When the road is paved with question marks

Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to see into the future.

In 2nd grade, Mrs. Rosen called me "Miss What If" because I asked a lot of questions to help me determine all the possible outcomes of a situation. Example: "What if we can't hand in our homework because tomorrow's a snow day?" Follow-up question: "What if the next day's also a snow day?" Sally did not like Mrs. Rosen's nickname for me. She thought it was an undeserved stigma. I always wondered if there was some truth to the name.

In 6th grade, I realized Mrs. Rosen didn't hold all the answers -- the fortune teller at the Gold Coast Flea Market did. For $5, the lady in the tapestry skirt told me I'd get married at 24 and have a baby at 26. At age 11, that sounded pretty accurate. Now, at age 27, unmarried and unchildrened, and with the Gold Coast Flea Market conveniently out of business, I'm pretty sure I can't get a refund.

As an adolescent, I thought obsessively about what I'd look like and what my life would be like at 17. I thought that was the perfect age. It turned out to be the age that Sally was diagnosed. After that, I stopped looking so far into the future. It seemed to be bad luck.

But here I am, at 27, and still I'd like to know what the future holds. Wouldn't we all, I suppose? When I gaze into my crystal ball, however, all I see are question marks. Will I get married? Will I have kids? Where will I live? Will I change careers? Question marks everywhere I look. And it bugs me.

I know deep down that that's what life is: a series of question marks that gradually get answered. Sally wrote it to me once in a letter when I was 13:

I wish I could impart to you some very important wisdom -- on how to live your life, on whom to love, on whom to choose as your friends, and on how not to get hurt. But, unfortunately and fortunately, there is no secret formula for success. You, alone, will have that adventure -- that wondrous adventure called life. And remember, life is always filled with unexpected surprises!

I read this letter whenever I feel a little lost, and even 13 years later, it still rings true.

How do you deal with all of life's question marks?

Sally and the very odd dream

Sally visited me in my dream last night. But it was a very odd dream.

In the dream, I had to go to the hospital for a series of tests. The doctor started describing the tests to me. "In the first test," he said, "I'll inject dye into you and you'll have to tell me if you feel a painful sensation all through your body." Yikes. He injected me and sure enough, it hurt like a beast clawing my insides. Luckily, the pain didn't last very long. He got the result he needed and we moved on to the next test.

"In the second test," he continued, "I'll give you instructions and see if you can carry them out." Well, this test seemed far easier. "I'm going to give you this ketchup bottle and then" -- his voice cut out. His lips were still moving, but it was as if the audio had been cut. Instinct told me to scramble off the doctor's table and start running, but I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Scraggly, long-haired men jumped out at me, and I squirted them with ketchup, thinking maybe that's what I was supposed to do. I kept running and squirting until finally the nurses stopped me, brought me back to my original room, and tried to settle me down, but I was very upset.

That's when I noticed my mom and dad were huddled in the corner, whispering to each other and obviously very concerned about me.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" I said, shocked. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Missy," she said, sternly. "If something really serious is going on, I'm going to be there."

The dream ended abruptly. Half-asleep, I reflected back on the dream. Sally believed that when the dead appeared in your dreams, it meant they were coming to visit you. I believe that, too. So does Dad, who said he dreamed about Mom the last night he slept in the house before selling it.

The dream reminded me of a poem that Laura's mom gave me after my mom died. The poem is called "Footprints in the Sand" by Mary Stevenson, and it's often recited to people who are going through tough times. In the poem, the man sees two sets of footprints, his and the Lord's, but during tough times he only sees one set of prints. He asks the Lord, "Why, when I needed you most, you have not been there for me?" The Lord replies: "The times when you have seen only one set of footprints in the sand, is when I carried you."

Perhaps Sally, all 5-feet-1-inch and 104 pounds of her, is offering to carry me. Thanks, Mom.

Thanksgiving!

I hope you all had a lovely (and filling) Thanksgiving!

Like last year, and every year since I was a little kid, I spent the holiday with my mom's side of the family in Connecticut. Aunt Sherry & Uncle Stuary host a wonderful dinner packed with about a dozen of our relatives and tons of yummy food. Even though my mom is no longer here, I'm proud to carry on the tradition and represent "the Bardach clan"! It's my favorite holiday of the year.


This year was particularly special because we celebrated my Great Aunt Ruthy's 90th birthday and my Uncle Stuart's 70th birthday. Everyone wrote beautiful, heartfelt notes to Aunt Ruthy, which she read aloud. Some even made her well up! Uncle Stuart loves celebrating his birthday, as you can tell from his new accessory in the photo below.

