48 Years

What does a man think about his 48^th anniversary?

This man woke up thinking about his wedding day. Lots of little details. Superbowl IX—Steelers vs. Vikings. Asking the guests not to smoke at the dinner reception (for family and out of towners). Being fascinated by the temple sound system behind the bima, and my brother pushing me past that as we walked out to the chuppah. Deciding not to have a receiving line, and people lining up to congratulate us anyhow when we were momentarily talking to each other at the champagne reception (right after the chuppah). My unforgivably brusque response when someone complained that they couldn’t quite hear me when we traded vows (I wasn’t talking to you). My bride being walked down the aisle to the chuppah by her beaming parents.

But most of all, I was thinking about two twenty one year old kids with delusions of adulthood getting married. What were we thinking. Well, we were in love; we had good role models in the marriages both sets of parents; we weren’t looking elsewhere; we would figure it out or make it up as we went along.

We have been very lucky and blessed. We started out without much of a plan and ended up with fairly successful careers, three lovely menschlic children with equally fine upstanding spouses, and five grandchildren who melt our hearts. As my father z”l said to my mother when he first held Sarah (his first grandchild), “Ah Carol, having Aaron’s finally begun to pay off.”,

As I look behind me I see 48 years of marriage rolled up by my heels. Gazing forward, and we must always continue to keep our eyes looking forward, I see a path that, while necessarily shorter, still holds many potential and tantalizing possibilities.

While I suffer the depredations of advancing age and chronic disease, I bask in the love of my family and Laura’s ferocious support. I keep moving forward one step at a time. We all have our could haves and should haves, but they are only distractions from the past—certainly to be learned from, but not dwelled upon.   I may fret sometimes about myself with introspection of dubious value, but I truly believe that the only healthy course is to constantly evaluate where I am, where I want to be, and how can I plan to move in that direction. As we learn in Pirkei Avot 2:16 “He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say: It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” Equally, I will try to keep in mind Psalm 118:24 “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

As I begin my 49^th year of marriage (and roughly 56^th year of knowing Laura), I will continue to treasure her as a true partner, trusting her judgement, relishing her love, and endeavoring to treat her as the true goddess she is. I will enjoy to the extent possible the exploits of my six children and their families and enjoy more than they can imagine watching them wrestling with their careers and joy and angst of being parents. As for my grandchildren, like my father (my personal source of Pirkei Avot) I see them as my immortality and revel in their every achievement.

“A good woman, who can find?” Well, I seem to have stumbled into it and have had the rare good sense to hang on for a joyous and blessed ride.

Aaron Cohen

Garwood, NJ

12 January 2023

 

Blame—Yom Kippur Musings

 Blame—Yom Kippur Musings

It’s hard to believe it’s not your fault. No one else thinks it was your fault. Not your family. Not your friends. Not your colleagues. But you were there at the beginning. You were the adult in the room when everything devolved into a malevolent, maelstrom of malodorous manure—a steaming, hot, burning pile of fecal matter.

There must be something you could have done differently. You obsess over every decision made. You reexamine every step Where did you give in too quickly? Where did you delay too long? What if you had . . .?

You close your eyes to sleep at night, and your thoughts go right back to the replay reel. Depending upon your age you might even hear Warner Wolf say, “Let’s go to the videotape.” As you try to relax your mind races through every possible scenario—every decision—every path not taken. Do you read yourself to sleep to focus your meandering mind away from disturbing, sleep—blocking thoughts?  At some point you must have fallen asleep because you wake up still reliving every minute and second-guessing everybody involved. You consulted with all the experts. You listened to wise counsel. You did your own research, and not just on the internet. You became somewhat knowledgeable in a wide variety of technology, philosophy, medicine, and industry best practices.

Of course, so long as you’re trying to fall asleep and banish these painful self-incriminations, your thoughts uselessly turn to every mistake you’ve ever made (or thought you made). Cross words with a classmate in 5^th grade. A bullying incident in third grade—you didn’t even know the word back then. Regret over things said and not said. Actions taken and not taken. People you have disappointed, people who have disappointed you. Opportunities you have missed because you procrastinated. Mistakes you have made even though you knew better. Gross immaturity in the face of reasonable expectations and responsibilities. The illness, the accident, the failed project, the narrow escape, career misstep. The list goes on, but no one remembers any of this except you.

Why?

Why do this to yourself? What is the value of extended guilt, self-flagellation, and repeated communing with ghosts from your past? “Nobody goes through life undefeated” (Mike Lupica).

Humans seem to need atonement and forgiveness. The Catholic Church has confession. Jews have Yom Kippur which features a stylized group confessional as part of a long day of fasting and self-deprivation. Twelve-step programs all have steps eight and nine, but even after you have apologized to everyone who would care, remember, or have the ability to forgive you, this doesn’t seem to close the books. Why do you have so much trouble forgiving yourself, counting your blessings, and moving on? If God can forgive you, surely you can eventually forgive yourself.

It is football dogma that quarterbacks must nurture a short memory. They must be able to pass the football effectively, immediately following a devastating interception. This goes for players in other sports, too, and others such as soldiers and surgeons. The trick is to retain what can be learned from a mistake without dragging along the associated negative baggage to distract you from your goals, your life, and your solid night’s sleep.

Are there good reasons to continue to blame yourself? Reasons—certainly. Good reasons—only you can decide. For some people, taking the blame is more comfortable than the idea that ‘shit happens.’ If you’re to blame, you can deceive yourself into thinking that you maintain some modicum of control over your life. If the natural entropy and randomness of the universe just happened to take a dump on your doorstep, then the rollercoaster of your life leaves you no alternative but to just hold on tight. That’s too scary for many.

Guilt also plays a major role in political and social progress and activism. Whether the blame causing that guilt is well placed is a discussion well beyond the scope of these musings.

The solution? Easier said than done, of course. Instead of wallowing in negative thoughts of your own lifelong inadequacies, failures, and mistakes. Instead of alternatively being blinded by your dazzling successes and brilliance. Take a cold, clear, hard look at where you are today. Determine what your goals are. Plot a course from where you are to where you want to be and begin working toward the next intermediate step. The past informs this path only so far as the wisdom you have gathered about what works and doesn’t work for you. Your motivation is strictly rooted in your acceptance that you have only one life, and there is no value in dwelling on the past. Regardless of how you got here, placing credit or blame is irrelevant. There is no place to go but forward.

On this Yom Kippur, acknowledge responsibility for your own actions (or inactions), extract what wisdom you can from past events, apologize and atone as appropriate, and move forward. Grasp for the wisdom the accept that you are human and imperfect. Believe that God grants us forgiveness. As the gates close at the end of the Neilah service, have the grace to accept God’s forgiveness and sincerely forgive yourself as well.

As we learn in Pirkei Avot (Ethics of our Fathers) 2:21 “He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say: It is not incumbent upon you to finish the task. Yet you are not free to desist from it.”

May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

 

Aaron

2 October 2022

 

 

Grandma Madeline Stories

To: My children, nephews, and children of my cousins

I have often thought of how interesting it would be to introduce my Grandma Madeline to her great grandchildren. As a group you are a bright, creative diverse generation and tribute to her genetic legacy. Individually you are 14 wildly different individuals, and each someone I would be proud to present to Grandma, and she had some pretty high standards.

But since I cannot tell her about each of you, perhaps you would enjoy some stories about her.

