I hate New Year resolutions but I really need to lose a few kilos and my poor old joints will thank me.
So.
I WILL NOT BUY CHOCOLATE.
I won't. I will ignore the come-on red wrappers and whatnot, designed to catch my attention. I will not buy it so then it won't come into the house and it won't be there to waylay me.
Of course I will have to get rid of what is in the house.
Well, I've been doing a bit of 'getting rid of' via my mouth, so at the moment there is not much there in the pantry. I finished the last 3 mini Kif Kafs on Shabbos. The next logical step would be to eat any dark chocolate - less favoured- but it looks like someone ate that already. Maybe it was me, last week? Not sure. The next level of chocolate is cooking chocolate, but fortunately that was actually borrowed and used by one of my kids to cook with. (How about that? Am I the only person who knows the delight of dipping a finger of the Szmerling or Alprose cooking chocolate into hot coffee and licking off the melted bits? Not that I have done that for a while. Not since having milk chocolate in the house, that is.) Drinking chocolate powder doesn't do it for me so that can stay.
OK. Gift packs of after dinner mints? Meh. I think I'm safe.
I WILL NOT BUY CHIPS.
Potato chips, that is. The other kinds do nothing for me. Quinoa corn chips, puh-leeze. I actually made a batch of kale chips, but fortunately one of my kids ate the whole container, so I didn't have to pretend to myself to like them. So I think I have one more pack to dispose of, and maybe a tube of The Devil's Chips, aka Pringles BBQ flavour. I only bought these because they were half price in Coles. I never pay full price. Except when I eat them, then there's a price to pay all right. So NO MORE.
I WILL KEEP ALL ICE CREAM IN THE BASEMENT FREEZER because that way, I have to shlep all the way down to get it, and by then I won't want it any more. PROBLEM: the basement freezer is actually in my basement garage so I will have to walk past it on the way from my car into the house. No, don't tell me I have to not buy Tempo Vanilla ice cream anymore, there would be mutiny from the ranks here. It's not as if I live alone.
It's been a while since I had a personal crackdown on these treats. Of course I've done it before and of course it didn't last. My big problem is that when I deny myself these things, my brain goes all William Wallace on me, paints its face blue, picks up a sword and screams 'YE CANNA TAKE MA FREEDOM!', and proceeds to destroy my efforts in ways I can't even describe, but it ends up with mini chocolate bars magically finding their way back into the pantry and sacrificing themselves to the Maw, the Unfillable Void that can just rear up out of nowhere.
So Zero Tolerance doesn't actually work for me. Well, at least, it hasn't UNTIL NOW.
Now it will work. Now I am SIXTY. I am OLD. I am WISE. I can DO this thing. If I don't do it, I'll have some doctor warning me about my weight and my salt intake and my sugar intake...Oh wait a minute, they already have. But NOW I will really take notice!
Wish me luck. And happy 2016.
Sunday, 10 January 2016
Thursday, 17 December 2015
ADIEU, OLD FRIENDS
I've been talking about my 60th birthday celebrations which included a party at a kosher Russian restaurant in Queens (man, do those Russians know how to have a good time!), a dinner with friends in Jerusalem, and a dance party in Melbourne last week. But there was something else I did, not exactly celebratory, spurred by my turning 60.
I had my ovaries removed.
I'm not Angelina Jolie, and that won't make headlines. But the reason that I had my hardworking little girlies removed was that I was increasingly afraid that they would go rogue on me. My maternal grandmother was 55 when she died of ovarian cancer; I never knew her. My mother was just 66 when she died of ovarian cancer; my older kids hardly knew her, the younger ones never knew her at all. And here was I, smack in the middle. It's called 'the hot decade'.
About 8 years ago, when genetic testing started, I decided to have the test to see if I had the BRCA1 or 2 genetic aberration. It was done at the Peter Mac (cancer hospital in Melbourne) Familial Cancer Centre, and I have to say that getting my patient appointment card to a cancer hospital already had me sweating a bit.
I made the appointment on advice of a colleague who is a Gynaecological Oncologist, who, when I disclosed my family history in a sort of inappropriate social situation (umm...at my Shabbos table where he was a guest), sort of drew himself upright in his chair and told me to get tested asap.
They have this whole way of doing things there at the Peter Mac. First they told me to go away and think about having the test, and all that it means, and how it might affect my medical and health insurance. And then I had to schlep back and do the test which I had wanted to do at the previous visit. And then they said to come back with a support person when they gave me the results. They also said that they would try to find the 'tumour blocks'- i.e. tissue samples, which would have been taken from my mother 25 years earlier when she was operated on (and diagnosed at the time of surgery; it was a big shock for everyone, surgeon included. He thought he was repairing an umbilical hernia). Since the operation had been done in a different hospital which had since been relocated, I didn't like their chances too much, and in fact they couldn't find them.
So I brought my husband with me when they called me in to give me the results. We were sat in a bleak little room with a box of tissues on the table. The ladies who came in and out of the room, asking us how were were, were very nice and solicitous, which actually made me more anxious. And then the doctor came into the room and, in a roundabout way, which kept me guessing right to the end, informed me that I did not have the BRCA mutation.
Well! The relief! But Doctor Circumspect wasn't smiling; because they did not have the genetic material from either my mother or, of course, my grandmother, they didn't know their BRCA status, so they couldn't actually tell me what my chances were of getting ovarian cancer. And in fact, most cases of ovarian cancer occur in people with normal genes. It's just that if you have the BRCA mutation, your chances of getting cancer are extremely high. (And then my usually slightly more sensitive husband said that we could exhume my mother and thus obtain a DNA sample. Mr Practical. Mr Only Trying To Help. Just..NO.)
So it was really back to square one for me. I sought advice from several doctors and a medical ethicist, and although there was a good case to having the op, it was not really something I wanted to do at that time.
Why not? Mainly because I am a big chicken when it comes to surgery. Stuff goes wrong.
Also, who has time for this? I was busy with kids' weddings and babies and travelling and and and.
