Little Helen, 1918-2009

I won't be around tangobabyland for a while as I'll be down in San Jose helping my parents with whatever it is they need help with now. I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn't worry, because I know you're the sorts of people that would worry.

What can you say? I'm always terrible with these sorts of things so I sure as hell don't know what to say either. I know you're all sending good thoughts my way and I thank you for that, even if I'm not in a place physically or mentally to reply to you right now.

So, for me... go out and hug someone you love and celebrate something, anything-- and yeah, live. I'll catch you later.

xoxo

Back into the real world.

Waiting on the threshold between Church and State.

***

Yesterday I watched this elderly woman hesistate in the doorway of the St. Peter and Paul Church in North Beach. She stood there for quite a while, and at first I thought perhaps she was waiting for someone to pick her up in a car, or perhaps it was so dark and cool inside the church and so bright and warm outside that it was too much of a contrast for her.

She has one of those canes that has the little rubber four-footed stand at the bottom. Of course I thought of Little Helen as that whole story is ongoing and sad but mostly I saw myself in this woman and how she seemed like she couldn't move from the spot she was in.

I've been in constant motion for the past two days, enjoyably so, with Relyn and Robin. Yesterday we did our North Beach trek via the incredibly steep yet lush and beautiful Filbert Steps, the 30 Stockton through Chinatown with a dash of sugar provided from XOX Truffles (the Earl Grey truffle is still my favorite) and a canolli at Stella's (I can't eat a cannoli without thinking about that scene in The Godfather: "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.") and then to SF MoMA to see the Richard Avedon exhibit and the Robert Frank. Both couldn't be more different kinds of artists and seeing these two influential and important ways of seeing juxtaposed was quite striking.

Even though I've been in motion, walking the city and enjoying the company of these two fine ladies, there's a part of me that seems even more stagnant and refusing to budge. I still don't have a job. My grandma is still dying and my mom is still stressed to the max. K and the kids are still homeless and low on money. I can't seem to change these things. There's a cloud of poverty around me and my thoughts and I hate it. It's distracting.


Yesterday, Robin asked me what my goals were and I really couldn't think of anything less mundane that to not feel poor so I said that I don't think I had any goals. But actually, now I do. Earlier in the day, Robin let me play with her camera while we rested in the shade near Coit Tower. I don't even remember what kind of camera it is but I would describe it as a Real Camera. With Real Lenses. I had this huge feeling of AHA! And WOW! So this is what everyone keeps talking about. Realistically, I would need about $3-4K to get started.

I took these photos with my little PowerShot which now does feel small and puny. I still can see that these are good images but not great ones. Every picture I take makes me wonder now how it would be if I had a better camera. A Real Camera.

I feel like one of those misunderstood princesses who is waiting for the magic to start happening. The magic waiting in the wings that will change everything and for some reason that magic seems like it would be a new camera.

But I don't have time to wait around for a fairy godmother or a dashing prince so I'd better get some goals developed asap and get this camera myself. Somehow, I will. And now I have a goal and perhaps I'm teetering on the threshold of a bright new day. And I do think I have Robin and Relyn to thank for that.

clocks are ticking

We become aware of the void as we fill it.
~ Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943

***

tick tock tick tock
45 days away

good news:
In 45 days or less, K and the kids will be in a new apartment.
That is going to happen.
In the meantime, I've been concerned that we might run out of money before then, but now it looks like something even better might happen, and soon, to help...
K might be getting a little part-time job!
This will be an extraordinary help until the right place to live comes her way, and then maybe we won't need to worry so much about running out of money.
She will find out about the job next week.
The news made us hug each other with excitement.

tick tock tick tock
6 months away

bad news:
Little Helen's doctors have spoken.
She will go home to hospice care.
They will make her as comfortable as possible.
Her birthday is next week.

***

All of this time
of what will happen in this many days,
this many months
is making me a little crazy

***

I went grocery shopping.
I loaded up my tote bags with fresh herbs, not having any idea what I will do with them.

I just wanted to smell them.

I bought huge baskets of the most gorgeous ripe strawberries you've ever seen.
I bought a Chinese tea-smoked duck just so I could have the pleasure of watching the old man chop it up with his cleaver, his hands covered in shiny grease.