Grandma Madeline was born October 27, 1900 in White Plains, NY. She was the second of seven girls (Pearl, Madeline, Gladys, Flora, Sylvia, Ruth and Cynthia) born to Max and Lena Greenwald. She was quite tall for her generation, and solidly built. She did not appear to be overweight, but neither was she small and delicate. I remember the older sisters being tall also, but the younger ones were shorter, sort of like Lena was running out of material. Friends and family had advised Max not to move to the wilds of Westchester County. How could he possibly find husbands for seven (or as he put it one and a half dozen) daughters. The eligible husbands seemed to find them.

I mostly remember Grandma as a widow, and a working woman. Grandpa Ben died when I was not yet four. I have some vivid memories of him, as well as stories I have been told, but those will wait for now. Grandma worked as a bookkeeper for an accountant in the Northcourt Building on Main Street in White Plains (in the days before spreadsheets added the numbers for you). She got up every day and walked to work (she was an inveterate and enthusiastic walker). She had a driver’s license, but no car. She never drove after Grandpa Ben taught her to drive, and she passed her road test. Grandpa didn’t encourage her to drive, and was nervous about that and many other things. The license was just a document of identification an adult required.

She went to work rain or shine. I distinctly remember eating breakfast one morning when school had been cancelled due to the snow. Grandma called to tell my mom how bad it was out, and to admonish her to stay home with the children. “Mom, where are you calling from,” asked Carol. “Why, I’m at work, of course,” replied Grandma. She had walked of course.

One of my first memories of Grandma was visiting my grandparents at their home in Hartsdale. Grandma stopped me as I was about to run over to Grandpa sitting in his easy chair. “Don’t disturb grandpa, he’s taking a snooze.” Upset, I ran over to Mom—I had no idea what a “snooze” was.

Grandma was fastidious and a bit fussy. She was always well put together and liked a tidy home. She was an avid reader and, in many ways, quite worldly. In other ways she was very conventional, and aware of what others thought.

Some illustrative stories:

When Beth was in High School, and Larry in college, Beth planned a trip to spend a weekend with Larry (I believe she was looking at schools). Grandma asked Beth where she was going to stay while visiting, and Beth told her that she would stay in Larry’s dorm room. After some thought Grandma allowed that these arrangements were perfectly OK, but perhaps Beth shouldn’t tell a lot of people “who might not understand.”

She went with Carol and Mel to visit Larry at Tufts. Larry remembers her having a good time and being happy to be there, but she was a nervous wreck the whole time.

My father used to tease Grandma about her housekeeping by insisting that when he was courting my mother Grandma would empty the ashtray every time he put out a cigarette.

My mom and dad were also never without a book in progress. Books in the 1950s did adhered to strict standards of what was permissible to print. In one book, which they both read, one character called another a c_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _r, and neither of them could figure out the omitted word. After his years in the navy during WWII this was quite frustrating to my dad. One night when Grandma was visiting (well after I had gone to bed), Dad, on a whim, presented this conundrum to Grandma. “Mom, you’re widely read, do you know what this word is?” She reportedly turned beet read, exclaimed “I don’t use language like that!”, and refused to tell them. It took much begging and cajoling before she finally agreed to write it down for them. You figure it out, I don’t use language like that either.

Grandma also knew the power of networking. When Carol was young, and certainly before she went away to college at age 16, Grandma pointedly told her: “No matter where you go, and what you do, someone I know will see.”

I’m sure Grandma knew how to cook, and probably quite well. Grandpa Ben, however, was well known for his prowess in the kitchen. Once Grandma was making pea soup in the pressure cooker. She must have done something wrong because the rocker or safety valve blew spewing pea soup all over the ceiling. Grandma reportedly just stood in the middle of the kitchen screaming: BEN!

I remember Grandma and Grandpa living in a small house in Hartsdale. Greatpa (Max) also lived there with them for a while before he moved to The Jewish Home for the Aged in Riverdale. Carol and Zelda grew up in a prior home on Grandview Avenue a block from the White Plains High School, now Highlands Middle School. After Grandpa died, I remember Grandma living in apartments, first on North Broadway (one or two different ones), and then on Old Mamaroneck Road near the intersection with Mamaroneck Avenue where her sister Ruth had had an apartment for years. Aunt Ruth’s apartment was up the elevator off the lobby to the left, and Grandma’s up the mirror image elevator off the lobby on the right.

Taking Grandma home after a visit involved some small ritual. Larry or I (or both) would accompany a parent (usually Dad) to drive Grandma home. While Dad waited in the car, we were charged with walking Grandma to her door. She regularly insisted that this was not necessary, but we had our orders from the highest authority. At the Old Mamaroneck Road apartment that discussion was repeated at the front door, but the elevator was around a blind corner and we always saw her safely into the elevator. After someone was attacked in the building, the escort extended to her apartment door.

I don’t recall ever visiting Grandma’s apartment for a meal, but there was the occasional excitement of an overnight stay. Grandma’s apartment was furnished with grandma furniture, oriental area rugs, and twin beds. I didn’t understand why my grandparents slept in twin beds when my parents seemed so cozy in their double bed (extra-long). Mom and Dad never gave me a good answer for this, but now my assumptions are that was a combination of a generational difference along with long-standing tradition based on Jewish family purity practices.

Grandma’s BFF was Phoebe Marks. Aunt Phoebe was not really related, but the Marks and Golden families had been friends for at least two generations. My mother remembers holiday dinners at the Marks’ home, and being terrified by Phoebe’s mother, the forbidding Grandma Marks. Aunt Phoebe was a short, rotund, friendly, funny single lady (spinster in the parlance of the day) who was very often included in family get-togethers and events. She was a heavy smoker and not a big fan of physical activity. When Grandma suggested taking a walk or even sitting out on the deck, Phoebe would accuse her of trying to inflict fresh air poisoning.

Grandma’s birth certificate did not list her name as Madeline, but Matilda. She was already a grandma multiple times, and this came as a complete surprise when she needed to apply for a passport. She needed to get affidavits from family and friends attesting that she had always been known as Madeline and had never used the name Matilda. Maybe it had been transcribed wrong at the hospital, or someone just liked Madeline better.

Grandma loved to swim, and would usually do a few laps when she visited at the club. She wasn’t a big fan of getting her hair wet or immersing her face. She always wore a bathing cap, and did a mean sidestroke.

Grandma never went to the bathroom; she went to "powder my nose."

When we all got together for a big family meal (eating in the dining room!), and the children had been excused, she would sometimes smoke a cigarette with the other adults. I remember being confused by this. She wasn’t a very convincing smoker, but it was more mainstream, I guess. I’m still confused by some of the things adults do.

Grandma never insisted on being the center of attention, and often took a back seat to more outgoing adults when we were little. As we got older we all found Grandma to be interesting, a good listener, and worth taking the time to engage in thoughtful conversation.

Beth remembers asking Grandma how babies were born one evening when she was babysitting. She wouldn’t say. The next day she got the copy of the family book used to relate the facts of life. Lisa has the book in a closet if any of you need a refresher.

