White Water

I woke up sad. It was around seven - right after my husband, Hank, slipped out to catch an early surf session.  I climbed back in bed after getting a cup of hot coffee and lifted the heavy shades covering the wall of windows overlooking the beach in our vacation rental.  The warmth of the cup brought comfort to my hands as I glanced out at the grey morning. A lone jogger and a flock of seagulls dotted the sandy landscape on the Newport Peninsula.

It’s been a sea of emotions for me these past few weeks. I’ve had great highs and great lows, capped by a shift in my mothers declining health.  Last night, on the porch we chatted with our son’s friend, Michael, who’d taught surfing while he was in college and law school, I mentioned that, maybe, I should get out there in the surf again.

“That first surf lesson I had last week, was the ultimate escape.”

“It’s all about focusing on the waves out there, “ I’d sighed.  “No time to think about anything else, Michael. I want to just not think…”

I put the coffee on the nightstand, opened my Kindle and tried to get into my book. Just then, a wetsuit flew over the railing on the second-floor deck of our room, plopping on the tile floor.

“Heather! Time to surf!” Michael called up.

Hank hurried back upstairs. “C’mon, Heath. Michael’s ready to take you out there with us. Remember,” he said, handing me the suit borrowed from Michael’s wife,  “it zips in the back.”

“Now?!”

“Yep, now,” Hank called back at me as he ran back down the stairs.

The air was cold as I walked down the beach with our son, Allan, and Hank and Michael. So weird to be one of the “guys.” I’m that girl back on the porch on the chaise.

I trust Michael. He’s at one with the water. A surfer his entire life, and a gentle guide, I knew I was in good hands, but I was shaking  - and not from the cold.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Allan said, “Michael’s got you. He knows which waves to take you on.”

Getting out there in the waves was exhausting. Water slapped my face, went up my nose, and in my mouth until Michael told me to keep it closed. “Hold on, Heath,” Michael said, as we popped up over a wave too large for me. Adrenaline rushed as my board smacked down on the other side. “Now, paddle,” he said. “Paddle hard. Past Allan. Past Hank.” Hank, focused on his GoPro camera to capture the moment, nodded. “You’re doing good,” he said, looking up for a quick second from his camera.

Michael pushed me into my first wave. I got to my knees and fell forward. The board zoomed ahead toward the beach.

“Michael, this is too hard,” I said as I dragged myself through the white water.

“You’re ok,” Hank called out. Something about his face gave me courage.

“Ok, I’ll give it another try.”

More rollercoaster rides over waves. Then, finally a break. I sat up on the board. “Ahh, serenity,” I said to the trio.

“This is why I come out here, Mom…” Allan said, across from me seated on his blue board.

“Not for long,” Michael said, turning the board with me on it around. “Here comes another set. Let’s get you ready.”

I fell hard on this one; the board popping up as I tumbled into the strength of the white water. Underwater, I felt trapped, spinning ‘round and ‘round and began to panic just as the wave washed over me.

When I popped up, I was done. “I can’t," I told Michael. "I panicked.” 

“If you relax, it’ll always wash over you,” Michael replied, gently. “It always will. Just go with it.”

“You ok? You done?” Hank asked, swimming toward me.

“One more try. One more…” Michael urged.

“No, I’m done.”

“One more; you can do it,” he said softly, pulling the board toward me.  “Hop on.”

No sooner did the right wave come. “Ready,” Michael said,  “Paddle, paddle…ok, 

Heath, get up now!”

 

Driving home from visiting my mother today, my mind was clouded with fear, 

sadness, empathy and love. I searched to gather myself and my mind drifted 

back to the lesson in the white water … “It’ll be a struggle, don’t panic, though. 

It washes over. And you’re alright.”

Weight Watchers Are Not Losers

                               

“Jean Nidetch saved my life,” said, Gina, my co-worker. She’s in her early fifties, has lost over a hundred pounds on the Weight Watcher’s Program, and has kept it off for going on eight years. Each anniversary, she commemorates her weight loss with another small eternity ring embedded with small stones, now stacked up to her knuckle.

I’d brought Jean’s obituary in the Business & Tech section of the Wall Street Journal in to work that day in April of 2015.  I’d seen it over my usual breakfast of egg whites, cottage cheese, tomatoes and fruit at my local diner, the article described Jean as “a perpetually overweight housewife who discovered a weight-loss tool that was missing – empathy.”

