Category Archives: Family & Relationships

Rockabye My Little Man

I don’t know about you, but the Christmas season always gets me thinking about;

well, everything.

Okay, I know what many of you want to ask me: Aren’t you Jewish?

I am Jewish, but if you are a regular reader of my blog, you also know that I was born Greek Orthodox, baptized Catholic at five years old, and then converted to Judaism at 31.

I’ve been here there and everywhere when it comes to God.

And listen: you can take the girl out of the religion, but you can’t take the religion out of the girl.

As a result, countless Christmas lyrics get to me every time.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…Strings of street lights, even stoplights…I have no gift to bring that’s fit to give our king…Fall on your knees, oh hear the angels’ voices…

TISSUES!

Last night, driving into town, I heard a song on the radio, and the words stunned and stung a little.

Okay, they stung a lot.

Now, Aaliyah Palmen’s song had zero to do with Christmas, but with the holiday lights twinkling, and the snow on the ground, and shoppers hustling and bustling, and those heart-wrenching words…

I felt the song speaking to me, so I pulled the car over and googled the lyrics:

Call it love and devotion
Call it the mom’s adoration
A special bond of creation
For all the single mums out there
Going through frustration
sing, make them hear

She’s gonna stress
She just wants a life for her baby
All on her own, no one will come
She’s got to save him

She tells him “ooh love”
No one’s ever gonna hurt you, love
I’m gonna give you all of my love
Nobody matters like you

She tells him “your life ain’t gonna be nothing like my life
You’re gonna grow and have a good life
I’m gonna do what I’ve got to do

Single mom what you doing out there?
Facing the hard life without no fear
Just see and know that you really care
‘Cause any obstacle come you well prepared
And no mamma you never shed a tear
‘Cause you have to set things year after year
And you give the youth love beyond compare
You find the school fee and the bus fare
Hmmm more when paps disappear

Now she gotta six year old
Trying to keep him warm
Trying to keep out all the cold
When he looks her in the eyes
He don’t know he’s safe when she says

So, rockabye baby, rockabye
I’m gonna rock you

Rockabye baby, don’t you cry
Somebody’s got you

Rockabye don’t bother to cry
Lift up your head, lift it up to the sky,

Rockabye don’t bother to cry
Angels around you, just joy in your eye


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D20cKBLp2QY

Atonement

As many of you know, I converted to Judaism from Catholicism almost 37 years ago.

And for those of you who are wondering how I could have walked away from my religion, I will tell you in all honesty that it was one of the most difficult life decisions I have ever made.

What gave me solace over the years was my belief that if I lived a kind, honest, and generous life, I would be blessed no matter what religion I was.

And if there’s a heaven, I have faith and hope that I will be welcome there when the time comes.

But this blog post isn’t about my conversion.

It’s about atonement and my fear of it.

Let’s start at the very beginning.

According to rabbinic tradition, the Hebrew calendar started at the time of creation, placed at 3,761 BCE.

This year, on Rosh Hashana, Jews throughout the world celebrated the ancient anniversary of the creation of humanity; the commemoration of God’s creation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden 5,780 years ago.

As a celebratory holiday, I gathered family and loved ones together for two nights, eating challah bread and apples dipped in honey, and prayed for a sweet year.

I prayed for a positive future and asked for the strength to believe in the promise of better humanity and a brighter tomorrow.

According to Jewish tradition, God opens three books on Rosh Hashanah.

In the first book, the righteous are inscribed for life in the coming year.

In the second book, the wicked are inscribed for death.

And in the third book, the names of the rest of us are temporarily inscribed. Our fates during the coming year are based upon our actions and behavior during the Ten Days of Repentance, which culminates on Yom Kippur, a solemn day of fasting, repentance, and atonement.

The Hebrew word for atonement is “Teshuva,” which translates to “return.”

Over the years, I have personalized what the word “return” means to me in the context of atonement.

I have rationalized what “return” means to me in the context of my life.

Return to my better self.

Return to a place of goodness.

Return to kindness.

Return to the people I’ve hurt.