I also got to hang out with my little cousins, Jamie & Greg, two of my favorite people in the world. Right before we were about to sit down for the big turkey dinner, Greg decided it was time to pull out his front tooth. The tooth fairy was very generous to him on account of it being a holiday -- $6! All Jamie wants for Chanukah is a puppy, so everyone spent a lot of time debating the ups and downs of owning a pet.


Last but not least, I was also fortunate to have Mark by my side for the third year in a row. He's the only guy I know who can even make stabbing a forkful of turkey fun. He keeps me giggling, and it makes me miss Sally less, because I know she'd be happy that he's comfortable there and loves talking to her older brother (Uncle Stuart), younger brother (Uncle Howie), and all the rest of the family.

Especially in a year full of change (Dad selling the house and moving in with Susan, me moving in with Mark, Jordan's girlfriend Robyn moving in with him), it was nice to celebrate a holiday in a home I've known for as long as I can remember. I may have lost my childhood house this year, but over the holiday I realized Aunt Sherry's and Uncle Stuart's home is one of my childhood houses, too, and I'm lucky to still have not only their house but all my favorite traditions (including Aunt Sherry's famous Chocolate Chip Cake!).

How was your holiday?

Saying Goodbye to My Childhood House

19 days remain until my dad sells the house. It didn't hit me 'til last night, when I woke up at 2 AM and couldn't fall back to sleep. I tossed and turned for an hour. And I thought a lot about the house I grew up in (that's it in the photo, isn't it pretty?).

Everyone keeps asking how I feel about the house selling. The thing is, I said goodbye to that house 7 years ago when my mom died. I knew then and there that the house would never be the same. Her too-loud laugh and warm hugs had filled the space for 20+ years. Without it, the house felt as hollow as the pumpkins we gutted and carved last night.

My cousin Susi says she wants to see the house before it goes. I keep thinking she's going to be disappointed. She wants what I want: my mom asking us girls to set the table with her pretty butterfly dishes and all of us gathering round the table to eat baked ziti and laugh at Sally's ridiculous stories, like when she accidentally walked into the men's room at the gym, plus an inappropriate remark about how God really knew what he was doing when he made the woman's body (and not so much when he made the man's). If Susi goes there, she'll see what I see: a ghost of a house, the ghost of Sally.

The truth is, the house being gone is a bit of a relief. These days I prefer going to Susan's house. It has the warmth that my house lacks. And with my dad living there too, it will feel even more homey.

My sadness about the house is also uplifted by the people buying the house. Just like my parents, it's a young couple who are both teachers. And just as my parents moved in with infant Jordan, they're moving in with a newborn son. To top it off, the woman's name is Laura, the same name as my best friend. When my dad told me about them, I immediately knew and told him, "It's meant to be. Mom wanted you to sell the house."

Have you had to part with your childhood home? How did you get through it? What did you save, what did you throw away?

Fear of losing the happies

I woke up at 6 AM today -- on a Saturday, mind you -- sweating from a bad dream.

It was the kind of dream that's so bad you don't want to say it out loud, for fear you may completely jinx the person in the dream or yourself. But I think sometimes if you say it out loud, you get rid of it, so here goes: In my dream, my Uncle Bobby died.

I guess you first have to understand Uncle Bobby. He's a one-of-a-kind. He's the single, hip, lives-in-NYC uncle who's always telling you about the latest jazz club or Vietnamese sandwich shop he discovered. Best part is he'll describe it with the enthusiasm of a tourist even though he's lived in the big apple for 50+ years. And he's always eager to spend time with his 5 girl nieces, all of us in our 20s who completely adore him.

Uncle Bobby's been on my mind since Yom Kippur, when we went to temple services together (our annual tradition since I moved to the city 4 years ago). Between services, he told me all about his new job. In a mid-life career switch, he just graduated with a masters in teaching and landed his first job at a terrific school in Brooklyn. After hopping from radio voice-overs to NYC tour guide, teaching just seems to suit Bobby. He's smiling bigger than I've ever seen him.

In my dream, I kept thinking how unfair it was: He had just found his happiness and now it was taken away.

I suppose you're thinking what I'm thinking: the dream isn't about Uncle Bobby. It's about Sally and it's about me.