The smell was intoxicating.

Then I bought some roast pork just so I could see him chop it up, too.

I know this sounds silly.

I inhaled the crisp smell of the fresh mint getting crushed against my arm all the way home.
I still don't know what else I'm going to do with it.
Maybe I'll make some Moroccan mint tea.
But smelling it made me feel better.

***

The rose is for Little Helen.
I took this a few weeks ago, when I was sad and made myself go outside and take pictures, just because I had to go outside.

I didn't realize at the time I had taken this photo for her.

The rose is not perfect
but it is beautiful
because
it
is

The Unbirthday and the Ungoodbye

"I could tell you my adventures — beginning from this morning," said Alice a little timidly: "but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." ~ from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Through the Looking Glass

***

Little Curly Girl is Three.
Very grown up.

***

We had a Very Special Unbirthday Party this weekend.

Little Curly Girl was our Alice and we visited Wonderland with her. We talked to the Cheshire Cat. (I was the Voice.) We wore all sorts of hats and had a Mad Hatter's Tea Party. We opened presents and threw colored tissue paper all over the floor.

"Well, if I eat it, and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door: so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!" ~ from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

We talked to the snapdragons and looked at the pansy faces in the garden. The snapdragons asked to please please have some Unbirthday Cake but Alice had to tell them politely that they wouldn't be able to eat any cake because flowers have no teeth.

The flowers were very understanding but you could tell they were disappointed.

***

"At last the Dodo said, 'everybody has won, and all must have prizes.' " ~ from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

***

The best prize of all was to be in the Divine Presence of Princess Chubness, who is now six months old.

She embodies joy, wonder and happiness. She truly does.
No one can take their eyes off of her. She is the happiest person we've ever met.

***

"If you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later." ~ from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

The other part of the story is the visit to see Little Helen: a mother, grandmother and great-grandmother to us. We wished that part of the story was happy but it was not. And there are no pictures of it, because it is not something we would want a picture of.

It's a difficult thing to watch someone fade away. I've never done that before.

It's even harder when that person seems to be giving up on living and we can't figure out why. We were angry and frustrated. Our Unbirthday Girl was frightened when she saw Little Helen and then hid in her mother's arms. Her mom had to take her outside.

I think we all believed in the power and beauty of Little Curly Girl and Princess Chubness, having watched them laugh and play and be so alive, that-- in the whole wide world, these girls could work a miracle and bring Little Helen to her senses, to make her want to eat (because she won't) and get well. If not for us, then for her great-grandchildren. That we would have another happy story besides The Unbirthday.

But there are times when things will be the way they are and no amount of hoping can make it any different. Some people will go down a rabbit hole where we cannot follow.

The Boy has a saying that I always remember:

"You can't make unhappy people happy. You can only make happy people happier."

I wished things would have been different for all of us. I don't know how much longer Little Helen will be around, and this is probably the last time I'll write about her. It feels like she's given up on herself, and in doing so, has left us all behind much earlier than we would have wished.

***

'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,
'And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
Do you think at your age it is right?'

~ from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

dnr

on Haight Street

The days where you take one step forward, and then two steps back... this is one of those times.

Little Helen, my grandma, is back in ICU today as of 3:30am. She finally finally got out of the hospital just days ago (again), and was doing much better (again), and was looking forward to getting back home in time to meet Baby Princess Chubness for the first time ever, and hopefully going to LCG's birthday celebration. My little curly girl niece will be three years old next week.

And my poor Bunny. I won't even go into it but this is the first time the conversation contained the letters DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.

dnr dnr dnr

My brain is so tired. I'm still a little bit sick so it makes me even more tired. Some days you just want to sit in a corner and stare at the wall.

I wasn't sure what else I wanted to say about this development, because there's really nothing one can say, or do, about the situation. Little Helen will either get a tiny bit better and maybe she'll get out of the hospital, which is becoming more difficult with each return visit, or she'll get worse and then that will be it. DNR.

But I found this poem. And in keeping with the post I wrote on Sunday, I think it is a continuation on a theme.

The Dash Poem

by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end

He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not how much we own;
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?

Noir Sunday with Red Shoes

Luckily for me, most of today had nothing to do with Football.