And then, maybe my ovaries were still useful! I wasn't having hot flushes etc, but my blood tests did show that I was menopausal. But maybe I was running on empty! The motor was working well enough, why rip out the Oestrogen fuel tank?
And my OB GYN of many years was very keen to do a total hysterectomy, with the kind of insouciance that male surgeons often have. I mean, that uterus isn't doing anything anymore, why not just take out everything.
Poor old uterus. She never did a wrong thing in her life. Never a minute's trouble. I never even had a period pain my whole life. Never bled when she wasn't supposed to. When I wanted to conceive, I did. When I didn't, I didn't. My pregnancies were uneventful, my deliveries uncomplicated. And for all the years of faithful service, you want to just whip her out? She's an innocent bystander! It just seemed wrong. OK, maybe there were some auxiliary lady issues, like a bit of a prolapse here and there, but really, nothing that bothered me. Everything was well worn, but had worn well, so to speak. So, no thanks. Oh, but technically it's simpler to just do a full clearance, and repair this and that and yada yada; and then another GYN started talking about robotic surgery and multiple staged this and that, and FORGETABOUTIT. Not going to. Freaked out.
So for the last 10 years or more, I have been having pelvic ultrasounds and keeping an eye on the ovaries. That's all you can really do. There is no precancerous detection, as there is in breast cancer. Any change means cancer. And although annual ultrasounds sound like a good idea, in fact, ovarian cancer can go from go to whoa in as little as three months. So what's the good of that. Blood test (Ca 125) is non-specific, and I had those too, for all they're worth. And that's the state of the nation, folks. This is why you should buy a ribbon on Ovarian Cancer Awareness Day, because there needs to be more research done, looking for a pre-cancerous marker that would then make screening possible. Right now there is nothing.
So as the years went by, the anxiety mounted. I passed the age that my grandmother died. It felt like a milestone. And as I approached the age that my mother became sick, I felt that it was time to take action. After the last scan, I spoke to the GYN who did it and he heard me out, about the ovaries and the uterus and the prolapse and the robotic surgery and how I just did not know what to do. So he asked, 'What is bothering you the most?' and I answered, 'The fear of ovarian cancer.' So he said, 'Just have the ovaries out and see how you go.' So simple.
Because when you have the ovaries (and tubes) removed, the risk of ovarian cancer is pretty much zero.
And suddenly I knew what to do, and I made the appointment with the original GYN who told me to do it nearly 10 years earlier. After a couple of months' wait, laparoscopic removal, overnight stay in hospital, take it easy for a couple of weeks, no worries. Pain was minimal, took some Panadol; 4 tiny little cuts on my tummy, healed up. On the 3rd day post op, I saw a patient. On the 9th day, I went to an ACDC concert (Amazing BTW). On the 13th day, danced like a fiend at my 60th. After 2 weeks, back at water aerobics. (Not looking forward to going back to gym, I have been enjoying getting up later than 6am. But.)
So BH it all went well, the pathology results were fine, and I feel exactly the same.
I was afraid of feeling castrated, gonad-less, less of a woman, blah blah. Nothing like it. I'm glad that I can cross off that potential cause of death from my list.
I'd better not be hit by a bus. The irony would be too much.
I had my ovaries removed.
I'm not Angelina Jolie, and that won't make headlines. But the reason that I had my hardworking little girlies removed was that I was increasingly afraid that they would go rogue on me. My maternal grandmother was 55 when she died of ovarian cancer; I never knew her. My mother was just 66 when she died of ovarian cancer; my older kids hardly knew her, the younger ones never knew her at all. And here was I, smack in the middle. It's called 'the hot decade'.
About 8 years ago, when genetic testing started, I decided to have the test to see if I had the BRCA1 or 2 genetic aberration. It was done at the Peter Mac (cancer hospital in Melbourne) Familial Cancer Centre, and I have to say that getting my patient appointment card to a cancer hospital already had me sweating a bit.
I made the appointment on advice of a colleague who is a Gynaecological Oncologist, who, when I disclosed my family history in a sort of inappropriate social situation (umm...at my Shabbos table where he was a guest), sort of drew himself upright in his chair and told me to get tested asap.
They have this whole way of doing things there at the Peter Mac. First they told me to go away and think about having the test, and all that it means, and how it might affect my medical and health insurance. And then I had to schlep back and do the test which I had wanted to do at the previous visit. And then they said to come back with a support person when they gave me the results. They also said that they would try to find the 'tumour blocks'- i.e. tissue samples, which would have been taken from my mother 25 years earlier when she was operated on (and diagnosed at the time of surgery; it was a big shock for everyone, surgeon included. He thought he was repairing an umbilical hernia). Since the operation had been done in a different hospital which had since been relocated, I didn't like their chances too much, and in fact they couldn't find them.
So I brought my husband with me when they called me in to give me the results. We were sat in a bleak little room with a box of tissues on the table. The ladies who came in and out of the room, asking us how were were, were very nice and solicitous, which actually made me more anxious. And then the doctor came into the room and, in a roundabout way, which kept me guessing right to the end, informed me that I did not have the BRCA mutation.
Well! The relief! But Doctor Circumspect wasn't smiling; because they did not have the genetic material from either my mother or, of course, my grandmother, they didn't know their BRCA status, so they couldn't actually tell me what my chances were of getting ovarian cancer. And in fact, most cases of ovarian cancer occur in people with normal genes. It's just that if you have the BRCA mutation, your chances of getting cancer are extremely high. (And then my usually slightly more sensitive husband said that we could exhume my mother and thus obtain a DNA sample. Mr Practical. Mr Only Trying To Help. Just..NO.)
So it was really back to square one for me. I sought advice from several doctors and a medical ethicist, and although there was a good case to having the op, it was not really something I wanted to do at that time.
Why not? Mainly because I am a big chicken when it comes to surgery. Stuff goes wrong.
Also, who has time for this? I was busy with kids' weddings and babies and travelling and and and.
And then, maybe my ovaries were still useful! I wasn't having hot flushes etc, but my blood tests did show that I was menopausal. But maybe I was running on empty! The motor was working well enough, why rip out the Oestrogen fuel tank?