Larry relates seeing the movie Young Frankenstein with Mom and Grandma at the Pix movie theater.  There was a scene where Marty Feldman is driving Gene Wilder and Teri Garr up to the castle on a rainy night.  There are huge door knockers on the front door and Marty Feldman knocks on the front door with them.  Gene Wilder is lifting Teri Garr out of the carriage and exclaims, “What knockers” and Teri Garr says “Why thank you doctor.”  Whereupon Grandma Madeline turns to Mom and in a voice they could probably hear at the Showcase Delicatessen down the street, “I don’t understand what that means.”  Mom was very embarrassed but explained it to her.

Speaking of the Showcase, Lisa remembers meeting her there for dinner after work. Ben remembers that she had bunions, but he (and others) does not thank her for that particular genetic legacy.

Grandma died in May 29, 1976. She had a heart attack, characterized at the time as a heart attack more typical of a younger man than an older woman. They transferred her to Lenox Hill hospital for better specialists—White Plains Hospital was not yet the regional medical center it has become. She survived for a few days, then died of either complications or a second heart attack. Fifty-seven months later the first of you was born.

Thanks to Zelda, Stanley, Larry, Lisa , Beth and Ben for helping me with these memories.

Aaron

September 2, 2019

Hiding My Blanket

Our air conditioning broke, and I spent a couple of nights sleeping in my recliner in the family room. My version of MS includes severe heat sensitivity. This means that exposure to high temperatures or even a slight fever reduce me quickly to wheelchair only movement, even around the house. The family room is easily 10 degrees cooler than the bedroom, and cross ventilation plus ceiling fan make it tolerable except on the hottest nights.

When I arose after the first night, I put the pillow I had been using, and the fleece throw that I had retrieved in the middle of the night on the floor next to my chair; the throw crumpled up compactly on top of the pillow. In the middle of the second high-heat night, it had cooled down enough to again require the fleece throw; it was gone. My dear wife, who daily helps me in all ways deal with the both the obvious and the insidious depredations of MS, cannot abide the appearance of a blanket neatly crumpled on the floor, and hid it from me when I wasn’t looking. Looking around a dark room for a small dark green blanket in the middle of the night is frustrating. It involves using the flashlight on my phone, while muttering under my breath things about said darling helpmate that would never be said aloud during the light of day. It is then doubly frustrating to discover that she has diabolically hidden the blanket folded neatly in the last place I would think of looking for it—almost directly under my head on the back of my chair.

She claims that the inability to find things in plain sight is all part and parcel of Y-chromosome syndrome. I think she must take some secret pleasure in frustrating me. Come to think of it, she has successfully frustrated me by hiding my blanket on the back of my chair several times in the past. She’s an extremely bright person; you’d think she’d get it by now.

Book of Ruth

I was one of the presenters at last night's Tikkun Leil Shavuot at TBEMC:

On Shavuot we read the Book of Ruth. It is an interesting read as it gives us a window into our ancestors’ culture and society, social mores very different from ours, our essential attitude towards converts, and color on the life of King David’s great grandmother. My main takeaway from this story is as a parable of how we are to deal with the curve balls that life throws at us all.

My father, of blessed memory, was fond of quoting to me, much to my annoyance, a contracts professor he had in law school. When a student in his class complained about the tremendous amount of material he had to understand for an upcoming exam, the professor sympathetically admonished, “Young man, as you go through life you will meet with many vicissitudes, this is merely one of them.” In retrospect, none of the hardships I was complaining about when I elicited this quote from my dad were of any real consequence.

My dad, on the other hand, early in his marriage was taking law school classes at night, and wrestling with the family furniture store, which he despised, to support his wife and mother. Briefly, during college he enlisted in the Navy, graduated as a “90-day wonder ensign” from a WWII officer training program at Union College, was assigned to an LCT, replaced his commanding officer three days before D-day when his superior went down with an emergency appendectomy, ferried tanks to Omaha beach in the first wave ashore on D-day, and was sent home early (but after the fighting ended) on compassionate leave to say goodbye to his father who quickly died of an aggressive cancer. Thus, the furniture store. Long story short, my parents struggled a bit to have children; dad was sworn in as a lawyer the day I was born. The judge swore him in first and sent him home.

The more perspicacious of you may have noticed that I too have challenges, although I have never had to uncover someone’s feet on the pitch dark threshing floor. But, I can tell you all that what you see is very different from what I perceive. I have MS, as do a surprising number of other members of TBEMC. Every case of MS is different. I have a developed a few obvious disabilities, but do not suffer from many of the more hidden symptoms that afflict others—you can never assume that what you can see tells the whole story. Also, note that I have disabilities—I am NOT disabled.

My journey with MS started with a transient case of optic neuritis late in my junior year of college. Under today’s protocols I would be immediately referred to a neurologist. In 1974 even doctors spoke of MS only in hushed voices. Late the following year I developed some tingling in my left arm. They sent me for a spinal tap and discovered white blood cells in my spinal fluid. Since there was no treatment and no definitive prognosis, my doctor in consultation with my parents elected not to mention the probability of MS. Shocking by today’s standards, as perhaps is some of what we read in the Book of Ruth. About five years later I developed a pronounced limp and was appropriately diagnosed and informed. The limp disappeared.

At the time, all I could learn on my own about MS was that it was a progressive, incurable disease with no possible treatment. While progressive, there was no way to predict the course of the disease over time. The only medical advice I got was to cut down on my activities and get my rest. The best intelligence I got from my own research was that it was essential to keep my employer in the dark about the MS, as it would surely both affect my career advancement, and make it impossible for them to continue my health insurance. The only person I knew who had had MS was a good friend of my parents who died paralyzed in a VA hospital. My father had once opined that if Sy Zinderman had foreseen the last few years of his life, he would have ended it while he was still physically able.

In 1982, when Sarah was about a year old a beloved colleague with MS died of a heart attack in his car in the Bell Labs parking lot. I remember praying that I would live long enough to see Sarah’s bat mitzvah. It’s not that the MS was noticeably progressing, but the combination of uncertainty and ignorance really weighed at times. However, I never really embraced the advice about cutting back my activities.

In 1996, 22 years after my first symptom appeared the first treatment to slow the progression of MS made it to the market. I injected myself with betaseron every other day until 3 weeks ago. That’s almost 4,000 times. We now have almost a dozen treatments for different forms of MS, and I started a new one on May 1. I thought I might miss the injection ritual practiced religiously for almost 22 years. Not even a little bit.

I have a promising new treatment. I have new mobility assistance toys. I have reared (with lots of help) three children through bar/bat mitzvah to productive adulthood. I have participated in three lovely weddings to partners I truly like and—bonus—machatunim I like as well. I have the four sweetest, smartest grandchildren in the world.

Back to Ruth, our original story.

Ruth’s husband died, and to make matters worse her brother-in-law also dies. Ruth is, using the ancient language of our people, auf tsuris. She has no source of support. Her backup husband is gone, and she decides that her best course of action is to make common cause with her mother-in-law. She travels with Naomi back to her, now their people, which was probably an arduous and possibly dangerous journey. Naomi gives Ruth some, shall we say, dating advice based on her wisdom, experience, and understanding of the character qualities of Boaz. Ruth puts her faith in Naomi and follows through on the plan Naomi laid out. It’s a successful plan, and a happily ever after story.

Is this the story of an extraordinary person doing extraordinary things? Not really. To me this is the story of an ordinary person facing common life vicissitudes. She decides what is important to her, who is important to her, who she is going to trust, and places one foot in front of the other. She does what is necessary. She faces the future with faith, optimism, and hope; she knows the only direction to go is forward.

