So how do I start again and what topics do I address? Well. I have many interests ranging from health care to sewing and knitting. I read a tremendous amount but my tastes are all over the map. I’m not much of a TV or movie person; I listen to the same music over and over again. I work hard as an NP but have cut back my hours. I have become an ardent member of a gym but struggle from class to class with the prescribed techniques. I have lost 20 lbs. but weight loss is not an obsession. The dogs are my best friends and still drive me nuts.

I’ll start out with a shout out to my daughter’s new clothing line: Dobbin clothing.It is so brave to start a new venture. JGN and her business partner have percolated the notion of starting a clothing line that reflects their tastes and outlooks for a while. There are so many steps in producing a garment and making it marketable. I have followed, observed, and participated a little bit in the launching of of a new clothing business and have learned that it is assuredly a complicated and nuanced endeavor. The motivation and process is best stated by my daughter in her blog.

What I can say is that I’ve been dazzled by the quality of the fabrics and the fit of the garments. I tried on several items skeptically since I am accustomed to a poor uncomfortable fit in most everything I’ve purchased in the last decade. From the bathroom, as I was slipping on the slacks or a dress, I would find myself shouting to my daughter, “These are amazing!” They really are wonderful, well-fitting, durable and classic. Dobbin is off to a good start, having launched just a day ago. I think it will go on to have a real presence in the fashion world as it becomes more well known.

I promised that I would lose weight and my PCP promised to be my cheerleader. Later in the week I visited my young friend who cuts my hair. I have several young women friends who I enjoy immensely and whose opinions I value. N. arrived at her salon looking strong and fabulous. She had a baby about a year ago and was having trouble losing and toning. I was amazed at the changes in her physique and she told me about the gym she was attending. She strongly endorsed it and even signed me up for my first class. Furthermore she gave me instructions on what to bring and where to stand.

When I arrived at the small studio which is very close to home, I was greeted by name. N. had told them that I was coming. When I got home, N. texted me to see how I liked the class. Truthfully, these classes are hard and mostly geared for younger women. A lot of the work is done at the ballet barre and the floor work is done with various small equipment. Almost everything I’ve done at the studio takes fierce concentration and admittedly, some modification on my part. I signed up for a month and will take it from there.

A nice, very toned woman today spontaneously told me that she thinks I’m doing great. “Ha. Thank you,” I said. N. gave me a hug and I told her I was going food shopping. It’s a pretty nice studio and the concept is interesting. The instructors are helpful and even though I’m terribly sore, I feel good.

I was concerned that I would not be able to work as hard as I am accustomed to working. Apparently an email went around work telling everyone that I had been in the hospital. This was true but not very confidential. Last week I was driving along Rt. 128 with Miss NB after an afternoon of unsatisfactory shopping. All shopping falls into this category for me in recent years so I was not surprised or downcast. I was rather shocked, however, that all Loehmann’s stores had closed in Massachusetts. Loehmann’s reminds me of my mother’s bargain shopping forays.

We were about three quarters of the way home, in Waltham, facing very bright sunlight when suddenly I began to feel very strange. Standing outside myself and wondering what is going on is something I can easily accomplish. I wondered why I had this terrible headache out of the blue, and even worse than that, why I was feeling as if I was going to pass out followed by having intense chest pain. I told NB quietly that something was very wrong and I had to pull off the highway. Luckily we were in the righthand lane, near an exit, with an industrial parking lot immediately after we exited. A lot of credit should go to NB for keeping her head because it is a rare day that I’ll admit something is wrong. In fact, after feeling a little better, I resisted her requests to take over at the wheel in order to get us home safely. Similar episodes and sensations occurred three times and I finally let her take me home. Meanwhile, during one of her stops she called my husband to tell him to get ready to take me to the hospital. Truthfully, I was very worried that I was undergoing a major health crisis.