Jean Nidetch, who died at the age of 91, went on to help millions shed unwanted pounds.

I am one of those millions.

I laid my fork down on my plate as my mind drifted back to February of 1973.

'71 High School Yearbook at 155 pounds

“Heather? Where are you?” Mom called out from the entry hall. “It’s time to go to your first Weight Watcher’s Meeting!”

“I’ll be right there,” I called back from the breakfast room off the kitchen. I took a hurried bite of my BLT sandwich. Mayonnaise oozed outside the crust as I bit into it. I licked it up all around the edges.

“Heather! What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m coming!” I held the rest of my sandwich, looking at it, debating. I stuffed the rest of it into my mouth, taking in the flavor of the bacon, the rich texture of the mayonnaise, the soft white bread. It would be the last bite of fattening food I would ever eat with abandon.

The meeting was held at a Synagogue in West Hollywood, and as I took my place in line to be weighed, the scale loomed large, waiting to show the truth. Sweat poured down my side as I stepped onto it. The woman weighing me in slid the bar over, and over, and over. I watched the numbers pass by, willing the bar to stop at some acceptable place. “You’re 5 feet 3 inches tall and 172 ½ pounds,” she said, jotting it down in a little booklet that she handed to me.

I stared down at the written number and looked sheepishly over at my mother who had forced me to go. “It’s my fault you’re heavy,” Mom said. “I fed you a cookie every time you cried as a baby.”

The first item on the agenda was “True Confessions” and I listened in disbelief as an obese woman, who hadn’t lost any weight that week, told of her midnight search for something to satisfy her craving for a snack. In a desperate effort to stick to the Weight Watcher Program, she’d devoured a box of her toy poodle’s Milk Bone’s.

I pictured her, all by herself, polishing off a box of dog biscuits. I often ate alone, too.

My attention turned to a brunette woman in her late forties. She was having difficulty seating herself in one of the folding chairs. The man next to me, his protruding belly pushing against the constraint of his button down shirt, noticed me eyeing her. “She’s come a long way,” he said. “Last week she graduated from the aisle to a chair. We are so proud of her.”

I knew if I didn’t get control of my eating, I’d end up like that woman.

“Do you eat because you are lonely or depressed?” our lecturer asked the group. “If you answered ‘yes’ you are not alone.”

Even though I was the youngest in the group, my secret eating binges were not unique in this crowd. I was not alone here. If I polished off a can of Redi Whip in one sitting or hid Oreos in my closet, these people could relate. Unlike the Milk Bone lady, though, I hadn’t learned to laugh at my own self-destruction. Food had become my comfort in a chaotic home.

Our leader told us that she’d been overweight, too. It was hard to imagine her heavy, with her flat stomach and shapely legs.  She’d lost 106 pounds. And when she’d reached her goal weight, she joked that she’d  “seen the light” when she toweled her legs off after a shower and actually seen light coming through between the long lost curves in her calves.

The following week, I lost 6 ¼ pounds and I was on my way. I was a poor student in school, barely earning C’s. This could be my first real success and I was going to see it through. The program was easy to follow and I could modify our meals at home. I had choices and I didn’t get bored. Each week, I saw progress. Some weeks it was only ¼ of a pound, but I hung in there, determined to meet my goal.  The scale no longer loomed large each time I weighed in. Instead, it became my ally, charting my progress.  It took eight months to reach goal of 115. Then, I began “Maintenance” to keep the weight off.  

Forty-four years later, I’m still grateful to Jean Nidetch and her approach to weight loss. I still use some of the old Weight Watcher tricks.  I couldn’t do it alone back then. I needed the community of a room full of people who understood. And I needed a goal.

Jean understood that there is no magic pill. That no snappy device is going to do the work for you.

I sometimes feel that fifteen year-old girl inside me.  It never really goes away.  But, I learned how to keep her at bay.

On that February evening back in 1973, I too, saw the light.

The Magic Kingdom

I’m sitting here in Orlando, Florida – the land of sunshine, swamps, afternoon thunderstorms, and all things Disney.

It’s the real “La La land,” surrounded by private living enclaves with streets named Dreamy and Bonnet Lane. Bright, cheerful road signs dot the highway. A Disney archway blasts: “Where all your dreams come true.”  

The gift shop at the nearby Four Seasons Hotel sells Princess gowns and magic sabers, luring childhood dreams as adult conference-goers dash by with tags dangling from their necks.