Returning to the people I’ve hurt is a tough one because, in the Jewish tradition, the process of atonement and repentance includes three acts:  confession, regret, and a vow not to repeat the misdeed.

Judaism requires that those who are in need of atonement must seek out those they’ve hurt and ask for their forgiveness.

And if the apology is rebuffed, the atoner must ask at least three times before giving up.

For me, three times rebuffed is way more rejection than I would care to bear.

But the possibility of forgiveness more than makes up for my fear of rejection and gives me the courage to ask, regardless of the pain it may cause.

My angst is overwhelming, but I know I need to set it aside and reach out to that person I hurt in the hopes of reuniting and returning to a more fulfilling, loving life.

I forgive you. Three words that could change my life. Or lives.

Judaism requires atonement but also emphasizes that it is never too late to make amends. It is never too late to repair what’s been broken.

Return, atone, repair.

On Yom Kippur, we take a frank look at our character and our actions over the past year and ask ourselves, “What is the purpose of our existence?”

And we promise God to engage in a project of self-improvement, self-transformation, and self-actualization.

And we ask ourselves:

Could I have done something differently?

Should I have done something differently?

Do I owe someone an apology?

Are there errors that I can still fix?

Have I made my family proud?

Have I made God proud?

Am I fulfilling my mission on God’s great earth?

During Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, many of the blessings, prayers, affirmations, and confessions are said as “we.”

“We have sinned” vs. “I have sinned.” “We ask for forgiveness” rather than, “I ask for forgiveness.”

Perhaps this is done to remind us that we are united and to help us understand that we are all in this together. We have all sinned. We all need to ask for forgiveness.

Pay it forward. Cause and effect.

One of us affects another, who, in turn, affects another, and another, perhaps infinitely.

It is all up to us. We have the option to cause pain or to repair.

We can choose to do something to someone rather than for someone or speak badly vs. praising a person.

Each action we choose will have repercussions upon our life and someone else’s life and perhaps the lives of generations to come.

I’m afraid of rejection, but during these holidays I know I need to atone, I recognize I must be brave and take a chance at repair. Reach out and ask for forgiveness.

I fear the silence, but I have hope; the hope of the return of someone I love and miss more than life itself.

Nightmare 2.0

My sleep patterns are substandard at best.

And what little shut-eye I do manage to sneak in, is more than often consumed with a never-ending succession of movie-worthy dreams; chock full of ideas, emotions, and images.

Unfortunately for me, way too many of those visions involve wild menacing beasts, which make them more nightmares than dreams.

These epic brain dumps typically wake me up in the early hours of the morning in a heart-pounding, anxiety-heightened sweaty state.

I call them my bogeyman wake-ups.

My typical bogeyman wake-up goes like this: I open my eyes, paralyzed with fear. I quickly turn on the light and check the room. I pull out my notebook from the nightstand next to my bed and furiously write down everything I can recall. Sometimes this exercise takes ten minutes, while other times it takes two to three hours.

If the image or idea is particularly vivid, I can write an entire essay until I either run out of words, am mentally exhausted, or I’ve self-talked myself to calm it down.

Once I’m calm, I’m usually also wide awake, so I regularly turn on my tablet and research the why of all of it.

I recently found a quote by Sigmund Freud answering his why of all of it, which stuck with me:

“On my way to discovering the solution of the dream, all kinds of things were revealed, which I was unwilling to admit even to myself.”

This past Tuesday my bogeyman alarm woke me up at precisely 3:02 in the a.m.

The apparition was an animal image combined with a question: How can I escape?

The dream started out with a very scary goat.

I know what you’re thinking. Goats aren’t scary.

But this goat was a scary doozy, and because I was in a corner, the goat was even more terrifying.

It was less a dream and more of an idea. Or maybe it was less of an idea and more of a blurry image of that super scary goat and helpless me.

I wrote “scary” and “goat” in my notebook.

And then, with nothing better to do with my drenched and anxious self, I grabbed my tablet and looked up, “scary goat.”

Google offered me several choices:

scary goat
scary goat gif
scary goat meme
scared goat
scapegoat
scapegoating

Oh, my God.