It was difficult to get my father to talk about the war; he had to be in the right mood. The stories he told were exciting, and to me he was exceptional. But, as a member of the greatest generation his trajectory through life was not unique. Hundreds of thousands of men and women interrupted their lives for war, then picked up their lives again. While many were damaged by the war, most who came home eventually resumed normal, successful, productive lives and faced the normal vagaries of building careers, families, and communities. They did what was required of them. One step at a time forward, into the future with faith, optimism, and determination.

Earlier I told you that with me what you see is very different from what I perceive. Some people see me as unstoppable. I stop. Some people only see me as a four to ten-minute delay as the bus driver wrestles with the wheelchair lift at 6:30 in the morning twice a week. Tough, deal with it. Some people see me as inspirational. That’s a little embarrassing, but in fact probably reveals more about them, than about me.

Every morning I wake up, sit on the side of my bed and grab my walker. I exclaim to myself, “This is ridiculous” as I make my way to the bathroom to start my day. I have only one life, and I’d rather live it happy than sad or angry. There is only one path forward, and I have an excellent partner to rub my back or kick my butt if I forget that. There are always changes that are necessary, or decisions that need to be made. These vicissitudes of life yield to knowing what is important, who is important, who to trust, and putting one foot in front of the other one day at a time. Just like my father. Just like millions of other people.

 Just like Ruth.

Nobody Cried Today

And now for something completely different. I haven't written a poem in 40 years, but this idea had to be expressed as a poem. I reached out for some editing help from my friend Nancy Lubarsky--a real poet. Her encouragement has empowered me to publish it here. I let this lay fallow for a couple of months, but there is another nascent poem rattling around in my head, so I had to clear the decks.

Inspired, of course, by my children and grandchildren.

Nobody Cried Today

The kids are in bed

Lunches made

Tomorrow’s presentation done

I sit with a glass of wine

Nobody cried today

It was off to work and school

Soccer, karate, homework, piano

Bumps, bruises, frustration

Siblings vex, bedevil and shout, but

Nobody cried today

No ball of tears

Curled up in my lap.

No stroking hair as I

Whisper “it will be OK.” Because

Nobody cried today

It is only one day

But something has changed

Parenting continues

It’s somehow different as I consider

Nobody cried today

I am an A.D.A.

I am an A.D.A. You may have heard of the practice of nouning a verb (gerunds—e.g., learning, serving—very common). You may have been subjected to verbing nouns (denominalization—e.g., task you with a job, calendar an event--Benjamin Franklin said in a letter to Noah Webster that denominalization is “awkward and abominable.”). But now we are nouning the abbreviations of acts of Congress.

Language matters. It matters more than most people realize. The way we think is inextricably tied to words, and each word carries with it more than just its simple definition. Words and phrases drag along emotional baggage, innuendo, and an encoding of societal norms. That doesn’t even begin to factor in the tone of voice used, or the ethnic, class and social background of both the speaker and the hearer.

We invent new words all the time, often inadvertently. Sometimes we repurpose old words (e.g., gay), and sometimes a new word is an artifact of some other evolving societal change.

The world of disability has its own language issues. For example, having a disability is not the same as being disabled. In the first case one is describing perhaps a single malady, while in the second case you are classifying the state of the entire person. What may seem like a nuance to you may make a big difference in the way you think about the person being described; and let’s not even bring up the negative connotations of handicapped. A handicap is for golf games and horse races.

This is not original thinking on my part, nor is it conveyed in the name of political correctness. I’m not interested in participating in the new I’m Offended craze. I’m just trying to point out that the language that you use not only reflects how you think, but actually affects how you think.

This brings me to my morning commute. The Americans with Disabilities Act (A.D.A., fttps://www.ada.gov/), prohibits discrimination and ensures equal opportunity for persons with disabilities in employment, state and local government services, public accommodations, commercial facilities, and transportation. I catch a regular NJ Transit bus into the Port Authority Bus Terminal in NYC twice a week. The bus driver (referred to by NJT as the bus operator), takes about eight minutes to load me into the bus using a wheelchair lift. That is if the seats slide easily, the equipment works, and the operator has some facility using the equipment. Once the seats are moved to make room, my travel scooter and I occupy the space of six seats.

Every NJ Transit bus has this equipment, and there are very strict rules about how to handle the cases where this accommodation under the A.D.A. does not work right. After the operator picks me up and continues on their route, they call the pickup into their control center. When conveying this information they do not refer to me as handicapped, disabled, or a wheelchair (hey, there is a person controlling that wheelchair!). Instead they tell their dispatcher, “I have picked up an A.D.A. at Chestnut Street in Garwood.” How’s that for an invented word that carries no excessive baggage?

I find this creative and amusing. As I stated before, I’m not a willing member of the I’m Offended club, especially when the goal appears to be accuracy without giving offense.

Cripple Crapper Roulette

Some people regularly play cripple crapper roulette. When they enter a public restroom they look both ways, and if there is not a wheelchair in sight they head straight for the stall specially designed to accommodate people with disabilities. If I ride my scooter into a restroom that has two urinals, one regular sized stall and one cripple crapper, the only other person in the facility will be an able-bodied man standing at the toilet in the stall with the grab bars, and peeing on the seat (Lord forbid he should touch it).

Most of the time there is no penalty, but every once in a while he has to avert his eyes, and slink out past a gimp waiting to use the single restroom fixture designed for their use. The wheel sometimes hits the 00.

I call it the cripple crapper for three reasons:

1. I dislike the term handicapped stall because a person with disabilities is not handicapped or disabled—words matter
2. I have been fond of the poetry and alliteration of the sobriquet cripple crapper even since I first heard it used by Daniel Lawrence Whitney (Larry the Cable Guy)
3. Because I can. It is hard to criticize me for political incorrectness in this arena.

But back to our roulette player. Why does he do this? I haven’t done extensive research, but then again this is a blog, not a juried research paper. I speculate:

1. One stall is larger, less claustrophobic with more room for luggage (in airports), and possibly a bit cleaner since most civilized people avoid it when other stalls are available.
2. The stall is usually at one end of the row. It is better to sit next to one other person rather than two.
3. There just aren’t that many people with disabilities for all those luxurious stalls. The odds are good.

Many people with disabilities have written many treatises on civilized restroom behavior. It may get boring, but it really affects us in very real ways. If your parents failed you by not teaching you these things, try to incorporate these behaviors into your restroom routine:

1. If possible, leave the cripple crapper free. If the restroom is crowded, by all means use every stool (The Port Authority Bus Terminal in NYC locks these stalls, and the attendant opens them for bona fide users).
2. Your aim is not that good—pick up the seat. If you must pee on the seat, do it in one of the standard stalls. At least most people have a choice of whether to use a stall or pass on it. People with disabilities have no choice.
3. Have the shame to apologize if you come out of the stall and find me waiting impatiently on my scooter. Then go out and apologize to my wife and explain why I had to wait longer than anyone else for my stall to be free.
4. Then go apologize to the parents who really did teach you better.

The office I work in just moved to a new building—probably the highest rent office space in NYC. High class companies with high class employees, right? Well, two of the last three times I used the men’s room, the cripple crapper was occupied. Thankfully, it was being used respectfully, but it was the only fixture being used of the seven available. It will take a few weeks, but the male occupants of the 29^th floor will eventually figure out that the local odds of cripple crapper roulette have dramatically changed.

