Uncategorized

Now that I have a grandchild – the magnificent Max – I find it fascinating to watch my son and his wife parenting. They are totally engaged, endlessly patient, and creatively playful. I love watching them interact with the terrific toddler.

At what point will they begin practicing the parent’s all-purpose survival strategy: lying?

I have been thinking recently about various lies I have told my children, all of which I did to keep them safe. Okay, almost all. But they turned out great anyway. It doesn’t appear that we harmed them irreparably with our slight prevarications, and in fact may have reinforced some positive social values and personal behaviors.

Among the earliest lies we told had to do with magical creatures. All was excitement in the house when Avi lost his first tooth. Unfortunately, he swallowed it during his nap, meaning that there was nothing to leave under his pillow for the Tooth Fairy. Big brother Seth was so worried that TTF had flown over Avi’s room that he wrote a letter to inform her of what had transpired, and gave it to Joel to post. The next morning, both boys found a dollar under their respective pillows. Seth didn’t understand why he got a dollar when it was Avi who had lost the tooth. We told him that TTF wanted to reward him for being such a good brother. (The letter still sits in Joel’s top bureau drawer.)

As long as I am confessing, here a few other lies I told that may come in useful in the reader’s life:

The car won’t start if all the seatbelts aren’t fastened. (Safety)

I have eyes I the back of my head. That’s how I can see what you’re up to. (Security. I borrowed this one from my own mother.)

If I don’t give you hugs and kisses, you won’t grow. (Health)

Love is the secret ingredient in your favorite foods. (Home Economics)

Please share with me your favorite lies.  And, don’t even begin to proclaim (lie?) that you’ve never done it.

I am becoming that zealot I have always mocked and, when possible, avoided. But now I am she. In spades.

But first, some background. For my fiftieth birthday, Joel gave me a membership to AARP (I know, so romantic). With the membership comes a magazine, which last month featured an article about Bill Clinton and his dramatic turn-around from serious heart disease through a vegan diet. I began to think about it and discuss the idea with Joel. Should I try it?

After all, my mother grew up believing that a healthy diet included meat, eggs, and dairy. On the other hand, never having learned to drive, she walked everywhere. She also neither smoked nor drank. But she died of a massive heart attack anyway. The doctor told me that her heart was in fact quite strong. It was her arteries clogged from years of eating animal products that did her in.

My father’s cholesterol was a healthy 153, which probably just delayed his heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery.

Although I exercise almost daily, and thought I ate well, my total cholesterol jumped 100 points after, well, a certain age. I finally came to understand that, with the genetic makeup I was handed, something had to give. (Yes, I’m slow.) And I realized just how ticked off I would be at myself if I had a heart attack when I could have done something about it.

Then, fate intervened. At a recent party, I had a conversation with a man who had become vegan and seen his cholesterol drop 30 points in six months. He was on the same program that Bill Clinton follows.

So, that very night, I ordered the book Larry had recommended, Eat to Live, by Dr. Joel Fuhrman. (I know, this sounds like an informercial, but keep reading.) When it arrived, I read it from cover to cover, and though I had my suspicions, I was willing to give his plan a serious try. I want to be around to dance at my grandchildren’s weddings. (Okay, Max isn’t even in pre-school yet, but …)

Fuhrman’s way of eating includes a pound of raw vegetables and a pound of cooked veggies every day. But, he is not a zealot. After the first six weeks (which I reached today!) one can have 10% of total caloric intake from an animal product, such as dairy or chicken. Granted, the prep (peeling, chopping, slicing, dicing) is time consuming, and I can see that if I don’t want to die of boredom first, I will have to be very creative in researching recipes, but so far, so good.

It just so happens that my annual physical was scheduled exactly one month after starting this program, and I waited with bated breath to learn see if my cholesterol numbers had improved. In four weeks I had dropped four points from last year’s numbers. I figure if I continue on this path – one point a week — after six months I will have dropped 26 points.  Almost as good as Larry.

So, please excuse me while I go find myself a carrot to roast.

A recent “Rhymes With Orange” comic strip shows two women of a certain age sitting on a park bench watching a lithe young thing running past in her cute shorts and tank top. One says to the other, “It used to be about who’s hip. Now it’s about whose hip is being replaced.”

Last week I went back to swimming. Not because I like going out into the early morning chill (soon to be early morning dark and frigid cold) to schlep to a fitness center and risk athlete’s foot, dry, straw-like hair, and brittle nails. No, I am swimming because I have become a statistic: an aging adult who needs replacement parts. The only exercise that doesn’t hurt involves squeezing into a skimpy piece of clothing and getting wet.

Yes, I am on my way to becoming the Bionic Woman. Unlike Lindsey Wager, I will probably not be leaping over parked cars while keeping my coif in place. I am, however, very excited about the prospect of climbing a set of stairs without tears running down my face and unbecoming words spewing from my mouth.