There's something so great about living in San Francisco, where you can dress up like whatever you want no matter what day it is and no one will give you a second look. If anything, they'll compliment you ("hey, nice skirt") or just take your photo.

***

Today, me 'n Mr. and Mrs. Red Shoes went to the last (and maybe best) movie of the film noir festival, Sweet Smell of Success.

They're such good sports and embrace a good reason to dress up, just like me.

They were also movie virgins (for this film), meaning that I got to enjoy them enjoying this awesome film for the first time. It was a great audience. Lots of people clapped when certain famous dialogue lines came up.

***

I got to wear some special treasures that belonged to my grandma.

An awesome Lilly Daché hat covered in tiny white flowers.

Her crazy cool sunglasses.

Her little white cotton gloves and her black leather purse.

And the best part was recreating the makeup of the era. I did Joan Fontaine's eyeliner from the movie I saw yesterday, Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, and Virginia Mayo lips. I even threw in a couple of beauty marks.

*sigh*

Tomorrow's gonna be kind of boring by comparison. I want to be a gun moll.

Tradition

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.” ~ Buddha

“For those who believe, no proof is necessary. For those who don't believe, no proof is possible.” ~ Stuart Chase

***

I wanted to thank all of you who so sweetly wished me a happy Chanukkah/ Hanukkah (however you like to spell it... I could never get the spelling right) from the last post.

I kind of feel like a heel. Part of me wants to just to revel in your lovely wishes because I know it made you happy to wish that for me. And it made me happy to receive your wishes, your blessings. You are all so very very kind. But the other part of me has to come clean and say I don't celebrate Hanukkah (or any other holidays) anymore. I fell off the wagon quite a while ago.

I think I first started to fall off it around the age of eight or ten. It had to do with me reading the story of Abraham and the Sacrifice of Issac, in a book I used to really love called The Children's Story of Israel. It was a really interesting book. I remember loving to read it, not only for the vivid stories, but for the smell and feel of the paper, and the stark black and white illustrations. I think they were engravings. The paper was incredibly silky and smooth. I remember just running my fingers over the pages because they felt beautiful. It was odd. I've never had another book quite like it. I have no idea where that book went to, but it was old.

Anyway, I used to read that book a lot. And then one day it dawned on me what was really going on in that story of Abraham and Isaac. I understood that it meant that Abraham might actually kill his own son because God told him to. And what would that say about any father who might get a message from God. That scared the piss out of me, to be quite frank. I never read that book again. I remember feeling betrayed. And it made me wonder exactly where these stories were coming from and why I read them.

This post isn't to rain on anyone's parade (I don't mean to do that in the least) or to expound what I believe or don't believe. But what this holiday wishing made made me think about is Tradition. Why we believe what we believe.

Like the Buddha says in that quote above: How much of our beliefs are our own? And how often do we question ourselves and our own minds? What is the relationship between our individual identity and what is forged by the traditions and beliefs handed down to us?

***

In thinking about my Hanukkahs of the past, I think about my grandmothers. My grandma Helen (aka Little Helen) and my grandma Annette. For Grandma Helen, I remember the potato latkes and how I've never had any that taste better than hers did. Every year she would come to my mother's house, with an old metal food grinder in an ancient cardboard box. The grinder part was held on by rubber bands. My mom and I would peel potatoes, keeping them in a bowl of water to keep them from turning pink, until Grandma Helen could grind them up into a big bowl filled with eggs, onions and flecks of black pepper. I remember her forehead getting damp. It was hard work grinding all of those potatoes.

But she said that's what made them taste so good and she was right about that. I've just come to realize that I'll never have that particular taste in my mouth again.

And then there was my Grandma Annette. In her being absent for most of my life now, I think she's come to make a greater impression on me because I didn't know her well. But she represented Tradition to me in a way I craved. She came from the "Old Country" (the Ukraine) as she called it in her heavy accented English, and I still vaguely remember her stories of village life and her brothers and sisters and escaping the Cossack raids.

She knew all of the Sabbath blessings and kept kosher. She was tiny and also very formidable in a quiet, fragile way. I used to watch Fiddler on the Roof a lot as a kid, because I imagined that her vanished village with no name was just like the one in the movie. In a way, I was probably right.