I point to the plaster-molded regal crowns under glass that line the hallway as Hank and I make our way to a dinner with business friends.

“This is insane. It’s Disney everywhere here,” I say. “I just don’t get the Disney thing.”

My pragmatic husbands responds with, “Lots of people like it, Heath.”

“I guess, but I’m not getting the allure.”

Have I forgotten the wide eyes of our children on their first trip to Disneyland? Or, that our daughter, Hilary, wore a Snow White dress for a week and begged for a Cinderella Birthday Party at five?

Or that I’d found Hank’s Daniel Boone hat in an old box tucked away when we were cleaning the garage?

Still, I don’t get the Disney thing.

After dinner, we hop in a car that will take us back to our hotel. On the floor of the backseat there is a bright colored sabre. I pick it up and show it to the driver. “I see someone on your last run left a souvenir.”

“Oh, no!” he sighs. “That belongs to the little eight-year old autistic boy here with his family. I’m going back to their hotel to return it.”

“You are so kind,” I say.

“I’m a grandfather,” he tells us. “You should have seen the delight in this kid. The parents said they’ve never seen him so happy. I have to return this to him. It’s not that far away.”

“Yes,” I say, looking out the window at Goofy on a marquis touting: “Where to next!”

I turn to Hank. “You’ve got to hand it to Walt Disney. That little boy who forgot his sabre…the joy he had all day in the park.”

Back at our hotel, I see tired parents pushing strollers, a child asleep on a father’s shoulder, his Mickey ears cocked to the side.

My Disney cynicism has washed away. How wonderful to enjoy the illusion of fantasy while the real world sometimes seems in disarray.

“I get it now,” I tell Hank.

Her Obsession

I’m fingering a novel on the new books table at Hudson Books at LAX when an 818 area code lights up my cell phone. My husband, Hank, and I are delayed three hours on a flight to New York due to bad weather and we’re just killing time. I stare at the phone and realize the only 818 number I know is for my eighty-nine year old mother’s skilled nursing facility. I take a breath.

"This is Dr. Smith from The Jewish Home for the Aging. Is this Heather?”

I put down the novel and feel my heart pounding out of my chest. “Yes,” I say, preparing myself for what may be to come.

I move away from the other patrons to a souvenir display of coffee cups and shot glasses. Beyond the glass partition, travelers are dashing to and fro in Terminal 3.

“I’m your mother’s psychiatrist at The Jewish Home.”

My mouth is dry and my words sound like combed cotton.  “Is everything alright?” 

“Well, your mother’s an unusual lady,” he says, easy and calm. I immediately relax. They don’t have the psychiatrist call when a patient has a stroke or dies. At least, I don’t think so. Besides, I’m used to Mom’s antics.

“Has she been complaining to you about me?” I ask. “She constantly asks me if I love her, if I’m mad at her. Honestly, I don’t give her any reason to question that. But, it’s Mom, she’s always been like that.” I find myself rushing the words, defensive. “Is she upset with me?”

“Nooo,” he says, stringing out his response.  I sense hesitation.

“Oh, ok…”

He explains that sometimes with Parkinson’s patients, patients become obsessed.

“Obsessed,” I repeat, deadpan.  “Yes, Mom gets obsessed about needing me to bring her certain things. One week it’s Q-tips. The next, its more false eyelashes…”

He lowers his comforting voice. “I’m speaking about an obsession of a sexual nature.”

Oh, boy, I think, my eyes now fixed on a display of mini golden Oscar statues.

“Sexual?”

“She seems to be obsessed with finding a boyfriend.”

“Oh, that,” I laugh. “Honestly, Doctor, that’s her baseline. She’s been boy crazy since she was in Kindergarten when she kissed Ken Karrier because he smelled good.”

“I’ve talked with the social worker about this,” he continues. “Your mother’s clearly more anxious about having a boyfriend. And, she’s having more hallucinations, seeing a cat at the end of her bed. Very typical Parkinson’s.”

“I know,” I reply, “but, she says that the cats are nice.”

“There’s a new drug that is helping Parkinson’s patients with obsessions. It helps to take that anxiety away and does not interfere with the other Parkinson’s medications. I’d like to try it for her. On a low dose to begin.”

My mind drifts back two years ago when I had to take her to ER because of a fall. My mother loved getting an X-ray with all “these good-looking guys lifting her onto the table.”