Making a long story shorter, I was taken into the ED immediately, placed on oxygen, given nitroglycerine and monitored. I had labs drawn and emergency tests scheduled. I was told that when I was stabilized, I was going to be admitted to a cardiac unit for at least 24 hour observation. I hate being a patient. However, I tried to act in a dignified manner because I didn’t want to scare my family members, who were already upset. I was put in a room with a 90 year old woman and had a portable cardiac monitor placed in the pocket of a hospital gown. Soon I will have to blot out these memories.

Many tests of different modalities were done and everything checked out fine. I was told that I have enviable cardiac endurance, even after such a stressful event. Nothing jumped out as a reason for what happened after 24 hours, despite some conjectures. I actually enjoyed when the CMO of the hospital came to visit and he and NB thought of some
of the more rare reasons for syncope and chest pain. NB is able to hold her own even with the big dogs. Nursing care was absolutely abysmal on this cardiac floor and after I was first admitted, I did not see a nurse for 10 hours and neither did my roommate. We did have our vital signs done during the night several times despite being monitored. And we spent some time during the wee hours chatting and laughing. She was pretty cool.

—————————————————————————————————————————-Again I abandoned my post, mid-stream. I am happy to report that all has been well this month and I checked out fine with my primary physician except for being overweight. I just heard from a friend that she was informed of news which I had to keep to myself for this same amount of time. Strangely, Dad tells me that it was reported to him that I had been talking about how stressful this subject had been to me right before feeling ill. I suppose the mind-body connection is a very powerful force. Oh yes: it’s finally real New England cold out.

My student and I completed our clinical work last weekend. I think that putting up a sustained resistance to the decisions that were made will not work. Instead I suggested that not all learning has to be mediated by a program so if my student wants to discuss issues, cases, techniques, etc with me, this can be done outside the confines of school and work.

As a parting gift, the student brought me a large bouquet of flowers. “Um, what do I do now,” I queried. “There are no vases around.” The roses had their own water supply and I was not up for thinking outside the box (vase) so I laid the flowers on a file cabinet and ignored them. They came alive at home in water and are even lovely one week later. In turn, I gave my student a little zippered bag which I had sewn for her.

I have been having fun making fabric bags with interesting linings and metal industrial zippers. I made my own template for the bag size but it’s just a generality. All the bags come out being different shapes and sizes, and are often unequal on each of their sides. They have nothing in common with manufactured items and that’s why it was funny when my co-worker CC said that my bags looked like Vera Bradley items. She started calling me Vera Gold.

Some people are thinking that we are in for fierce retribution for the rest of the winter. Some are afraid to even mention the gift we’ve received this autumn. Others blame it all on global warming. It’s a warm month and we’ve had them before, interspersed with very long and difficult winters. The mild temperatures make it easy to get around.

We went to NJ for Thanksgiving. Driving down, there was considerable traffic in Massachusetts and then in the home stretch approaching the GW Bridge. A young woman in goth attire lost track of the non-flow and banged loudly into the rear of our car while we were standing still. No real damage done except for the PTSD I have from envisioning Dad trying to step out into traffic on the bridge. He said that my yelling at him probably saved his life; I would have to agree.

The newlyweds are busy with their respective residencies and we loved hearing what they are doing. Their work is difficult and time consuming, and their obligations involve around-the-clock coverage. Still they are trying to take good care of themselves, of each other, and their patients. Those who would complain about “rich doctors” should try out a residency and see how they themselves would hold up. C and J are resilient, kind, and smart. We are very proud of them.

We took a walk in Palisades Park on Thanksgiving Day in between cooking and eating. Everyone knows that I like the Palisades and the views of the Hudson River. Our bucolic meandering was interrupted by a man who misplaced his 12 year old son. We worried about this but hopefully the lad was located, safe and sound.

Our company was pleasant and the food was lovely. Because the residents were on call for the duration of the weekend, our visit was short. The remainder of the weekend was relaxing and slow paced. I got to visit a couple of fabric stores, which is becoming an obsession.

Ms. NB is our photographer!

People are wearing a conglomeration of strange outfits. Young people are going around in shorts and people of all ages are still wearing sandals. A woman and I had a laugh at a T stop about her wonderment in wearing sandals on that day. What pleases me most is not having to wear socks, which I detest. I wear my comfortable work shoes without socks and I am pleased.