***

Looking back at grandma Annette and her lost world of the Old Country, I realized for many years that what I wanted, or perhaps envied most, was her tradition. The surety of a world where your place was known, where everyone knew what was expected of themselves and they were surrounded by a community that might have been confining but was also there as a protection. I had this fantasy of how life might just be so much easier if I knew exactly what I was supposed to be when I got older.

Unfortunately or fortunately, life in the 'burbs just isn't the same thing as life in the shtetl. Of course now I'm grateful that I ended up where I am, but for many years, I really felt I was missing out on something very subtle and very important. But my world is a lot bigger now. And I'm not so scared of it anymore. I'm not scared of not being what I thought I was going to be when I grew up, either.

***

Several years ago, I went on a business trip to Houston. On the flight home, my fellow passenger was an Orthodox rabbi. He had the peyes, the prayer shawl, the black hat. He was my age, rotund and jolly. He had five beautiful children (in his words, I'm sure they were) and he and his wife ran an Orthodox community in Dallas. He was flying to Palo Alto to perform a wedding.

Now all these years later, I felt like I finally had my chance. I had to ask him what was up with the Abraham and Isaac story. I told him what it did to my kid psyche and I could see on his face that I wasn't the only one who had a problem with the tale. He looked pained as I poured my heart out to him. He explained it to me, in what the metaphor of the story really meant, and apologized that no one was there to tell me that when I was young. I tried not to cry. But I did and he gave me his beverage napkin so I could blow my nose. His explanation was calming in its way, but still did not erase the savagery of the act that almost was.

I don't know why it affected me so, to have some closure on that story so many years after the fact. I mean, I could have gone to any temple around and just asked someone. But that was the right time for me. It was the right time, and at the same time, it was too late.

The rabbi and I kept in touch for a little while via email but whatever tradition I felt I should have had just wasn't inside me. I think some things you have to be exposed to at a very young age for them to take hold in your heart, otherwise the roots are just too shallow.

But I don't feel too badly, because I also realize that there was a little eight or ten year old girl who read something and then had an opinion about it and took a position. Above all else, I appreciate that little Julie who reads and thinks about what she reads. And wherever that tradition came from, I'm most grateful for that of all.

***

More and more, I'm fine with where I'm at. It's a journey though, and I'm still working on it. But I'm not as worried so much about not having all the answers.

“Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.” ~ George Carlin

***

Paintings by Marc Chagall: 1. Solitude (1933). 2. The Birthday (1915). 3. Title unknown (if you know, please tell me).

"One fine day... as my mother was putting the bread in the oven, I went up to her, and taking her by her flour-smeared elbow I said to her, 'Mama ... I want to be a painter.' " ~ Marc Chagall

The Child Inside

"The great thing about getting older is that you don't lose all the other ages you've been." ~ Madeleine L'Engle

"Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul." ~ Samuel Ullman

***

Sunday was a very long day. I took the train down, and my parents drove me to the rest home where my grandmother is. I tried to remember the nice things you told me from my last post, but it was difficult.

I think what scares me most about the idea of getting old is that I'll lose my mind someday. When we arrived, my grandma was in a panic that she had had a bad dream and someone had come into her room at night and stolen a shirt from her closet, a sweatshirt with kittens on it. She was fairly beside herself and it was almost impossible to understand what she was saying. But my grandma kept going on and on about it, making herself so upset and putting herself on the brink of tears. I finally had to say to her, Grandma, you have lots of clothes at home. We can bring you another shirt. Please. Stop making yourself so upset about it. This isn't helping you at all.

And with that, she stopped entirely. Even the teary eyes dried. My mother opened her closet to see that actually a shirt was missing, and she spoke with the nurse to make sure that no one comes in to do the laundry, that my mother will take care of it instead.

The thing is, this is how my grandma's always been but now it seems so much harder to watch because she is so frail and sick. It takes a little nothing to upset her and she'll dwell on that thing forever. I felt terrible that we had all come to see her, with dim sum from the lunch we just had, and presents to share--and none of that made a difference at all.