“Is this fixation with men normal?” the nurse had asked me then.

"Yes,” I’d replied. “It’s nothing new.”

“It’s interesting,” the doctor says now as if he’s talking to himself.  “Your mother is very specific about the culture of men she desires.”

I inhale, preparing myself. Although, I’m pretty sure that I know what’s coming.

“She desires either a ‘Philippino, an Israeli or a Swarthy Italian.’”

I don’t know whether to burst out laughing or cry. “The Philipino is a new one on her list,” I tell him.

Who gets these calls about their eighty-nine year-old mother confined to a wheelchair?

“Doctor, I understand why you might think this is unusual, but Mom’s been like this all her life.” Dare I tell him that she sold her diamond ring from her first husband, my father, to go to Italy to find a man?

“Yes, the social worker said that as well, but, well, recently, this obsession with finding a boyfriend has increased. And, it’s making her more anxious.

“If this drug will help her anxiety, I’m all for it, but I don’t want her to become comatose. She’s still so vibrant. Maybe, a little too vibrant.”

“It’s just a trial on a low dose. If she doesn’t respond well, we will take her off it immediately.”

“I do want her to have quality of life despite her condition,” I say, relaxed now and picking up one of the Oscars. Is it a coincidence the label on it reads Best Mom?

I put it back and wander over to the magazine rack. The doctor gives me the name of the drug, spelling it out slowly as I grapple for a pen in my handbag. I write it on my boarding pass.

It’s hard to make these decisions. I trust her doctor.  And, I trust The Jewish Home. They’ve provided excellent care. “Well, let’s give it a try,” I say.

I slip the boarding pass into my handbag and call my sister, April.

“You did the right thing, Heather,” she says.

I sruggle over the possible side effects and April brings me to a halt.

“Stop, Heath. It’ll be fine. They’ll take her off if there are any problems.”

When I rejoin Hank in the airport lounge and relate the story to him, he says: "You should have asked the psychiatrist where he was eighty-four years ago when this obsession emerged!”

I laugh so loudly that the two women seated opposite us look up from their reading material. I smile back at them. If they only knew…

                                                       ______________________


Postscript: I read this to my mother today at my visit. When I asked for her permission to post this, she replied: "Hell, yes!"

It Happened One Flight...

“My hair looked good at 6:00am,“ our female flight attendant remarked, swiping a wayward wisp of brown hair behind her ear.  “So sorry for the delays today,” she added as we taxied to the runway en route to New York after a three-hour delay due to weather.

Facing diagonal from my husband, Hank, and me, we’d struck up a conversation after she’d buckled in.  “I’m Lisa, by the way,” she’d smiled.

Lisa told us that she’d been lucky as a flight attendant. “I’ve never had any really bad incident with a passenger and I’ve been at this for ten years. In fact, I was just telling that to the two newer flight attendants working in back.”

Just then a chime sounded.  Lisa reached back to the receiver of the interphone behind her head. Hank turned back to his work and I gazed out at the line of planes ahead of us waiting to take off.

“Oh…oh, boy. Ok,” she said, nodding, the smile gone. “I’ll be right there.”

As our plane inched forward in line, I turned around to see what was happening. Lisa was talking to two young male passengers midway back. “What’s going on?” I whispered to Hank.

Soon, she was back in her jump seat.  At last, we were at the start of the runway, ready to take off. As we listened for the revving of the engines, instead came another chime. Another call. Lisa’s face registered calm.

I turned back to my book, reading the same paragraph over and over. “Look,” Hank said, pointing out the window. “We’re going back to the gate.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever was going on back there, I didn’t want to fly with it.

Passing the gate, we continued on to the remote terminals of LAX with no announcement from the pilot.

When there are a lot of unknowns, that’s when passengers become uncomfortable. This was becoming uncomfortable.

“Hank, we’re so far west from the terminal there are weeds growing on the cracks in the tarmac.”

One of the young female flight attendants came into our cabin up front while Lisa went in back.  She faced the cabin; her red naturally full, red-painted lips framed a smile.

 “What’s going on?” I asked her.

“I’m not at liberty to say anything just now. I’m sorry,” adding, “I’m just here smiling back at the passengers who are looking at me for some sort of sign.”