I’ve been doing a bit of sewing and I commented to Dad that most of my projects, according to my own standards, just don’t work out. He commented that this was true of most people’s projects, be they part of work, research or hobby. I did make a small leather bag which I carried to a very fancy donor’s dinner and marveled at how much it could hold. I feel like a bit of a barbarian working in leather.

At said dinner, so many people came over to thank me for how wonderful Dad has been to them. One woman actually got down on her knees to thank me and I was mortified. I am doing better with feeling less reserved but this was too much. I was actually more interested in what people were wearing in this strange season and wanted to discuss my observations with Mrs. GN. I thought my very strange skirt and lace top were most appropriate to both the temperature outside,the season, and the occasion. For once I got it right.

NB has been invited to speak at a prestigious research day at HMS. Everyone in the family is most excited about that but she is humble and tries to minimize the honor. We are waiting to see the very busy medical residents over Thanksgiving. It’s been a nice month, so far.

This past weekend my nurse practitioner student and I were informed that the contract was terminated with her school of nursing (again!) and that we would not be allowed to work together next semester. I was called by the NP representing our organization with my student sitting at my side. “Oh well,” this woman told me, “You are a great teacher and we would love to assign you a student from another program.” In a flash of anger, I told her that I would never precept again.

Subsequently, the student’s graduate school called me and thanked me for my efforts and instructed me to back down if I thought of disputing the decision. I asked exactly what the issues were that brought about this impasse. She said MF, the officious NP, told her that it was felt that there were not enough NP’s, not enough time,and finally not enough money (aha!) to make the relationship feasible. I said that since it was my time, and I was not getting paid this was a ridiculous argument. “Please don’t get involved,” I was told “and maybe we can assign you a new student next year.” “Forget it. I am done with your school too.”

The only thing I asked was that they apologize or at least gently explain to my student that this was not of her own doing. She was doing a fabulous job with me and we had worked diligently on many levels. My student received the coldest, most impersonal email I had ever read from her advisor.

Still, we picked ourselves up after receiving the unpleasant, upsetting news and went on to have an instructive, productive and enjoyable day. However, she and I are both left feeling let down and punished.

You know that I adore Denise from PS 22 and derive particular solace from her unique singing. “The Struggle” is one of her last improvisation sessions as a fifth grader. NB and I surmised that Denise went through some difficult times as her raw talent emerged and overshadowed the other soloists of her grade. I’ll use her song as an anthem for what we’re embarking on here. We’re all fine and are looking forward to an extended battle; Dad and I decided both unilaterally and then together that we would impede the march of progress in our neighborhood.

Our neighbor who passed away recently at age 96 lived alone after his wife died a while ago. He designed a statue of a schoolgirl carrying a book bag that was cast in bronze and erected in front of our main public library. His wife was a children’s author and the statue was sculpted by the woman who did the Make Way for Ducklings statues in the Public Garden in Boston. A painted wooden replica resides in our neighbor’s backyard.

The neighbor who was a well-known scientist went off to work every day for most of his years. Despite some afflictions, he managed to be forward thinking and productive. His offspring lived in other cities, only occasionally coming for a visit. About two years ago, one son or another moved to the area to assist their father with getting around and food shopping. We knew the cast of characters and were cordial from a distance. Upon hearing that our neighbor had died, we also knew that the sons would soon be selling off the property.

It only took two days, apparently, for a reasonable bid to emerge although the sale is still pending. We wondered at who would have bought such a house so quickly. Why a developer would and did, and it turns out that he wants to demolish the house and build a colonial or two on the lot. Our neighbor’s house is a unique contemporary that he designed himself about fifty years ago to be fuel efficient and low maintenance. As I said, he was a man ahead of his time. He built his own radiant heating in the flooring, and made small windows placed carefully to get sun but prevent heat loss. The roof is almost flat, covered with gravel and does not require gutters, thus preventing ice dams. He built a shed outside with his own hands not too long ago.