“On my way to discovering the solution of the dream…”

I then looked up scapegoat: A compound of the verb scape, which means “escape” and two Hebrew translations/interpretations. 1) A possible misreading of the Hebrew word ‘ez ‘ozel (goat that departs) and 2) the Hebrew proper noun Azazel (demon).

I also discovered that In Leviticus 16:1-34, a goat was used in a ritual by a rabbi on Yom Kippur; where the rabbi symbolically loaded a goat with the sins of the Israelites and then let it loose into the wilderness to die.

The bottom line in Leviticus 16: that unsuspecting harmless goat who did nothing wrong was blamed and punished for the mistakes and sins of everyone else.

I continued my research.

By definition, a scapegoat is a person who is blamed for all that goes wrong, regardless of the guilt and wrongdoing of others. Scapegoats are repeatedly subjected to character assassination, abandonment, betrayal, and outright hatred by family members.

Scapegoating is also a way for adult children to hide familial abuse by blaming everything negative that happens, on one particular (and innocent) family member.

Further, scapegoating by adult children is usually due to having one parent with a personality disorder. To protect the parent with the mental disorder, the adult child uses the other parent as their scapegoat.

In an abusive, dysfunctional family, keeping their image unmarred is key to the scapegoat coverup. They live in an alternate reality. The dysfunctional family will go to any lengths to destroy the scapegoat because otherwise their abuse and sickness will be uncovered. They will also do whatever it takes to convince others that the scapegoat is a horrible person in order to further isolate and destroy them.

One article specifically used the following example: A wife leaves an abusive marriage, (which in and of itself takes enormous courage).  The family of the husband becomes paranoid that his abuse, dysfunction, and psychopathy will be revealed, and used against him, so the lies, brainwashing, and alienation begin until the scapegoated wife is attacked, denounced, alienated, and ultimately removed entirely from the familial picture. The scapegoating is used to deflect accountability for the husband’s abusive behavior.

“…all kinds of things were revealed which I was unwilling to admit even to myself.

Out of that scary goat dream, I had an epiphany:

The hurtful accusations and condemnation I have endured over the years were explicitly designed to protect an abusive family member. I was scapegoated and sent out into the wilderness to shrivel up and die. But now that I’ve found my way back home, I can finally stop beating myself up. I can eviscerate the self-doubt and let go of trying to work out a relationship that I now see is sadly impossible because the one that I miss the most is complicit in all of it.

The goat wasn’t scary. The goat was scared.

The goat wasn’t the demon; the goat was the target.

What started as the mother of all nightmares turned into a miraculous and most welcome wake-up call.

Sliding Doors


Click here for the MOVIE TRAILER OF SLIDING DOORS

Sliding Doors is one of my favorite movies. As soon as I saw the trailer above, back in 1998, I knew I had to see it.

I went to the movies alone and armed myself with a jumbo popcorn slathered with extra butter, a large coke, and some chocolate covered raisins.

Gwyneth Paltrow played Helen, a London advertising executive. After she gets fired from her job, she devastatingly walks out of her office and plans to go home via subway.

And then fate kicked in, and two side by side scenarios emerged.

In the first scenario, Helen squeezes her way into the subway train just as the sliding doors are closing. Too bad for her, because, she comes home and finds her boyfriend, Gerry (played by John Lynch), in bed messing with another woman. Heartbroken Helen leaves Gerry, eventually finds the love of her life, and lives happily ever after.

In the second scenario, the sliding doors shut in her face, and she misses the train. While hailing a cab, a mugger tries to run off with her handbag, and she falls, hitting her head. By the time Helen arrives home, the other woman is long gone. Gerry continues to cheat on Helen, and poor suffering Helen lives a miserable life.

I was recovering from my own misery; a harrowing and heartbreaking familial divorce, so I found the movie sadly relatable.

What if I had never moved back to New York? What if I never went to that stupid party? What if I said no instead of yes? What if I decided to go it alone and have the baby anyway?   

As the movie tracked through both storylines, I had no idea whether Helen got on that train or not.

But I was rooting for Helen. I was silently praying that those sliding doors shut right into her face. I was crying throughout the entire movie while shoving handfuls of overly buttered popcorn with a side of chocolate raisins into my mouth.

