September 18th

I've been sad all day, as evidenced by my earlier post, where I described the Rosh Hashana night that should have--but could not have --happened this year.

I miss the beautiful table, the wonderful smells of freshly prepared Jewish comfort foods wafting from my stove top, the company.

I forced myself as I typed my earlier post  to make jokes like:  "As God as my witness, we'll never go hungry again..unless I forget the brisket recipe in 2021."

But even as I typed that, I was scared..scared that due to Corona, I will NEVER have a family gathering again...I'll never make that brisket again. 

 It's just not safe, and that vaccine may never come.

I tried to count my blessings, I really did.  The three of us still have  each other, still have our health, which I didn't think was so just two days ago.

Long story short:  (and I wasn't even going to share this on Facebook, because physically, I'm FINE)

As I looked in the mirror while brushing my teeth the other day, I noticed something I never noticed before..it looked like someone had implanted a lemon under my skin, on my neck above the shoulder blade.

And yes, I was very resistant to see any kind of specialist..I didn't want to be kept in a waiting room, masked  for two hours, see a professional for a visit that would last for three minutes, and then have someone shrug their shoulders, bill me thousands of dollars, and then tell me to go on a diet.

But Jim and I both became concerned, so I had a virtual appointment on Wednesday afternoon, where my wonderful(no, I'm not being sarcastic..she has always treated me with respect) doctor  was reactive and told me it did not look like a bug bite to her because of its size and sudden appearance.

 (I curiously kept hearing Roy Scheider saying "we're going to need a bigger boat.")

Anyway, she writes up a script for an ultra sound which was scheduled at the local hospital, which Jim drove me to first thing Thursday morning.  A pandemic hospital looks much different than hospitals usually look, but after temperature was taken(for both of us) and questions were answered about travel("I've been to my dentist..three miles from my home") I was seen.

The tech rubbed some gunk on this lemon and told me she'd be right back, and everything should be OK if she came back without the radiologist.

She comes back a few minutes later..with the radiologist.

But he scanned the films very thoroughly and found absolutely nothing to worry about..just some fatty tissue.  (And no, this was NOT fattism to describe a tumor as fatty..it was)

He called it a limpoma, which made me want to laugh, because I just read "Calypso" where David Sedaris hilariously describes having his limpoma removed sort of illegally so he could feed it to turtles.  (Long story in a short, hilarious book which you need to buy as soon as possible)

So I'm fine. 

 Here I am, preaching confidence at any size for all women, saying every women deserves to go in the pool or that lake or that ocean, no matter what size the label of her bathing suits says, and now, I wonder if I want to be seen with a lemon on my shoulder.

Jim says you can hardly see it.

If I'm lucky enough to ever get to the Caribbean again, I will wear that bathing suit.

  If you don't like my lemon you can suck it.

NOW I'll get back on track.

So we're having a very compromised dinner, no kugel, no matzoh balls, and we're all talking about how horrible this year has been, how horrible it is to acknowledge the Jewish New Year.

I suddenly realize the date..it is Friday, September 18th.  

And it dawned on my that September 18th fell on a Friday night at least two times in my life, and both had life changing consequences.

Jim didn't believe me at first, but then he looked it up:  Yes,  it was on a  Friday night, September 18th, 2009,  when we got our little psycho poodle Luke, who has given us a so many memories of 

 both horror and joy.  He'd change our lives and our linens forever, and yet, when you're greeted with the rapidly wagging tail after a horrible day, every misguided bite is worth it.

Then I say to Jim, September 18th, 1987, was also a Friday night.  He confirms this , that September 18th fell on a Friday night in 1987,  on his phone and asked me the significance, and if I had that soup, I might have tossed it in his lap.

It was September 18th, 1987, on a Friday night where I sat down to dinner with Pamela M. Bond-Contractor at Club Getaway in Connecticut and whispered to her that the bearded guy sitting across from us  was kind of cute.

And here we are, thirty three years later, and he still is. And he's still bearded.

So my mood is lifted. 

 I'm making peace with the fact that I'm not having my  traditional Rosh Hashana gathering, but most people I know weren't  having theirs either.

Social distancing.  

It's what we have to do.

Ride this out until we're safe.

We're talking about September 18th, and getting Luke, and meeting each other, when Evan looks up from his phone, murmuring "oh my God, oh my God" over and over again, scaring me, like he scared me when he used the same tone after learning about the sudden death of Kobe Bryant the day before my 64th birthday.

I said, "oh my God..is it Biden?"

He answered quickly, "no..RBG died"

Our hearts sank.

It couldn't be,

It can't be.

I've been on the verge of tears all night.

September 18th will fall on a Friday night again in my life time, although now the event will be marked with great sadness and heartbreak.

I am terrified to face tomorrow, but I will.

We all will.

Because we have to.