The historical committee of our town sent notices that the demolition of the house would be reviewed at an evening meeting with a long docket of reviews for other demolitions. I spoke to several people in nearby houses and asked if they had been notified and they mostly had. Not surprisingly, rather than make an effort, they decided to throw in the towel before even trying to see what could be done. I laid out worse case scenarios for them, saying that it was entirely possible that our quiet private street could have its wooded deadend pushed through and we would then have a major shortcut/through street on our hands. I talked about how landfill would be brought in because the neighbor’s land steeply slopes away from the house in the back and no one would want such a backyard. It is even possible and I envisioned the possibility of cutting through the woods from an existing street below us and having the property accessed from an entirely unexpected direction. No one doubted what I said. Neither did they volunteer any novel thoughts on the matter. One neighbor just kept saying over and over again that it wouldn’t be nice if the new construction disturbed the peace and quiet of her newly re-landscaped backyard. It will, I assured her.

I had to work the evening of the convening of the historical committee but Dad said he would go, even after a very long day at work and despite the fact that the house was ninth on the docket. When I arrived home from work, Dad came in shortly after me at about 10 PM and asked if I thought it was possible for him to go to law school. “What do you mean? At this late date you want to become a lawyer?” “Yes,” he responded “Because I had so much fun contradicting the developer and making a case for preservation of the house. I totally swayed the committee to consider it as a historical home.”

The developer was brusque and assumed that the demolition was a done deal. “The guy is dead and we’re knocking down the house to put up one that fits in better with the neighborhood.” His arguments did not sit well with the committee but the most they can do is to defer the demolition for one year while they continue to examine the case. Still, Dad pulled off the postponement singlehandedly and the builder stormed out saying that he would probably not go through with the sale.

I’ve begun to keep a notebook of names and dates that crop up in this process. The neighbor’s son, who physically resembles his father, is dull and greedy. He denies ever knowing that the house was bought by a developer and claims that the realtor told him that it was bought by a family. I don’t believe him. I placed a call to the environmental agency here, asking if high up on the hill, would still be considered a watershed of the Charles. The drainage downward eventually leads to the river. We have a lot of wildlife in the woods that needs to be protected. The grouchy woman I spoke with was barely interested. I thought to myself that it must be nice to collect a salary for no labor. Once again, I’ve spoken to a couple of neighbors who say that they’re interested in preserving the property and they ask that we let them know how it turns out. More hard workers on the case.

It’s going to be a long fight and one we’ll probably lose. A contractor demolished a nice house on an intersecting street and the owner was paid $775k for the property. The builders are planning to build a home for $3.5 million which is way out of the price range for the neighborhood. The realtor in this case will net about $140K. When we eventually move, I’m sure our house will be demolished along with the others.

This past weekend Dad and I drove to Lowell which is an old mill city north of here. In recent decades Lowell has been considered a lower class, high crime area. There has been very little textile manufacturing done along the Merrimack River since the 1970′s and Lowell has suffered from a high unemployment rate and a steady influx of third world immigration.

I was surprised and pleased that Classic Elite Yarns still has a factory in Lowell. I discovered the company in Ravelry, a well know website for knitters and found that classic Elite offers many credible free patterns. We decided to go north and check the place out. What we found was an old manufacturing building on a side street which houses many artists studios. I entered the old building and immediately was faced with a large, industrial elevator. A woman in colorful clothing asked where I wanted to go. “To the yarn store” I told her. “That’s on the 4th floor but you should come here the first Saturday of every month when all the studios are open.”

On the 4th floor were several small office doors and the yarn outlet as promised. It was a strange little store in that the sale items were not isolated but scattered among pricier items. With no agenda in mind, I wandered the aisles. Almost entirely, the store was filled with women who looked friendly and relaxed. One woman began to chat with another about Ravelry, and that woman in turn chatted with me about her “stash.” Stash is terminology for unused yarn that clutters a home with no purpose in mind. I told the woman that not only did I have my small stash, but I had the leftovers of others from my knitting class. This tall African American woman came over to me and introduced herself, saying that she was the director of development for a well known homeless shelter in Boston. We immediately clicked.