My tears weren’t for Helen; they were for me.

Because I had been the leading lady in my own version of Sliding Doors.

Haven’t we all?

The theme song Thank You from Sliding Doors

 

My Grandmother’s World War II Home Front Job

In the late 1930s, my grandmother Mammy (pronounced MayMe) came to Bridgeport, Connecticut from Caribou, Maine as a single mom in search of a better life for her and her young daughter.

Soon after she arrived, millions of unemployed Americans went to work to make weapons of war, many of whom were women.  My grandmother was one of them.

She had a 3pm-11pm shift at Remington Arms boxing bullets on an assembly line.

She had other jobs as well—at least three or four at the time, but Remington was her bread and butter.

Remington Arms was a sprawling 73-acre manufacturing complex on Barnum Avenue in Bridgeport and was among the biggest munitions factories in the world, employing over 17,000 workers and producing tons of ammunition and weapons each year.

For women like my grandmother, the war brought enormous change in American women’s lives and was a crucial step on the road toward equal rights.

Before the war, women were second-class citizens and were unfairly discriminated against in the workplace. World War II was first a stimulus, and then became the model for women like Mammy and solidified their place in the job market.

I’d like to think that my grandmother’s experiences helped to lay the groundwork for the women’s movement in later years. And I know for sure that her experiences in the factory and her work on the assembly line helped to shape the way she raised me.

Whenever Mammy spoke about her work at Remington Arms, she recalled it fondly. While we never spoke of her job in terms of whether her work helped the democratic cause, she always spoke of her pride in the work she did, including the enormous amount of overtime she booked, week after week, month after month.

For Mammy, her job at Remington Arms was a vehicle for lasting change and offered her hope for a prosperous future. It altered her thinking about who she was and gave her pride in what she had accomplished during the war.

As a result of her work boxing bullets, the American dream was more than wishful thinking. It was finally within her reach and had become her goal.

World War II was the catalyst for change, and America was undeniably transformed by the end of it.

And so was Mammy.

Pam 6/2/52-5/20/09

This is one of two photos I have of my cousin Pam in her before life—before her life took too many tragic turns.

I combed through my albums looking for the oldies but goodies to honor her today.

I was hoping to find some photos of us together as carefree kids, with no knowledge of the devastation awaiting her.

It saddened me that I only found two photos of the before Pam.

The one above, of her alone, and one of Pam with her husband Joe, before he heartbreakingly passed away at 38 years young.

Just two photos before her world came crashing in on her.

Before her husband died.

Before her son died.

I met Pam on March 6, 1966.

I know this because going through some old files last week, I found an entry I wrote on some Rheingold Beer stationery all those years ago.

A sign from Pam reminding me of the where and the how.

I was a nervous wreck that March day in 1966. I didn’t need to read my old notes to recall the terror I felt.

I was meeting my future family and it was going to be awkward because they knew my mom for several years, but they didn’t know about Theresa. I was a dirty little secret.

I couldn’t blame this family for being upset. They were Catholic like us, and I was the mortal sin.

The meeting started out not good. But in the end, it didn’t go as horribly as I thought it would.

Because of Pam.

She made it okay.

She was beautiful inside and out, and I never forgot her kindness.

We weren’t blood but everyone who saw us together thought we were sisters.

Can you see it?

 

 

Ballroom Competition and Mother’s Day

It’s May 12, 2019, and I’m writing this blog post for my mom.

I’m reasonably sure she doesn’t read or even know about my blog.

But it’s Mother’s Day, and I’m missing her. Badly.

So please stick with me on this blog post?

A close friend of mine invited me to Philadelphia to watch her compete in an Amateur Ballroom Dance Competition called the Philadelphia Dancesport Championships.

Now let me be clear. I know ZERO about Ballroom dancing, so whatever I blog here is from a know-nothing perspective.

And if you bear with me, you will see how I managed to intermingle her dance competition with Mother’s Day.

My friend is an amateur, but extremely talented ballroom dancer, who partners with a masterful professional.

As a fan of “Dancing with the Stars,” I was super excited to finally see Bo dance.