And my OB GYN of many years was very keen to do a total hysterectomy, with the kind of insouciance that male surgeons often have. I mean, that uterus isn't doing anything anymore, why not just take out everything.
Poor old uterus. She never did a wrong thing in her life. Never a minute's trouble. I never even had a period pain my whole life. Never bled when she wasn't supposed to. When I wanted to conceive, I did. When I didn't, I didn't. My pregnancies were uneventful, my deliveries uncomplicated. And for all the years of faithful service, you want to just whip her out? She's an innocent bystander! It just seemed wrong. OK, maybe there were some auxiliary lady issues, like a bit of a prolapse here and there, but really, nothing that bothered me. Everything was well worn, but had worn well, so to speak. So, no thanks. Oh, but technically it's simpler to just do a full clearance, and repair this and that and yada yada; and then another GYN started talking about robotic surgery and multiple staged this and that, and FORGETABOUTIT. Not going to. Freaked out.
So for the last 10 years or more, I have been having pelvic ultrasounds and keeping an eye on the ovaries. That's all you can really do. There is no precancerous detection, as there is in breast cancer. Any change means cancer. And although annual ultrasounds sound like a good idea, in fact, ovarian cancer can go from go to whoa in as little as three months. So what's the good of that. Blood test (Ca 125) is non-specific, and I had those too, for all they're worth. And that's the state of the nation, folks. This is why you should buy a ribbon on Ovarian Cancer Awareness Day, because there needs to be more research done, looking for a pre-cancerous marker that would then make screening possible. Right now there is nothing.
So as the years went by, the anxiety mounted. I passed the age that my grandmother died. It felt like a milestone. And as I approached the age that my mother became sick, I felt that it was time to take action. After the last scan, I spoke to the GYN who did it and he heard me out, about the ovaries and the uterus and the prolapse and the robotic surgery and how I just did not know what to do. So he asked, 'What is bothering you the most?' and I answered, 'The fear of ovarian cancer.' So he said, 'Just have the ovaries out and see how you go.' So simple.
Because when you have the ovaries (and tubes) removed, the risk of ovarian cancer is pretty much zero.
And suddenly I knew what to do, and I made the appointment with the original GYN who told me to do it nearly 10 years earlier. After a couple of months' wait, laparoscopic removal, overnight stay in hospital, take it easy for a couple of weeks, no worries. Pain was minimal, took some Panadol; 4 tiny little cuts on my tummy, healed up. On the 3rd day post op, I saw a patient. On the 9th day, I went to an ACDC concert (Amazing BTW). On the 13th day, danced like a fiend at my 60th. After 2 weeks, back at water aerobics. (Not looking forward to going back to gym, I have been enjoying getting up later than 6am. But.)
So BH it all went well, the pathology results were fine, and I feel exactly the same.
I was afraid of feeling castrated, gonad-less, less of a woman, blah blah. Nothing like it. I'm glad that I can cross off that potential cause of death from my list.
I'd better not be hit by a bus. The irony would be too much.
Sunday, 13 December 2015
SIXTY
So the 60th birthday celebrations are coming to a close. Last night was the party, along with a good friend, who also turned 60 not long ago; our kids put it all together. It was also the last night of Chanukah, so we were all burning with full light, to strain a metaphor. There was a DJ. I danced. Today I cannot move. But it was worth it.
Here's the speech I made; my brief was to be funny and I think I was. Well, people were laughing anyway, and I hope it was with me and not at me.
I still can't believe I'm this old.
BEN SHISHIM LE ZIKNO
In Pirkei Avot, 'Ethics of the Fathers', there is a reference to the arc of life and what is expected at various ages:
5- LeMikrah, 10- LeMishna, 13- LeMitzvah, 15-
LeGemarah,
18- LeChuppah, 20- Lirdof- ie pursuit of a
livelihood
30- Koach- full strength
40- Binah- Understanding
50-Eitzah- Ability to give advice!
60 - Zikno. OLD. Over the hill.
ZIKNO. Age. Comprised of 4 letters, Zayin, Kuf, Nun, Heh, which forms a neat acrostic:
Ziftzin - Sighing
Krechtsen- Groaning
Nissen- Sneezing
Hissen- Coughing
70- Seivo – ripe old age
80-Gevurah – Great strength; Because 'getting old ain’t for
sissies'.
Goes downhill from there.
BUT I note that this is all BEN and not BAS. SO
could it be it only applies to MEN? Huh?
3 things happen with aging:
ONE, your memory isn’t so good.
I forget the other 2 things.
It’s good that women over 50 don’t have babies,
they would put them down somewhere and forget where.
SCIENTIFIC FACT: Brain cells come, and brain cells
go, but fat cells live forever.
Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy
beautician.
When you go through menopause, they say you are
going through the change of life. The change. But they don’t tell you what
you’re changing into – in my case, my dad.(Stroke
bristly jaw of nana whiskers) But like a hot, itchy, mental version.
Age doesn’t always bring wisdom: sometimes, age
comes alone.
THINGS
I HAVE LEARNED: WORDS OF WISDOM-RULES OF AGING *
Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping
pill and a laxative on the same night.
Never pass up a toilet; never waste an erection;
never trust a fart.
Never lick a steak knife
Never say anything to a woman that even remotely
suggests that you think she is pregnant unless you can see an actual baby
emerging from her at that moment.
Do not confuse your career with your life
There is a very fine line between ‘hobby’ and
‘mental illness’
People who want to share their religious views
with you almost never want you to share yours with them.
No matter what happens, somebody will find a way
to take it too seriously.
When trouble arises and things look bad, there is
always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command.
Very often, this person is crazy.
The most destructive force in the universe is
gossip.
A person who is nice to you, but rude to the
waiter, is not a nice person. (THIS NEVER FAILS, pay attention.)
Your friends love you anyway.
Here are few more:
1.
Most things don’t matter.
Stuff that you think really matters usually
doesn’t. You can work yourself into sickness worrying about things that, in the
long term, are unimportant. Anyone planned a wedding?