Okay, it’s been nearly two weeks since I started this post. I don’t know where the time flies. I had every intention of dropping a line to the interesting woman I met at the mill store. She had wondered whether I would be interested in starting a knitting group at her shelter. If I respond, I know I’ll find myself immersed again when I’m not sure I have the time. I’ll have to think about it.

I have been thinking a lot about my mother. I wonder if she would have been pleased or mostly disinterested in the ways circumstances turned out for my family. I think she would have been dazzled by my children, their spouses and their accomplishments. She was one of seven children raised on the Lower East Side by parents who were Yiddish speaking Russian immigrants. By report, this was a rough and tumble family who fought a lot with others and had shady business dealings. My mother took a few college courses over the years but was a secretary both in the private sector and working for the school system in NYC.

My mother was tiny but remained a heavy smoker for decades. She smoked three packs of Marlboro per day in her heyday and I would wake up to ashtrays full of butts in the early morning. This regimen kept her very thin and often on edge. From a very early age, I did not like the cigarette scent of her and kept my distance. I think that this is so different than my own children who sit near me closely and lay on my bed with me reading whenever they are here overnight. I rarely entered my parents bedroom, though we lived in a small apartment, and would never consider cuddling with my mother. It almost seemed sacrilegious to take or be near her belongings.

One of the doctors who I work with the other night turned and said to me, “I don’t understand how you have a daughter who works in fashion. Where did that come from?” I laughed and told her that it had skipped a generation, and that my oldest daughter reminds me of my mother in her fashion sense and impeccable taste. Because we were a lower working class family, my mother would hunt many times a week for bargains and new clothes that she would wear to work. She was obsessed with the fit of the clothing and would spend evenings altering the clothing to fit her better. By watching her, I learned how to stitch by hand. Her interests in clothing did not extend to me thankfully so I got to wear the same clothing over and over again, even until threadbare which suited me. What I didn’t appreciate was if we ran into someone my mother wanted to impress and I looked particularly shabby, she would blame my unkempt appearance on my own disregard. It was until my mother was deceased for many years that her older sister admitted that behind the scenes, everyone knew that I couldn’t possibly take care of my own wardrobe entirely, and that the lack of buttons on my winter jacket or the holes in the knees of my pants were not my fault. When children are blamed for things beyond their control, they can chose one of two paths: to fight to gain attention or to go about their own business. I was of the latter school.

This is not a flattering account of my mother’s role as a parent but try as hard as I may to prettify the picture, the same images and truths return to reinforce her neglect. The good part of it all was that I got to come and go as I pleased, which was a luxury that most micromanaged children cannot conceive of today. From kindergarten onward, I had a key and my mother worked. I set out alone in snowstorms. I stayed at home alone when I was ill. I was responsible for my own lunches in a time when other children went home for lunch. In a strange way, this was good for me. While I tended to chatter at school, I was fine with being solitary and this has not changed over time.

In this high tech age of constant communication, I would extrapolate that my mother would be a frequent user of phones and texts and social media. Most days, when she was not clothes shopping, she would get on the phone immediately with her work friends and talk about what had happened at work, and the conflicts that ensued. I rarely got to explain what I was doing nor have explained to me what she was so animated about. Again, that was fine with me but I have tried so hard to do things differently with my own children.

The saga gets steamier and sadder and my mother’s life was abbreviated. It is twenty-two years since her death and I still think of her daily. The memories are not often fond but they are what they are. Once, when I was little and not feeling well, my mother went out and bought me a new pair of pajamas. I confronted her with the falseness of buying me something when she refused to take care of me. She looked at me and said frankly, Look M., I am doing the best I can.” That was a pivotal moment.

The people in the family all know this photo- Bubbe as a little girl.

I bought a new stethoscope and I am bringing this to work today. My old one is kind of busted. Strange what can make someone happy.