First, it was off to New Jersey for a two-hour lesson and practice, followed by picking up the mother of all sequined dresses.

I’m pretty sure the dress weighed more than Bo!

Then we spent a quiet evening at the Westin Hotel in Philly.

And the next day, while Bo prepared for her competition, I went to the ballroom to familiarize myself with the dancing lowdown.

There were numbers on every table, so of course, I quickly grabbed a seat at my lucky numero 18.

The table was set up with battery-operated fans, bottled water, lots of tissue boxes and neatly folded perspiration cloths.

There were at least seven judges, heads bent low to their table, busily writing stuff down.

Professional photographers were snapping photos and videographers were busy filming the competing couples.

Watching the contestants compete, I couldn’t help but wonder if they had day jobs.

I imagined, for example, that the hot tamale in the senior novice division doing the Cha-Cha in an ever-so skin-tight green dress, was an accountant by day.

“Number 476—the Cha-Cha, let’s hear it for the contestants.”

There was the Rumba, the Swing,  and the Mambo.

I was mesmerized by the abundance of illusion, glitter, sequins, feathers, and spray tan. And those splits! Oh my.

And every time a dance duo would glide by me, they would smile and gaze adoringly at me.

I was patting myself on the back that my slit wide-leg pants, glitter top, globs of face makeup, eye shadow and mascara had paid off…until I realized that there was a ginormous mirror behind me.

While the contestants were throwing back all brands and sizes of bottled water, I was happily throwing back a Chardonnay.

Two of the male dancers at my table were in deep discussion about hair gel, while I was mesmerized by one particular male dancer on the floor.

Not only did he have impressive dance moves (not that I would know), he had swag.

Mr. Swag competed with more than twenty different female partners, and he danced them to winning status every time.

Which got me to thinking: Does he live near me?

A thought balloon hovered over my head: The Terster in a tight green dress…okay maybe not so tight, because of, you know, the belly roll…

But there is the Terster—floating around the dance floor with Mr. Russian Swag Guy. And the winner is!!!!!!!

Okay, I was having a blast, but you know Teri.

She can always pull something out of the past to put a damper on any old day.

And this is where Mother’s Day comes in.

Because back in the day, my mom was an Arthur Murray dance instructor, so a lot of the songs and dances reminded me of how she would sing and dance around the kitchen on Huron Street with a phantom partner.

Once in a while, she would grab my hand, and we would float around as best we could in the cramped spaces between the table and chairs and the fridge.

Well, my mom floated, I clomped.

The flashback of the two us—with my mom so carefree and happy.

Back then, if she was happy, then so was I.

And of course, my grandmother would be sitting at the table, smiling, but covering her mouth, lest we would see her loose-fitting dentures moving around.

Maybe I looked forlorn, perhaps a little distracted. I can’t say why, but the young woman sitting next to me placed her hand on my arm. “Are you okay? Are you watching someone out there?”

I was a little choked up, so I merely shook my head no.

I pulled out a tissue from one of the several boxes on the table to catch the tears in the corners of my eyes.

Leave it to me to take a perfectly enjoyable dance competition and make a weepfest out of it.

A couple of minutes later when I had my emotions in check, I told the young woman about my mom and Arthur Murray. Well not Arthur per se, but you know what I mean.

She had bleached blonde spiky hair, a nose ring, and a mohawk motorcycle helmet. Not exactly ballroom material.

She told me that her mom was a senior novice. “The vision in lavender,” she said, as she proudly pointed her out. I answered that my favorite color was lavender.

And then she told me everything I needed to know (or not) about ballroom dance competitions, her passion for motorcycles, and how her mom got her mojo back through competitive dancing.

In between dances, contestants would come to the table and fan themselves, yank out a handful of tissues, and gently blot the sweat off their faces.

Then there came a series of songs that just stabbed at my heart:

♪ Sunrise, sunset, Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears ♪

I grabbed for a tissue and ordered another glass of wine.

♪ A time for us, someday there’ll be
A new world, a world of shining hope for you and me ♪

I mean seriously? These songs were hardly conducive for a happy Teri outcome.