***

Later, after she'd calmed down, she showed me that she's started writing down her life's story. My mother has been asking her to do this for years, and she's finally begun. On eight pages of yellow lined paper, her handwriting so shaky now compared to the perfect penmanship I remember from birthday cards not so long ago, I read the first two lines to myself. "Read it aloud," Grandma says. But I don't want to. It's sad enough already. I see Little Helen writing these words: "I was born in Brownsville, Brooklyn in June of 1918. My parents were so young and beautiful when they had me. I miss them terribly."

Right then it struck me so hard, that at 90 years old a person can still miss her parents as if she were a 6-year old orphan. What I think she misses most is the idea of them, because from what I know of her childhood, it was not a happy one in any way. But somewhere in her mind there is a happy and sunny idyll, where these beautiful parents still live, and wait for her.

***

Outside my grandma's door was another resident who was sitting quietly in her wheelchair, silently wrapping and unwrapping the stuffed animal she had on her lap in a little blanket. She looked in at us often, to see if we were looking at her with her toy. My mom said this lady is often asking passersby if anyone has seen her cat. Whatever kitty she is looking for is lost to time and place, but in her mind is still very much alive, and very much needing a home.

***

My mother asked me to come back to Grandma's house. To look at some of her things now, maybe take a few, just in case, preparing for that time in the future. I walked through her home, now so quiet, looking at her collectibles and saying, I don't know. I guess when the time comes, if I want something, I'll tell you. My mom kept saying sadly, Look at all of her little things.

My mother said it would make her happy if I found a few things to take with me, that I would like to have to remember Grandma by, even now before the end. I took some lovely hats, vintage hats from the 40s, covered with tiny flowers made by an aunt who was a milliner. They fit me and I'll wear them. I took a pair of perfect white gloves, like the kind that ladies wore every day. And a couple of old slips and an old bottle of Estee Lauder's Youth Dew, because that is what I remember Grandma smelling like. I took some photos. And my mother gave me a beautiful ring, with a lovely diamond that was my Bubbie's, my grandma's mother--the beautiful mother from the yellow lined paper.

I wore the ring home on the train, watched the diamond sparkle in the last rays of the sun before it got dark outside and nothing could be seen of the world at all. I would have rather had my grandma be happy, just once, for me to see, than to have all of the diamonds in the world.

***

ps. I have had several imaginary grandmothers. My favorite one is Madeline L'Engle, which is also why I was so happy to find this quote to use for this post. I almost had an opportunity to meet Ms. L'Engle once, but poor health had caused her to cancel an event where she was to give a talk and sign books. I was to have her sign my first copy of A Wrinkle in Time, first read voraciously in the fifth grade and then regularly and often ever since, and which is probably the book I would take to a desert island with me if I could only have one. Sadly, I never got that book signed (the cover had fallen off years ago anyway), but I was so close.

From the book: "You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you."

Things I Would Tell My Grandmother

Little Helen is not doing well. I think above all else, she suffers most from a wound to her invisible heart. And that casts such a shadow on all other things, as it has colored everything in her life from birth to this moment. Now that her time is coming to an end, it seems so very sad. My mother is her mother's bridge to the world, and she is struggling to make things right for a person who is fundamentally unhappy.

I wish it were different for both of them. Today, The Boy asked me, if I had a magic wand, what would be the one thing I would change or fix. If I could, I would travel back in time to Little Helen, and try to tell her things, or show her things, that would have caused her to lead a different life, so that when she leaves this one, it is colored with hope, and not despair.

Isn't that what we all want?

To leave our mark on this world and know that we had some tiny, positive effect?
What else can we take comfort in?

***

I took these photos over the weekend in the Mission. As I thought about images and words I would share with Little Helen, my grandmother, I realized how little it takes for me, as I get older, to find enjoyment. I was surprised to see that in myself. It might only take a book that gives me something new to think about, or a walk where I might catch a glimpse of just one beautiful thing, or a new friend to meet for lunch and share a conversation about what she's doing and what I'm doing. I actively try to find those things all the time. I don't always succeed. But I always try.

***

It's too late to go back, to turn back the clock for Little Helen.
I am sad for her lost moments, her lost years.