Sally, when she got sick at 57, had been in the prime of her happiness. She had married late for the '70s (she was 34), had children later (she had me at 39), and was finally enjoying her husband and children and planning for retirement. Cancer came in and took all her happiness away, just like that. It took some of my happiness away, too.

Like Sally's happiness at 57, I feel I am reaching my happiness now at 27. Living with Mark is the start of our home and life together. After so many nerves of whether or not to move in together, living together fits us so well. But sometimes, when I overhear girls on the subway telling their girlfriend to dump his sorry ass, or when my own girlfriends get their hearts broken, I tell myself sternly, "Marisa, this could all go away tomorrow," and then I look for holes and gaps where my happiness could slip through the cracks and be gone.

Happiness has always been top priority for me. Mom used to like retelling the story of me at age 2, sitting on the potty. She and dad had just had a fight. "Mommy," I asked, looking up at her. "Are you happy with Daddy?" Imagine Sally's shock. "Why, yes, sweetheart," she said, "Don't you want to get married one day?" I guess I pondered this, still tinkling, while I came to my decision: "I just want to be happy."

The funny thing about happiness is that as soon as you become fearful of losing that happiness, you stop feeling happy. Why shouldn't Uncle Bobby just enjoy his new teaching venture? Why shouldn't I just enjoy my new life with Mark? What goodness comes of fear? It may first seem like a humble quality, but really it just breeds negativity.

Off to re-start my Saturday with happiness. Step 1: Breakfast. Step 2: Haircut. Step 3: Dinner and a birthday party with close friends.

I wish you all a happy day.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month: Kind of nice or a load of crap?

Hi there,

So, it's October, which means it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month. The topic came up over the weekend while I was at an annual ladies' getaway to the Jersey Shore with Laura, Mrs. G (Laura's mom), and Mrs. Byrne (Laura's mom's close friend). We discussed whether we were on board with the cancer awareness months. Here's what we decided:

• Breast Cancer Awareness Month is clearly the most popular and gets the most media attention of any of the cancer months. We need to pay more attention to other cancers, especially pancreatic cancer (which has such a high death rate) and lung cancer (which often has little sympathy because it's associated with smokers).
  
  
• We're a little tired of all the Breast Cancer Awareness products. Stores are stocked with ridiculous items like a pink nail polish with a pink ribbon on it. Sure, some proceeds go to breast cancer, but it's often as little as 3 - 10 %. Why can't companies donate money to cancer charities in a subtle way? The products seem so showy -- for the companies and the consumers.
  
  
• Why should just one month be associated with a specific cancer? Why shouldn't we be charitable and aware every month?

I couldn't help but relate to these arguments. While I feel grateful to the pancreatic cancer foundations like Lustgarten and PanCAN, I don't feel at ease participating in the events like charity walks or fundraisers. Each year I debate doing the walk, especially because my mom, dad, and brother did the walk when my mom was sick. But it just feels forced. I can't tell if I'm being a chicken, or if I just feel funny buying into it.

On the other hand, I admire people who embrace the charitable activities, in particular my cousin Deena who will walk for 3 days straight to raise money for breast cancer, since her mom is a survivor. I wish I had her courage.

What do you think about Breast Cancer Awareness Month, or cancer awareness months in general? Kind of nice or a load of BS?

Patrick Swayze Dies of Pancreatic Cancer

Hi friends,

I'm so sad to report that Patrick Swayze died today of pancreatic cancer.

I just found out the news, too. When I logged on to Facebook, the first thing I noticed was a friend's wall post: poor Swayz. Out loud I said, "Oh no." A few other Facebook comments confirmed. Another "Oh no" from me. And then a google of "Patrick Swayze" triple-confirmed. I kept wishing the news was wrong.

It's so strange. Pancreatic cancer has such a hard-hit reality, as close to a death sentence as any cancer. Yet when it strikes someone you love or admire, someone who has so much passion and feist, it's so easy to believe they can beat it. So naive to think they could be the 1 in a million who survive. Sometimes I think if I just accepted the reality, it would hurt less. But I also believe it's our faith in our loved ones that gives them the ability to beat the odds. Sally and Patrick both lived way longer than most pancreatic cancer patients, who often pass within 6 months. I think that says a lot about their gusto. (See a clip of Patrick Swayze in his Barbara Walters exclusive interview in January.)

Poor Patrick. And his poor wife. I'm keeping them in my heart tonight.

Love,
Marisa

P.S. Sally, if you're out there reading, this could be your big chance to go Dirty Dancing with Patrick. Keep your eyes peeled for him. Laura will be very jealous!