Pain in the Ass

Pain in the Ass

Last week I broke another New Jersey Transit bus. Not really, but the bus would have been just fine if they hadn’t stopped to pick me up. The driver, who has successfully picked me up many times, extended the wheelchair lift, lowered it to the ground, and then tried to cause it to ascend to load me into the bus. It would not rise, with or without me on the lift. This bus was now disabled (see what I did there?).

Being rush hour, buses are apt to arrive at the stop every 10 minutes or so. By NJ Transit rules they seem to need to get me on the next bus if their first attempt fails. With everyone rushing off this bus to the one pulling up behind it, I held back to wait for the following bus. I take up six seats, and the driver would have been forced to expel people from an already packed vehicle.

As one of the passengers hurried past me from the bus I broke to the bus he hoped to take, he muttered under his breath, “Pain in the ass.”

I could have charitably assumed that he meant the situation, and not me in particular. However, I am not one of the 36 tzadikim (think Mother Teresa), nor could I get any of you to buy the concept that the remark was not directed at me. With no other real options, I just lamely shouted “Thank You” at his receding back. Then, thinking it through, I realized he was right.

I am not offended. Many people actively participate in our new national pastime—being offended, either as a member of some ostensibly oppressed group, or in support of someone with such a claim. I prefer baseball (go Mets). However, I won’t apologize for being a “pain in the ass.” Deal with it.

The Libertarian in me is no fan of overreaching government regulation, but I unashamedly (if hypocritically) applaud the Americans with Disabilities Act. It provides a consistent universal set of guidelines that force you to put up with small “pain in the ass” inconveniences (reserved parking spaces, access ramps, special restroom accommodations, short delays on your commute) to allow me to enjoy enhanced access to the world you enjoy every day. Not only are most of you delighted to do this, but it makes you feel good that we, as a society, have made this a priority.

So, thank you all for “dealing” with this unapologetic “pain in the ass.” Thank you for holding the door, and thank you for offering to help, even if neither of us can think of how that might be accomplished. And to the “gentleman” whose commute I so rudely delayed, I hope you have a better commute tomorrow. Not everyone can contribute to the thin veneer of civilized behavior the rest of us struggle to maintain.

Kelly Takasch's Birthday Event

Kelly Takasch has used her birthday as an MS fundraiser for the last seven years, raising over $35,000 for NMSS. She gets a surprising array donations of goods and services to raffle. This year she had beer tastings from two local distributors, and participation from NJ Paranormal. Entertainment included a guitar player/singer, karaoke, and me giving a talk on MS. She's really quite something.

Text of my presentation:

_____________________________________

Good evening. My name is Aaron Cohen, and I was diagnosed with MS somewhere between 1976 and 1978. Aaron, you ask why don't you have a precise date for when you were diagnosed? Things were done differently back then, but we'll get to that in a moment.

First, I'd like to thank Kelly for inviting me to speak this evening, and I'd like to congratulate all of you for coming out to support her and all of us with MS. Now, we always need to start out a presentation with a joke. I took a presentations seminar back in my AT&T days, and the instructor demonstrated this by telling a joke that’s absolutely not appropriate for tonight. If you want to hear that joke, see me later.

A man rushes into the veterinarian’s office, holding and obviously dead parakeet. “Doctor doctor, please help my Petey. I found him lying perfectly still in the bottom of his cage. The doctor replied, “I’m sorry sir, but your parakeet is obviously dead and there is nothing I can do.” Well, that didn’t satisfy the grieving pet owner, and after much begging and pleading the doctor agreed to take another look. He laid the parakeet down on the examination table, and brought out a big black Labrador retriever from the kennel. The dog walked over to the examination table, sniffed at the bird and walked away. “The dog says the bird is dead.” Having still not convinced the pet owner the vet brought in a Siamese cat that walked back and forth across the table several times before jumping down and running back to the kennel. The doctor said, “the cat agrees that your parakeet is dead.” Finally convinced the man asks the vet what he owes. The vet says, “that will be $1000.” “A thousand dollars protests the man, that’s an awful lot to charge for telling me that my parakeet is dead.” “Well, says the vet, the office visit was $100, and the other $900 was for the CAT scan and the lab test.”

What do you know about MS? You probably know more than I knew when I was diagnosed. When you leave here this evening I hope you know a lot more, and have a better appreciation for why we must cure MS now. I could give you a lot of facts and figures about MS and a long list of symptoms that characterize the disease. I could tell you how the National Multiple Sclerosis Society was formed 70 years ago in March 1946 by Sylvia Lowery and 20 leading research physicians with the goal of understanding MS and finding a cure. I could tell you how it took 47 years before  Betaseron – – the first definitive therapy for MS reached the streets. We could talk about the progress since 1993, or the fact that between 1946 and 1993 another 3 1/2 million people contracted the disease. But your eyes would soon roll back into your heads, your minds would wander, and even I would be bored. Instead, I will tell you a few stories.

In the early 60s, I must've been about nine years old, I had my first exposure to multiple sclerosis. My parent's good friend, Sy Zinderman had contracted MS. Uncle Sy was in his late 30s, father of three young children, World War II veteran with a promising career ahead of him. We were visiting, children playing in the living room and adults sitting around the table in the kitchen drinking coffee. I observed uncle Sy battle a full arm spasm while the other adults watched with growing concern. It seemed like his arm and just taken complete control. I was horrified. No one actually talked about MS. It just wasn't something that was spoken about. A few short years later Sy could no longer live at home, and was admitted to the VA hospital for care. In 1971 he died, completely bedridden and unable to take care of himself for several years. During those years my parents visited. My father was always agitated when he returned from those visits although he tried to hide it. When I was a teenager he said to me that being confined to your bed unable to take care of your basic bodily functions was no way to live. He was sure that his friend Sy regretted having not taking his own life while he still had the physical ability to do so.

That was the sum of everything I knew about MS when I was diagnosed. MS was listed by the insurance companies as a fatal disease, and doctors did very little to dispel the specter that diagnosis with MS was an eventual death sentence. Doctors, you see were scared of MS. They didn't understand it, couldn't predict its course or outcome and had nothing to offer the MS patients except possibly a course of steroids during an exacerbation. As a direct result of the efforts of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, we know more now, that knowledge is deeply embedded in our medical education system, and there are a plethora of treatments available especially for the newly diagnosed. BUT THERE STILL IS NO CURE.

Every year my wife Laura asks permission from friends and acquaintances with MS to include their name on a list of people for whom her team walks on the team web page and letter to sponsors. This year I asked her to add Sy Zinderman’s name to the list

My own diagnosis spanned several years, and was handled much differently than it would be today. It took several years because even if the doctors I saw for various reasons were informed enough to suspect MS, no one wanted to be the one to actually utter those words. It didn't really matter they figured, there was nothing to be done anyway. They temporized by telling me nothing, and hoping I would go away before it needed to be confronted. My timeline went something like:

·    1974 - tingling in my left arm and hand - University Health Services had no wisdom for me. "Let us know if it gets worse.".