What IS important: Being kind and being a mensch.
2.
Nobody is thinking about you.
You are certain that everyone spends half their
day talking about you or discussing your weight or denigrating your work. But
really, NOBODY is thinking about you. They are thinking about themselves, just
like you.
(I wish I could tell this to self-conscious young
women, especially about their looks. They are all beautiful. Youth is
beautiful. Joy is beautiful.)
3.
There comes a time in life when you have to stop
trying to strengthen your weaknesses. It’s ok with kids, you see some gaps and
you try to help things along, or it might work on the sport field, but not in
life. In life, in maturity, if you attempt to strengthen a weakness, you will
get weaker. BUT if you keep playing to your strengths, people will not notice
you have weaknesses. Don’t believe me. Take singing lessons. But it’s true.
4.
Give honest, frank and open criticism to nobody,
ever.
Someone, friend, relative, workmate, employee, whatever,
has behavior or character flaws evident to all but themselves. You think that
an honest, frank, pull-no-punches conversation will show them the error of
their ways. They will see the light at once! And be forever grateful for your
kindness and candor and courage. Better still! They will reform their ways,
their lives will be redeemed and improved and they will owe all that you
candid, courageous you.
FORGET ABOUT IT. Don’t do it. Who here likes to be
criticized?
This relates to my previous point: Nobody is
thinking about you, UNLESS you tell them about their faults. Then you can be
sure they are thinking of you. They are thinking of killing you.
On that note:
Nobody cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up
and dance anyway.
Friends, family, thank you for coming tonight to
this celebration.
At my age, I know how much easier it is to stay
home. Not to mention how much more enjoyable, as a rule. I love when things get
cancelled and I can just stay home. I’m sure I’m not the only one. So thank you
all for making the effort.
Thank you to the young ‘uns (Maaryasha, Nechama,
Rosa- sorry if I forgot anyone, my memory isn’t so good) for organizing this
and not letting it fizzle into a couple of 60 year olds being overwhelmed by
the thought of being that old, and hiding under a blanket while soothing
ourselves with chocolate (Just me, then).
Thank you to Ralph and Tilly for giving their home
for the party, I really appreciate the work involved. I hope nothing got too
trashed, guests included.
Last but not least, thank you to my loving husband
for always being there, for his support and forbearance and being an all-around
good guy (WHO IS NEVER RUDE TO WAITERS BTW)
And finally- people rarely remember what you say
in a speech. But they sure remember if you took too long to say it.
I conclude! With-
A TOAST:
TO PUTTING THE ‘SEXY’ BACK INTO SEXAGENARIAN!
May the light of this last night of Chanukah stay
with you all throughout the year.
LECHAIM
* Although I wish that all these points were
original, I did in fact scour the internet and came up with these. Some are
from Dave Barry, and the 4 points are from Roger Rosenblatt’s ‘Rules of Aging’.
The line about ‘change of life’ was from American comedian Mrs. Hughes. (Link above.)
Friday, 6 November 2015
A Chunk of the Apple
Every time I go to NYC I learn something. 5th Ave divides the East and West. 6th Ave traffic goes uptown. Pedicab drivers charge $4 per minute. I stumble upon pockets of peace in the midst of the rush and activity. Some of the doorway embellishments are just gorgeous and there is so much Art Nouveau and Deco around.
I saw one of the prettiest horses I have ever seen carrying a traffic cop near the Rockefeller centre.
It's 18 degrees Celsius on the 5th of November, unseasonably warm, but they have the Rockefeller Plaza ice rink up and going and the skaters are out. Yesterday I read that they have cut down the tree that they will shlep to the Plaza and decorate for Xmas. 
There is a joke, 'how many New Yorkers does it take to change a light bulb?' And the answer is 'None of your business! Get out of my way!' The real joke is that New Yorkers are not like that at all. People are extremely polite, in the city at least. It's all 'excuse me' and 'thank you' and 'you're welcome'. Some guy standing on a corner handing out leaflets for a comedy club, when asked (perhaps a little brusquely by my husband) about the number of the street we were standing on (Little Brazil, but I think it's 42nd?) admonished 'Hey, first say good morning, I'm not a tour guide!' Then he pointed out the number just below the name. So it helps to smile and make eye contact and be polite. There are so many people from so many backgrounds and skin color/race is a real issue here, that you must not even remotely appear to be disrespectful; and maybe the politeness has an edge to it but it is a necessary thing. So every one is actually very polite and I don't know where that joke came from. Maybe things were different a few years ago. Or maybe it refers to the Bronx. (But you don't want to linger more than a millisecond when the lights turn green. In the car, all semblance to politeness disappears.)
Anyway as I was shpatziring along looking at the buildings and the doorways and the shop windows and the people and the other tourists with their sneakers and baseball caps and fanny packs and 'I ❤️ NY' T-shirts, looking and spending and craning their necks like me to look at the skyscrapers, I was thinking yet again, what a great city is NYC. Really, as my young Tajiki pedi-cab driver, who had won the green card lottery and came to NY with his wife with whom he now has an American baby, said: it truly is a city that never sleeps. This guy left Tajikstan and here he is peddling a fat old lady tourist to her hotel, living the dream. I'm sure his son will grow up and go to college and who knows, be President one day. You never know.
So what makes this city so great? Why is NYC so great in ways that say, Riyadh or Doha are not? I suppose I could substitute 'NYC' with London or Tokyo or Paris, and they are fantastic and amazing cities, but the difference is that they are 1000 years old. Moscow is also an amazing city, also 1000 years old but with a crazy post-Soviet twist which gives parts of it this manic insane no-holds-barred excess energy. New York is only what, 300 years old? With really most growth in the last 150 years? That's when the robber barons made their mark and became the upper class. The Rockefellers and Roosevelts and co. And the skyscrapers are only since the 1920s when they were made possible by the invention of the elevator and other technological advances. That's not even 100 years ago. But you can't think of NYC without thinking of skyscrapers. (And the Twin Towers of course. That's a whole other thing. Not going there now.)
