which was indeed violent sexual assault, all have two things in common.
1 A sense of male entitlement, and
2 Profound disrespect for women.

You may think that I am being a bit extreme in comparing a bit of sleazy chat to rape, and I am not saying that they are of equal evil, or even of equal intent. But I see it as a spectrum of behaviour.

Firstly, what gives men the right to even stare at pretty women? And just for the record, I understand that 'men like to look'. So look! Take a quick admiring glance at the beautiful young woman. But anything more than 3 seconds is not a look, it's a stare or an ogle, and it makes the recipient uncomfortable, and that is often deliberate. And any - ANY- accompanying sound made, whether a whistle or a 'phwoar!' or a comment- makes it into a leer, or even a verbal assault, and can either frighten a young girl or truly piss off an older woman. And please don't insult me by saying ' but it is just an appreciation of beauty!'. Yes, I'm sure that everyone who goes to Florence to look at Michelangelo's David is whistling and commenting on his butt. Not. They are usually reverentially silent out of RESPECT.

But women are strong enough to deal with this themselves! They don't need to be told that they are victims! Friends, by the time a woman is old enough to deal with this shit, it's pretty certain that she doesn't have to deal with it any more because she has become invisible to the male gaze, which only bothers ogling/patting/harrassing young pretty things who ARE often bothered by it. Because there is an imbalance of power. So young unempowered women do in fact need a level of protection and advocacy even if only to learn their rights and how to respond to these behaviours. (Mel Mclaughlin laughed it all off and good for her; but an 18 year old apprentice in a bakery or workshop might just need someone to talk to about inappropriate workplace behaviour, just maybe?)

Oh, another thing is the older woman who says, 'I wish someone would whistle at me or chat ME up!' No you don't. What you wish for is to be young again, or prettier than you think you are. You actually do want to be respected, unless you have some sort of personality disorder or have been so inured to disrespect and male entitlement that you think it's normal and acceptable, oh, boys will be boys.

Men who respect women do not ogle or leer or grope them. Ergo, all this 'laddish' behaviour all the way to violence and rape can only exist in the toxic atmosphere of disrespect, male privilege and entitlement. Notice I have not actually said 'misogyny' because that term has been bandied about a bit too freely, but that's there too, at the further end of that spectrum. That was there, in Cologne, and it's there in Sweden, which has become the rape capital of the Western world in the last 10 years, corresponding with an influx of Muslim migrants, and in plenty of other places where male entitlement and disrespect for women exist. And I'm not saying that this is solely Arab Muslim men attacking western women, because it isn't. But that toxic brew of entitlement and disrespect/misogyny  certainly was a feature of what happened on New Year's Eve.

And where there has been perhaps an over-reaction to sleazy cricketers and drunken ministerial behaviours, there has been a shocking under-reaction by the authorities in Cologne and in other places in Europe where similar events have occurred, and the police seem to be paralysed. Let's hope that they are actually working on something to prevent such outrages and to identify and punish perpetrators.

Grim PC, nunnish, schoolmarm feminist, signing off.