·    1975 - Optic neuritis (small blind spots in my field of vision). The ophthalmologist Health Services sent me to opined that it would probably go away over 6 months, but it might not. Nothing much to do for it if it did not get worse. Today, optic neuritis gets you an instant referral to a neurologist, and an MRI. MRIs were not used to diagnose until the mid 1980s (first one in 1981)

·    1976 - referred to a neurologist who did a lumbar puncture (spinal tap). He found white blood cells in my spinal fluid, and suspected MS. I was not told. I was 23 years old and married. My parents interceded and decided that Laura and I didn't need to be burdened with this information. It was tentative, devastating, and there was no treatment. My symptoms eventually went away. I was willfully clueless, and just happy that the headache from the spinal tap went away.

·    1979 - I had some gait problems. Limping on my right side. My internist had done graduate work in neurology and sent me in to his mentor at Columbia Presbyterian for what was going to be several days of testing and evaluation. By the time I had checked into the hospital my limp had mostly resolved. The doctor sent me home. He told me before I left:

o   If the symptoms had gone away there was nothing to treat. If they came back we could treat it with a round of steroids.

o   I had MS. There was no telling if I would ever get symptoms again, but his years of experience told him that it was MS. (Now my parents tell me that it had been suspected).

o   It was not necessary to inform anyone, especially at work. Some insurance providers were pretty aggressive about striking people with MS from their rolls.

o   Get plenty of rest. Avoid stress. Cut back on my extracurricular activities. Conserve my energy.

I did as directed. Following the last bit of advice thankfully only lasted a few months.

A few years later my doctor sent me for a CAT scan. I had to go to NYC. When I got there the scanner was down. I went back three weeks later. My head wouldn't fit in the machine--never got a CAT scan.

Keep in mind that the reasons this is handled so differently today is the direct result of money given the NMSS over the years, and used by them to sponsor:

·    public education demystifying MS

·    education of medical professionals 

·    and especially—basic research. Grants for basic research from the National Multiple Sclerosis Society come with the stipulation that all research must be shared in order to expedite the creation of knowledge in the race to find a cure.

I am a very lucky man. Despite the obvious disabilities MS remains mostly an annoyance. A royal pain in the ass to be sure. I’m not looking for your sympathy; sympathy in more than a small quantity is not empowering. I am however looking for your help and participation. Just by being here you are helping spread awareness about MS. Every dollar counts, and more importantly, every person who donates even a single dollar is now someone who “gets it.” If everyone here could ask just three other people to make a small donation, the impact would be tremendous. Think about it.

Let me tell you why I say I am a very lucky man.

·    My wife of 41 years continues to stand by me. I worry her constantly, but her steadfast help makes many things possible that I couldn’t conceive of doing alone. This is very important. The divorce rate is especially high for people with MS

·    For every deficit, I have a strategy.

·    When my oldest daughter was born, my only goal was to live long enough to see her bat mitzvah. I now have three married children, and four grandchildren.

·    I’ve never missed a day of work because of MS. My scooter and I take New Jersey transit bus to New York City twice a week to one of my clients

·    I have had an active volunteer life (so much for resting at home), participating in community organizations and leadership.

·    I have suffered no cognitive deficits, and everyone is very understanding if I fall asleep in an after-lunch meeting

·    I work out at the gym twice a week, once with a trainer and once alone.

·    My wife and I enjoy long walks and bike rides with me riding on my hand powered tricycle.

The thing that bothers me most about having MS is the amount of time I must spend thinking about things that other people take for granted. From always knowing where all the restrooms are, to strategizing on how to get the cup of tea from the counter to my easy chair without making a mess.

I’d like to conclude by thanking each and every one of you for participating in this great fundraising event. Both your participation and your contribution helped the National Multiple Sclerosis Society in its efforts to support, educate, and most of all find a cure for MS. Please talk your friends about the fun you had and what you learned at this event. Post about it on Facebook; tweet about it. Help us push back against ignorance, and work toward a world free from MS.

Public Transportation

The adventures of the gimpy traveller have continued apace since my last posting; I have just been delinquent in writing up some of our trips. I owe this blog some insights from our family Mediterranean cruise. But today's blog is from Monday's excursion into New York City using public transportation.

Brushing aside my dear wife's misgivings, I decided that an experimental foray was called for because my twice a week car trip under the Hudson was beginning to wear way too thin. I thought the train would be a good first shot. I like trains, and the Westfield train station is only a little over a mile from where I live. The Garwood train station is much closer, but the platform is not handicapped friendly. I left the house around 6 AM bound for the 6:25 express train to Newark Penn Station. It took about 20 minutes to ride my travel scooter down North Avenue to Westfield. This included the usual diversions around crappy sidewalks; the traffic is not yet heavy enough at that hour to prevent the careful crossing of route 28 to find the smoothest going.

At the train station there are two elevators and a tunnel that take you from street level on the north side of the tracks to track level on the south - New York bound - side. The train was on time, and the conductor quickly found the metal plate that bridges the gap between the platform and the train so I could easily board with my scooter. The ticket to New York City was only $4 – the special gimp rate that applies even during rush-hour. In a few stops we were in Newark, and reversed the procedure with the boarding plate, two elevators to switch tracks, and board the train from Newark to New York's Penn Station. The conductors on all the trains were helpful and attentive to my needs to move quickly on and off each train.

New York's Penn Station required a quick elevator ride from the track to the station, and then a little confusion finding the seventh Avenue exit with an elevator. As with anything else, there were plenty of instances along the way where first trip confusion will lead to second trip efficiencies. From Penn Station I headed crosstown to Fifth Avenue, then uptown to 59th St. It was pretty uneventful. I have to be careful because my scooter speed is faster than the ambient walking traffic, and there were a few diversions. Twice I ran into corners with no curb cut causing me to backtrack and cross the street, and once construction diverted walkers into the street, also without a curb cut. That trip on the scooter took about half an hour. All in all it was a two hour trip door-to-door, that can be done somewhat quicker now that I know where I'm going.

Once in the office I consulted with my colleague Joe who is a Westfield resident and veteran commuter. He told me that in the mornings he usually takes the express bus into Port Authority from a bus stop right across the street from where I live. It turns out that all the New Jersey transit buses have wheelchair lifts. He usually takes the train home at night. Gee, I thought wouldn't it have been smart to have talked to Joe BEFORE attempting this little joy ride. But where's the excitement and adventure in that? I decided to take the 113 SX bus home.

Leaving the office at 5:15 PM I was at Port Authority by 5:40. Port Authority – wow what an operation. There are several buildings, and of course I was in the wrong one. I was directed next door and the woman at the information kiosk directed me to Windows 1 through 10, and suggested that they should send me to a special gate for loading. The ticket agent sold me the ticket, and at my suggestion radioed some operations control center and I was directed to a gate with handicapped access. There was some confusion when they sent the 115 bus instead of a 113 bus, but an extra 10 minutes of discussion between two supervisors got the designation on my bus changed. All this time, a steady stream of buses kept driving down the ramp (one of many) to loading gates.

Perhaps my Spidey sense should have tingled a bit as a supervisor used loading me into the bus with the wheelchair lift as an impromptu training session for the driver. But, loaded safely on the bus, we rolled down the ramp to the gate. We evidently were jumped ahead of another 113 bus waiting to pick up passengers so they wouldn't have to send us out onto the road to New Jersey with just the driver and me on board. Passengers who were looking for the express bus toward Rahway quickly got on the bus and we finally debarked for New Jersey. It was about 6:25. This part of the trip could definitely have been shorter, but not completely under my control.