So much growth and vitality and wealth. And yes there is a port and all sorts of reasons why there was a town put there in the first place. But I think the biggest and most powerful thing that the city has is the drive and the desire of its people to get on, get ahead, reach for the brass ring, and take advantage of the myriad opportunities that are there. Sure you have to work hard and you need some luck. But anyone can be anything in NYC.
And one of the reasons that this is possible is tolerance. All religions, all races, all points of view. Ok, nothing's perfect and there were dark days during the stewardship of some Mayors. But overriding all is the vitality of freedom.
And that is why despite all the wealth of the Emiratis or the Saudis (for as long as it lasts) and no matter how many ski runs and skyscrapers they build in Dubai on the backs of slaves, their cities will never result in anything remotely approaching New York. No freedom, no tolerance, and of course no Jews. No chance.
Wednesday, 23 September 2015
A Beastly Matter
The other day I had a bit of an altercation with someone. A gym buddy type. She is pretty opinionated, as am I, so that's always a recipe for argument. Anyway, she was waxing lyrical over this new Kashrut venture, recently launched, involving the breeding of beef and lamb for the Kosher market, where the animals would be kosher from head to tail because of the invocation of a rather arcane law. Usually the hindquarters of the beast are not considered kosher and are sold by the butcher to non-kosher butchers. This is because of the sciatic nerve, or Gid HaNasheh; we can't eat this because ...umm...that's where Jacob was wounded when he was wrestling the angel and was subsequently named Israel? Have I got that right? As I'm writing it, it seems to not make sense. Please correct me, O knowledgeable ones.
There is a way to dissect out all parts of the Gid by a specialised shochet, rendering the meat edible. This is called Treibering or Porging, and is very time consuming and difficult, so these days it is not done much.
OK, so here's the thing. Apparently, if a pregnant cow or ewe is Kosher slaughtered and the foetus is removed, it is considered Kosher and doesn't need its own Shechita. OK, that's not too controversial, even though is is a bit sad to think about this, and I have never heard of anyone doing this. But if this foetus, untimely ripp'd from its mother's womb, like MacDuff, is mature enough to survive; and if you can get such calves or lambs, male and female; and if you breed them together when they are grown, the resulting progeny would be completely edible. Also, the animal does not need the exhaustive examination of innards that regular animals do after slaughter, which saves time and money I guess. This is called Ben Pekuah, and it has been about 1,000 years since anyone sat down to a plate of such meat.
The idea is to make kosher meat cheaper for kosher consumers. I guess it is also about the exciting prospect of eating a rump steak or a leg of lamb etc, previously forbidden foods.
There are a couple of reasons that I don't buy this. Firstly, the cheap thing. I would have thought that the profits made by the butcher when selling the hindquarters on, would factor into the final price of meat; but then again I may be naive.
The other thing is this: although the rabbi endorsing this may be a man of wonderful character and good intentions, I think, frankly, he is not up to the standard needed to do these fancy-pants manoeuvres and I don't trust his Hashgacha (supervision). There have been a few dodgy things in the past involving his Hechsher (kosher stamp of authority) which are enough to make me uneasy. Yes, yes, you're going to talk about all the divisions in Hechshers and these Jews won't eat from that rabbi and those Jews won't eat from this rabbi, and it's all politics yada yada, and it IS a problem. And meat IS expensive. OK.
But Rambam did it! Sure- and this rabbi is not Rambam.
And that's when my buddy got stroppy with me:
'That's the same argument that is used all the time about Agunah! That nobody is wise enough or learned enough nowadays to make any changes and so no changes are made and women are trapped in bad marriages by recalcitrant husbands! And so the Beth Din does nothing and the women suffer!'
We sort of bickered that out a bit and it wasn't till after that I thought of a decent response, as is the way of these things.
And that is: It's not the same thing. The problems of Agunot are basically human rights issues. Withholding a Gett is a form of abuse, and this is being sorted in civil courts even if the Batei Din drag their collective feet, often to their disgrace. I share my buddy's anger and frustration with the situation. And in fact there are brave rabbonim who are stepping up to the plate and who are trying to effect change.
But this Ben Pekuah deal is not about human rights; it's about economics. But it's also about having a good fress, is it not?
You know, I actually don't think meat should be cheap. Maybe it should be a bit cheaper than what it is, but it should be expensive. It certainly is expensive for the animal. I am not advocating vegetarianism, nor am I a vegetarian. But I have always felt that people need to understand what meat-eating entails. I don't think we need to be like Mark Zuckerberg who, for a while, only ate meat from animals that he had killed himself; that's a bit extreme, also impossible for folks who keep kosher, unless they are trained Shochets. But I think that we need to keep in mind that the animal- whether animal or fowl or fish for that matter- died for our nourishment and pleasure. They are not just choice cuts wrapped in plastic on a tray. If you want to eat meat, don't just eat the fillet steaks. Eat the cheap cuts, learn how to cook them. You can feed a family a meat meal and make it quite economical. The real sin here is to waste the meat by poor handling. And as far as nutrition is concerned, you really don't need to eat much meat to get the iron, zinc, B12 etc. We are used to serving and eating slabs of muscle- thats what fillets and all the cuts you know are, muscles; maybe we should be more like the Chinese and use meat almost as a condiment. And maybe not turn up our noses at offal - liver, tongue, sweetbreads, tripe etc. If these things make you squeamish, I think that you are being a child about it and you are not recognising the fact that it was a living, breathing animal that gave you that juicy steak, and it should be acknowledged and respected.
Pushing the boundaries of Halachah is important, if the object is worthy. Unchaining the Agunah, helping the convert, these things are important.
Stuffing our faces with cheap meat, not so much.
There is a way to dissect out all parts of the Gid by a specialised shochet, rendering the meat edible. This is called Treibering or Porging, and is very time consuming and difficult, so these days it is not done much.