“This is the Captain speaking,” came the strong male voice over the PA. “We have a situation on board and need to return to the gate. There is no danger. But, unfortunately no open gate at this time. One should open up in about ten-or-so minutes. I apologize for the delay. Thank you for your patience.”

I turned on my phone and began texting my daughter, Hilary. “Looks to be some sort of problem with two young guys who looked pretty out of it when we boarded.”

“What? You’re still in LA? You were supposed to leave four hours ago?”

“Delays,” I typed.

“Ugh…”

Eleven minutes later, the pilot announced that a gate had opened up and we were heading to it. “We will take care of the situation and we can be back on the runway to take off.”

Even though our “situation” wasn’t affecting safety, or threatening in a violent way, the Captain and crew couldn’t disclose the problem. In the meantime, Lisa and her crew maintained calm.

After what seemed like a slow drive on the 405 at rush hour, we finally turned into our gate. As soon as the cabin door opened, four or five policemen and two EMT’s (very good-looking -I typed to Hilary) moved down the aisle and took the two young men off. No one said a word to them as they made their way down the aisle, clutching their soft carry-on’s, sweating at the brow, pale and clearly having had too much of something.

A young blonde woman came up soon after and stood behind the purple plastic partition. Lisa put her arms around her and the girl fell into sobs. She’d been on the window seat next to them. What had they said or done to this young woman?

Within minutes, a middle-aged woman in a print dress, a representative of the airline, was at the cabin door taking in the situation.  In swooped a ground agent, a tall gentleman, his airline tag dangling wildly from his neck. “Thank you for your patience,” he said, “unfortunately, our pilots have maxed out their hours due to the this situation and the delay.”

Groans and a symphony of sighs followed.

“But, hey, we’re going to get you some new pilots as fast as we can. Give me ten minutes.”

I turned to Hank. “Now, that’s impressive. At least they’re trying and not just having us deplane and hope for the best.”

Meanwhile, Lisa is calming the traumatized woman who now has decided to deplane. “Don’t worry,” Lisa told us when I asked. “We’ll (the airline) take care of her.”

Returning with the tags still swinging from what must have be a marathon in Terminal 3, our gentleman ground guy returned. “Good news. I found two pilots.”

Behind him, the two pilots emerged, carry-on cases in tow.  The Captain, exclaiming: “Hey, we thought we were going to Dallas. Now, it’s Newark!”

Soon, we were back in line, taxing to take off…and I was perusing the cocktail list on the back of the menu.  “I think I need a drink,” I whispered to Hank.

Somewhere over the Mid-west, Lisa was once again in high gear as she emerged from the galley. Having done an excellent job up front, she advised that there was a medical situation in back and that she could not serve us for forty-five minutes.

“Are you kidding?” I told her. “We’ll live.” It was all I could do to not put on an apron.

Toward the back of the plane, a twelve year-old unaccompanied boy had gotten sick all down the aisle. The three flight attendants where on it, caring for him, and the passengers, and cleaning up the aisle.

One of the newer flight attendants, on her hands and knees cleaning, was being harassed by an older female passenger who claimed that she “didn’t know how to mother. You’re too young. This child needs mothering.”

With a smile on her face, lipstick reapplied, this flight attendant continued her job. Later, when she was taking a respite for a few minutes up front. I unbuckled my seatbelt and went to her. “You are doing a great job. Don’t let some nut get to you.”

“You’ve been professional,” I added. “Don’t listen to anyone who says you are not doing the best you can – because you are!”

Similar in age to my own daughter, I wanted to mother her. It had not been and easy start to this flight. The weather delays. The “situation” with the two guys. Now a sick child. Yet, all three flight attendants were undeterred.

I’ve heard that passengers tend to complain more about flight attendants to the powers that be than give accolades on their service.

For flight attendants, it’s not easy these days. Passengers are crammed in. Often disrespectful with ear buds in their ears when a flight attendant merely wants to ask what they want to drink. I’ve seen it too often. It’s no wonder some get cranky. It can wear one down. Yes, it’s their “job,” but it deserves respect. We all want respect for what we do. It’s amazing the response when you just treat someone kindly.

Upon landing at 2:30am, the British fellow behind us still had his humor. He stood and reached for his bag overhead and gave us a grin.  “All that and all we get is Newark!”

*Lisa, Haley and Isabel - the flight attendants on the March 31st, Virgin America Flight 166, this is for you.  Thank you for your grace under pressure.