Rolling down a ramp directly into the Lincoln Tunnel seems a minor miracle to someone who has waited in traffic for the privilege of crossing under the Hudson. Tunnel, Turnpike, route 24, Garden State Parkway, exit 137, first stop Cranford train station. I signaled to get off the bus at Chestnut Street, along with one other passenger. The driver stopped in front of Creme Berre (yet another frozen yogurt store), and the driver began the process of activating the wheelchair lift. After several attempts she re-boarded the bus and reported that the apparatus was jammed. I suspect that she attempted to open the door before the lift was fully in place, but it was hard to tell from the inside. From the look on her face it was obvious that there was no plan B.

My plan B was to assure her that with a few volunteers we could disassemble the scooter, reassemble it outside the bus, and with a little help I could walk off the bus. Cheerful, willing and enthusiastic volunteers were quickly assembled and the scooter disassembled. They had it assembled again on the sidewalk well before I made my way down the steps of the bus. My thanks to the friendly riders of New Jersey transit. I'm sure the bus driver was greatly relieved that she didn't have to drive around New Jersey with a grumpy gimp in the back of the bus. Even with all the drama, this trip was also two hours door-to-door. It can definitely be done more quickly.

Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to take the 113 SX bus from Garwood into New York City. We'll see how well trained the driver is. I've heard rumors that untrained drivers tend to bypass gimps at bus stops. I can't wait.

Roller Coaster

It is not just gimps who have found ourselves, at times, firmly in the grip of the medical establishment. As much research as we might do, we eventually have to put ourselves in the hands of a trusted team of professionals, and follow an established or experimental treatment protocol.

The following story is a mash-up of excursions into the medical establishment, but all based on a real incident on a real roller coaster.

A very short story. Enjoy.

Roller Coaster

Aaron Cohen 11-1-14

Clackety clackety clackety . . .

The roller coaster car grabs the chain and starts the long climb to the apex of the twisting track that will yield two minutes of terror-laced thrill on our tortured route back to the starting point. We are committed now. No escape until the car brakes to a stop.

Clackety clackety clackety . . .

The echoes of that long-ago ride bounce off the insides of my skull. I’m sitting on the table. The doctor has just left the examining room, and invited me to get dressed. Everything has been explained. Tomorrow’s procedure. The treatments over the next few months. The ancillary and follow-up therapies. The side effects. The odds (or potential outcomes based on others’ experiences). The progress checkpoints and tests along the way.

Clackety clackety clackety . . .

This is no thrill ride, nor will it be over in two minutes, but the path is set and the car is proceeding inexorably up the highly superior US medical infrastructure.

Many years ago, when the children were quite small, we took a short vacation trip to Colonial Williamsburg, Jamestown and Busch Gardens.  My wife does not like roller coasters, and the children were too small, but they indulged my need to ride the big coaster at Busch Gardens. It was beautiful. The first drop was a steep dive right over the water of the lake. I waited in line for more than 20 minutes, and as luck would have it ended up in the front seat of the car. My seatmate was a pretty young woman several years my junior who seemed to be there with a group of friends.

Clackety clackety clackety

As we approached the release point high over the lake she turned to me and said, “It really helps if you scream.”

She was right!

Elul Project - Laura

Introducing guest blogger Laura Abrahams Cohen, who also contributed an essay about thankfulness and walking to our synagogue's Elul Project (see previous entry for my contribution). Enjoy - Aaron

Elul 2014-5775

                                   

I am thankful for the blessing of good health at the start of the New Year!  My adventure started over a year ago with some hip pain. Not quite ignoring the discomfort, I began Zumba exercise dance classes in September 2013.  After all, my outdoor pool had just closed on Labor Day and one DOES need to exercise.  Surprising myself, I liked the music, which I’ll admit is different from classic rock’n’roll and the Grateful Dead which form the sound track for my life.  Soon I needed to see the orthopedic doctor again because the pain began to become alarming.

We needed to pin down the real problem which involved navigating the healthcare system. I am thankful to have health insurance through my employer.  By November of 2014 I got the official word on the results from the MRI—hip arthritis.  It had progressed rather rapidly from a year earlier when the x-ray showed not much of anything.

By this point I was looking for solutions to the mounting discomfort.  Temporary help came from a cortisone injection into the joint which provided exactly five weeks of relief.  No repeats of that relief were possible.  By early February the words “hip replacement surgery” were spoken. Oh my, this would take some getting used to. Zumba went on hold for a while.

The months from February to May 2014 brought acute pain and real disability.  Driving my car resulted in my not being able to stand up and walk when stepping out of the car. My leg from knee to hip completely cramped up (to protect the deteriorating hip joint).  I resorted to keeping a hard folding chair in the back of my car.  I would hobble to the back of the car, take out the chair, sit down and shift around in an effort to be able to stand up again and walk.  Usually it worked, but sometimes it did not. My colleagues at work began to see me have trouble walking and sympathetically asked if I was OK.

By late February I scheduled the surgery.  I probably should have scheduled it for sooner but we had three happy occasions coming up in April and May which I didn’t want to miss. The date was set for June 3 so that we could celebrate at a cousin’s wedding in Austin; travel again to my uncle’s 90^th birthday in Ottawa-- at which he surprised everyone present including his children by turning the already happy occasion into his wedding to his long-time girlfriend; and celebrate with our son Jonathan and his fiancée Alyssa at their engagement party.

At WalkMS in April, the fundraising and awareness project of my team the Mitzvah Squad for the benefit of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society there would be NO WAY I could walk the three mile route. I borrowed a scooter from Aaron to cover the course.

I was worried about the upcoming surgery—no joke.  I tend to be easygoing-- taking things as they come.  I’m a veteran of three c-sections and gall bladder removal.  But this was BIG, and it involved rehabilitation and physical therapy as well as the time off from work to accomplish these things.  On the morning of my total hip replacement surgery I couldn't walk and had to ask for a wheelchair half way down a long hallway.

My surgeon promised me that when I stood up from the surgery I would not have the pain that plagued me for months leading up to the repair.  He is right. The recovery is amazing and miraculous. He and his staff were helpful as were the physical therapists in getting me through the adventure.

Prior to about 40 years ago, hip replacement was somewhat experimental. Since the 1970s the techniques that are now in use were developed and are quite successful.  The first U.S. hip replacements began only in 1940.

I got advice and encouragement from growing list of friends who have either had joint replacement surgery or are close to someone who has had it.  Everyone spoke of the terrific results and said they wished that they had done it sooner!

How fortunate I am to be living in 2014/5775 and to have access to this repair. I often think about the devastating pain that all the humans who have had the same problem as I suffered from in the history of humanity until just 40 or so years ago. I think of the majority of humanity today with no access to our amazing first world medical system. 

Especially at this time of the New Year I do not take this blessing for granted.  I’m working on my rehab with daily walking, swimming and physical therapy exercises.  I am hugely grateful to have recovered from this problem. I am thankful for my new beginning with my pain-free leg. I’m even glad to return to my work and my regular routine after a well-timed early-summer outdoor-pool-season rehab.  I’m looking forward to returning to those noisy fun Zumba classes.

Laura Cohen

Elul Project - Walking - A Memory of My Dad

For the past several years my Rabbi (Ben Goldstein - Temple Beth-El Mekor Chayim) has asked congregants to contribute essays to an Elul Project as a way of preparing for the High Holy Days. A booklet is compiled, and shared with the congregation on Rosh Hashanah. I finally broke down and wrote one this year. My resolution is to not let it be another year before I contribute to this blog again.