OK, so here's the thing. Apparently, if a pregnant cow or ewe is Kosher slaughtered and the foetus is removed, it is considered Kosher and doesn't need its own Shechita. OK, that's not too controversial, even though is is a bit sad to think about this, and I have never heard of anyone doing this. But if this foetus, untimely ripp'd from its mother's womb, like MacDuff, is mature enough to survive; and if you can get such calves or lambs, male and female; and if you breed them together when they are grown, the resulting progeny would be completely edible. Also, the animal does not need the exhaustive examination of innards that regular animals do after slaughter, which saves time and money I guess. This is called Ben Pekuah, and it has been about 1,000 years since anyone sat down to a plate of such meat.
The idea is to make kosher meat cheaper for kosher consumers. I guess it is also about the exciting prospect of eating a rump steak or a leg of lamb etc, previously forbidden foods.
There are a couple of reasons that I don't buy this. Firstly, the cheap thing. I would have thought that the profits made by the butcher when selling the hindquarters on, would factor into the final price of meat; but then again I may be naive.
The other thing is this: although the rabbi endorsing this may be a man of wonderful character and good intentions, I think, frankly, he is not up to the standard needed to do these fancy-pants manoeuvres and I don't trust his Hashgacha (supervision). There have been a few dodgy things in the past involving his Hechsher (kosher stamp of authority) which are enough to make me uneasy. Yes, yes, you're going to talk about all the divisions in Hechshers and these Jews won't eat from that rabbi and those Jews won't eat from this rabbi, and it's all politics yada yada, and it IS a problem. And meat IS expensive. OK.
But Rambam did it! Sure- and this rabbi is not Rambam.
And that's when my buddy got stroppy with me:
'That's the same argument that is used all the time about Agunah! That nobody is wise enough or learned enough nowadays to make any changes and so no changes are made and women are trapped in bad marriages by recalcitrant husbands! And so the Beth Din does nothing and the women suffer!'
We sort of bickered that out a bit and it wasn't till after that I thought of a decent response, as is the way of these things.
And that is: It's not the same thing. The problems of Agunot are basically human rights issues. Withholding a Gett is a form of abuse, and this is being sorted in civil courts even if the Batei Din drag their collective feet, often to their disgrace. I share my buddy's anger and frustration with the situation. And in fact there are brave rabbonim who are stepping up to the plate and who are trying to effect change.
But this Ben Pekuah deal is not about human rights; it's about economics. But it's also about having a good fress, is it not?
You know, I actually don't think meat should be cheap. Maybe it should be a bit cheaper than what it is, but it should be expensive. It certainly is expensive for the animal. I am not advocating vegetarianism, nor am I a vegetarian. But I have always felt that people need to understand what meat-eating entails. I don't think we need to be like Mark Zuckerberg who, for a while, only ate meat from animals that he had killed himself; that's a bit extreme, also impossible for folks who keep kosher, unless they are trained Shochets. But I think that we need to keep in mind that the animal- whether animal or fowl or fish for that matter- died for our nourishment and pleasure. They are not just choice cuts wrapped in plastic on a tray. If you want to eat meat, don't just eat the fillet steaks. Eat the cheap cuts, learn how to cook them. You can feed a family a meat meal and make it quite economical. The real sin here is to waste the meat by poor handling. And as far as nutrition is concerned, you really don't need to eat much meat to get the iron, zinc, B12 etc. We are used to serving and eating slabs of muscle- thats what fillets and all the cuts you know are, muscles; maybe we should be more like the Chinese and use meat almost as a condiment. And maybe not turn up our noses at offal - liver, tongue, sweetbreads, tripe etc. If these things make you squeamish, I think that you are being a child about it and you are not recognising the fact that it was a living, breathing animal that gave you that juicy steak, and it should be acknowledged and respected.
Pushing the boundaries of Halachah is important, if the object is worthy. Unchaining the Agunah, helping the convert, these things are important.
Stuffing our faces with cheap meat, not so much.
Sunday, 20 September 2015
For/give
I received an odd phone call last night.
This time of year, before Yom Kippur, Jews often ask forgiveness from each other, for having done something or said something which would have been hurtful or embarrassing. Because on Yom Kippur, all the breast-beating and confession to G-d is worth little if there is an actual human being hurting from what I actually said or did to him or her. I haven't done much of this asking thing in my adult life, because generally I try to be kind to people and if I have wounded someone, I probably wouldn't know. But I have done it.
Anyway, the person who called me was someone I went to school with, so since we graduated in 1972, and I think I have seen her twice in the intervening years, she is not really someone about whom I think very often. Or at all. I was intrigued when she confessed her wrongdoing to me, which was in my mind most trivial, and I wasn't even aware of it. As she was speaking, I was wondering if she was in fact, mentally ill. Then I wondered what she really wanted from me. OK, OK, I'm a bit suspicious of strange phone calls.
When I asked her how she was and what she had been up to, the floodgates burst and she talked for the better part of an hour about events in her life which frankly made it sound like a soap opera. I was aghast at some of the things she told me. My end of the conversation went like this:
Really!
Oh that's awful!
OMG, how sad!
Wow, she really said that, huh?
Whoa, that's weird!
I'm sorry to hear that.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
And I meant most of it because it was sad and weird and awful, most of her jumbled tale. She was getting pretty emotional too, but that's how she always was, even at school. And she was always a storyteller, embellishing and embroidering.
And then she said she had written a book, an autobiography, and had found a publisher (I must say that this made me very skeptical, because I know how bloody hard it is to get a book published when you have no 'platform', i.e., if you are a nobody). And I'm in the book. Well, I'm not worried nor do I think she was trying to make me worried. I don't think she has a grudge against me and I also don't think this book will get published. Just saying.
So she finished up by tearfully asking my forgiveness which of course I gave her whole-heartedly because even at the time it allegedly occurred, about 15 years ago, I didn't notice anyway.
Sometimes I think I am a little too insensitive, but really, there is little that hurts me or that I even notice without laughing at, or that sticks in my memory. (Except duplicity. That, I remember.)
She wanted to give me her mobile number, which I took, but I demurred when she asked me for mine. You can't blame me. I still don't know what it was really all about apart from a wounded soul wanting someone to listen. So I hope I did that well enough.
And if she does get her book published, I hope she sends me a copy. It will be pretty juicy, I'm sure. Just not the bits with me in it, I am too boring.