"Never forget that you are one of a kind. Never forget that if there weren't any need for you in all your uniqueness to be on this earth, you wouldn't be here in the first place. And never forget, no matter how overwhelming life's challenges and problems seem to be, that one person can make a difference in the world. In fact, it is always because of one person that all the changes that matter in the world come about. So be that one person." ~ Buckminster Fuller

Stenciled art found on a sidewalk on Valencia Street. I love the windblown leaf that graces one of the Fridas. A flourish of nature. It is a tiny beautiful moment that will vanish with the next gust of wind. I might have been the only one to ever witness this fleeting adornment, the leaf. I am glad I was there to capture it.

When I see the face of this woman stenciled on the sidewalk, although I cannot help reflecting on her broken body, I think about how incredibly strong her spirit was.

"Often people attempt to live their lives backwards; they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want, so they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do, in order to have what you want." ~ Margaret Young

Doll parts and trinkets at a garage sale. My grandmother spent years collecting little things: dolls, plates, bric-a-brac. Now in her nursing home, her room is bare. There is no room for personal possessions. What were those little things trying to protect her from, give to her? To someone else they are just things to be passed on, sold or discarded. In the end, these things can't bring you joy, can they? Would you hold onto them above all else?

"I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy as long as I can paint." ~ Frida Kahlo

Mural on The Women's Building, Lapidge Street. To have something, a passion, a talent, an interest. Something entirely for yourself, that has nothing to do with children or husbands or friends. Something that gives you hope and purpose. Only you can find out what that thing is. You may have to try many different routes before you discover what it is that excites you, that makes you burn bright. But find that thing!

"What a wonderful life I've had! I only wish I'd realized it sooner." ~ Colette

Are you happy with where you are, who you are, what you've done so far? Yes, no, maybe so? If not, there's always room to fix it, move forward, move on, right? But you have to ask those questions first. Only you can make those changes for yourself. Only you.

"Three grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for." ~ Joseph Addison

***

I wish I had that magic wand. Somehow in writing this down, I almost feel that I do. Perhaps that magic wand is for me, to realize what I've just written here. I'll try to keep taking my own advice.

A Message from Little Helen

For those of you who were so sweet to write a comment recently on my post, "The Ejection Fraction of Love," I wanted to give you an update on how your kind words and thoughts really helped.

The day before yesterday, I talked to my mom and she and my grandma were at the doctor's again, for another round of tests. My grandma is out of the hospital and has been staying with my mom, but it seems like the docs still haven't really figured out Grandma's medications and she really isn't feeling that well yet.

They were sitting in the waiting room and my mom was whispering in the phone to me. I could hear the tiredness and frustration in her voice. She told me that Grandma has been crying--she's just so tired of being sick, and she's frightened.

I told my mom that as soon as they got back home, that she should read Grandma the post I had written about her, not so much my story, but to see all of the wonderful comments that YOU had written back.

So she did.

***

I talked with my grandma last night after work, to check in with her. I asked her if Mom had read the post and your comments to her, and immediately her voice brightened. She was SO happy--really, she was. I told her that people wrote to her from Paris and New York and the Phillipines and Scotland and Morocco and all over the USA, and I could hear the astonishment and wonder in her voice, unmasked.

I asked her if she wanted to dictate a personal message that I could post on her behalf, and this is what Grandma wanted you to know:

"Hello, all you wonderful people out there in the world. Thank you so much for your wonderful messages. You made me so happy. You have no idea how much they helped to perk up an old lady! I am so grateful that you cared about me and wrote to me. You made me feel so much better. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

So, my friends, what can I add to that, except thank you from the bottom of my heart, too.

***

PS. Setting the historical record straight: Grandma wanted you to know that she was three years old when that photo was taken, and that her mother made her dress and knitted her little socks. The dress was made of black velvet.

She doesn't know for sure if she won any money in the Beautiful Child contest, but she did win a little trophy. At some point, burglars broke into the house and stole the trophy (!) and her mother was heartbroken. So my grandma never remembered seeing the trophy because it all happened when she was so young, but she's still very proud of the photo and is super thrilled you liked it, too.

The Ejection Fraction of Love

Little Helen. That's my grandma to the left. She will be 90 years old on June 23.

This photo was taken of her when she was very young, maybe three or four years old.