Elul Project 2014

Aaron Cohen

September 4, 2014

Walking.

Walking to synagogue on the High Holidays.

Walking to synagogue on the High Holidays, with my daddy.

I must have been three and a half. My baby brother had been born in March and would come to synagogue later with Mom, but Dad would leave earlier and walk the three tenths of a mile to Temple Israel Center in White Plains, NY. I was deemed “big” enough to walk with him, and sit with him in services until babysitting started.

After breakfast Mom dressed me in my shul clothes. It had to be after breakfast because we didn’t want to spill on new clothes. I don’t remember much about the outfit except that the good gray wool pants seemed terribly scratchy, and I got to wear a clip-on tie. Then we walked up to Old Mamaroneck Road, and over to the Temple. We passed houses, and woods that would become houses in later years.

When we got to the Temple we entered through the doors by the chapel, and went up a half flight of stairs to a landing where Dad picked up a small envelope from a table with hundreds of seemingly identical small envelopes. This envelope contained two tickets on the center aisle in row HH. Then up another half flight to the sanctuary. Dad sat on the aisle—the same seat he would occupy on the high holidays for the next 39 years. I sat in my Mom’s seat, and politely said hello to the people in the neighboring seats who had held that real estate for many years. I don’t actually remember being polite, but I know that Dad would have it no other way.

Grandma Madeline showed up shortly after we got there. She had the next two seats in the aisle. One for her, and one that Grandpa Ben used to sit in, but would go unoccupied for the first time this year. I’m pretty sure Grandma Sadye sat there on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. She was a member of the Hebrew Institute on Greenridge Avenue, but her son and grandchildren were here.

When Mom and Larry arrived I went to babysitting. It was comfortable and familiar; held in the room where I went to nursery school, but different because Mrs. Marish wasn’t there.

Three times a year for the next ten years I walked to shul with my daddy on the high holidays. We then moved too far away to walk, something that I didn’t think about at the time.

I miss it.

Walking.

Walking to synagogue on the high holidays.

Walking to synagogue on the high holidays, holding my daddy’s hand.

Maybe he carried me part of the way. Maybe he still does.

Mel Cohen in the Navy, Part 1

Wow, I have been away from this blog far too long.It's not that we haven't traveled and had some interesting experiences, it's just that I haven't had the desire to write. Now that I have that desire again, maybe I'll write about that as well. In the meantime, here are some stories that I remember my dad telling us from his time in the Navy during World War II.

Mel Cohen in the Navy, Part 1

Like most young men in the early 1940s my father, Melvin Cohen, enlisted in the armed forces for World War II. He ended up in the Navy and graduated as a midshipman, 90 day wonder, after attending the Navy’s Officer candidate training school that was held at Union College in Schenectady New York.

While sitting around the dining room table after a holiday meal or family gathering we could sometimes get him to talk about his days in the Navy. Sometimes it took some cajoling; he was often reluctant to talk about it. He was a good storyteller. I only hope that I can re-create accurately some of the stories he told us.

Dad’s assignment in the Navy after graduation as an Ensign was as second in command on a Landing Craft Tank (LCT). He earned a field promotion to first Lieutenant and became the captain of the LCT several days before D-Day when his commanding officer was sidelined with acute appendicitis and had to be evacuated. More about that later.

One of his favorite stories was about a gunnery mate on his ship who never had to touch a gun. In his civilian life this man was a pastry chef. Working miracles in the galley with sparse supplies, shortage of many staples, and the supposedly nutritious but quite boring realities of the Navy mess at sea was all that was necessary to keep this treasured soul ensconced within his natural element. Dad told us that the creampuffs his gunnery mate with able to create without access to real eggs or sugar not only earned accolades around the fleet, but were the linchpin of many barter transactions dad engaged in as part of the normal business of day-to-day survival in the Navy at sea.

Not all the stories were about pastry; some of it was pretty harrowing. The role of an LCT was to bring heavy equipment ashore, and as such had a pivotal role to play in the D-Day invasion. Dad participated in the first wave ashore at Omaha Beach. As a very green ship commander his survival and the survival of his crew depended on both his skill and ability, and a lot of good luck. Five LCTs were part of his group deploying heavy equipment onto Omaha Beach. Five went in, and only one came out. On his next trip into the beach, five LCTs went in and two came out – his ship, and the disabled LCT he was towing. During one of the sorties he was up in a crow’s nest trying to get a better handle on what was going on and where he should be going. Shortly after he came down from the crow’s nest he happened to look up to where he had been and saw that the crow’s nest had been destroyed by enemy fire.

I’m sure that there are details about the events of D-Day that dad rarely thought about, and never spoke about, certainly to us. Needless to say, close calls were the norm rather than the exception.

The full import of some events didn’t become obvious for many years. Dad told us about one loading or unloading exercise during which a large block and tackle swung out of control hitting him in the back and knocking him to the ground. He was examined by the Navy doctors who poked and prodded and banged on his spine with rubber hammers. They declared him fit to return to duty and he shrugged off the pain and discomfort as young men are wont to do. Roll forward 25 years. Dad is bereft of commuting by train due to a transit strike. He is suffering long hours in a carpool and the loss of income from his twice daily card games on the train. He develops terrible back pain, so bad he goes to see the doctor who sends him to a specialist. The specialist takes x-rays and asks dad when he fractured his spine. After showing dad the x-ray, and convincing him that one of his vertebrae really had been fractured at some point, the only incident that he could come up with where that might have happened was the incident with the block and tackle during his days in the Navy. Luckily, the end of the transit strike put an end to the worst of his pain. It turns out that in time of war, Navy medicine could be as spotty as the Navy food.

One of my favorite stories also had consequences beyond dad’s time in the Navy. A call went out to the fleet that three men on the flagship required a fourth for a game of bridge. Dad was always an eager and ardent card player, and never one to turn down the opportunity to play a hand of bridge. He sent word to the flagship that he was available, and a launch was sent to bring him over to the game. When he walked into the room and was introduced to the other players he was a bit intimidated by the quantity of ribbons, braids and scrambled egg on their uniforms. Suspecting a fairly high-stakes game he told them that he did not have a lot of cash with him. They told him not to worry about that. They really needed him as a fourth to allow them to play. They played round-robin. That means that dad played a rubber with each of the other players as his partner. As luck (and in his mind skill) would have it, he won with each of the other players with whom he partnered. When they totaled up the points he was far and away the big winner for the day. It turns out that they were playing for a dollar a point – very high stakes for a junior officer. He walked away from that game with a large roll of cash. Knowing himself, and knowing that if he kept the cash he would find some way of spending it, at the next opportunity he took the money and purchased a diamond. He sent that diamond home to his mother for safekeeping. Several years later that diamond was to become the centerpiece of my mother’s engagement ring.

That’s all for now. There are other stories. Some stories have a lot of detail attached, others not so much. There’s the story of getting lost in Paris during the blackout. He told us why he won’t eat Brussels sprouts. We know about a girlfriend, or fiancée, in France, but know very few of the details of that story. I’m sure the stories are not unique. Thousands of men in the greatest generation participated in World War II and there are many stories for each of them. But these were our dad’s stories and they gave us some insight into his early life and experiences that made him the man we loved as our dad.

Aaron Cohen

Garwood, NJ

28 September 2013