OK, just thought I'd share that on behalf of the lonely wounded people. I wish them all, and myself, and all of us, and the world, Gmar Chatimah Tovah; to be signed and sealed in the book that matters, the Book of Life.
This time of year, before Yom Kippur, Jews often ask forgiveness from each other, for having done something or said something which would have been hurtful or embarrassing. Because on Yom Kippur, all the breast-beating and confession to G-d is worth little if there is an actual human being hurting from what I actually said or did to him or her. I haven't done much of this asking thing in my adult life, because generally I try to be kind to people and if I have wounded someone, I probably wouldn't know. But I have done it.
Anyway, the person who called me was someone I went to school with, so since we graduated in 1972, and I think I have seen her twice in the intervening years, she is not really someone about whom I think very often. Or at all. I was intrigued when she confessed her wrongdoing to me, which was in my mind most trivial, and I wasn't even aware of it. As she was speaking, I was wondering if she was in fact, mentally ill. Then I wondered what she really wanted from me. OK, OK, I'm a bit suspicious of strange phone calls.
When I asked her how she was and what she had been up to, the floodgates burst and she talked for the better part of an hour about events in her life which frankly made it sound like a soap opera. I was aghast at some of the things she told me. My end of the conversation went like this:
Really!
Oh that's awful!
OMG, how sad!
Wow, she really said that, huh?
Whoa, that's weird!
I'm sorry to hear that.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
And I meant most of it because it was sad and weird and awful, most of her jumbled tale. She was getting pretty emotional too, but that's how she always was, even at school. And she was always a storyteller, embellishing and embroidering.
And then she said she had written a book, an autobiography, and had found a publisher (I must say that this made me very skeptical, because I know how bloody hard it is to get a book published when you have no 'platform', i.e., if you are a nobody). And I'm in the book. Well, I'm not worried nor do I think she was trying to make me worried. I don't think she has a grudge against me and I also don't think this book will get published. Just saying.
So she finished up by tearfully asking my forgiveness which of course I gave her whole-heartedly because even at the time it allegedly occurred, about 15 years ago, I didn't notice anyway.
Sometimes I think I am a little too insensitive, but really, there is little that hurts me or that I even notice without laughing at, or that sticks in my memory. (Except duplicity. That, I remember.)
She wanted to give me her mobile number, which I took, but I demurred when she asked me for mine. You can't blame me. I still don't know what it was really all about apart from a wounded soul wanting someone to listen. So I hope I did that well enough.
And if she does get her book published, I hope she sends me a copy. It will be pretty juicy, I'm sure. Just not the bits with me in it, I am too boring.
OK, just thought I'd share that on behalf of the lonely wounded people. I wish them all, and myself, and all of us, and the world, Gmar Chatimah Tovah; to be signed and sealed in the book that matters, the Book of Life.
Monday, 31 August 2015
VALE OLIVER SACKS
In the early 80's, a decade in which I was basically constantly pregnant or nursing, I managed to find time between working and kids to browse bookshops (remember those?) and I chanced upon a small Pan paperback called Migraine. I was quite interested in the topic, as I had a friend from school (until today) whose migraine was a third person in the relationship and I had seen up close what it could do to a person's life. I had also seen some funny things as a doctor, and I had also experienced a few episodes myself, strange visual blind spots and shimmering, temporary inability to find words, and other slightly scary stuff, usually associated with a pregnancy.
So I bought the book and took it home.
I had done a bit of medical reading during my training but I had never read a book like this before. It was full of literary and historical allusions. It was not actually written for doctors in particular, that was clearly stated in the forward; it was also for sufferers of migraine. And it didn't just give over dry case histories, but fleshed out stories and descriptions, and then mused and philosophised over the stories and the patients. It was like nothing I had ever read. I didn't just learn about the different types of migraine; I learned about Hildegard of Bingen. (Could be her visions related to migraine!) Underpinning the whole style of writing was a deep intellectual curiosity and an attitude of seeing the malady not as The Enemy, but as an expression of the patient's actual being. The aim was not just to vanquish the problem, but to understand it and work with it along with the patient who was living with it.
The author had obviously really listened to the patients and really saw them, not just as sufferers in the consultation room, but as fully realised human beings, carefully and thoroughly, even lovingly, you could say, described and depicted. It was a revelation. The book had been originally written in 1970 and had been revised in 1980.
The writer was Oliver Sacks. I have to say that the name meant nothing to me.
About 5 years later I heard about and then bought the oddly titled The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat. As soon as I started reading it, I made the connection. This book was easier, it made no effort with glossaries and index, it was purely stories. Case histories of patients with things that we used to think of as exceedingly rare, like Tourettes, or Aspergers. A deeper understanding of neural deficits caused by disease or alcoholism or trauma- and not just as deficits, but as part of the patient's story and journey through life.
Then I found Awakenings, and they made a movie of it, but by then I was completely hooked. A Leg To Stand On was a timely offering; my husband was recovering from a badly broken leg and someone gave it to him as a gift while he was recuperating- but I had already bought a copy. I don't know if it helped hubby but it certainly diverted him.
I own every book that Oliver Sacks published, the later ones in hardback because I couldn't wait for them to come out in paperback. His first autobiography, Uncle Tungsten from 2001, was an eye-opener. I had worked out that he was Jewish and related* to Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks (whom I also admire greatly), but the story of his childhood, his unusual and brilliant surgeon mother, who brought home an aborted foetus for him to dissect when he was about 12- can't get that little detail out of my mind- his clever extended family, including Abba Eban (yet another person I admire!)- it was riveting.
I didn't admire or agree with every single thing that he wrote; in Hallucinations from 2012, I was strongly struck by his complete atheism. In describing some hallucinatory experiences it was as if he was bending over backwards to reduce every described experience to a set of chemical events. There was no room for the spiritual in his narrative, and I found that fascinating. But as far as his compassion and sense of the patient's humanity was concerned, he remains a great influence on how I try to relate to my own patients.