Once the preliminaries are complete (undressing, dressing, mandatory shower), I and my cane hobble into the hot and humid pool area, careful not to slip on the wet tiles. I stick plugs into my ears, pull a bathing cap onto my head (why can’t somebody invent a cap that actually keeps one’s hair dry?), and adjust my goggles. Then, as Nike says, I just do it, plugging away for about 35 minutes.

Despite my not-very-positive attitude, there was a surprise in store for me.

The first week of my new enterprise had me obsessively counting laps. Why? Did I think there was a magic number at which I would be cured? Was I hoping to impress my daughter who swam competitively for years? Was I trying to convince myself that I could do this?

Then suddenly, I realized that I would be completing a certain number of laps no matter how much I counted. Besides, I kept getting distracted and losing count. So this week, I decided to stop tallying the laps, and found myself actually enjoying the swim. Back and forth, back and forth, with no computer, TV, or radio to distract me, I let my mind go where it would, in an almost-meditative trance. Limb and head movements were practiced and automatic, so my brain wandered off into unplanned, unscheduled directions. Ideas for my various projects come to me unbidden as I swam. I felt simultaneously energized and relaxed.

Maybe this swimming thing will be good for me. If only I didn’t have to get wet.

I’ve been thinking a lot about doctors. No, not because I’m married to one, or because it seems that my social calendar is turning into a series of appointments with them. I’ve been thinking about the oath that graduating medical students take.  Some schools have their graduates recite the Hippocratic Oath, others the Oath of Maimonides.

Hippocrates’ pledge reads in part, “Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.”

The Oath of Maimonides follows a similar theme. Here is just a sample of what newly minted doctors recite: “Inspire me with love for my art and for Thy creatures. Do not allow thirst for profit, ambition for renown and admiration, to interfere with my profession, for these are the enemies of truth and of love for mankind and they can lead astray in the great task of attending to the welfare of Thy creatures … Almighty God! Thou hast chosen me in Thy mercy to watch over the life and death of Thy creatures. I now apply myself to my profession. Support me in this great task so that it may benefit mankind, for without Thy help not even the least thing will succeed.”

Over the past few months, as the world stands by and watches as Syria is torn apart by civil war, one particular thing has been bothering me, and I haven’t seen anybody else address it. To wit: Do Syrian medical school graduates take an oath to subscribe to a set of ethical precepts? If so, which one do they recite?

I ask this because Syrian President Bashir Al-Assad is a physician. He graduated from the Damascus University School of Medicine. On the day he stepped across the stage to accept his diploma, did he take an oath promising to uphold the moral code of the healing profession?

I am fascinated by the fact that Assad did post-graduate training at London’s Western Eye Hospital, specializing in ophthalmology. An interesting choice, ophthalmology, the branch of medicine that deals with the anatomy, physiology and diseases of the eye. Through what lens does Bashar Al-Assad view the world? Does his vision focus only on his own power? Can he not see that the choices he has made have taken life and limb from hundreds of thousands of his own people, and caused over two million others to flee the only home they have ever known?

Does Bashar Al-Assad need his vision checked?

Is this man still licensed to practice medicine?

Would you trust him with your health?

So many books, so little time. A pile of books sits on my nightstand. A tower of tomes builds on the rocking chair in my bedroom (there’s a chair under all that?). Hundreds of volumes stuff the bookcases on the first floor and the basement. I have even commandeered shelves that once held the kids’ textbooks.

Among the books are those for my ongoing self-improvement project: to read every Pulitzer Prize-winning novel from the beginning of the awards, and to read American history. More history is being made as I wait.

I love to read. I buy books and pile them up in the hope that I will find the time to read them all. In fact, I like reading so much that I usually have a few books going at one time: one for the current month’s book club meeting, one on the Kindle for travel, and one in audio format for the car. Then, of course, are the numerous newspapers and magazines to which I subscribe. No wonder I wear glasses.

Being a writer myself, I am painfully aware that most authors do not earn the big bucks of the Stephen Kings and Dan Browns of the world.  I want to support them, both financially and morally. But, I have a dilemma. Joel and I have been accumulating stuff for over 36 years of marriage, and since we had been in school for umpteen years prior to marriage, what we brought to our union was books.

I want to clean out my house! I don’t want my kids and their spouses to curse me after I’m gone, when they are tasked with sorting through the clothing, the collections, and other detritus of my life.

I’ve given away many books – to the Goodwill, to libraries, to children, to friends. I have even participated in a neighborhood yard sale. (Oddly, when I returned home from that sale, the empty spaces on the bookcases were full again. Do books procreate like wire clothes hangers?)

I do continue to purchase e-books, but since they are stored on the Kindle, they don’t require space and do not accumulate dust. (OMG, am I channeling my mother?).

Recently I came to what I think is a fair solution to the problem. When I want to read a particular book, I borrow it from the library. If I like it enough, it goes on my gift-shopping list. If I like it a lot, I purchase several copies to present at holidays, birthdays, as house gifts, etc. That way, authors earn their royalties and my gift-giving challenges are solved.

So, why are my shelves still bulging?