I grabbed a few more tissue, said a quick goodbye to my punky friend who was busy videoing her mom and bolted out of the ballroom before dark Teri reared her ugly head.

Plus, it was almost showtime for Bo!

A flurry of stretching, hair, makeup and then the donning of her elegant sun-yellow gown.

Bo’s dancing was superb. She was a vision in yellow—a beautiful ray of sunshine. Bo and her partner danced with elegance and spot-on precision. I was so proud of her.

She breezed through the Waltz, Viennese Waltz, Fox Trot, Quickstep, and the Tango, and took first place in all of her heats.

Her last dance was the Fox Trot. The song was Fly Me to the Moon.

Thank God for those tissues.

How many times had I adoringly watched my mom float around our dumpy kitchen on Huron Street while singing that tune?

A lifetime ago.

What I wouldn’t give to have one more chance at one more dance.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom.

Triggers

They can randomly slam into my psyche at any time or any place.  A smell, a sound, a sight.

And those unpredictable triggers can elicit a pounding heart, a sigh, a sob, a painful pit in my stomach, or a full-fledged meltdown.

Driving to Pennsylvania for business three weeks ago, I was stopped at a red light and happened to look at the car behind me through my rear-view mirror.

A drop-dead gorgeous guy was staring at the so-so looking girl sitting in the passenger seat. The so-so girl was staring straight ahead stiff as a statue.

To anyone else, this would have been a nothing burger. No there there.

But I could sense trouble brewing. Call it intuition from experience.

So, I kept looking.

As the light turned green, he roughly grabbed her face with his right hand, yanking it in his direction. She swatted his hand. He pulled hard on her hair. She never stopped staring straight ahead.

I didn’t budge. I couldn’t drive. He put his hand to the horn, and I jerked forward and pulled over to the side of the road as soon as I could. As he sped by me, my eyes locked with hers.

I wanted to chase them down, jump out of my car and pull her out of his. Save her, because a long time ago I didn’t have the courage to save myself.

Trigger.

I sat shaking and shouting.  LEAVE HIM!!!!! LEAVE HIM!!!!!

Once I got control of myself, I continued driving. But it ruined my whole day.

That’s how it happens.

Something awful crashes in on me unexpectedly. The melancholy, the anxiety, the overwhelming sadness. The anger. The frustration.

Yesterday a young boy roller-bladed past me as I was pulling my car into the garage. His hockey stick swayed back and forth as he glided along. I watched him skate until he disappeared.

Trigger.

I stumbled into the house and grabbed a pen and paper.  I tried to write it out and then set it aside by shoving it into my bulging treasure trove file of heartbreaking notes.

I’ll get back to them one day.

It’s my written way of calling a friend. My lifeline of sorts.

And then today, I had to drive into town to drop something off to my client.

I was feeling good. Until Nights in White Satin came on the radio.

I pulled into a parking lot where I could close my eyes and breathe.

And just like that, a flashback.

♪ Nights in White Satin, never reaching the end. Letters I’ve written, never meaning to send

It was 1968. We had just left the hospital. He was driving. Her burns were severe. Worse than anything I had ever seen. And the pain she was in. I was afraid she would die. Afraid of being afraid.

So afraid.

Nights in White Satin came on the radio.

♪ Gazing at people, some hand in hand. Just what I’m going through they can’t understand ♪

He pulled the car over. And buried his face in his hands. He let out a God-awful guttural sound.

I loved him. I hated him. I pitied him. I pitied myself.

♪ Beauty I’ve always missed, with these eyes before. Just what the truth is, I can’t say any more ♪

I knew then, as I tried to block out his wailing that as a family we were cooked.

Signs from the Universe

I’m constantly asking myself: Is this a sign, is that a signal, or is it all just a coincidence?

And I’m always looking for coincidences and/or signs based on dates my loved ones passed, birds, butterflies, coins, the number 18 or its multiples, blah, blah, blah.

Some Teri sharing, before I lay it all out for you…

In the Jewish numerological tradition of gematria, the number 18 has long been viewed as corresponding to the Hebrew word “chai,” meaning “life,” derived by adding the eighth and tenth letters of the Hebrew alphabet, chet, and yud.