She's sitting perched atop a lush fur blanket, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, wearing her best dress. My grandma grew up in Brooklyn, where her dad (at the time this photo was taken) was a furrier. Legend has it that Little Helen once owned a tiny coat made of ermine.

But the family was always poor, and like other recent immigrant families, my grandma's father had a variety of jobs. He later became a grocer. Perhaps the Depression killed off the furrier business, I don't know. Little Helen worked hard as a child to help earn money for her family. I remember her talking about doing piecework after school, gluing ribbons and decorations on cards. She gave her meager earnings to her mother.

The photo was for a Beautiful Child Contest, and she won. I think my grandma and her parents receieved a small cash prize of $5.

My grandma has always been a little girl, in stature and in heart. She takes pleasure in the tiny, simple things, like a child, and she also worries about everything. She can be very stubborn and also extremely sensitive and emotional. I think being a child of the Depression took more of a toll on her than perhaps on some other people. There is a part of her that still seems shadowed by the threat of poverty, of some vague loss.

When she is upset or worried, sometimes you can distract her with a new story told with a lot of enthusiasm or some show-and-tell, just like you would a six-year-old with a sparkler.

***

Last week, my grandma ended up in the hospital and she missed the birthday party. Of all of the people not to be there, that was the cruelest blow. She lives for Little Curly Girl. Because she was in the ICU, we couldn't take Little Curly Girl to see her either and there was no phone near her bed to even call.

First we got really terrible news from one doctor. And then we got much better news from the second doctor, who concurred with my grandma's old cardiologist. The first doctor, with his dire predictions and perfunctory manner, sent the entire family into an emotional tailspin on Sunday night, only for our hopes to be revived when he went off duty and all of his conclusions were quietly moderated for the better by the new cardiologist on duty.

In evaluating her condition, the doctors try measure the amount of blood her heart can pump out, which is called an ejection fraction.

A normal heart's ejection fraction is 50% or better. My grandma's is between 35%-40% but that other doctor told us it was only 20%, which scared the crap out of us.

***

When we first saw grandma in the bed, she was sleeping soundly, her chest rising and falling quickly, looking almost like she was panting. Her mouth drooped, her lower teeth were askew. Her face looked pale, almost like it was covered in a fine powder. We didn't want to wake her, so we just watched her, for the better part of an hour, and mimed and signed and whispered to each other.

One of the nurses came in to wake her up to give her her medication: the tiniest chip of a pill you ever saw in your life, and some orange liquid that looked like soda but had potassium in it. My grandma awoke, hair afluff like little downy feathers all over. She looked surprised, puzzled and happy to see my mom, my sister and I seated around the bed. "Did you just get here?" she wanted to know. You could see the happiness building up in her inside: the color came back to her cheeks and lips, bringing pinkness to her face.

Grandma would not take her medicine. She had every reason in the book not to do it, just like the little kid who wants a glass of water, wants a story, has to go to the bathroom in order not to have to go to sleep. The nurse said she would come back in a few minutes to make her take it. She kept coming back and my grandma kept dilly-dallying. Grandma flirted with the handsome doctor who came in to examine her, complained that the orange soda stuff was too sour and made everyone else taste it. We told her not to be such a baby, that it wasn't that bad.

It was funny, like bad little kid funny, but after a while she really did need to take her meds and we could see that we were encouraging her misbehavior. Finally my sister and I instituted Tough Love on her, and we turned our backs on her and wouldn't talk to her until she drank everything down. She did, with a grimace. The gig was up.

***

Grandma got released from the hospital yesterday, and sounds as good as new on the phone. She's staying with my mom, and Little Curly Girl and my sister are still there so Grandma couldn't be happier. I called her this morning and she's watching her two-year old great-granddaughter eat bits of sunny-side-up egg, and putting jam on her toast. "All by herself!" she tells me. "That little girl is so smart!" I hear Little Curly Girl squealing in the background, obviously doing something exciting, which may or may not have involved jam.

"I love her so much," my grandma tells me. "That little girl is like my food. I could just eat her up."

What the doctors can't measure is the ejection fraction of love. No matter what tests they do on her, Grandma's heart will always be loving us at 100% of capacity.

***

Keep getting better, grandma. Big and little girls are expecting that.