He came to Australia on at least one occasion, because I went to hear him speak - I think it was the early 2000's- and to buy his latest book AND I took the opportunity of bringing my own stack of books for him to autograph as well.
All of them were published by Picador, except Migraine, the smallest book, on top of my pile. He picked it up and glanced at me with a smile, then showed it to his personal assistant. He signed all of the books in a semi-legible scrawl of green felt-tip pen; but Migraine he signed Oliver Wolf Sacks, because he was pleased to see it, his first literary offering, written when he was in his 30's. I guess it amused him.
For the record, he was a very shy man with a self-diagnosed inability to recognise faces (prosopagnosia - like me) or places (thus getting lost anywhere and everywhere- like me.) He lived alone and I guess he turned his love and affection on to his patients; it certainly felt that way when I read his books.
In his book The Mind's Eye, he described his own visual problems, which turned out to be due to a melanoma of the retina of his eye. I won't say that I am a prophet, but the diagnosis of malignant melanoma is too often a terrible one with a poor prognosis. And in the retina. It sounded bad when I read about it, and it turned out to be bad, because he passed away yesterday at the age of 82, from metastatic melanoma. His last essay, about the Sabbath, is a gently told story about growing up in an orthodox Jewish family, keeping Shabbos, until he broke away, partly because of his mother's rejection of the possibility that he was gay; the last paragraph is elegiac in tone and as sad and beautiful as any of his writings. But I didn't want to believe that it would be the very last thing he wrote.
I have his last autobiography, On The Move, next to my bed, next in line for reading. So I have a full set of his books; I should be pleased. But I feel as if a light has departed from this world.
RIP, Oliver Sacks. I know you didn't believe in Heaven, but I believe that you're there anyway. And if it turns out you were right, then you live on in your books and in the people you influenced.
So I bought the book and took it home.
I had done a bit of medical reading during my training but I had never read a book like this before. It was full of literary and historical allusions. It was not actually written for doctors in particular, that was clearly stated in the forward; it was also for sufferers of migraine. And it didn't just give over dry case histories, but fleshed out stories and descriptions, and then mused and philosophised over the stories and the patients. It was like nothing I had ever read. I didn't just learn about the different types of migraine; I learned about Hildegard of Bingen. (Could be her visions related to migraine!) Underpinning the whole style of writing was a deep intellectual curiosity and an attitude of seeing the malady not as The Enemy, but as an expression of the patient's actual being. The aim was not just to vanquish the problem, but to understand it and work with it along with the patient who was living with it.
The author had obviously really listened to the patients and really saw them, not just as sufferers in the consultation room, but as fully realised human beings, carefully and thoroughly, even lovingly, you could say, described and depicted. It was a revelation. The book had been originally written in 1970 and had been revised in 1980.
The writer was Oliver Sacks. I have to say that the name meant nothing to me.
About 5 years later I heard about and then bought the oddly titled The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat. As soon as I started reading it, I made the connection. This book was easier, it made no effort with glossaries and index, it was purely stories. Case histories of patients with things that we used to think of as exceedingly rare, like Tourettes, or Aspergers. A deeper understanding of neural deficits caused by disease or alcoholism or trauma- and not just as deficits, but as part of the patient's story and journey through life.
Then I found Awakenings, and they made a movie of it, but by then I was completely hooked. A Leg To Stand On was a timely offering; my husband was recovering from a badly broken leg and someone gave it to him as a gift while he was recuperating- but I had already bought a copy. I don't know if it helped hubby but it certainly diverted him.
I own every book that Oliver Sacks published, the later ones in hardback because I couldn't wait for them to come out in paperback. His first autobiography, Uncle Tungsten from 2001, was an eye-opener. I had worked out that he was Jewish and related* to Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks (whom I also admire greatly), but the story of his childhood, his unusual and brilliant surgeon mother, who brought home an aborted foetus for him to dissect when he was about 12- can't get that little detail out of my mind- his clever extended family, including Abba Eban (yet another person I admire!)- it was riveting.
I didn't admire or agree with every single thing that he wrote; in Hallucinations from 2012, I was strongly struck by his complete atheism. In describing some hallucinatory experiences it was as if he was bending over backwards to reduce every described experience to a set of chemical events. There was no room for the spiritual in his narrative, and I found that fascinating. But as far as his compassion and sense of the patient's humanity was concerned, he remains a great influence on how I try to relate to my own patients.
He came to Australia on at least one occasion, because I went to hear him speak - I think it was the early 2000's- and to buy his latest book AND I took the opportunity of bringing my own stack of books for him to autograph as well.
All of them were published by Picador, except Migraine, the smallest book, on top of my pile. He picked it up and glanced at me with a smile, then showed it to his personal assistant. He signed all of the books in a semi-legible scrawl of green felt-tip pen; but Migraine he signed Oliver Wolf Sacks, because he was pleased to see it, his first literary offering, written when he was in his 30's. I guess it amused him.
For the record, he was a very shy man with a self-diagnosed inability to recognise faces (prosopagnosia - like me) or places (thus getting lost anywhere and everywhere- like me.) He lived alone and I guess he turned his love and affection on to his patients; it certainly felt that way when I read his books.
In his book The Mind's Eye, he described his own visual problems, which turned out to be due to a melanoma of the retina of his eye. I won't say that I am a prophet, but the diagnosis of malignant melanoma is too often a terrible one with a poor prognosis. And in the retina. It sounded bad when I read about it, and it turned out to be bad, because he passed away yesterday at the age of 82, from metastatic melanoma. His last essay, about the Sabbath, is a gently told story about growing up in an orthodox Jewish family, keeping Shabbos, until he broke away, partly because of his mother's rejection of the possibility that he was gay; the last paragraph is elegiac in tone and as sad and beautiful as any of his writings. But I didn't want to believe that it would be the very last thing he wrote.
I have his last autobiography, On The Move, next to my bed, next in line for reading. So I have a full set of his books; I should be pleased. But I feel as if a light has departed from this world.
*turns out he wasn't related at all to Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. I'm not sure where I got that info from but in On The Move OWS makes it clear that they are not family.
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