Many Jews who write a check on the occasion of a celebratory event, will use a multiple of $18, which is synonymous with “L’Chaim,” or “To Life.” So, if you ever receive a check from a Jew with an odd numerical value like $432, you’ll know why.

My husband and I like to tell the following anecdote regarding a used car we once purchased in Florida while visiting family:

The next-door neighbor of my sister-in-law quoted us a price of $17,500 for the purchase of his several-year-old Mercedes E350. My husband made a counteroffer—of $18,000. The neighbor looked at us like we were nuts, but he immediately shouted, “Sold!” He thought he’d gotten one over on us, but that long-in-the-tooth car ran like a lucky charm and gave us many years of excellent riding. So there.

Back to signs.

You name it; I look at it as a possible signal; from someone gone from my life through death, or denouncement, or people I love, but no longer have a relationship with.

And unfortunately for me, the list of dead, those who have denounced me, and those I have let go of for my own reasons is a long one.  Way too long.

So, in order to deal, or maybe to heal, I’ve programmed my brain to watch for patterns of coincidences.

My husband laughs me off and calls them “coinkydinks.”

But I can’t find the funny in any of it. Because I do think that something way more than chance is at work in the universe. Or at least in my universe.

Which is why I want to share with you a recent set of events and see what you think.

A chain of coincidences so eerily meaningful, that they must have been meant for me.

Friday, March 22, was the day my grandmother Alpheda Fox died 36 years ago.

She died on a cold and rainy night on that direful March 22, 1983, twelve days before my 30th birthday.

I was devastated. So devastated that I threw up for weeks after that. It turns out I was devastated, but I was also pregnant. A sign for another blog post.

My grandmother went by the name of Freda, but her given name was Alpheda.

She never liked her name, but I loved it and thought it was a one-of-a-kind original. Like her.

For those of you who know me or are readers of my blog posts, you know that my grandmother played a significant and huge part of my life.

Anyway, this past March 22, I was up at Lake Placid over the weekend for the ECAC Men’s Ice Hockey tournament.

Depressed, and on the way to the Herb Brooks Arena that night, I silently asked my grandmother to send me a sign to let me know she wasn’t gone gone.

In my one-sided inside voice conversation with my grandmother, I assured her that it didn’t have to be a major sign, but something that would stand out to me. Something that was too coincidental not to be a sign from her to me.

It was a long shot request, and I forgot about it.

We got to the rink early. The Harvard players were skating onto the ice.

The first player to come out was wearing number 18.  Okay.

His last name? Fox. OKAY.

His first name? Adam. Whoa.

Not only did it start with an A, but Adam was a consequential man in my grandmother’s life. The longer story of Adam I will save for another time.

But the shorter story was that when Adam died, he left my grandmother enough money to help get us out of that horrendous apartment on Huron Street.

Huron, with an H.

Harvard, with an H.

18

Chai

Life

Fox

A

Alpheda

Adam

H

Huron Street

It had to be my grandmother somewhere out there in the universe: I’m still here, Teri. I’m still here with you.

Anyway; sign, coincidence, coinkydink…whatever.

I was a very happy Teri who didn’t feel sad or depressed any longer and who didn’t have to pretend to enjoy herself because my grandmother was in the rink.

Despite Adam Fox playing one heck of a game, Harvard lost to Clarkson.

Adam was on the losing end, but I had won. Big time.

And unbeknownst to him, Adam Fox in his number 18 jersey was my Friday night hero.

And beyond.

Any thoughts?

 

The Light Is Still On

He was born in the winter, on a cold and rainy Wednesday night.

He was finally mine, and I was struck with an enlightening love I had never before known. The January of my life.

When I would call him mister-man in my baby talky voice, he smiled big and toothless, his brown eyes twinkled, and I felt warm in his love.

And when he needed me most, I rocked him through the pain, the dark, the disquiet.

I refused to put him down, lest he roll over amidst the bandages.

And a light was always on, more for me than mister-man.

That was before the silence, before the break.

Seasons come and seasons go.

Too many, I fear.

But the light will never dim.