The Bagel Man

I have a black and white photograph, entitled, "The Bagel Man," hanging in my kitchen. It's a picture taken in Israel 30 years ago of a rotund man about 60 years old wearing a wrinkled, greyed apron. He is standing in a doorway and all around him are bagels -- on countertops, hanging from a rope above the doorway, in a basket on his arm. His expression is one of acceptance. Every time I look at it I am reminded of my father. Today is the one year anniversary of my father's death.

Every Sunday my father would get up early and go to the bagel place -- that's what we called it, the bagel place. It was actually much more than that. It was a full fledged Jewish delicatessen, one that only existed in Queens (NYC) and now only in my memory. It had acres of display cases filled with smoked fish, roasted turkeys and chickens, corned beef, tongue, cheeses, pickled herring in cream sauce with onions, pickled cows feet, sour pickles, chopped liver, stuffed cabbage, kasha varnishkes, cheese cake with cherries on top, chocolate and cinnamon babka, Entemanns donuts, marbled and chocolate covered halva, and a curtain of salamis hanging from the ceiling.

My father bought bagels (plain and salted), lox, cream cheese, one white fish, and a babka or donuts or halva. When he got home, my mother would lay out a display of all his bounty on the dining room table. It was Jewish, still life, performance art. And we all knew our roles - to eat with gusto, share the New York Times and randomly comment out loud on what we were reading (I nabbed the magazine section), and all this while watching football or tennis or baseball in the background.

The eating was part of the art and we each had our own genres. I sliced a bagel in half and pulled out the doughy interior to make more room for piling on different ingredients: first a healthy slather of cream cheese; then a very thinly sliced onion and an even more thinly sliced tomato; finally I draped two strips of lox over the top. It is the most delicious thing I have ever eaten.

Today is one year since my father died. It feels at most 5 months. You were my nourisher Dad. Thank you for your wonderful generosity and presence. I miss you.

The Holidays, Already!

I don't know about you but I'm already feeling the holiday "dreads." Invitations, cholesterol masquerading as food, rivers of alcohol, late nights. I can feel my pain receptors begin to ignite just thinking about how to take care of myself over the next few months.

Other than the abandon and the gluttony, I also worry about letting others down if I have to bow out of an engagement I committed to because of pain. And I worry about letting myself down if I overdo things and risk doing what I know (but don't want to acknowledge) might cause a pain surge.

I do lean on Richard to be the voice of sound judgment. I ask him to provide the balance when I am strung out on the line between yearning to ignore risk and just indulge, and avoiding all social activity because I fear a relapse.

But I don't make it easy for him. When he is the voice of caution, I resist. I say, "It's the holidays, after all. Why can't I act like a normal person once a year?" When he is the voice of indulgence I shrink away and hide in a corner. "I can't possibly go out three nights this week. I'll crash."

So I hope maybe this holiday season I can find the balance between quarantine and hedonism.

What are your holiday challenges? How do you and your partner get through the holidays?

Celebrating the Ordinary

Richard and I took a mini-vacation last week in New York City. I grew up there but hadn't been back to visit for a long time. A few attempts had to be canceled because of a relapse in my pain condition.

Growing up in NYC meant that I calibrated my energy level to that of the City. Walking fast, talking fast, always scanning the environment for dangers and treasures, absorbing large chunks of stimuli without gagging -- all these became routine for me. And when I return to NYC, I effortlessly fall into these rhythms. Whereas New England feels a bit too tight and California feels a bit too loose; NYC is a perfect fit.

This means that it is easy for me to slip into automatic pilot mode and slither invisibly through the crowds and see only a blur of concrete and color around me.

But this trip was special -- because it didn't have to be canceled. I spent four inspiring days walking the streets, holding my sweetie's hand, and paying attention to the world all around me -- a world that in the past was muted by familiarity, and in recent times was a world eclipsed by pain.

This trip was a gift, and I noticed everything. Here's just one half hour:

10:15 am -- I get on the subway heading downtown.
10:20 -- A group of five men, dressed in mariachi outfits, board the subway car, play guitars, and sing Guantanamera.
10:30 -- I get off the subway and start walking towards Union Square where there is a marvelous farmers market.
10:35 -- I walk by a large, squat man shouting with a classic New York City-Tony Soprano accent into a cell phone: "If you don't get that f-ing sh-t to me by f-ing tomorrow I'll blow your f-ing head off."
10:40 -- I continue walking and look across the street where I see three people walking and laughing. One of them is wearing a costume rabbit head with large cartoonish ears.
10:45 -- I meet Richard in Union Square and we share a perfect apple.

What a glorious, ordinary, pain-free day in the City! Celebrating the ordinary not only gives me a lift in the moment, it replenishes the reservoir of great memories that help get me through the more painful days.